Prince's Dirty Little Secret (A Royal Secret Baby Romance) (2 page)

"I'm totally skeeved out right now," says Ashley, sobering up fast. "I just wanna get out of here."

I bite my cheek. "Alright. We'll sleep this off at my place. Don't puke in my car."

We leave the house, which is quiet now except for the snoring and rustling of a dozen passed-out party goers who didn't make it back to their dorms. I drive us back to the L.A. suburbs. The dawn glow peeks out over the horizon as we climb the stairs to my apartment. We scurry inside to escape the daylight and salvage a few more hours of sleep.

I
WAKE
to the sound of my alarm at eleven o'clock. Ugh. I rub my eyes as I lie in bed, sunlight streaming through the blinds. Ashley is snoring away on the couch. I hope she'll make it to the airport in one piece.

At the foot of my bed hangs a skyline poster of North Molvania's capital city, Caprion. It's a city out of time. The downtown landscape sprawls with buildings that resemble 1950s visions of the future. It's a bizarre contrast to any modern American city. The CIA suspects they're mostly empty and unfinished inside. Just hollow shells to convey a certain image to the world. An image other than the truth: that North Molvania is a closed-off country with some serious economic and political problems. But no one knows for sure.

All the West really knows is that North Molvania completely relies on natural resource exports to survive. The royal family stays in power because it controls the vast fortunes buried beneath North Molvania's meadows and forests. But Caprion wasn't built on oil wealth or natural gas. Rather, it was built on profits from precious metals. Gold, silver, platinum, palladium, and exotics like osmium and iridium. Underneath the country's lush, green countryside is a vault of metal wealth, waiting patiently underground until the regime needs a cash injection. When the time comes, they strip mine another section of forest, log the trees, and drain the earth of its ancient prizes.

There's something else strange about North Molvania. Because of its isolation, it's said that the DNA of its people is up to 10% different than the rest of the world. And because natural selection encourages genetic diversity, it's said that North Molvanian people are irresistible to foreigners who travel there. It's like some kind of magical sexual aphrodisiac. A population so isolated and exotic that common DNA just can't wait to mix with it and create something new.

That's exactly the kind of shit that EDGE loves. Readers eat it up. Do I believe it myself? Not really. But in about 24 hours, Ashley and I are going to see the country first-hand. I guess we'll find out then. We're two of the lucky—or crazy, depending on your point of view—people who get to visit this year.

I stretch in bed, thinking of the tabloids, the bottom-feeders of the news industry. They just love the Crown Prince Nikolai and his tall, dark, and powerful figure. That thick, wavy and full chestnut hair, unable to look anything less than perfect on his head. Those impossibly high cheekbones.

He sells copies. I mean, he's really photogenic. I can't deny that, whatever else I may think about him.

No way he'll have some mysterious effect on me, though. I hate the guy. I just wanna dig up his dirt. If I can break a story involving him, it'll mean a huge step forward for my career and a fat bonus in my pocket.

That'd be nice. My student loans loom large in my mind. My grandparents' inheritance was supposed to pay for college, but since my parents blew it all on themselves, I had no choice but to take out huge loans. Yeah, my parents are kind of dicks.

I hear Ashley stir on the couch.

"How you feeling?" I ask.

She groans. "Terrible."

I look at my alarm clock. "You've got four hours to get your shit together, 'cause that's when we gotta be at the airport."

We get ready, hit the road, and pick up Ashley's luggage from her place. We barely make it to the airport on time. We're flying into Transylvania, then crossing the border into North Molvania. Officially, there's a travel embargo, which means no direct flights.

And we
definitely
won't be getting stamps on our passports.

T
HE FLIGHT
to Transylvania is long and arduous, and I can't sleep during the turbulent Pacific crossing. By the time we land, my teeth feel fuzzy and gritty, my eyes outlined with hollow bags.

A personal envoy meets us at the airport. It's a couple young guys who usher us out to a rickety old van outfitted with a huge spare fuel tank in the back. To permit long-distance excursions, they tell us.

