Royal Pain Read online

  Royal Pain is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2017 by Tracy Deebs-Elkenaney

  Excerpt from Royal Treatment by Tracy Wolff copyright © 2017 by Tracy Deebs-Elkenaney

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Royal Treatment by Tracy Wolff. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Ebook ISBN 9780425285893

  Cover design: Makeready Designs

  Cover photograph: conrado/Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Tracy Wolff

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Royal Treatment

  Prologue

  Kian

  The weather’s hot, the drinks are cold and the music is hopping—and there’s no place I’d rather be.

  Then again, who doesn’t want to be on a yacht off the coast of Ibiza, playground to the rich and the raunchy?

  It’s the perfect spot, especially for someone like me who’s quite proud of taking both of the above to extremes—along with the third r in my trifecta of bad behavior: royal.

  That’s right. I’m rich, raunchy and royal, and while I don’t usually brag about any of it, I don’t apologize for it, either. Why should I, when there’s not much in life that being His Royal Hotness Prince Kian of Wildemar won’t get me? And since I get the title without any of the responsibility—thanks to my older brother, Garrett—I figure it’d be a shame to squander my luck.

  A lot of people think I should be bitter about being the spare to Garrett’s heir—we were born only seven minutes apart, after all. But those people don’t get it. They see only the power that comes with being the man who will be king and none of the shit that it entails.

  I, however, have had an up-close-and-personal look at all of the shit, and I’ve got to say—I really, really like being the spare.

  It’s why I’m on this yacht, after all, while Garrett’s back at the castle playing Crown Prince of Wildemar with delegates from several South American governments.

  Why I currently have a Brazilian supermodel on my lap and a Victoria’s Secret Angel snuggled up against my side while Garrett’s been tied to the same boring, titled little snob for years now.

  Most important, it’s why I get to say and be and do what (or who) I want while Garrett…Garrett definitely doesn’t.

  Fuck yeah, I love being the spare. What’s not to love about getting all the privileges of royalty with none of the responsibilities?

  The music changes to some old school Avicii, and the model on my lap—Sofia, I think her name is—squeals even as she squirms against me. “I love this song,” she says, her voice all low and breathless and sex-drunk from the orgasm I just gave her. “Let’s dance, baby.”

  “You sure that’s what you want?” I flex the fingers of my left hand, which are still buried inside of her. “Because I was thinking we’d go for round two, see how long it takes me to get you off again.”

  “You can get me off again,” Brandy, the Angel on my right side, says as she rocks against my thumb. She moans a little as I give her what she wants, stroking my thumb over her clit once, twice, a third time.

  Like so many things in life, third time’s the charm and she comes, gasping my name and clutching at my back with her long, designer-polished fingernails.

  Sofia moans a little as she watches, her body clenching hot and wet around my fingers as she, too, comes for a second time.

  And then she’s slipping off my lap, sliding a hand down the six-pack ten years in the Wildemar Royal Navy has given me and settling onto the floor between my thighs. Brandy moves to help her out, her fingers tugging at the drawstring on my Gucci board shorts. I lean back against the couch in an effort to give her more room—never let it be said that I’m not a gentleman. It obviously works, because just that easily her hand is inside my shorts, her fingers wrapped around my dick as she pumps me a few times.

  It’s my turn to groan as I stretch one of my arms out along the back of the sofa. I use the other to reach for Sofia. I pull her closer, tangle my fingers in her hair. Then slowly, slowly, slowly guide her very red, very talented mouth down to my eagerly waiting cock.

  But she’s barely sucked me down when the sound of a helicopter’s rotors gets annoyingly close. So close, in fact, that I can’t help glancing up at it. And that’s when I know I’m fucked, because it’s not just any helicopter. It’s one from the Wildemar Royal Air Corps—I can tell from the insignia on the side.

  Before I can even fathom what they’re doing here, Niall and Lucas are by my side. In seconds, I’m disengaged from Sofia and the angel and in less than a minute, I’m standing in the center of the deck beneath a ladder dangling from the hovering helicopter.

  “What the fuck is going on?” I demand of my bodyguards who are, even now—in the middle of a yacht party—dressed in the slate gray suits that are their standard uniform.

  “The king has ordered you home,” Niall tells me, face more serious than I’ve ever seen it.

  “The king can suck—”

  “It’s an emergency, Kian.” Lucas cuts me off before I can say something unflattering about my father in front of all the rich and useless avidly watching this go down.

  “What kind of emergency?” For the first time a frisson of concern works its way down my spine. “The country—”

  “Is fine,” Niall interrupts.

