Washed Up Royal Page 8

  “Hopefuls?” I ask.

  She makes a face and motions her hand back and forth in a not really kind of way.

  “Please change those to morning tea, afternoon tea, and then after-dinner drinks.”

  “Yes, Princess, whatever you wish. The first interviewee’s name is Felix Martin Guillemet of Catalina, and he’s the second son of Grand Duke Harold and Grand Duchess Maria Theresa. He is currently third in the line of succession and my second pick.”

  “Then again Prince Rainer was your first,” Ava pipes in, reminding us that the ranking might not mean anything—it’s the man that truly counts.

  She ignores her sister and goes on. “Fair warning, though, he could very well be what the American’s call a hippie.”

  I cover my ears. “I told you, I don’t want to know anything about the candidates. Now I’m already envisioning this man with long hair and his make love, not war attitude, and thinking about how the people of Alexandria won’t understand him.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Ava says. “Hippies are so sixties. Millennials are what they’re called now and they don’t all have long hair. It’s this generation’s flower power but with better weed.”

  “I’m not sure that gives me a better image, Ava,” I scold her.

  “The second interviewee also has potential,” Rachel goes on, in work mode. “He’s from Wimberly.”

  I roll my eyes. Another Welleslian. Great.

  “And then the day after, I’ve arranged breakfast with a Catalinian.”

  I nod. Breakfast is a short meal. I can survive that. “And who is that with?”

  “His name is Spencer Lexington of the famous Lexington line from Catalina. He’s fourth in place for his country’s crown, and my third pick. And as a note, none of his older siblings are married.”

  Succession is possible, which might rule him out for the position if he doesn’t want to abdicate like Maximus was willing to do. Still, he is a possibility.

  I nod again. “What’s his profession?”

  “He doesn’t list one.”

  “That means playboy,” Ava interjects.

  Peering at her sister, Rachel says, “He’s bringing his yacht—”

  Ava cuts her off. “See! Playboy.”

  Ignoring her, Rachel goes on. “He’s bringing his yacht and requests that you join him to dine onboard. I told him unless your bodyguard has arrived, he must remain anchored. Do you think you’ll be okay?”

  Resigned to this most terrible experience of searching for a suitable mate, I force a smile on my lips. “I’ll be fine,” I tell her. “I survived tonight, and I’ll survive tomorrow, and the day after, too.”

  “Very well,” she says.

  “Oh, my God, he is drop-dead gorgeous,” Ava exclaims.

  “Ava!” Both Rachel and I admonish.

  “Sorry, can’t help it, but seriously, I’m drooling.”

  Ignoring her, I look at Rachel. “You didn’t mention the third one for tomorrow.”

  She glances at her papers. “Yes, one minute.”

  “How many men do you have lined up, anyway?” I ask, and not just out of curiosity, but rather the need to find the willpower to persevere.

  Rachel stops looking down and I know this isn’t good when she glances up. “Do you really want to know?” she asks.

  I shake my head. All I want is to find someone to fill the position who I can tolerate.

  And if he doesn’t expect me to pee on him, that would certainly be an added benefit.

  MISTAKEN IDENTITY

  The Alexandria Gossiper

  Royal Watch News

  Also found on royalgirl.net

  THE PRINCE HAS MOVED ON

  By Ophelia Heart

  O here! And I have a correction to make. That picture of the woman sunbathing topless on the Riviera with none other than Prince Maximus Napoleon Montgomery of Casanovia turned out not to be the Princess of Alexandria after all, but rather French model, Allessandra Georgio.

  Is this a new love or have the two been together and hiding their affair?

  He claims they just met.

  I’m not so sure.

  What do you think?

  Tweet me.

  YACHTY LA-DI-DA

  The three candidates I met with yesterday turned out to all be completely wrong for the position.

  The first was indeed a hippie and when he showed up on his motorcycle wearing frayed jeans and no shoes, I knew the people of Alexandria would never take kindly to him.