We ride through the black night, and just as the sun is rising, we arrive at an old shack along the border. It's like a no-mans-land. Just a wall of barbed wire, scrap metal, and for all I know, mines. On the other side is North Molvania. In my mind, I guess I expected the horizon to be black and surging with lava like some kind of crazy real-life Mordor. But from what I can see, North Molvania is mostly wide, grassy fields.

Ashley and I exchange furtive glances in the backseat of the van. We're both exhausted and apprehensive.

"Ready for this?" I say, a half-whisper.

She nods. "I can't believe we're actually here, Taylor," she says, winking at me. I nod at her, silently thanking her for protecting my real identity.

The driver and the other porter get out of the van and start unloading our luggage. We step out into the brisk dawn. It's already hot out even though the sun is barely up.

As we're taking in our surroundings, an old man emerges from the shack. He's hobbled and weathered, as if the shack has been cooking him like an oven for the last four decades. That's probably not far from the truth.

At first I think he's Transylvanian, but then he starts speaking to the driver with a distinctive North Molvanian accent, the exotic and unmistakable twang coming through.

Well… no instant biological attraction so far. That's for sure.

He looks at us and speaks in broken English. "We go now. Under."

T
HE FLOOR
inside the shack is dirt, and in the center of the room is a steel staircase leading down into the ground. Ashley and I share nervous glances. Nobody told us about any underground tunnels. I pray that this is legit and we're not being kidnapped forever in this old guy's underground cellar.

The two porters go first, carrying our luggage down the staircase. Their boots clang on the metal steps on the way down, and the old man motions for us to follow.

Below ground, the tunnel is long, straight, clean, and lit on both sides by hanging work lamps. The ceiling is low, though, and my head nearly touches the roof. There are reinforced steel tunnel supports about every ten feet.

"Wow," Ashley whispers. "This is incredible."

We walk for nearly ten minutes before we see the exit on the other end. The North Molvanian side of the passage is sealed by a thick, heavy slab of steel that resembles a bank vault door.

The two porters step aside and the old man maneuvers around us in the tunnel. He raps his knuckles on the door six times. The metal clang sends a chill through my spine. The handle starts to spin, and the door opens.

There are two men on the other side. Their faces are dark and foreign, a strange mixture of what appears to be Arab and Asian ancestry. Their eyes are haunting, and… wow, they're actually pretty handsome. There's something intriguing about them. It's like the exotic appeal of a Frenchman or a Swede, only much stronger. It's a little bizarre.

Shit. I wonder if the Crown Prince Nikolai actually would have this effect on me, despite how much I fucking hate him. I think back to the pictures I've seen, a face carved from marble, shoulders thick and burly. In photos he looks… kind of perfect. Now, part of me wants to see if he measures up in real life.

It doesn't matter, though. I'll never get within 100 miles of him.

The old man steps aside and motions for us to ascend. I take a deep breath and glance sideways at Ashley. Then I climb the stairs.

Before I can get a glimpse of the room's interior, the guards grab my arms and yank me up. They wrench my hands behind my back and I feel handcuffs being slapped on my wrists.

This isn't supposed to happen.

I start to scream, and then Ashley starts to scream. I look behind me, and there's a guard handcuffing her too.

Then, a burlap sack is shoved over my head from behind, and I see only blackness.

CHAPTER 2

W
hen someone finally pulls the sack off my head, I'm in a small, sterile interrogation room with bolted-down furniture and a one-way mirror on the wall. It's a tiny, claustrophobic space. The walls seem to lean inward, creeping, trying to devour me.

Two tall North Molvanian men in suits stand in the room, one with a full head of hair and beard, the other bald and clean shaven. The bald one holds the sack that covered my head.

"Miss Duval," he says, staring blankly into my face.

My heart beats hard inside my chest, threatening to bash its way out onto the table in front of me. How do these men know my name?

"Who?" I feign ignorance.

The bald man sighs as he steps toward me. "Don't lie to us, Jenna," he says, his distinctive accent echoing softly against the walls. "Your friend told us everything." Despite the accent, his English is nearly perfect.

I swallow hard. Ashley wouldn't do that. But what if they forced her to rat me out? What if they hurt her?

"You're crazy," I say, but the confidence in my voice is fake. "My name is Taylor Westwood."

