Royal Bastard (Instantly Royal 1)

There was a monkey hopped up on a six-pack of Red Bull beating the crap out of the inside of Nick’s head. He’d taken his migraine medication somewhere over the Atlantic, downed a crappy airplane coffee, and tried to sleep. When he’d opened his eyes, it was to the sweet face of the first-class flight attendant with legs that went on for miles. His migraine had downgraded to a bitch of a headache and the plane had been practically empty when she’d welcomed him to England. Holding in his excitement at his arrival hadn’t been a problem.

This dreary little island was the second-to-last place he ever wanted to be—Harbor City won hands down—and yet here he was, about to meet the grandfather who just happened to be a royal dick.

Then why are you here, Nicky boy?

Three reasons.

One, the texts and calls with Brooke Chapman-Powell had made him curious. And maybe even a bit upset that his grandfather might fire her over this mess. Plus, he just had to put a face with the name. She’d managed to avoid having her picture on the internet unless you counted the ones where she was so far in the background, he wouldn’t have known she was there if it wasn’t for the photo’s cutline.

There had been pics of what had to be a different Brooke Chapman-Powell, because there was no way the woman holding a newspaper in front of her face while sprinting from a crowd of reporters was the same woman. There was just no way the uptight woman on the phone was the same woman who’d dated a soccer player with a wandering dick. No. Way.

The second reason why he was here? Because, while his curiosity had helped him earn 386 patents and enough money from his inventions to buy his own island somewhere a helluva lot warmer and sunnier than England, it also was a giant pain in his ass that wouldn’t let go of his brain until it had been satisfied. And some small part of himself that he would never admit out loud existed wanted to find out why the old man had fucked his family over so hard. It wasn’t that that information would bring back his mom or erase the years he spent in the group home, but he couldn’t help but think that knowing the real reason would make things somehow better.

Finally, he was here because telling his grandfather to fuck straight off wouldn’t be nearly as fun through intermediaries as it would be saying it face-to-face. Rude? Crude? Unadvisable? He’d admit to all three in front of a jury of his peers. He didn’t give a damn.

So Nick had gotten himself on the airplane, even though it was a guaranteed migraine trigger, and upgraded himself to first-class from the coach ticket his grandfather—a frickin’ earl who had enough money for an honest-to-God fancy manor house—had sent. At six feet three inches, there was no way Nick was going on a transatlantic flight folded up like a pretzel in coach. If he was lucky, the asshole whose DNA ran throug

h his veins would be at the airport so he could get the whole fuck-you taken care of right away, and then he could turn around and buy his return ticket home; toast Mom, who’d gone through hell because of the man in the airport bar; and—if his luck held—sleep the entire way back.

That was his plan, but like the voice-activated dog collar that was impervious to his inventing mojo, it wasn’t going to be.

The moment he saw the woman holding the printed Mr. N. Vane sign in the baggage claim area, he knew it wasn’t his day to win the lottery even if he was finally getting his first good look at the woman who had to be Brooke Chapman-Powell. Her blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail tight enough to be a cheap face-lift if she’d been old enough to need one. Her navy suit looked like a cross between a school uniform and a junior accountant who’d just taken off his tie for a mandatory fun work lunch at Dave and Buster’s. And her face? Well, it probably would easily have slid under the heading of “beautiful” if she didn’t look like she had lemons for breakfast, lunch, and dinner eight days a week.

“Darlin’,” he said as he started to unwind his arm from the flight attendant’s determined hold. “You saved my life back there, making sure I got off the plane before it took off again, but it looks like my ride’s here.”

The woman looked at Brooke, dismissed her after a quick up-and-down, and turned back to him. “I’m stuck here for the next forty-eight hours,” she said, looking at him with enough heat in her green eyes to let him know exactly how much trouble the two of them could get up to in the next two days. “I’m certain I can be more entertaining than her. How about I give you a ride instead?”

And yeah, he loved to get laid as much as any red-blooded American male, but after being raised by a strong single mother who instilled in him from birth the importance of not being a jerk just because you wrongly thought you were better than someone else, there was no way the flight attendant’s dismissive attitude toward Brooke was gonna do anything for him besides turn him off. He was, however, still Southern, and that meant giving someone the brush-off in a certain kind of way.

He cleared enough space between them that sunlight—if this country even had any—could sneak through between their bodies. “You have no idea how much I’d like to say yes, but there’s a man waiting for me.”

She arched an eyebrow. “I’d be up for sharing.”

“Not that kind of man.” Could this get any more awkward? “He’s my grandfather.”

“A girl can dream,” she said with a shrug.

“Believe me, I’ll be dreaming all about you tonight.” If you translate “dream” to “nightmare,” but as his mama always said, if you can’t kill ’em with kindness, then slather ’em with sugary sarcasm.

“You do that.” She plucked a card out of her purse and tucked it into the front pocket of his jeans, letting her fingers slide in right along with it. “Just in case you change your mind.”

That was not going to happen, but a hard brush-off would do nothing but delay the inevitable of her leaving, so he kept his trap shut. She walked past the baggage claim and out the doors while Nick came to a stop in front of the woman holding the sign with his name on it.

“I’m Nick Vane,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Yes, sir.” The woman shook his hand with an extra-firm-but-not-knuckle-cracking grip. “Brooke Chapman-Powell, the earl’s private secretary.”

God, he loved being right, and he’d totally have that pissed-off expression if he worked for Earl Douchebag, too. “That explains it.”

“What?” she asked as she closed up the sign with three precise folds until it was the size of a video-game case.

“The look on your face. He’s a total bear to work for, isn’t he?”

She locked her gaze on his and managed to somehow look down at him even when she was physically having to look up. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“My mistake.” Maybe she and the earl were perfect for each other.

“Well then, shall we get your bags, sir?”