  When I met with Prince Julius Churchill Monaco from Wimberly later that day, I thought he might be the one. The son of Prince Vittore Costanza Monaco and American actress, Beatrice Leighton, he’s an American businessman and member of the noble House of Wimberly.

  He seemed rather perfect until he told me he’s being featured on the next season of The Bachelor. I’m dead serious. “However,” he said that I’m not to worry because he didn’t end up with the woman he chose, so he’s still single.

  The people of Alexandria would lose their minds with a television personality sitting beside me, as would my uncle, and Parliament as well.

  After-dinner drinks went even worse, if you can believe that. Make a long story short, the very arrogant Prince Armando is the heir to the headship of the House of Eastwood, which is a cadet branch of King Rutherford’s line. Both very impressive credentials. As Prince, he’s sixteenth in line to the throne. And although he’s willing to assume the position, he refuses to move to Alexandria.

  Again, the people of Alexandria would lose their minds, as would my uncle.

  I feel eyes on me.

  Two sets.

  One my suitor. The other Dante Montebello, the hulking bodyguard assigned to protect me, who arrived yesterday.

  With him by my side, I was able to allow my interviewee to take me out to sea. In truth, I didn’t have much hope this encounter would go any better than the others, but it most definitely hasn’t been going terrible.

  Powder-puff white clouds dot the horizon and the sun dances brilliantly on the surface of the blue water as I stare across the deck and watch Spencer Phillip Lexington speak to the captain of his boat, Wanna Be Heir, about heading back to Newport.

  We have not been alone on this trip. He has a full staff assisting him with his superyacht, which may just be the biggest I’ve been on. Then again, typically in Alexandria, I’ve sailed not motored. Spencer prefers motoring and recreation to the hands-on approach.

  What I’ve learned from him is that here in Newport, people yacht, and that can mean motoring or sailing. Either way, his boat is not one that sails. However, it is equipped with a helipad, a swimming pool, and a hot tub.

  Mischievous, laughing eyes look over at me before he turns back to what he’s doing. From his profile, a smooth, perfectly shaped ear boasts a tiny diamond stud that sparkles in the sunlight.

  Ava was right—he is drop dead gorgeous. In fact, he could be my soccer player’s brother, just even more bad boy if that is possible.

  I scan him from head to toe. Despite the fact that my heart was left in Paris, the guy is dashing and charming. Perhaps, a little disheveled looking. His hair standing this way and that. His shirt hugs muscles that would make any woman’s knees weak—so why not mine?

  The tall, dark, and handsome vibe is appealing to me, I guess. I don’t think I ever knew that until Paris.

  Until Adrien.

  With my mind on a million things, I absentmindedly walk across the deck to the edge in my pink and green crab-printed shift and white flat sandals. The dress is a Lilly Pulitzer number that Ava ran out for yesterday, insisting it was the only jumper I could wear on a boat this size.

  When I nearly slip on some water that splashes aboard, an older gentleman wearing a navy blazer and white pants warns me, “Watch your step, please.”

  The air that ruffles around my face is soft and the sun warming as I listen to the hum of the engine and consider marrying the man who owns this boat.

  In t
he depths of the water, though, I see windswept hair and a set of dark eyes looking back at me. I see luscious lips curving into a slow, sexy smile that makes my heart do cartwheels. And that face isn’t that of the tall, broad-shouldered man clad in a pink polo shirt and khaki shorts with soft hands, little hair, and boat shoes.

  “Tori,” he calls, adhering to my request to refer to me by my nickname in public.

  Turning around, I lean against the edge of the boat and the wind dances around me. “Yes.”

  Spencer waggles his eyebrows at me as he takes his seat beside the one I’d been sitting in. “How about we go skinny dipping?” he jokes.

  I can’t help but laugh. I find him entertaining and fun. Like I would a friend. Like I did Maximus. “Sure, let me strip down right here,” I joke back, pretending to lift my dress.