In my head, I'm freaking out.

He grits his teeth and slams his closed fist on the table, shaking the entire room. "Don't lie," he growls. He looks ready to reach down my throat and rip my beating heart right out of my chest. With my hands bound behind me, I wouldn't be able to stop him.

The bearded man makes a calming gesture with his hands. His demeanor is completely opposite the angry bald man, but something tells me he's also dangerous. It's a classic good cop, bad cop routine.

"Look. My partner has a temper. But we can help you. Be honest with us."

I glare at him. "Why are you doing this? What did you do with Ashley?"

"We know you're a reporter," says the bald one, ignoring my questions.

I steel myself, trying to prevent my expression from giving anything away. But I fear that it doesn't matter. I'm bluffing. They're not. EDGE trained me to deal with nosy authorities, but they didn't prepare me for questioning by the North Molvanian secret police.

"Final chance," the bald one says. He stares at me menacingly.

I swallow hard. Damn. They don't even need a confession to lock me away for good. There's no choice but to cooperate.

"Okay," I say slowly. "I'm Jenna Duval."

They question me for another hour, and I answer all their questions. I'm a reporter. I came here undercover. Yes, I'm an American. No, Ashley isn't involved.

I try to keep a straight face, but I'm fucking terrified.

When we're done, they lead me out of the building and into a vehicle outside. The air is surprisingly cool and refreshing against my skin, and I can smell the lush North Molvanian forest. It's the smell of freedom and openness, and it's a cruel contrast to the oppression of the people and the shackles that bind my hands behind my back.

I sleep in a jail cell that night.

T
HE COURTROOM IS EVERYTHING
I'd expect from a North Molvanian government facility. The walls look like wood, but it's not real wood, it's wallpaper, and it's peeling off the plaster wall. The air is stale like a cabbage cellar. It's set up like an American courtroom, but the furniture all looks straight out of the 1960s. I guess that's the way of things here. Half-assing everything, to keep as much cash as possible in the royal family's pockets.

The people aren't exactly a priority in this regime.

At first, the courtroom is empty except for me and the guards. Then the judge enters from the side. He's older and looks tired. Probably stress from a lifetime of handing down crooked verdicts.

He takes a seat and bangs his gavel. Purely for show, apparently. I don't think the guards care much for proper judicial procedure.

"The court convenes to process the case of the Crown versus Jenna Duval."

I sit behind the defendant table, staring at the judge. Although I'm more terrified than ever, I know it's no use begging or groveling. I'm just hoping they won't off me right away. A dead American girl isn't worth nearly as much as a live, healthy one. That's a much better bargaining chip.

I hope they see things the same way.

"The evidence presented establishes the defendant as an American spy. Do you wish to speak?"

"Yes," I say. "I'm a reporter. Not a spy."

The judge nods, but he doesn't otherwise react. "Noted." He looks back down at his papers. "In addition, the evidence establishes that the defendant has conspired against the crown to commit an act of sabotage upon His Royal Majesty."

Oh, fucking right. In the chaos of the last couple days, I hadn't been thinking much about His Royal Majesty, the Crown Prince Nikolai. His Majesty who's probably in a hot tub full of naked women at this very moment, completely indifferent to the crimes and atrocities occurring in his kingdom.

"Do you wish to speak?"

"I'm not here to sabotage anything. Reporting isn't sabotage."

"Noted." The judge shuffles his papers. "The court has heard the defendant's claims. All evidence has been considered and evaluated fairly and thoroughly. By the sigil of the crown, His Royal Majesty, the 19th district court of the state of the Northern Democratic Republic of North Molvania hereby pronounces the defendant guilty on all counts."

Anger and fear surge inside of me. "This is a farce," I belt out. "A five minute trial? Where's the jury? Due process of law? The right to a fair trial?"

Even as the words come out of my mouth, I know I'm being an idiot. I know exactly how the legal system works in North Molvania, and I just got a first-hand taste of it. I knew the risks and now I'm paying the price.

I feel tears welling in my eyes but I fight them back. They have to be videotaping this entire thing, and I don't want the world to see me crying. I want them to remember me as the girl who fought 'til the end.