Washed Up Royal Read online

  I left my panic watch at home in my drawer. Last year Maximus and I were swimming in the Mediterranean and I was forced to alert the special officers when a man with a harpoon gun got too close to us. Otherwise, I have never had a need to call for their services.

  Now, I wish I had it so I could use it as a diversion and escape from my uncle.

  When the bartender snaps his fingers, I open my eyes and wait for my doom. “Victoria Justice, right?” he says, “You starred in The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Time Warp special on television last year, along with Adam Lambert. I’m a huge American Idol fan.”

  With my heart about to march right out of my chest, I stare at him, racking my brain. I did not do Rocky Horror in any way, but Victoria Justice, I know the name. “And Nickelodeon’s Zoey 101,” I exclaim after a pause. “Don’t forget Lola.”

  Thank goodness during my youth I had a love for all things Nick at Nite. And thank goodness again that my father never knew iPads could be used for more than studies.

  Princesses don’t watch television.

  “Wow! Yes, that’s right!” The bartender does a small shuffling dance of excitement with his arms and legs, and I know he used to watch Nick at Nite as well.

  Insanely relieved but hating to burst his bubble, I lean forward and tell him, “I’m not Victoria Justice,” half wishing I was.

  Halting his movement, he scratches his head. “No? Are you sure?”

  The familiarity is there, in his eyes, but still, I’m incredibly relieved when he doesn’t throw out, “I know then, you’re Princess Victoria of Alexandria,” so I laugh. “I’m sure.”

  Still staring at me, he takes my empty glass. “You look so familiar, though.”

  After taking a sip of my second Cosmopolitan, I set the drink down and pat my messy bun. “It’s the hair color. We both have dark hair.”

  “Huh.” He tosses the lime wedge in the trash, not looking convinced, as if I truly am Victoria Justice but I’m trying to trick him. “Well. You really do look like her.”

  At this point my pulse is speeding like I’m on a black-diamond mountain about to ski down the steepest slope. “Thanks,” I tell him and lift my glass. “I appreciate the compliment.”

  The bartender finally seems content with my response and moves on to take care of another customer. I sigh and pick up a handful of nuts, but then remember Rachel telling me how many people on average touch a bowl of nuts and drop them.

  “You’re not an actress.” The voice is low, deep, thick, husky, even. Unfamiliar. “But you are a Victoria.”

  Cranberry juice and vodka pool in the bowl of nuts when I knock my drink over.

  Righting my glass, I ignore my clumsiness. I have to, because in this moment, my vision blinds. My heart stops. My breath stops. My mind, terrified this time I’ve really been recognized, stops.

  With my hands now clenching the edge of the bar, I turn to the man who has occupied the previous cheater’s barstool.

  Even through the blur of my hazy vision, I can tell the man sitting beside me is tall, dark, and heart-stopping handsome. “You’re a Victoria’s Secret model,” he tells me with a wolfish grin.

  Relief washes through me, and as soon as I’m able to focus properly, the first thing I see is his hair. It’s the color of black licorice, longer in the front but shorter in the back, messy, sexy, super appealing.

  As my vision clears, I can see even more of him. His skin, bronzed like a god, and his nose almost perfect except for a barely noticeable crook, telling me he must have broken it once. His strong jawline, covered in black stubble—a day’s worth, maybe more. All of a sudden I have the oddest urge to run my fingers over it and see what it feels like. But his lips, those lips, they are full and dark pink, so sensual, and I can’t help but wonder what they might taste like. And that corded neck and those bulging biceps…I can’t even.

  Like a patient being given CPR, I jerk back to life. He doesn’t know who I am. He’s just flirting.

  Flirting.

  With.

  Me.

  This God-like man is flirting with me.

  The thud-thud of my now fast-beating heart pounds in my ears and throat, and all of a sudden I’m absolutely breathless. This is not the kind of breathless you get when you’re about to walk into a room and you know all eyes are going to be on you. It is so much more personal.

  Half a laugh sneaks out of me. “I wish I was. They’re all so beautiful.”

