Playing the Royal Game

‘You could just open the window,’ Alex said. ‘Ah, but you’re a Londoner.’ Because things had calmed down somewhat he climbed out of bed, and even if he was feeling a touch more appropriate, suddenly Allegra wasn’t. His black silk pyjama bottoms rested on his hips and accentuated the length of his legs, and though he had looked beautiful tonight, he was beyond that now, his back gleaming, muscles teasing as he walked across the room and flung open the French windows. She was terribly grateful for the blast of cool air that swept the room, for her face was burning—grateful, too, for the roar of the ocean, for it must surely drown out the sound of her heart that was hammering in her chest.

‘The real thing is always better,’ Alex said.

The real thing was standing before her now, the absolute dream, the man, the life she could only briefly glimpse, but how she wanted it to be real, for she could still taste his kiss, still and forever would remember the bliss of being held by him. And now he stood, utterly relaxed, maybe even a little bored, as she tried to steady herself on the vast bed. All tonight had done was accentuate how utterly different they were, the gulf between their backgrounds, how impossible this match was—and it would be proven tomorrow, had perhaps been proven already, for, as Alex had pointed out, many of her guests had been snapping away on their phones. No doubt the scandalous Jacksons were a trending topic on Twitter! They lived in two different worlds, but for tonight at least they met in this room.

He collected a throw rug and tossed a few cushions to one side of the sofa. When his temporary bed was made, he gave her forewarning.

‘I’ve set my alarm for six-forty,’ Alex said. ‘They come in at seven, so don’t get the fright of your life when I climb in. We don’t want to disappoint the maids.’ He tried to make a joke of it, but how the hell was she supposed to sleep with this glorious specimen of a man in the room? A man who had kissed her, a man her mind wanted to dream of...? How was she supposed to rest knowing that in—she glanced at the clock—just over four hours he would be climbing in beside her? ‘’Night then.’ She leant over to the night light, her finger on the switch as Alex was about to lie back on the sofa.

‘Goodnight, Allegra.’

She was leaning over to turn off the light and just as she had silently predicted, but earlier than even her imagination had allowed for, the delicate strap on her nightdress snapped, one heavy breast escaping. Mortified, she did not look up—hoped, just hoped, he wasn’t watching. Somehow she turned off the light, mumbled a goodnight and dived under the sheets, listening to the waves, to the soothing relentless ocean, desperately trying not to think of the man in the room.

The man in the room who could not sleep either.

His last image before being plunged into darkness was of a very soft breast, just sort of dropping, just falling, and he had wanted to hurtle over to the bed, like some American baseball game, hurtle across the space and capture it in his hand.

How the hell was he supposed to sleep after that?

CHAPTER FIVE

‘YOUR Highness...’ The butler was appalled, stunned, that as he served the queen her early-morning tea on her alfresco terrace, just as he did each morning, a jogger was making his way through the queen’s private gardens.

‘I’ll call security now, come inside....’

‘It’s fine.’ The queen was not perturbed; instead she was vaguely amused by the break to her routine, and somewhat confused when she realised who it was jogging their way across the manicured lawn. Shouldn’t he be in bed nursing the most appalling hangover?

‘It’s Mr. Jackson,’ Zoe explained to her anxious butler. ‘He mustn’t have realised that this area is private.’

‘I’ll tell him now.’ The butler went to do that, went to raise his arm to the man, but the queen always remembered her manners and if she recalled rightly, because he had been in no fit state to make it to the hotel, Bobby had become a last-minute guest of the palace and would be treated as such.

‘Mr. Jackson,’ she called, except he didn’t seem to hear her. ‘Bobby...’ How strange that name felt on her lips, but she called it and he turned and gave her a very cheery wave and she gave a rather more tentative one back, a little taken aback when he jogged his way over.