Page 56 of Royal Darling
I give her hand a squeeze. “You’re like this palace, yeah? Same Emma just modernized.”
She laughs. “I love that. You have a way with words. No wonder you’re a great lyricist.”
Heat prickles my neck. I’m about to say there’s better out there, when she wags her finger at me. “Accept the compliment.”
That’s what I tell her when she tries to downplay her musical abilities. She’s got something rare and special. I grab her wagging finger. “Thanks.”
A short while later, the yacht docks at the port, the crew rushing around to secure it. Bloody hell, the paps are here, reporters too with microphones and cameras. I should’ve known. I didn’t have to do any digging at all to see the bad press online about Emma dumping Abdul and his mouthing off about her cheating on him with me. Lies, but who cares about the truth when it’s a juicy story? I’m sure me showing up with her now will only add fuel to the fire. Emma went from a crown prince and future sultan to an inked rocker with a nightmare of a public-relations problem. Imagine if she was up the duff on top of everything else. They’d have a fucking free-for-all with an out-of-wedlock pregnancy. She’d never live it down, and there’d be no doubt in anyone’s mind that I’m bad news.
I squeeze her hand. “We have an audience.”
She glances over at the waiting crowd of piranhas and grimaces. “I expected as much. Preparations had to be made for my arrival, so word got out. Just ignore them. I’ve been lucky to avoid the press for as long as I have.” She peers out the window. “There’s your boat waiting for you if you want an escape.” She knows I’m supposed to lie low.
“I’m not leaving you to the mob.”
She presses herself against my side, wrapping an arm around my waist. “Hard to believe just six weeks ago, I was puking on that thing.”
I grin. “Yeah, too much tequila.”
“Probably that and the Cocoa Puffs.”
I suddenly remember how furious I was over the Cocoa Puffs and how I haven’t had anything like it in weeks and haven’t cared. Just shows how narrow my world was back then, wallowing in the misery of losing Charlie and the music, hanging on to a stupid box of Cocoa Puffs.
Viktor opens the cabin door. “Ready when you are, Your Highness.”
Emma turns to me and says brightly, “Ready?”
I incline my head and pull my leather jacket on. I have a really bad feeling about my part in all this press for Emma.
A few minutes later, we’re walking across the dock toward the road, where three Mercedes are waiting. Emma’s sexy red dress is covered by her long white wool coat. She stands out in white among a sea of black coats. She grabs my hand in a death grip, her chin up, shoulders back as rapid-fire questions are shouted at her.
“Emma, Emma, over here! How long have you been with Jackson?”
“Have you heard the sultan cut ties with Villroy and is advising other kingdoms to do the same?”
“Any comment on the limp sausages in office, Jackson?”
“Is he better in bed than the sultan?”
“Are you still a virgin?”
A ripple of laughter goes through the crowd. I want to punch that guy with the virgin remark, tell them all to go fuck themselves, but I know from experience that will only make it worse. I have to settle for glaring at the wanker who dared speak to my Emma that way.
Emma lifts a hand and smiles. “It’s great to be home, everyone. Merry Christmas!Joyeux Noël!”
A few reporters mumble, “Merry Christmas” and “Joyeux Noël,” and then the questions start again. She’s addressed them politely in English and French. You ask me? She’s given them more than they deserve. Hell, she’s given me more than I deserve just by being herself.
Viktor hustles us to the middle car, taking the front seat. Oliver gets into the car behind us. The car in front must have more guards.
“Welcome home, Your Highness,” the driver says.
“Thank you, Arthur,” Emma says pleasantly. “I’ve brought my boyfriend, Jackson, home for the holidays.”
He eyes me in the rearview mirror. “Very well. Welcome to Villroy, sir.”
“Thanks.” I turn to Emma. She has a fake smile plastered over her face, her hands folded together in a grip so tight they’re white. I pry one of her hands free and hold it. I lean close, keeping my voice low just for her ears. “Ignore the bloody reporters. They don’t know you, and they have no right to know you.”
She stares at our joined hands and says under her breath, “I am a public figure. I serve Villroy and must make myself available to them.” Her voice is stiff and proper, her back ramrod straight. Shades of the posh and proper princess I met on my houseboat are showing through. I should’ve expected it. Soon she’ll go back to her old ways. I won’t fit in her life anymore. I was a diversion in a time of distress.