  There’s a whiskey glass in front of him and he has both hands wrapped around it. Strong hands. With a slight twist of his stool, he releases his hold on the tumbler and then places an elbow on the bar to stare at me. Dark lenses cover most of his face, but then he lowers them and grins. “So are you.”

  Heat warms me as if I’m standing in front of a raging fire. I open my mouth to speak but find no words. Instead, my breath catches because he’s taken those sunglasses completely off and two nearly navy eyes are scorching into me. They have to be the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen set in the thickest black lashes every girl must be jealous of.

  Unsolicited, my nipples poke against my bra and I know they are protruding through the silk fabric of my blouse.

  Such a royal no, no. But just for this one night, I am not royal. I am ordinary and this man is who I want.

  His gaze slips unabashed across my face, moves to my hair, tied in that messy bun, and then briefly slides down my body before coming back to my face.

  “I’m Adrien.” He holds his hand out and the brilliant red-banded chronograph watch on his arm tells me he’s a lefty.

  Without hesitation, I take it. “I’m Tori.” His palm is calloused and rough and I wonder what type of work he does. He’s wearing Adidas from head to toe—a tight dry-fit t-shirt that forms to his muscles like it was made for him, track pants that display his muscular thighs perfectly, and black sneakers with white stripes. He’s in the lounge so he must have money. A professional soccer player, perhaps? I don’t ask. I don’t really need to know. The more questions I ask, the more questions I’ll get asked in return.

  Those dark brows rise. “So, a Victoria after all?”

  My laugh is soft, the worry I’m hiding stopping me from finding any of this truly funny. “Yes, but I don’t go by that name unless I absolutely have to.”

  That wolfish grin is back and he points at my empty glass with his long index finger. “How about I buy you another?”

  The question isn’t really a question, though, it’s an assumption, and suddenly I feel nervous for an entirely different reason. “I probably shouldn’t.”

  He lifts his glass and tips it toward the bartender for another of his own, and then he looks at me again. “You sure? It’s going to be a long night.”

  I bite my lip in contemplation and allow my gaze to wash over his features again. Adrien the soccer player might be a little drunk, but I am not certain. His eyes have a hint of red around the rims. Then again, he might just be tired from a long flight. Asking would be trouble, though. Too many questions in return. “I have a room at the attached hotel and an evening flight, so the time will pass quickly.”

  Adrien shakes his head as the bartender fills a fresh glass with whiskey and points to the television tuned to a news station. My heart hammers in my chest.

  Please don’t show my picture.

  Please don’t show my picture.

  Thankfully, the newscaster is pointing to a weather map. “By the look of it, it certainly appears that all flights are going to be canceled until the morning.”

  Without a choice in the matter when it comes to the delay, I give him a nod. “You don’t know that for sure.”

  He nods. “No, but I’d be willing to bet on it.”

  With a small puff of laughter, I bite my lip. “Well, we’ll see. I guess I’ll have another drink while I wait, but for the record, I’m not convinced.”

  “Her, too,” his husky voice demands when the bartender swaps glasses with him.

  “I hope you don’t have so
mewhere important to be?” It just slips out.

  He shrugs and sips at his drink before cutting that dark gaze back toward me. “My life is upside down right now and I have no clue where I’m going anyway, so if I’m being honest, I find the delay a relief. What about you?”

  Yes, me, of course. That’s the way personal questions work, after all, right? I take a deep breath and reach for as much truth as I can spare. “My fiancé and I broke up recently, and my life is feeling a little upside down, too. So, if I’m to be honest, I find the delay a relief, as well.” That might have been too much information but it too, just slipped out.

  The bartender sets another Cosmopolitan in front of me. Rachel suggested this drink, and I am rather fond of it. My soccer player raises his glass and swirls his whiskey for a second. “To delays and turning our lives right side up.”

  I raise my drink as well, but whereas I take a small sip, he downs his and then gestures toward the bartender, who hasn’t moved far. “One more.”

