A Great Prince: A Royal Bad Boy Romance Read online

  Whether or not this should be the case had been a matter of great debate within the Palace. It exhausted Francesca, going to these meetings with these old queens and fusspots whose own sense of dignity was wrapped up in hers, and the treatment she received.

  “The so-called king of Danubia is a jumped-up street rat from a lesser branch of the Almásy. His mother was a Gypsy and—”

  “He’s also one of People magazine’s Sexiest Men Alive, several years running,” one man murmured, then blushed when the others glared at him.

  “The king of Danubia is a king,” another said. “To deny the precedence of a king over a princess would be to jeopardize…why, the whole system!”

  “And what could be worse than that,” Francesca muttered, to the consternation of the old biddies.

  There was no “Palace” in Danubia to argue the point as exhaustively as it had been argued in Burgenland. Instead, the Danubian ambassador reported Burgenland’s request to King Nikolas, who laughed at the whole thing and said whatever was fine with him.

  For that, Francesca envied him.

  Once, Burgenland and Danubia had been a single nation, until the Soviets had taken half of it after World War II and renamed their half Danubia. The unlucky aristocrats trapped on the Soviet side had met terrible fates.

  Then the Berlin Wall fell, and with it the whole Iron Curtain, and for a moment it felt like Burgenland and Danubia would be reunited. A democratic government took power in Danubia, but only for a moment. The Communist apparatchiks who’d driven the nation into poverty were suddenly transformed into billionaire oligarchs, after they seized the nationalized assets to enrich themselves. They needed to overthrow the democratic government to retain their ill-gotten gains, but to do that, they needed an excuse.

  And how better to do that, than to claim they were the “real” Kingdom and Burgenland’s king was the impostor. But, they’d needed a monarch of their own, the way that China had anointed its own Dalai Lama in opposition to the real one from Tibet. The problem was, all the old aristocracy had been liquidated by the Soviets.

  Well, almost all of them…

  Nikolas had been given a very different kind of training in his youth than Francesca had. He knew how to shadow a man down the street without being noticed. He knew how to jump a man in an alley without being heard. And he knew how to walk behind a powerful man, close enough to protect him, to be seen as with him, but not so close as to shame him by making him look weak and in need of protection.

  He knew how to dance, too. Well, how to stage dive, which was a dance in itself. You had to read the crowd, you had to know who was watching, who would catch you, who wasn’t so fucked up on E they’d let you hit the concrete floor.

  And so he, too, was ready for this dance, a symbolic peace overture between the two nations.

  Men with pieces in their ears communicated in low voices, and the two ships of state were pushed toward each other. They were to meet in front of the bistro doors, shake hands for a moment for the official photographers’ cameras, and then turn and walk, together, into the restaurant. There they would be left alone to make small talk for a few minutes.

  On cue, they walked toward each other. Both of them smiled – Francesca stiffly, Nikolas loose, amused.

  Nikolas watched his dance partner approach. Francesca was five foot nine, much shorter than Nikolas. She had the glowing skin of someone who’d spent a lot of time in vigorous outdoor activity. It was the athleticism of the upper class, with just a touch of plumpness in the skin, no signs of any past suffering or deprivation.

  All the same, Francesca’s blue eyes really were astonishing. They were that Paul Newman blue, a pure bright gemlike color – exactly the same as her mother’s famous eyes. And they were so full of… something. Energy, life, and blazing intelligence.

  They shook hands, and Francesca’s grip was strong. He remembered she had been on Danubia’s Olympic fencing team and had acquitted herself well. But the skin of her palm was soft, warm…

  At the touch, Nikolas felt a little something down there, below his guts and behind his cock. That pleasant tremor that promised much more pleasure if he didn’t let go.

  Francesca’s eyes widened. She knew that Nikolas had lived a much harder life than she had. The king had been deliberately raised in poverty by the former Communist regime. They’d extracted great propaganda value by keeping his aristocratic family alive, the last of their line, and humiliating them at every turn.

