Prince's Dirty Little Secret (A Royal Secret Baby Romance) (4 page)

The guards bow out without another word. The door latches, leaving me standing alone in this astonishing guest room. I realize that I'm starving, but I can't muster the energy to leave the room, or even to investigate the massive private bathroom attached to the suite. I tiredly strip down to my bra and panties and flop into bed. I can't deny that it's heavenly, but I hate myself a little bit for thinking that. All this luxury is at the expense of the people.

Whatever. There's nothing I can do about it now. Tomorrow, I'll figure out a plan. Figure out how to get out of here.

And figure out how to get away from this crazy prince who's locked me up in his castle.

This crazy, gorgeous prince.

CHAPTER 3

T  
he next morning, I wake to the sound of birds chirping. When I open my eyes, I see three or four birds—doves, I think—perched atop one of the two wooden wardrobes in the room. They cock their heads, sizing me up, as I do them, as they peck and preen each other.

Talk about an over-the-top alarm clock. They really spare no luxuries here. I wonder how the doves got in here, and it makes me uneasy. Someone must have let them in during the night.

Did someone come in my room while I was asleep?

Nikolai?

I wouldn't put it past him after yesterday. I recall how he spoke to me in the courtroom, how cocky he was, and how he assumed his attention flattered me.

And I recall how his eyes undressed my body. And how I couldn't help mine from undressing his.

Despite everything.

God, I've gotta find a way out of here before this ball tonight, or I might do something I regret.

First things first, though. I'm absolutely filthy and I need a shower.

I get out of bed and walk toward the bathroom, my feet padding softly on the plush velvet carpet underfoot. Although there are no windows, soft morning light seems to shine down from the edges of the room, bathing it in a cool, natural glow. It must be recessed lighting, I decide.

The bathroom is enormous, and the shower is a full room carved from granite, not just a stall. The water is steaming hot, and there's a full spread of soaps and scrubs. I take a heavenly shower and dry myself with a thick blue towel embroidered with a heraldic eagle.

I dress myself in jeans and a plaid button-down shirt from my luggage. I instantly feel plain, and it makes me curious about the two wooden wardrobes in the room. When I peek inside, they're filled with beautiful, traditional North Molvanian robes and garments. Some are silk, others thick velvet. Under any other circumstance, I'd have loved to try them all on.

But right now, I have to find a way out of here.

Cleaned and dressed, I leave the bedroom and begin to wander the palace. It's a maze of indistinguishable black marble hallways. I lose my bearings before long. I pass few people, and when I do, they keep their heads down.

Eventually I come across a library. The walls are lined with bookshelves, and there's a computer terminal on a small wooden desk. I sit down at the computer. The screen looks familiar… but different. Curious, I double-click on the "Internet" icon.

A webpage comes up that says "Google.nm." It looks familiar, but when I search for "news," I only get hits from the North Molvanian state news agency. I type in "Wikipedia.com," but the computer redirects me to "Wikipedia.nm." It's nothing like what I expect. Instead of a free library of knowledge, the articles are all propaganda pieces that must've been written by government authorities. Most of the facts are blatant lies.

Okay, so they've got their own version of the Internet here. Guess that rules out the possibility of emailing an SOS message to my boss back home.

I close the browser, and as I swivel the chair around to get up, my heart skips a beat. In the library's doorway stands Gaius. He's wearing a suit that's just as clean and crisp as yesterday's, only this time it's black instead of blue.

Gaius crosses his arms. "The Crown Prince has ordered that you be made over before tonight's ball. Judging by your... simple appearance, we'll need to get started immediately this morning."

Man. At least Nikolai rescued me from the courtroom. This guy wouldn't piss in my mouth if I were dying of thirst.

"Whatever," I say. I need breakfast, though."

He looks down his nose at me. "I'll have something sent to the dressing room. You're to report there immediately."

"Fine." So much for concocting escape plans today. "Where is it?"

"Follow me," he says impatiently.

He walks briskly out of the library and down the hall, and I have to rush to keep up. He leads me to a messy dressing room. There's a woman of maybe 60 waiting for us. She's glamorous, like a model or celebrity. She's incredibly well put together. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle on her traditional dress. She must be the palace stylist or something.