  That makes at least three, not that I’m counting. I don’t know much about sports. I ride horses but don’t play ball in any way. In truth, I hate getting dirty. So, who knows, perhaps, if he is a soccer player, his season just ended and he’s celebrating or he got fired? The latter would be bad. Terrible actually. I glance at him again. Into his dark eyes that seem closed off, and I decide something bad happened. He looks too troubled for it to have been good. Yes, he definitely looks troubled, not drunk.

  Since I’m troubled, too, I copy him and down my entire drink. The liquor warms my mouth for a second or two before sliding down my throat to settle at the bottom of my belly in a slosh. It rises in my cheeks too, and I don’t need the mirror on Rachel’s phone to know I am flushing.

  “So, have you been to Paris, before?” he asks, changing topic.

  The question is safe. Neutral. And I wonder if he’s trying to remain in the safe zone like me.

  Not that it matters.

  I will never see this man again. Is he thinking the same about me? “Yes, I have. It’s the most beautiful city in the world, and the Musée Rodin estate is my favorite place to visit.”

  “Ha, yeah, the Thinker and the Gates of Hell statues are really something.”

  “So, you’ve been.”

  “Many times.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Then you must feel the same about it as me, that Paris is more than a place inspired by impressionist painters, Hemingway, and love songs.”

  I’m nodding in agreement and thinking about the cobblestoned streets of Saint-Germain and the backlit silhouette of Notre-Dame. “Its charm transcends cliché,” I tell him.

  Adrien smiles at me then, and I think, transcends cliché just like you. His smile transforms him from that broody, dark man I first laid eyes on, to someone who knows what he wants, and by the hungry look he’s giving me, that’s me.

  It seems I’m about to have my first one-day stand.

  Or is it night?

  Does it really matter?

  MY ROOM OR IS IT HER ROOM?

  The dinging sound alerts me of a text right in the middle of an in-depth conversation about boating in the Maldives.

  Safe. Our conversations have remained in the safe zones. No what do you do? Or where do you live?

  I push my drink aside, unable to consume any more, and reach for my phone. “Excuse me one moment,” I tell him and look down at my screen.

  Rachel: Our flight has been delayed until eight a.m.

  Me: That’s fine. I’ll meet you at the gate in the morning.

  Rachel: I went ahead and checked you into your room under my name. It’s room 1004, and I asked a key be delivered to the lounge. The front desk should have it. I’ll meet you there later tonight.

  Me: No, stay with your mother, and that’s a royal decree. I’ll meet you at the gate in the morning.

  Rachel: Oh! Can’t wait to hear all about the event leading to such a decree. And the meet you at the gate. I feel rather proud. You’re really getting the hang of this commoner stuff ;)

  Excitement flutters in my belly. With my lips twitching, I fight a smile as I glance up. “My flight has been postponed until morning.”

  Both sexy brows rise. “I don’t want to brag,” Adrien says, stretching and showing a sliver of those abs I know have to be spectacular, “but—”

  I cut him off with a laugh. “Yes, you were right,” I tell him, squirming in my chair. “And if you’ll excuse me, I have to use the ladies room.”

  His eyes shift from the flight board to me, and his lips curl at the corners when they land on my face. “Looks like I’m grounded, too, so I’ll be here.”

  I try not to audibly pant when his gaze shifts downward. That glimmer of lust I saw in it earlier seems to be even more noticeable.

  With my pulse pounding, I drop my phone in my bag and make my way down the hallway.

  In the bathroom, I wash my hands and fix my hair. I’m not sure I can actually do this. Perhaps I should slip out and go straight to my room. Yes, that is definitely what I should do.

  When I open the door, though, that plan vanishes from my mind in an instant.

  This won’t hurt anything or either of us. He’ll leave and go back to his world, and I’ll leave and go in search of a royal. Our paths will never cross again. Tonight…tonight I’m lonely, a feeling I’m not allowed to often indulge in, and he’s here.

  Right here.

  With me.