  “Then what?”

  “It’s Prince Garrett,” he tells me as he steadies the ladder.

  The trepidation grows, starts to become panic. “What’s wrong with my brother?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The fuck? “What do you know?” I demand, frustrated.

  “That something has happened to Prince Garrett and the king fears for your safety as well,” Lucas growls. “Now, get on the—”

  But I’m already climbing, racing up the ladder and into the helicopter as fear churns sickly in my stomach.

  I may be the spare, but I’m still a member of the Wildemar royal family. And right now all I care about is making sure my brother—and my country—are safe.

  Chapter 1

  My skin itches like it�
�s too small.

  Like I’ve got a really bad sunburn.

  Like it’s the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever worn.

  Which, let’s face it, at the moment is totally true.

  Well, that or I’ve got a raging case of the chicken pox.

  Or maybe it’s just that the monkey suit I’m currently stuck in is a fucking disaster.

  Or it could be…Jesus, the possibilities are fucking limitless right now, aren’t they?

  Surreptitiously, I slide a finger between the too stiff, too starched collar and my too dry throat. Then take my first deep breath of the night. Yeah, it’s definitely the monkey suit. Or at least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

  So much better than the alternative…

  After years of wearing my dress uniform to formal events, it feels strange as fuck to suddenly be stuck in a goddamn tuxedo. Sure, it’s Tom Ford, but the perfect cut doesn’t make the psychology of the suit—or this night—any easier to accept.

  I flex my shoulders, adjust my jacket, covertly pull at my cuffs a little. And try to look like I’m not strangling on my perfectly knotted black silk bow tie.

  It’s easier said than done, considering everything about this night is strange as fuck. Then again, everything in my life has felt uncomfortable—and so much worse—since that royal helicopter swooped down onto that damn yacht thirteen weeks ago. Uncomfortable and upside down and wrong. So fucking wrong.

  But how can it be anything but wrong when I’m the one standing at this stupid gala, keeping a stiff upper lip while my brother—my twin—is missing?

  Maybe locked in some hellhole somewhere.

  Maybe injured.

  Maybe dead.

  Just the word makes my stomach churn and my hands shake. I shove them into my pockets so none of the vultures currently studying my every movement can see. They’re determined to find some sign of weakness in me tonight, and I’m just as determined not to let them.

  “Your Highness. It’s so lovely to see you here!” a voice trills behind me.

  Jesus. Any higher and she’d be breaking the sound barrier. Why the fuck is it that rich women—especially older, rich women—think talking in that ridiculous trill makes them attractive? All it does is turn people off. Well, that and get every dog in the neighborhood on high alert.

  I make sure none of my annoyance shows as I turn around and come face-to-face with a woman who looks vaguely familiar. A little voice in the back of my head tells me I should know her, but I gave up listening to that voice a long time ago and not even stepping into Garrett’s shoes is going to change that.

  “Hello, ma chérie,” I tell her, taking the hand she extends and bringing it to my lips.

  She giggles like a twelve-year-old. “It’s so good to see you again. William and I were hoping you’d be here.”

  It’s the mention of her husband that triggers my memory. She’s Florence Thackeray, wife of the British ambassador to Wildemar. Her husband is an old school friend and a frequent golfing buddy of my father’s.

  I force a little more sincerity onto my face because of the family connection. But to be honest, any friend of my father’s is automatically suspicious in my mind. “I was hoping to see you here, as well. How is”—I rack my brain for several seconds—“Betsy?”

  She draws back in surprise. “Betsy?”

  Fuck. Okay. “I meant to say Betty. How is Betty?”

  Her face pinches in obvious annoyance. For fuck’s sake. How the hell am I supposed to remember the name of every daughter of every fucking ambassador in the fucking country? Just because not-Betsy-or-Betty and I fucked in the garden during a long state dinner one summer night a few years ago doesn’t mean we’ve kept in touch. God save me from meddling mothers.

  Still, I’m supposed to be trying, so…“Your daughter. How is she? The last time we spoke she was on summer break from Cambridge.”

  “Bootsy has finished up her degree and is now working in the embassy. Here. In Wildemar.”

  And that’s my cue to bug the hell out of Dodge. “Well, please, give Bootsy my love. We’ll have to have you all over to the palace soon.”

  I drop another kiss on her hand, then slide into the crowd swirling around us. I make a mental note to ask Roland—the family’s social secretary and general master of all things that make me miserable—what it would take for me to get a pair of earplugs and a lobotomy before that happens.

