Page 7 of Royal Darling
I stiffen. She has some cocked-up notion that I’m going to play her knight in shining armor. Not bloody likely. I give her a scorching once-over from her full breasts to her narrow waist and generous curvy hips before meeting her eyes again. I’m not as immune to her as I’d like, my jeans tightening uncomfortably, but I bluster on. “Maybe you can pay me to stay on board another way.” I lean close and her eyes widen, her lips parting as I stroke a finger over the rapidly beating pulse point in her throat. I lower my voice to a husky growl. “One month, no strings, and I own this proper princess body.” Being a total dick, I’m expecting a slap and a quick retreat out the door. Which is my goal.
“Yes.”
My jaw drops. “What?”
She beams at me, all sweetness, jubilant in her victory. “I’m all yours. One month.”
I scowl. “No. That wasn’t—”
She whirls and rushes to my bedroom. I hear the snick of the lock. I can’t fucking believe this.
I stalk to the door and pound on it. “Open up.”
“Not until we’re at sea.”
“I’m not keeping you here. That was meant to put you off.”
Silence.
I head to the kitchen, rifling through the drawers for something to pick the lock with. I find a stiff bit of wire and go to work. A few moments later, the lock pops, and I open the door.
Her eyes are huge. “You picked that lock fast. Were you a criminal before you were a rock star?”
“Did I pick it faster than you?”
“Yes!”
I knew I locked the cabin. I want to ask where she learned that little trick, but my need to get her off the boat is stronger than my curiosity. Any minute, there’s going to be a swarm of people and plenty of cameras. I don’t want to make things any worse for myself or the band. “Now, Princess, are we doing this the easy way or the hard way?”
Her gaze drops to my crotch, and I nearly put my hand in front to cover. Cheeky. Her hazel eyes gleam. “The hard way.”
I move fast, tossing her over my shoulder and pinning her kicking legs with one arm. I turn and head for the cabin door while her fists pummel my arse.Ouch.She can really throw a punch. “Stop pummeling my arse!”
I swat her arse.
“Ohh.”
Was that a moan? I halt and then recover myself. “Hope you can swim.” I head out the door and up the steps to the deck rail overlooking the sea.
Her hands fist in my shirt. “Don’t toss me overboard! It’ll create a spectacle! I’ve made a mess of everything and I can’t face it yet!”
I hesitate at the raw emotion in her voice. I know about making a mess.
“Please, Jackson, I need some space to figure out next steps. And-and I want a taste of a different life. Mine is choking me.”
I get that. The need for escape, the longing for something else.
She goes very still. “Please let me stay. I just need some time, some space, maybe reinvent myself. I’m so lost.” Her voice cracks.
I blow out a breath, the words all too familiar. I want to reinvent myself too because me, right now, is nothing more than an empty shell of a man. The more I tell myself to get back to the music, the harder it is. I used to always riff and bounce ideas off Charlie, and now there is no Charlie. I haven’t touched my guitar in months. I’m miserable, stuck, bloody finished. This whole houseboat trip is about finding the music again.
I haven’t been the same since I lost Charlie. His death distorted the music into static noise. Fucking agony to lose them both. I’ve already got a year extension on my contract, but I have to produce the next album soon or I’m in breach. The record company can sue and will likely get the last asset I have, my house. I’m already low on funds after giving Charlie’s four-year-old son and his ex-wife, Dorrie, a fat check to keep them off welfare. Dorrie’s got enough to worry about with her severe asthma and taking care of an energetic boy. Charlie left them nothing; he spent it all on drugs and the lifestyle. I’m partly to blame. I’m the one that got him started with drugs. I got clean. He got worse. It’s why his marriage fell apart. It’s whyeverythingfell apart.
I clench my jaw and set her on her feet. Up close, her eyes are green with a gold ring around the iris, big and hopeful, her cheeks flushed bright pink. It’s like kicking a puppy. I can’t do it. “I’m dropping you off at the next port,” I grumble, going over to pull up the anchor.
She follows me. “In Italy?”
“France.” It’s only two hours away. Then I’ll be done with her. She’s a complication I don’t need.
