Royal Pain (His Royal Hotness 1)

I shove the thought—and the rage it engenders—down deep and concentrate instead on the situation at hand. Goddamn it. I need a drink, not another conversation with a predatory mama and her vapid daughter.

Still, I work up a smile—praying that it doesn’t look as much like a grimace as I think it does—when Mariella lays a familiar hand on my forearm.

“Kian, how are you?” she asks, batting her eyes so hard I can feel a breeze from her fake lashes.

“I’m good.” I subtly twist so that her hand slips off my arm. Then, to cover the movement, I brush our palms together in a brief handshake. “How are you?”

“Excellent now that I get to see you again.” It’s practically a purr, the sound of a cat who thinks she’s finally cornered her prey. But I’m no mouse and I never will be.

She’s too self-absorbed to realize that, though. Too caught up in the game of her own making to figure out that I have no interest in playing along.

She steps closer, brushes her breasts against my arm—all in clear view of her mother and everyone else in the ballroom. “How are you really doing, darling? I know losing Garrett has been so hard for you and I’ve been worried. We all have been.”

“I didn’t lose him,” I tell her through teeth locked tightly together. “He’s not my keys or my wallet.”

“Oh, of course not,” she trills, and now her hand is resting against my chest. I want to put her in her place, but I’ve never been one to use my position to savage a woman, even verbally. No matter how much of a predator she might be.

But dozens of people are straining to hear what we’re speaking about and hundreds more are watching us like hawks. I need to say something, need to do something, or the rumor mill will explode.

But before I can come up with anything that isn’t rude or inflammatory, a waitress swoops by with a tray full of champagne glasses.

“Would you like a drink, Your Highness?” she asks, her voice low and husky. The sound draws my attention despite myself and I turn to grab a champagne flute—tequila’s more my drink of choice, but right now beggars can’t be choosers—and I find myself staring into the most beautiful pair of brown eyes I’ve ever seen.

The glance—and the awareness it sparks—only lasts a moment, though, because suddenly she’s jerking forward…and dumping the entire tray of drinks straight down the front of this damn Tom Ford tuxedo.

Chapter 2

All around me, people gasp. Madame Aguillard—and her daughter—jump back like they’ve been burned. Or worse, like a little clumsiness is a contagious disease. Over the waitress’s head, I see Lucas and Niall poised to swoop in.

I stop them with a sharp shake of my head—spilled champagne isn’t exactly a national security crisis—then reach out and take hold of the waitress’s hand, which is currently dabbing a napkin up and down my stomach as she apologizes profusely.

“I’m so sorry, Your Highness,” she says for what has to be the fifth time in as many

seconds. “I’m so—”

“Please,” I say, divesting her of the napkin before she starts swiping it across my crotch in full view of Wildemar’s upper crust. Talk about a whole different kind of spectacle…The fact that my dick perks up a little at the thought makes this whole thing even more disastrous. And intriguing.

But that’s the old Kian, I remind myself. The one who isn’t first in line to govern an entire country. The new Kian is supposed to be kingly, circumspect and definitely not a pervert who can’t help thinking about what’s going on under this waitress’s sheer blouse. Even if it looks like a lot is going on under there, in the best possible way.

“Please, stop apologizing,” I tell her as I use the napkin to sop up the worst of the champagne. “Accidents happen.”

I turn to Madame Aguillard and her daughter. “I’m sorry, but I need to go take care of this.” I gesture to the giant wet spot on the front of my tuxedo.

“Of course,” they both coo as one, even as they send venomous looks toward the waitress.

“Maybe we can have a dance later?” Mariella asks, running a hand down the lapel of my tuxedo that didn’t get doused in champagne.

“I’ll look forward to it,” I answer, even as I promise myself to stay far, far away from this less than dynamic duo for the rest of the night. A fly only has so many chances to escape a spider’s web, after all, and I feel like I’ve already used mine up.

“Maybe we could—”

“I have some club soda for that,” the waitress interrupts just in time. Then she’s grabbing my hand in her free hand and starts all but dragging me through the ballroom.

“Thank you, but that’s not—”

She shoots me a look that has the words freezing in my throat. Half-amused, half-wicked, it’s sexy as fuck. And suddenly, gala or no, I find myself more than willing to be dragged wherever she wants to take me.

I glance behind me, and sure enough Lucas is winding his way through the crowd to follow us. I shake my head, but he just glares at me and keeps coming. Another difference between being the heir and being the spare. What little part of my life once belonged to me no longer exists.