Page 10 of Royal Catch
My mother turns to me. “I told you we need fresh blood with fresh ideas for the future of Villroy. These challenges are set up to find the best candidate.”
My father nods, his gaze glued to the TV.
“By making them fish?” I ask, not bothering to hide my skepticism. I still think this is all for my father’s entertainment. My bride’s royal duties will not include fishing.
“It’s tradition, Gabriel,” my mother snaps.
“Yes, tradition,” my father echoes.
I clench my jaw. Fishing may have been part of our ancestors’ lives, but it hasn’t been a regular thing for us royals in generations. “Where are the cameras?”
“Everywhere,” my mother replies, her eyes glued to the screen. “Cameras nowadays are so small it’s not hard at all to place them.”
A horrifying thought occurs. “Even in the bedrooms? The bathrooms?”
My mother shoots me a dark look. “Please, Gabriel. You mustn’t think of seducing one of them. That would completely defeat the purpose of the games.”
I grind my teeth. “If there’s a camera in my bedroom—”
“There isn’t,” my mother says. “You think I wantuson film in our private moments? The guest bedrooms and bathrooms remain private as well.”
“Don’t worry,” my father says. “Your mother and I thought this out. We’re like TV producers. It was all in the nondisclosure they signed.”
“We’re directors too,” my mother says proudly.
I stifle a groan. When in the nuthouse, do as the nuts do. I return my attention to the screen. The women are splashing in the shallows; the waves are mild at low tide. They’re swinging their fishing nets around wildly, except Polly, who is busy folding up the raft. In her bikini. The round firm globes of her ass point up as she bends to her task. I want to take a bite.Not her.She is the antithesis of what a queen should be—ill-mannered, loud, barely wearing anything. Why must she fold the raft? Why is she wearing a bikini? She should be covered like the other women. I spare a glance at the other princesses, and even from this distance, it’s like a wet T-shirt contest, their clothes transparent. My eyes dart back to Polly.
“That one stands out, doesn’t she?” my mother asks. “I like her.”
“She comes from an island kingdom, which is a plus,” my father puts in.
My eyes are glued to her luscious body. “You mean Polly?” My voice comes out rough.
“Oh, no, not her!” my mother exclaims. “She’d never do as queen. She’s made no effort to blend in with the other women. She’s too much on the outside, and her accent is ghastly. Clearly she wasn’t raised in her homeland.”
Her accent is American—unrefined, bold, and brash. Exactly like her. I shouldn’t like it, but I do. It makes me think she’d be bold in other ways. The kind of woman who’d satisfy me.
“Her accent can be tamed, my dear,” my father says and then breaks off in a long coughing fit. My mother urges him to sip from a nearby glass of water. Once he settles down, he goes on, “Our sources told us she is something of a rough diamond, but we agreed that the fact that she comes from a prosperous island makes for a useful alliance.” He turns to me. “Gabriel’s influence will bring her to heel.”
Nothing will bring that woman to heel. I incline my head, keeping my opinion to myself because I don’t mind Polly being around for a bit if she’s going to keep wearing sexy clothes. And bikinis.
My father turns back to my mother and says in a teasing voice, “You had quite the accent once.” My mother is from a small kingdom off the coast of Australia. Her accent, after working with a dialect coach, is now nearly gone. In its place is proper English with a slight French lilt similar to Villroy’s accent. Many of the islanders of today are from France since Villroy is off the coast of France. English is the official language, though many are bilingual.
My mother shakes her head at my father, like Polly’s accent is a lost cause, before turning to me. “I meant Marguerite, the petite blond, stands out. Did you see her toss the redhead on her ass?”
My jaw drops. The queen does not sayass. I snap my mouth shut, at a loss for how to talk to this version of the queen mother.
“The redhead is Elizabeth,” my father says. He points a knobby finger at the screen. He’s lost so much weight. “Polly reminds me of my brother’s scrappy wife.” His voice is hoarse, and he takes a sip of water. “All their rough lot. Have you heard from my brother?”
My ears perk at this. My father must be in worse shape than I thought to be asking for his older brother. After all the bad blood, I doubt he’ll hear back. My father and his brother haven’t been in touch since my uncle abdicated the throne to marry a commoner—an American from Brooklyn, New York. It was a huge scandal at the time. Never been done in the history of the kingdom. My father was furious he had to give up his dream of becoming a professional football player. He’d just been recruited to France’s team after graduating university. From what I hear, my father was living the high life while his brother did his duty. It was a harsh change.
“Not yet,” my mother murmurs.
My uncle was cast out after he married his wife. My cousins are often referred to as the riffraff despite being half royal. Their family is not welcome in Villroy and remains in Brooklyn. My youngest sister, Silvia, had connected with them while studying at university in the US and reported back to us that they were a gruff lot. Six brothers. Maybe they could’ve been less gruff with my baby sister? Silvia is such a bleeding heart, she didn’t mind. She’s still trying to mend fences that can never be mended. Probably she’s softened in her time in the US, especially after marrying an American. It wasn’t a big deal for her to marry a commoner since she was seventh in line for the throne. For the oldest, me, it matters. I’ve been groomed to carry on the legacy and I will. My wife will be a true queen. In the meantime…
I resume watching Polly’s shapely ass as she works to fold up the raft. Why is she straightening up the beach when she’s supposed to be fishing? Finally, she finishes the task and sits on top of the folded raft, watching the women splashing around in the water. The fish have probably been scared away.
The Polly Show now over, I take my leave.