  “I’m serious,” he says, ripping off his shirt and tossing it aside. Oh, my God, those gorgeous muscles are insane.

  The ride, the sun, and the breeze have relaxed me, but not that much. Shaking my head, I scurry from the edge of the boat, fearing he might decide to plunge in and take me with him. “Spencer, you’re insane. You know I can’t do anything so scandalous.”

  “Yes, I suppose not. Not here, anyway.”

  So bad.

  He’s so bad.

  My eyes lock on his necklace, a shark’s tooth, I think, and I stare at it a bit as I attempt to pass by him to get to my seat.

  With a devilish look on his face, he grabs my hand and pulls me down to his lap. His breath whispers in my ear. “I want to see you again.”

  Most women more than likely have a difficult time resisting his dark, cocky looks, sexy cleft chin, and smoky gray eyes. Add to that his lean, muscular build and easy tongue, and no female is safe. Me included. I duck my head away from his tickling mouth and elbow him until he lets me slide from his lap to the seat beside him. “Perhaps,” I tease in a low, flowing voice.

  Just then a huge twin-hulled sailing catamaran hissing across the water passes by us and gains Spencer’s attention. “What the hell is he doing here?”

  My head whips in the direction of the vessel and I read the name scripted in bright red as it sails past us, “The Navigator.”

  “Who’s that?” I ask as the shore comes into view.

  Spencer is grumbling when he practically spits out, “A guy who declared himself The Navigator just so he could partner with a watch company to test its nautical ability.”

  I take off my sunglasses and try to catch sight of the more than competent man handling the sails as he crosses the crystal blue waters and turns toward the marina.

  His body is long, lean, muscular, and somehow familiar.

  I look harder.

  Squint.

  Look some more as that dark hair whips across his masculine face that from this distance I can’t quite see.

  The yacht starts to slow, and I know my eyes are playing tricks on me because I swear the man at the helm of The Navigator is my soccer player.

  My heart starts to pound. “What’s his name?” I ask Spencer, my voice rough, wistful, wanton.

  “Adrien.”

  Adrien?

  Coincidence?

  Could it be my soccer player?

  “Adrien what?” I ask, curiosity causing my pulse to zoom throughout my entire body.

  “Adrien Pierre Laurent,” he scuffs, blowing out air from his lips.

  Adrien.

  My soccer player.

  Could it really be?

  My heart rises to my throat. “Isn’t he one of the Princes from Eastwood?”

  Spencer’s laugh is a snicker. “Sure, yeah, I guess, one of like twelve. But haven’t you heard, this one has been crowned The Washed Up Royal.”

  “Why?” I ask, trying to make my mouth stay closed instead of hanging open as if I’m not waiting for his next words, like I am.

  That snicker is back. “He almost drowned last week in a boating accident,” he tells me.

  “What happened?” The dip in my voice clearly indicates my distress. Not that I’m worried about that because I’m still trying to place this Adrien with me in Paris.

  With a shrug, Spencer gets to his feet and points to the dingy ready to bring Dante and I back to shore. “I’m not really sure. I didn’t pay it much mind. Enough about him. I’ve got to get you back to land by two as promised.”

  The bursts of flowers or the dreamy blue sky where the sea meets the shore aren’t what I’m looking at though.

  “So when can I see you again?”

  Unable to focus on anything other than my purposeful gaze, my eyes are straight ahead and narrowed against the sun toward the catamaran with the big blue sail. “I’m not sure,” I say.

  Because I have to find out first if the man on the catamaran is my soccer player, and if so, well…

  Only in my world is it possible that my one-night stand is in Newport and he’s of royal blood.

  A MEETING OF THE MINDS

  The Eastwood Examiner

  Breaking News

  THE KING HAS A VISITOR

  By Dominick Wilfork

  As King Rutherford met with Alexandria’s Prime Minister Sir Isaac Brantley, early this morning at the Palace, it was domestic concerns that overwhelmed reporters’ attention.