"Marcha," Gaius says to her, "Get this one ready for a formal function tonight. With the Crown Prince."

Marcha takes one look at me and raises a carefully-sculpted eyebrow, as if she thinks it's a joke.

Damn. I may be plain, but I didn't think I was
that
much of a mess.

"Yes," she says, and Gaius departs the room.

"Sit," she says to me in a thick accent, pointing to a raised chair in front of a mirror.

I sit, and she begins to wipe down my face with cotton swabs dipped in a minty-smelling alcohol solution. Her hands move with the speed and grace of an expert. She's clearly been doing this for a long, long time.

I sense a kindred spirit.

"Is this your only job?" I ask.

"What you mean?" she replies, dabbing at my face. I squeeze my eyelids shut.

"Do you dress up all the prince's women for dates?"

She laughs softly. "Sometimes. But not seen likes of you before."

"What do you mean?"

"Prince has… many domestic and foreign guests. Beautiful, famous women. But till now no commoner girl."

I almost object to the words "commoner girl," but I think better of it. Instead, I ask her, "Did he say anything about me?"

"Dear," says Marcha, threading my eyebrows, "It be cold day in hell before I know of prince's love life."

"Love life?" I say, scoffing. "He doesn't love me. He's only met me once. He's an arrogant prick." I cringe immediately, wondering if I've made a big mistake by speaking out of line.

Marcha shrugs. "Not be so judgmental," she says. "Prince is very complex man."

"What do you mean?" I say. I've never seriously entertained the thought of Nikolai being anything other than a cruel playboy.

Marcha shakes her head. "Said too much already," she says. "Careful who talk to like that."

I swallow hard, and I say no more while she applies foundation to my face.

T
HE BALLROOM IS LOCATED
deep within the royal palace. It's absolutely stunning. The walls and ceiling are made from ornate sculpted gold, the only room I've seen that's not black marble. Thirty or forty tables for the royal guests dot the perimeter of the room. The center is reserved for dancing.

When I arrive escorted by Marcha, guests are streaming in, socializing, and snagging hors d'oeuvres from waiters milling around the room.

I stand in the entrance and scan the room. That's when I see Nikolai. His figure is unmistakable. He stands at least six or eight inches taller than anyone else, and he's speaking to an enchanted audience of five or six men and women. He's regaling them with some tale or another, his hands motioning in the air, rich with expression. The circle of people around him laugh and smile.

Ugh. Why does he have to be so handsome?

This is like some kind of real-life scene from the movie Titanic. Only I'm not Kate from first class. I'm Leo, the dirty commoner from the bottom deck of the ship, mixed up in high society where I don't belong.

But at least I'm dressed to the nines in a stunning apple green dress and corset, my hair done up properly, my face stunningly made up. Marcha is a true expert. I can't help but feel a little smug.

Nikolai finishes his story and looks around the room. We make eye contact, and the side of his lip curls up as he cocks his head at me. I'm almost in a festive mood, but I refuse to give him the pleasure of knowing. I stifle my expression as he walks toward me.

"My little pet," he says to me as he approaches, "You are stunning."

"Right," I say, "Thanks to your slave, Marcha."

Nikolai cocks his head at me. "Do not demean my servants, Jenna," he says. "Marcha is not a slave. She is here of her own free will."

"Uh huh," I say, not believing a word he says. "Can we just get on with this?"

He smiles stiffly, and I sense that my attitude is getting to him a little bit. Good.

"Indeed," he says. "Let us sit."

He extends his elbow for me to take. I look at him with a confused expression, pretending I don't know what he wants.

He clearly expects obedience like he gets from all the other girls he invites here. But I'm not going to give it to him. I'm going to make this as hard as possible for him.

He leans forward and whispers sharply in my ear, "You
will
honor your end of this bargain."

I give him a sickly sweet fake smile, placing my hand in the crook of his arm, oozing sass.

I instantly feel the hard muscle beneath the fabric of his tuxedo. His forearm is powerful, bigger than most men's biceps.