  But Francesca hadn’t been prepared for the rough, thick paw that grasped her own soft hand. It was calloused as only a working man’s hands could be, and so very hot. It wasn’t like putting her hands into the warmers her servants kept ready for her after a day of skiing — it was like being grabbed by a bear.

  The pleasant tremor that Nikolas felt at the touch was an earthquake inside Francesca. My God, he’s… beautiful. Radiantly handsome, with eyes, brow and nose possessing the finely drawn features of his aristocratic heritage. But below that, his lips, his jaw, were thick and sensual from his peasant ancestry, almost brutal, an animal snarl on his lips…

  Those lips now curled into a knowing smirk, as he registered the surprise in Francesca’s eyes for what it was: lust.

  Francesca flushed as she realized that Nikolas was on to her. She cursed herself – all her life, her training had taught her to hide her feelings, whether that feeling was boredom at a long reception line, irritation at an ear-bending dignitary… or blazing desire.

  Her mother and her governess, Sonia, had always held up Queen Elizabeth I as the model of monarchical behavior. That queen had never referred to herself as a queen, but as a “Prince,” reminding the men around her that she was their only monarch, and she always spoke of the conduct of “Great Princes.”

  And Great Princes did not feel blazing desire, or at any rate, they did not give into it. They kept a stiff upper lip, as the English said.

  “Your Majesty,” Francesca said, bowing to her social superior.

  “Your Royal Highness,” Nikolas replied, matching her bow as he gave the princess the slightly lesser honorific. “Shall we?”

  CHAPTER FOUR – WE WILL BE WITH YOU PRESENTLY

  They turned away from the crowd and Nikolas put his arm through Francesca’s, just like two old friends strolling through the park.

  Nikolas’ big bicep was against Francesca’s arm, the baseball-sized muscle pressing insistently against her. The doors were shut behind them with great ceremony, and a single waiter attended a table in the otherwise empty bistro.

  “Coffee, please,” Francesca said to the waiter when they were seated.

  “Irish coffee for me, with a double shot, thanks,” Nikolas said.

  Francesca flushed. She felt like a prude, ordering coffee when this man was ordering alcohol. She envied Nikolas his devil-may-care attitude.

  Nikolas saw it. “You can have a drink, you know. Nobody’s watching.”

  “That’s not why I didn’t order one,” she said defensively. “I didn’t… I have other duties to attend to later.”

  “Ah.” Nikolas put a hand on his napkin, held down by the heavy silverware. With a flashing motion, he snapped it out from under the silver, like a magician pulling a tablecloth off a table full of dishes. He finished with a snap that billowed the napkin out, then let it settle on his thigh.

  “A very nice trick,” Francesca admitted grudgingly.

  “Yes, thank you. I can show you how if you like.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Aren’t you a tight assed little bitch, Nikolas thought with indulgent good humor. I bet your virgin hole is clenched so hard I couldn’t even get up in there… The thought made his large cock swell uncomfortably in his tight slacks, which surprised him.

  She wasn’t his type, at all, Nikolas told himself. He liked the slutty “models,” easily conquered by the glamour of his crown, the deal sweetened by his handsome face and fit body.

  All the same, this was…different. This wasn’t a pretty young thing throwing herself at the studly king. This was a…what? A challenge?

  Francesca drank her coffee black, the aroma of Nikolas’ whiskey-laced beverage making her jealous. The waiter was well trained; as soon as the princess turned her head in that direction, the man was there.

  “I’ll have an Irish coffee as well, please.”

  “And I’ll take another,” Nikolas said, emptying his cup. “And make hers a double,” Nikolas called after the waiter.

  “So, I have some catching up to do with you, is that it?”

  “If you think you can.”

  Francesca blushed. His tone made Nikolas’ meaning clear. He was the sexual expert, the Imperial Eagle, and poor Francesca was a little rabbit, nibbling on a carrot with no idea what was sweeping down on her.