  Why the fuck am I doing this? I fume as I make my way through the crowd. Why the fuck am I even here? I should be at home researching the information from our daily briefing on Garrett’s disappearance or badgering our security or intelligence forces about what else they can do to find him. I sure as shit shouldn’t be here pretending to give a fuck about all this.

  So why the hell am I?

  Oh, right. I’m supposed to show the people that Wildemar is as strong as ever, even if their crown prince has disappeared in an incident where everything points to foul play.

  The only problem? It’s not true. We’re not strong. But fake it till you make it has always been my motto—or, at least, the fake it part. I’m here to show everyone that things are fine, that Garrett’s kidnapping, while alarming and being treated with the utmost urgency, hasn’t shaken the integrity or the spirit of the royal family. Even though it really, really has.

  It’s harder to fake than it should be, considering I was raised in this world and have known many of the people in this room for most of my life. But familiarity doesn’t mean intimacy—especially when you’re royal—and I’m determined not to break. Not here and definitely not now.

  Even though every day that Garrett’s missing, every day that goes by without a phone call or a ransom demand or a video using him as propaganda for some crazy cause, it becomes more and more likely that my brother—my twin—is already dead.

  The recurring thought chills me to the bone, has more than my hands shaking as I start to slowly wind my way toward the bar on the other side of the room. Distance wise, it’s not that far. But as I can only move about six inches at a time before having to exchange more pleasantries, it takes forever.

  My dry throat gets even drier.

  Still, I smile at the Duchess of Something or Other, doing my best to ignore the way she presses herself against me. The fact that she’s old enough to be my mother doesn’t seem to bother her as she leans forward and whispers something utterly lewd—and utterly unarousing—in my ear.

  And then Arnoux Durand catches my attention. “Your Highness, how are you?” He’s all sad eyes and concerned voice. “We are so, so sorry about Prince Garrett. But we want you to know how thrilled we are to have your leadership in this difficult time and into the future.”

  Like my brother’s already dead. Like the outcome is already guaranteed and now all we have to do is find and bury the body.

  I want to tell the fussy old asshole to back off, but he’s the majority leader of the Upper House. As my father had Roland remind me when he was briefing me—we’ve got a lot of legislation we need to get through the Houses right now and I’m supposed to smooth the way as much as possible. Sympathy will only get us so far, after all…yeah, dear old dad’s a cold one, all right.

  Very deliberately, I take a breath—lately I’ve been forgetting to do that—and count back from five before I answer. “Thank you for your concern, Minister Durand. My father and I appreciate your—”

  “Minister Gerincoult,” he interrupts, sounding a little like his bow tie is strangling him. I feel his pain.

  “I definitely plan on speaking to Gerincoult,” I tell him. “I just haven’t—”

  “No, I’m Gerincoult.” His words are clipped, his tone ice cold and I am completely screwed. “Durand is over by the balcony.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry.” With no other recourse, I go for the pity vote. “With everything going on right now, I’m a little discombobulated. Of course I know who you are. You were always one of Garrett’s favorites.”

  He doesn�
�t look impressed, but at least he doesn’t look offended anymore. Probably because he thinks I’m a moron…and right now, I’m tempted to agree with him.

  Fuck. My. Life.

  Garrett has to be alive. He has to be—and not because I can’t spend the next fifty years doing this. Everyone, from the people to my father to parliament (except for maybe Lower House Minority Leader Gerincoult), seems to think I should take his place, glad-handing the peerage even as I show Wildemar’s citizens just how serious I can be. If these last three months have shown me nothing else, it’s that to all of them, one crown prince is as good as another.

  As if it’s so easy.

  As if I can just slide into Garrett’s place.

  As if anyone could.

  Garrett is the best of Wildemar, certainly the better of the two of us. The idea that I could ever, in any way, replace him is more than just insulting. It’s a goddamn joke. One with a really, really bad punch line.

  And yet here I am, trying—and failing—to do just that.

  The people of Wildemar deserve better. Too bad they haven’t figured that out yet.

  But they will. And then there will be hell to pay. For all of us.

  Sure, I can work a ballroom with the best of them. Shake a few hands. Tell a couple of well-timed stories designed to get a laugh. Dance with all the parliament wives and charm their high heels—and low-rise panties—right off of them. Twenty-eight years of being the spare has taught me a thing or two, after all.

  But that doesn’t mean I can run a country. Hell, most days I can barely remember the head of parliament’s name, let alone his party politics. Or how I want him to vote on pressing issues.

  I’ve spent my whole life burning bridges instead of building them. Expecting me to change that now is crazy.