Page 6 of Royal Darling
He drums his fingers on the table before finally saying, “France.”
“Oh! I speak French.”
“Actually, it’s Italy.”
“I speak Italian too.”
He narrows his blue eyes. “China.”
“I speak Mandarin.”
He stands, goes to the cabin door, and opens it. “Good for you. Goodbye.”
I stand, take one step toward the door, and stop. This is it. My one and only chance at a reprieve. I’m not ready for marriage. I’ve barely lived. I need a taste of a different life. The kind that comes naturally to him.
He’s the antidote to my life of propriety.
The key to unlocking the new improper Emma. What luck to stumble upon his houseboat!
I seize the moment in a display of wild optimism and desperation. “I just quit my job at the palace. Are you in need of a servant?”
3
Jackson
A servant? Is she kidding me with this shite? First off, I don’t have servants, well, unless you count my manager, but half the time it feels like I’m working for him, not the other way round. Second, does she think I’m a bloody idiot? Everyone knows her. I’ve seen her on tons of glossy magazines, gossip rags, and all over the internet. She’s well known for her charitable works and her engagement to a wealthy future sultan. Princess Emma Rourke with her posh Villroy accent, all proper English with a hint of French cadence. She introduced our band at the Cancer Research Foundation event in London. I swallow down the lump in my throat, remembering that night. We’d just lost our keyboardist, Charlie, to a drug overdose. I was out of my mind in an agony of grief that I poured into the music. He was like a brother to me.
I glare at her perfect face with its big innocent hazel eyes, perky nose, and pink-tinged cheeks for that unwelcome reminder. Her long straight dark brown hair is currently hidden under a very unflattering curly wig. I bet she’s a virgin with those innocent eyes, her prim and proper attitude, and the fact that she’s been engaged since she was sixteen. Her fiancé looks just as proper; they probably never moved past holding hands. I have zero interest in a virgin princess. I haven’t been with a virgin since I was a teenager and I was an arse about it, only caring that I got off. And I know I don’t deserve someone as highborn as her. I come from nothing, and I never stick with anyone. She would regret wasting her first on me after waiting so long. I’d be out the door before she could say good morning. Fuck’s sake. Why am I eventhinkingabout shagging her?
It’s that lush mouth, those are porn-star lips and, yeah, I pressed my thumb against her lower lip when she was sleeping to see if it was as soft as it looked. It is. And I didn’t miss the generous curves squeezed into a too-tight white blouse and black trousers.Stop thinking with your dick.She’s got trouble written all over her. I know her wedding is today, everyone knows, so what the fuck is she doing here dressed like that?
Her list of sins is long and growing. She broke into my mate’s houseboat, got pissed on my tequila, slept in my bed, puked, and ate my Cocoa Puffs. That was my last box! I ordered it online before I left on this trip (I got hooked on them during my first US tour). You can’t find them on Villroy or in nearby France. Believe me, I’ve tried. I mean, can I get chocolate cereal in France? Yes. Is it as good as Cocoa Puffs, the original and the best? No. Half the box was wasted on the floor. It’s sacrilege, that’s what it is.
“Well?” she asks. “Will you hire me? I could use the job and I do enjoy travel.” So proper, so posh. She seems to have forgotten servants should be more deferential. Maybe even throw a sir in there.
I close the distance between us and pluck the wig off her head. “I know who you are, Your Highness.”
Her face falls. “Oh.” She looks up at me, her brows scrunched together in apparent confusion. “What gave me away?”
“Um, everything?”
Her lips form a sexy pout before she crosses her arms. “I know who you are too.”
“Brilliant. We both know who we are. What will it take to get you off my boat? I need to get out of here before everyone looking for you turns up.” I’ve been anchored here for two weeks, until her wedding today attracted the paps and press I’ve been avoiding after my latest scandal. I was pissed on too much whiskey this last time, but that didn’t exactly help my case when the press turned on me. I might have said fuck the prime minister and the president of the United States for their part in bleeding musicians dry. I had to blame someone and they’re at the top of the chain. I may have let slip some flabby phallic name-calling. “Limp sausage that no one would ever stick in their mouth” rings a bell. I was on a roll. It was probably the most creative I’d been in a year. But the bad press hurt the band and put the pressure on for the next album—which is due to the label very soon—to win back the public. I never want to hurt my bandmates, John and Max. We’ve all been through enough losing Charlie.
It was decided by those with my best interests in mind (those who get a cut of my money) that I should lie low until the next album is ready to release. I’m the songwriter of the group whether or not I’ve got an ounce of interest or creativity left in me. Officially, I’m on a meditation retreat in Tibet. Cruising around on a houseboat solo, going where I please when I please, is as close to meditation as I’m going to get. In any case, once the cameras went up toward the palace for Emma’s wedding, I ventured out for one last meal before moving on.
She pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes, seeming deep in thought. I’ll heave her overboard if I have to.
She drops her hand, and her big hazel eyes light up. “Kidnap me. I’ll pay you the ransom.”
I back up a step. “Fuck no. I don’t need that kind of attention.” A certain amount of behaving badly is expected from a rock star—the groupies, partying, even brawling, all fine. Criminal activity? Too far. My days of petty crime are behind me. I don’t know what’s ahead of me. All I can see is a dark empty void.
Her voice comes out small. “I cannot go home. Not yet. Please let me stay. I’m sure I can be helpful in some way.”
I don’t know why she’s running, and I don’t care. She’s a bloomin’ princess. She can cash in one of her many jewels, like that huge rock on her finger, and find her own way out of here. Which is exactly what I tell her. She doesn’t seem to hear me.
She lifts her chin and announces with a note of finality, “You, Jackson Walker, are exactly what I need.”