  Francesca’s blue eyes narrowed. Who was he, to treat me this way? Today I’ve defied my father, my king, my handlers, with a speech that will rock the world. And he has no idea, he’s paid no attention to anything that’s happening here!

  Those eyes were icy now, burning cold with Imperial rage, full of the power of her ancestors – kings and emperors, absolute monarchs, world shakers and remakers.

  Nikolas felt the same chill that so many had felt over the centuries at that look. It reminded him that Princess Francesca Albertine really was royalty, where he was just a convenience for certain people.

  “You might be surprised to find out what a fast learner I am.”

  Francesca had shocked herself with the words. She was a virgin, but there was something about his offhand assumption that she was sexually naïve, that she knew nothing of the world, that…pissed her off!

  Nikolas laughed, delighted that she’d answered the unspoken statement, tossing aside the little game of double
entendres. “No, I would have been surprised. But not anymore, princess.”

  There was no mockery in the honorific this time. Nikolas looked at Francesca now, really looked at her. Her whole body was stiff, but it was training, wasn’t it? The way they taught her to be. But there was heat in there, just waiting for someone to unlock it…

  Then the moment was over – the doors had opened, and a not-so-discreet cough from a member of the Palace staff ruined everything. As always, Francesca thought.

  “Your Royal Highness, we are expected at the reception for the ambassador’s…”

  “We will be with you presently,” Francesca said.

  Everything stopped. Even the waiter lost a step for a moment. That was the tone you couldn’t practice, Nikolas thought, the tone you couldn’t imitate. Maybe you had to be born with it — that strong tone, that filled a room, stilled an arguing crowd, reminded everyone who was in charge.

  Nikolas blinked. He wasn’t used to women like this, women with…natural authority. His groin throbbed at the thought of it. All his partners since his coronation had been such easy conquests, bowing down all too willingly before the king. I would have to wrestle this one down to the ground.

  “Of course, Your Royal Highness,” the little man said, scurrying out of the room, shutting the doors again.

  Francesca dumped the little silver pot of creamer into her Irish coffee to cool it down and knocked it back in one gulp.

  “Rough day?” Nikolas asked casually, even as a vision took him – the urge to stand her up, to grab those finely tailored slacks and tear them right down the zipper, tear the crotch right out of them…

  “Yes. I gave a speech today. Not the speech I was supposed to give.”

  “Ah. That’s highly irregular for royalty, I think.”

  “It is. But there are things that needed to be said. Things that impact you and your country as well, I have to tell you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I talked about the border crisis between our nations. Refugees are held back with fences and tear gas, unable to move through to Germany and beyond. And yet, none of the armed men you use to stop the refugees are capable of stemming the flow of drugs, counterfeit merchandise, women transported into sex slavery by the gangsters of your country…”

  “No,” Nikolas said, and now he was the one with an imperial tone. “No women are used that way. Not by us.”

  “They come across your border from Russia, from Hungary, from all points east…”

  “I think you know my history. I grew up with these gengzters. There is one thing that sets them apart from the rest. No women. Drugs, counterfeit merchandise, counterfeit money, stolen goods, smuggling refugees, yes. All that. But anyone who tried to move women into sex slavery would pay dearly.”

  It was true, he was sure. János had been the closest thing Nikolas had to a real father, since his biological father was a national joke. János had been the leader of the most powerful gang in Danubia, and his word was law. And that law stated that women were our sisters, our mothers, our daughters. They would not be touched.

  Of course, there were always enterprising souls who tried to go into that line of business, especially when they saw criminals in other nations doing it so profitably. They were found, eventually, by the Rendőrség, the police. Or by the gengzters. Their entire bodies turned up, piece by piece. All the pieces but one.

  “They are moving across your border all the same. I will send you the report I’ve received from the Bundespolizei.”

  “You do that,” Nikolas said coldly.

  Francesca stared at him. It was true, she thought, everything they said about him. The man the tabloids called the “Punk Prince” was nothing but a party animal, a figurehead who let the gangsters run the country while he drank champagne and snorted cocaine. No sense of duty at all. He had no idea what went on in his own country, right under his nose!

