Royal Pain (His Royal Hotness 1)

But they will. And then there will be hell to pay. For all of us.

Sure, I can work a ballroom with the best of them. Shake a few hands. Tell a couple of well-timed stories designed to get a laugh. Dance with all the parliament wives and charm their high heels—and low-rise panties—right off of them. Twenty-eight years of being the spare has taught me a thing or two, after all.

But that doesn’t mean I can run a country. Hell, most days I can barely remember the head of parliament’s name, let alone his party politics. Or how I want him to vote on pressing issues.

I’ve spent my whole life burning bridges instead of building them. Expecting me to change that now is crazy.

Besides, can you really blame me? Who wouldn’t rather spend the evening in bed with a couple of supermodels instead of lying their ass off at some boring charity gala?

But that’s not how it works when you’re next in line for the throne.

The crown prince doesn’t get to hang out with supermodels. He doesn’t get to have wild parties in Monte Carlo or Vegas. And he sure as hell doesn’t get to do what he wants.

Instead, he does what the king wants.

What the people expect.

And what the title demands.

Right now, the title is demanding that I work the room, holding court with the privileged masses but never actually mingling with them. Never lowering myself to their level.

A prince is to appear interested but not too interested, accessible but not too accessible. Concerned, but—you guessed it—not too concerned.

It’s a rule I learned at an early age, but for me, it’s always been harder to follow than it should be. Then again, for me, most rules are.

I make it a few steps closer to the bar when Roland—who might be ancient but is also quite sneaky and spry—intercepts me. He delicately clears his throat, nervously glances left and right. And though he avoids eye contact, I don’t have to look him in the eyes to know what he wants. Namely, to remind me that I’m not here to get drunk, no matter how good that sounds right now.

And it sounds really, really good.

But that’s what the spare would do. He’d charm the bartender into giving him a bottle of the best scotch in the place, grab a couple of beautiful—and unattached—women and head out to the gardens or up to a hotel suite, depending on how many fucks he had to give. Which, more often than not, was absolutely none.

I’ve screwed women in every corner of this hotel’s very extensive gardens, in the elaborate restrooms, in any number of suites and, one memorable night, in the coat-check room.

I nod to Roland to let him know I understand, then take a few more steps toward the drink that’s calling my name. Not getting drunk does not mean not drinking. Or at least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Too bad Madame Aguillard has a different plan as she latches onto me.

She’s an older woman, fifty-five or so, with ruby red talons for nails and a tower of fake blond hair. She’s also got the instincts of a shark and it’s obvious she scents blood in the water tonight…

This is far from my first run-in with her. Her husband used to be minister of finance, and when I was fifteen, she cornered me in the family wing of the castle and tried to talk me out of my very rebellious ripped jeans. The fact that I almost let her makes this meeting—and every other one we’ve had through the years—exceedingly uncomfortable for me.

But when she grabs on to my biceps—her long, pointed fingernails digging in a little as she holds tight—I realize this meeting is going to be even more awkward than the others. Because this meeting isn’t about getting me into her bed; it’s about currying favor with the crown prince. More, it’s about trying to attract my interest—not in her, but in the woman standing next to her. Her youngest daughter, Marigold. Or Mariana. Or Merriweather…

Whatever her name is, this whole ambush is all kinds of fucked up. Thirteen years ago, she wanted to fuck me as her dirty little secret. Now she wants me to fuck her daughter in front of the whole world. Within the boundaries of matrimony, of course, but still…totally fucked up.

Besides, it’s not going to happen. The daughter may be hot, but no one is hot enough to make getting tangled up with this family a good idea.

Which leaves me at something of a disadvantage, considering the whole room is watching and I have absolutely no idea what to do right now.

It’s not that I can’t handle situations like this normally (it’s hard to be a prince and not know how to deal with scheming mothers and their scheming daughters) but that’s when I’m the spare. It’s easy to extricate myself from sticky situations when everyone is looking at Garrett. But now that they’re looking at me it becomes exponentially harder…especially since the fate of government alliances often rests with the crown prince.

Whatever I do, I have to do it quickly. Because the longer we stand here, the more people begin to notice what’s going on. And the more people begin to notice, the more likely my name is to be linked with Mariely…Maria…Mariella—yes, that’s her name, Mariella Aguillard. And that is definitely not something I want to happen. Some fucked-up version of Royal Wedding Watch here in Wildemar would pretty much be the icing on the cake of the shitty last three months.

Panic whips through me at the thought of having to lay those rumors to rest. Then again, panic has been my default mode since Garrett disappeared. Panicked, pissed off and abjectly, violently, overwhelmingly terrified.

It’s not a good look—for me or the country.

Then again, neither is having the crown prince vanish from a public appearance. Especially when the only traces left of him are a royal limousine shot full of holes—and three dead bodyguards.