I can understand why he has the charisma he does. He just projects strength, vitality, and... virility.

God. It's like my estrogen is working double time against me. I'm trying to will myself to be disgusted by him—and don't get me wrong, I'm very disgusted by him.

But at the same time, I can't help feeling some deep, animal attraction.

He leads me to an empty round table at the front of the room, bigger than all the others. We take our seats, me next to him. In the background, a string quartet plays a sonata.

Fancy shit. My parents would love this. They love to spend their money on all kinds of ridiculous expenses. Er, my money. From the trust fund that was supposed to pay for my college education.

Their bad habits have given me a disdain for extravagance. And this is most definitely extravagant.

Once Nikolai and I are sitting, he leans in to me and whispers, "Have you dined formally?"

"No," I whisper back. "Are you so out of touch that you think I've done this before? Normal people don't go to royal balls and banquets."

"Of course they don't," he hisses, his voice betraying frustration at my continued disobedience. "Follow my lead. Use the utensils I use. Eat the way I eat."

"Can't make any guarantees."

He makes a disgusted sound, but then sits up straight in his chair. "The King and Queen have arrived," he says.

I look over my shoulder and I see an older couple entering. They both wear crowns. The King is an older version of Nikolai, although not as tall. Their resemblance is striking, except for his eyes. Where Nikolai's eyes are sprightly and energetic, the King's eyes are still. Dead inside. There's something incredibly disconcerting about it.

The Queen doesn't look a whole lot better. She's old, white, and frail.

They look like a couple with a lot of weight hanging on their shoulders.

Two royal guards escort them to our table. Nikolai stands.

"My lieges," he says, bowing shallowly to them. He kisses each one on the cheek in turn. "Mother, father," he says, turning toward me, "Meet Jenna. Our special guest this evening."

I briefly think about standing up to show respect.

Then I think: fuck that. I sit there with my ass on the chair. They're not my King and Queen. Not any more than Nikolai is my prince.

A small look of annoyance creeps onto Nikolai's face, and
that
almost does make me smile. Good.

"Nikolai," says the King, "Where did you find this little peach? At least Marcha managed to scrub the dirt from under her fingernails. Low standards even for you, son."

I'm flabbergasted at the King's rudeness. "Excuse me?" I blurt out.

Nikolai's cool exterior looks like it's about to crack. His perfect plans are crashing and burning.

He waves his hands as if to clear the air in the room.

"I find Jenna stunning, father," he says to the King.

"Well," the King says as one of the royal guards pulls out his chair, "That's charitable of you."

I can't believe how aggressive he's being. Shouldn't Nikolai stand up for me? I'm his guest of honor!

"Now, now" the Queen says. "Don't be such a sour old puss, Alexandr. She's cleaned up rather well for a peasant."

"Beatrice," says the King sharply, "Can you believe our son? Ever since Mona passed on, he's dallied with a most dreadful cadre of females."

There's no doubt I'm speaking out of line, but I just can't sit there and let someone attack me. "Listen," I say, "I'm not a dalliance. I'm not interested in your son. He forced me here. And people have manners where I'm from."

The King peers down his nose at me. "Good riddance, then. The royal bloodline is pure, not to be adulterated by the swill that runs through your veins."

I'm livid, and I envision launching over the table, breaking all the ivory dishes and tearing my beautiful dress as I choke out the King. But before I can snap, Nikolai tries to diffuse the situation.

"Father," he exclaims. "You'll not mention Mona again. And you'll show respect to the guests I bring to this table."

"Alexandr, please," says the Queen. "The sooner this is over, the better."

The waiters bring out a selection of breads, fruits, cheeses, and olives, an appetizer course. But I just want to get out of here. I no longer want to be in the presence of either Nikolai or his parents.

They're all royal pains in my ass.

I grab one of the many forks neatly laid out next to my plate, paying no mind to whether it's the appropriate one. I stab an olive with it, and pop it into my mouth, smacking my lips loudly.

"Good lord," exclaims Nikolai sitting next to me. "I told you—"