  Adrien is standing with one foot on the wall, a duffle bag over his arm, his head down with a hand running through that mussed hair. My heart trips in my chest as soon as he lifts his gaze. His appeal is so raw, and all I can think about is running my own fingers through that hair, and just like that, I change my mind. I’m not going to my room alone.

  He shoots me a lazy look, his navy-blue eyes revealing a glimmer of mischief. I lick my lips, feeling that same mischief coursing through my body.

  As if someone hit pause on a movie, I’m frozen in the doorway. I’ve never done this before. I’ve only ever been with Maximus and never did my heart beat this fast when he was near.

  Those provocative lips curve higher as if he knows what I’m feeling and then he says, “Come here,” and drops his bag to the ground.

  A flock of butterflies flits against the lining of my belly. Butterflies. Rachel has spoken of them, but I’ve never felt anything like this fluttering sensation in my stomach.

  Slowly, I step toward him, invisible tangled ropes slowing me down, reminding me of the life I lead. That I’m not just a girl who can fall for a boy. I’m a princess who needs a husband of royal bloodlines, and quickly.

  “Closer.” His voice is a hoarse whisper and goose bumps cover my exposed flesh.

  It takes me seconds, maybe minutes to reach him, and the entire time I’m running my eyes over his wide, toned chest. Down to that secret place. Back up to his eyes.

  He is all male. His jaw lean, his lips sensual, slightly tilted at the corners, edible.

  There’s something absolutely magnetic about him.

  I open my mouth to invite him to my hotel room, but before any words come out, he grabs my arm, pulls me toward him, and crushes his mouth to mine.

  The kiss is raw, barbaric, maybe even savage-like. He forces his tongue between my lips and takes, just takes.

  My knees go weak when I push up on my toes. Oh, God…one of my legs kicks back. Like in the Princess Diaries. It just pops up. In the years of kissing Maximus…never has that happened. Never has a kiss been like this.

  Startled, I set my foot down, and gasping, I step back. Look up. Look into his eyes glimmering with a wild and crazy heat.

  As if the separation is too great, he grabs my waist to pull me back to him. My hands fall flat to his chest and his land just below my waist. And I shiver at the promise in his grip when his fingers dig into my hipbones.

  “Put your arms around my neck.” His voice a dark, gruff whisper.

  Small pinwheels of delight explode fr
om my belly right to the tips of my fingers. And when I do as he commands, the ground shifts below my feet.

  Like this, he devours me, and I melt into him, right in the hallway in the Paris Airport Lounge. Public displays of affection are frowned upon in the Monarchy, and I’m allowing this stranger to ravage me right here.

  Princesses do not show emotion.

  He grabs the back of my hair and yanks on my bun as he continues to assault my mouth with his luscious lips. My fingers thread through his locks and I tug on them.

  When he groans, an electric current in the form of an arrow strikes my sex.

  No man has ever touched me this roughly, and oh, God, I want to do the dirtiest things to him. With him.

  For now, though, I settle on returning his kiss, and I’m greedy about it, too. Taking. Taking. Taking.

  Suddenly, he rips his mouth from mine and starts to trail tiny kisses over to my ear. “Did your fiancé ever kiss you like this?”

  Surprise flutters in my lustful gaze. I wasn’t even sure he’d heard me or paid any attention to what I’d said earlier about Maximus because he hadn’t acknowledged it.

  Unexpectedly, my legs start to quiver and I worry they might be giving way, but Adrien steadies me with those strong, rough hands of his.

  I open my mouth to respond, but all that comes out is a lust-ridden sigh.

  Adrien thrusts his tongue into the shell of my ear. “Tell me.”

  “No.” It comes out in a moan and I wonder if I’m still flesh and bones or if I’ve melted into a pool of desire.

  His mouth finds mine once more and our tongues swirl together in a dance and I want to do more than I should. Right here. Right now. This time when he pulls back, it’s not to ask a question. “Take me to your room,” he demands. “I want to fuck you…hard.”

  Swallowing, because no one has ever told me they want to fuck me, I nod and respond breathlessly, “I just have to get my key at the desk.”