Page 78 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

Ben picks a page out of his folder and turns it toward me. It’s a blown-up image from my video of that night. I can see the man with his bald head, stuffed into a tuxedo. I try not to look at him for very long. I don’t want another panic attack, not now.

Ben taps the image, redirecting my attention. “Here he is, speaking with Princess Iris.”

I blink at the image and then back at Ben. “They know each other? How?”

“That’s the question of the day. So I watched the rest of your videos, did a little research, and I found a couple of other interesting images.”

Ben lines up a few other printouts in front of me. One is from Sorrento; I recognize the brightly colored stone walls and beach hats. It’s an image of the small crowd of people taking our photos. Roland’s arm is wrapped around my shoulder. I look incredibly happy. So does he. The memory feels like warm sun on the back of my neck, and it draws a little smile from me.

Ben points to a woman in the crowd wearing a slim dress and a black hat. “I found this image off an Italian paparazzi gossip blog. This woman was at the bar the night you were kidnapped. She flashed me. I think she was in on it, possibly trying to distract me—”

I nearly choke on my tea. Jealousy is a petty, completely inappropriate emotion to be feeling right now, but it rears its head up suddenly. “Rewind,” I say. “A woman showed you her tits, and you didn’t think to mention this before now?”

Ben narrows his eyes. “I rejected her. Obviously. And you got stabbed. When exactly should I have told you?”

Right. He has a point. Still. I pout. “Her distraction worked. Obviously.”

Ben sighs. “No. It didn’t. Our drunken prince distracted me. A mistake I won’t make again. Can we move on?”

“Please.”

“Right.” Ben procures a final image. Two mug shots, side by side. “So I did some sleuthing and I found them. Martin Hindel, fifty-four, arrested in 1987 and again in ’94. His charges included assault, robbery, and—you guessed it—kidnapping. The woman is Sara Ryan, thief and con woman.”

I blink at the images. My brain is pounding with all this information, and the printouts blur before my eyes. “Don’t they do background checks on everyone who comes into the palace?”

“Yes. Extensively. So you have to wonder what two felons were doing near the royal family, unless—”

“Unless they were invited,” I blurt out, finishing his thought.

Ben nods slowly. “Exactly.”

“But that doesn’t make sense!” I toss up my hand. “Why would Iris send a couple felons after her nephew…?”

“That’s what I intend on finding out.” Ben quiets me and reaches across the table. He slips his hand over mine and traces his fingertips over my wrist. “Which is why I can’t come with you to Scotland right now.”

My throat tightens. “But…”

“I know what I promised last night,” Ben continues. “And I intend to follow through on that. You should go. Just in case things get hairy here. Get settled at a hotel. I will meet you in Edinburgh. I promise you, Rory. I just need a couple of days to sort this out. As much as I… hate his bloody guts right now, I can’t leave if Prince Roland is still in jeopardy. Hindel is dead, but the woman…” Ben’s eyes wander. I can practically see all the worst-case-scenario thoughts flickering through his brain. He fixes his gaze back on me and says firmly, “I need to make sure he’s okay.”

I nod at that. “I understand,” I tell him. I thread my fingers between his and squeeze his hand. “You promise you’ll find me?”

Ben’s dark eyes soften at that. “I swear to it.” He stands suddenly, leans over the table, and pulls me into a kiss. His kiss is strong, unrelenting, and it nails his point home. I’m not letting you go, his lips say, and I believe them.

When he seals the kiss, he pulls back and picks up a pen. Then he turns my map toward him. “Are these all the flights?” he asks.

I nod. He draws a circle around the last flight and turns it back to me. “Twelve forty-five. The red-eye. I’ll be on that one.”

My heart is still hammering, but it slows at that. The black circle on the page has the same effect on me as Ben’s hand around my throat. It’s security. My anxiety bubble pops, and I settle when I look into his eyes.

“Okay,” I say.

Ben’s shoulders sink with relief. He picks up the pages he’s scattered about the table, then sticks them back into his folder. Watching him, my heart begins to patter again.

“Ben?”

He turns his gaze away from the pages and looks back up at me.

“Be careful.”

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