  Princess Francesca Albertine stood up and bowed to the king of Danubia as stiffly as any of her Teutonic ancestors. “Good day, then.”

  Nikolas blinked. This little shit doesn’t believe me! “Yeah, your masters await you. I won’t hold you up.”

  He watched as Francesca stormed towards the door, her trim figure, her slim waist, her perfect buns flattered by her tailor’s skill.

  What she needs is a good hard fucking, Nikolas thought, his groin stirring at the thought. It was always the repressed ones who turned out to be the hottest sex – so much fire to be stirred and kindled.

  After the princess was gone, Barnabas coughed discreetly at the doorway. “Your majesty.”

  “Yes, I’m coming… Barnabas, I think I’m going to need two translators tonight.”

  CHAPTER FIVE – ONCE UPON A TIME

  After the meeting with the king, the Burgenland Palace’s bureaucracy had descended on her like a smothering pillow, whisking her away, cancelling all her public appearances.

  Gustav Krupp, King’s Minister of Foreign Affairs, sat her down in her hotel suite and lectured her sternly. “Your Highness, that was not the speech that was prepared for you.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Our foreign policy is a matter of considerable deliberation, and craft, and consultation with the Landtag. It is not…”

  “Is the Monarch not the last word on these matters?”

  “He is indeed. And in this matter, he was. Or so we thought.” He sighed. “You are not the monarch, Your Royal Highness. Nor will you be. Prince Leopold is the heir to the throne now.”

  “Prince Leopold is a dunce,” she blurted at the thought of her twelve-year-old stepbrother.

  Minister Krupp gasped. “Highness!”

  “He is,” she said angrily. “He’s a spoiled brat who’ll make Joffrey Baratheon look like Good King Wenceslas. He doesn’t care one whit for the people of this country and…”

  “Highness! This is entirely inappropriate and I must say…”

  Blah blah blah, Francesca thought, turning away to look out the window of the hotel room, watching the snow fall gently on the streets.

  And her heart skipped a beat. Outside the hotel, a “translator” on each arm, was King Nikolas, getting into a limousine — presumably to go off somewhere and have one hell of a good time.

  Obviously, she thought enviously, there was nobody to lecture him on appropriate behavior.

  Once upon a time, a child’s laughter had rung out everywhere in Schloss Esterházy, the home of Burgenland’s royal family. In the Empiresaal, the great banqueting hall, Francesca had hidden under the linen tablecloths – but not very well, for the sound of her mother’s voice, teasing her, had always made her giggle and reveal herself.

  In the Haydensaal, the Palace’s great Baroque-era performance hall, she had sat at the grand piano, plinking out random notes while her mother, an audience of one in the front row, applauded vigorously. They had run laughing through the Schlosspark, scattering the birds, a security detail always on the lookout for danger, but mostly for photographers, hoping to get a candid shot of the queen.

  For she was more than garden-variety royalty. Queen Valerie was also Hollywood royalty, a jolt of fresh blood injected into an old, decayed line. She had given up her career at the age of twenty-seven, at the peak of her box office power.

  “Your career in Hollywood is pretty much over at thirty, anyway,” she’d said with the tart frankness that made the media love her. A frankness that would not serve her well in the Palace.

  The Palace. Here in Burgenland it wasn’t just the stultifying bureaucracy it was in England. Here, it was the servant of the real rulers of the country – the bankers, the billionaire tax refugees, the corporations registered in this delightful tax haven, like Lichtenstein but with more culture, and with even less regulation.

  And it was the Palace’s job to keep Queen Valerie from… doing things. Things like calling attention to the hard lives of the “guest workers,” the Poles and Russians and Filipinos who worked as maids and butlers and drivers for pennies, their passports held hostage, their families dependent on the money they remitted home.

  But she did anyway. What land mines and AIDS were to Princess Diana, “guest workers” around the world, from Burgenland to Dubai, had been Valerie’s crusade.