  The King deferred to the Prime Minister of Alexandria when asked about the precarious position our neighboring country is in concerning the empty head of states position and the missing Princess.

  “Well, I’m going to let them handle that,” the King said. “They’re making their decisions, and they’re doing a good job, and they are very professional.”

  King Rutherford added he finds Sir Isaac Brantley’s concerns over the condition of his country, “very compelling” and “credible.”

  Brantley’s visit is his first since King Stephen of Alexandria took the crown over twenty years ago.

  The two, the Palace says, were expected to discuss a commitment to pro-growth policies for the Vespa Isles, combating heavy taxation, and partnering in energy and cybersecurity. They also planned to discuss Catalina, after King Rutherford announced new sanctions during his speech to the Vespa Isles General Assembly targeting the Monarch’s inner circle and their direct attack on him over his pursuance of legalized gambling for all of the five countries.

  “We’re going to talk about Catalina, absolutely,” King Rutherford said. “… We will be discussing that among many other things. A lot of interesting things going on in this part of the world.”

  As for the rumors that King Rutherford wants to assume the head of state position in Alexandria…those were not addressed.

  Whether or not it truly was discussed is anyone’s guess.

  HE DOESN’T KICK A BALL

  Leaving my new bodyguard at the shore, I run up the hill and throw open the back door. “Rachel,” I bellow.

  “In the kitchen,” she calls.

  I race in there. “I need to talk to you.”

  Rachel sighs as she warms a little teapot. “I’m assuming you’ve heard about the news.” She pauses to measure out tea. “Just remember your uncle can’t do anything until Parliament returns, so we still have time.”

  Like a small child excited for Christmas morning, I rush over to her side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about and right now I don’t really care because I believe he might be here.”

  As if him is the milkman or as if him being here means nothing, she continues to pour hot water into the pot.

  “Did you hear me?” I exclaim. “He might be here.”

  She looks over at me in a state of complete confusion. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  Ava comes sprinting into the kitchen and interrupts me as I try to explain. “How’d it go?”

  I blow a stray hair out of my eyes as I smile smugly. “It went swimmingly well. But I have even more wonderful news that I really need to share.”

  Rachel sets the pot aside to steep. “What on earth could be better than a successf
ul interview?”

  “He might be here,” I repeat.

  “Who? Not your uncle?” Rachel asks, confused.

  “No, my soccer player. I think I saw him, and if it was him, he isn’t a soccer player. He’s a royal.”

  Ava’s grin is wide. “Screw the tea. This is fantastic news. We need a glass of wine.”

  Rachel ignores her and grabs three teacups. “Slow down, Princess. Tell me everything,” she insists.

  Taking a stool at the island, it doesn’t take me long to tell them both about what just happened. When I’m almost finished, I add lemon to the cup Rachel set in front of me and look up. “And his full name is Prince Adrien Pierre Laurent,” I blow out.

  She’s sipping her own tea and spits it out across the table, just barely missing soaking me. “Did you say Adrien Laurent?”

  Ava is already Googling him. “Holy shit,” she says. “He is hella sexy.”

  “Let me see.”

  She shakes her head. “You said you didn’t want to.”

  “Show me his picture,” I practically order.

  When she does, my heart spins and turns. Sultry bedroom eyes and Romeo-like good looks stare back at me.

  Slowly, I look and nod at them both. “It’s him.”

  Rachel’s eyes are practically bugging out her head when she tells me, “He’s coming here tonight.”

  I can’t control the way my body starts to shake. He’s coming here to interview for the position of my husband.

  Adrien Laurent, the sex God, wants to marry me…it’s like a dream come true. Until I remember he doesn’t know he’s coming to see me and a green streak of jealousy washes through me. He was in Paris to have one last fling before possibly marrying the Princess of Alexandria.

  Rachel is now asking me something about Spencer, but I can’t focus on anything as my vision bends.