The Royal Treatment (11 page)

“Oh, that’s Chris for you. She never volunteers shit if she can help it. But boy, dynamite tattoo, eh?” The peasant actually elbowed him in the ribs.

Tattoo?
What fresh hell was this? “I wouldn’t know,” the prince said thinly.
Though I mean to find out.

“Oh, quit it, you guys,” Chris snapped good-naturedly. “Jeez, it’s like watching the Discovery Channel. So, Kurt, you’re in town a couple days? Can you hang out?”

Ugh.
The prince avoided “hanging out” if he could at all help it.

“Sure,” Kurt said. “I’ve got two weeks leave coming up. I was planning to hang around here, but if you guys have something else in mind, I could tag along.”

Oh, splendid.

“It’s so great to see you,” Christina said for the third?—fourth?—time. “I can’t believe you came all this way to see me.”

“You kidding? You’re in all the papers out here. It’s big news when a Yank lands a prince. How could I not look you up?”

And he had the gall to drop David a wink.

“Y
ou’re killing me, kiddo. You’re goddamned killing me!” The king slapped the newspaper down on his desk. She could read the upside-down headline easily enough; the print was over an inch high.
FUTURE PRINCESS CLAIMS SEX LIFE NOBODY’S BUSINESS.
“I’m on my second bottle of Pepto-Bismol this morning—you happy now?”

“Hey, Al, guess what? My sex life
isn’t
anybody’s business.”

“Sure, go with that, see where it gets you. Nice yawn, by the way.”

“Give me a break! Look, I’m sorry, but David was going
on
and
on
for, like, an hour and a half, and I was really—”

“Hung over,” David said dryly. “And my speech was six minutes and twenty-eight seconds long.”

“And what’s this about bringing an American cop back with you? You don’t like the Alaskan cops? You had to kidnap one and haul his ass back to the palace?”

“Oh! Right, forgot to tell you…he’s an old friend of mine, and David invited him to come back and stay with us for a while—wasn’t that great?” Smiling, Christina squeezed David’s arm, then dropped it. “His name is—”

“Kurtis J. Carlson,” Edmund said from his corner.

“Uh, yeah. And he’s a—”

“Homicide detective with the L.A.P.D.”

“Edmund, you’re creeping me out again. What’d you do, instantly run a background check the second we got here, or something?”

“Yes.”

She blinked at that, then said, “Anyway, speaking of Kurt, I’m gonna see if he’s all set up in the guest wing. Okay if I take off?”

King Alexander waved her away, and she practically skipped out of the room. David turned to follow her, but stopped short at his father’s, “Freeze, boy!”

“Don’t start, Dad.”

“Bet your ass I’m gonna start! First, you don’t care if you get married or not. Then you flub proposing to Christina. Then she finally—miracle of fucking miracles—says yes, but won’t decide on a ring. Then she drives half the wedding staff to nervous breakdowns. Then—then! She runs into an ex-boyfriend and you decide to bring him
here?
Are you
trying
to get out of your engagement?”

David sighed. “I realize on the surface it looks a bit bone-brained—”

King Alexander snorted. “Not just on the surface, boy-o.”

“—but you should have seen her face light up when she saw him. I think she’s been a little overwhelmed here, and it did her good to meet up with an old—uh—friend. She was so—well, I invited him to join us on the return trip and stay for a bit. You should have seen how happy that made her. She—well, she was quite pleased.”

The king was rubbing his temples, much the way Jenny did. “Cripes, the two of you are going to drive me to an early grave.”

“Your Majesty, if I may, this actually solves the security problem revolving around Lady Christina,” said Edmund.

“Yeah? Howzat?”

“As you know, she doesn’t feel she needs a security team when she leaves the palace—”

“And she’s wrong, yeah, we know that. Had to put my foot down on that one, and she didn’t like it one damned bit. Got a headache from all the yelling.”

“—so rather than have bodyguards dogging her heels, lately she has elected not to leave the grounds at all.”

“It’s why she was so excited about visiting Boston,” David added.

“But traveling with a police officer, one licensed to carry a firearm—”

“Yeah, but can he shoot? Will he?”

Edmund crossed the room and tapped the file on the king’s desk. “See for yourself, my king. He enjoys an outstanding reputation within the police force; he’s their top detective. He’s also killed four men in the line of duty, either to save lives or to apprehend killers. Detective Carlson’s superior was quite frank with me. He referred to Detective Carlson as ‘the number one gunslinger’ in the Los Angeles Police Department.”

The king opened a desk drawer, then leaned back in his chair and rested his feet on it. “Huh. I getcha. Let her run around with what’s-his-face—she can go wherever she wants and have fun at the same time.”

“Exactly, sir.”

“So, throw her together constantly with an ex-boyfriend.”

“Lady Christina would not forsake the prince for another, not at this stage. She’s an honorable woman.”

The king nearly tumbled out of his chair. “Whoa, my heart! Can it take the strain! I thought you said something nice about her.”

“It’s the dry air in here.”

“Well, shit, I guess I don’t care, if Davey doesn’t.”

“
I
don’t care,” his son lied.

The king studied his heir for a long moment.
Fuckit. This might be what finally gets the kid to shit or get off the pot. He’s been way too laid back about all of this.
“Fine. So, the cop’s Christina’s new bodyguard.”

“Fine.”

“Indefinitely? We clear that with his boss back home?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. His captain realizes this is good publicity—for a change—for the L.A.P.D., and has extended Detective Carlson’s paid leave indefinitely.”

“Well. That settles that, I guess.”

“I guess,” the prince said distantly.

K
urt still couldn’t believe the size of his room. He’d expected…he didn’t know, something like what he got when he stayed at Motel 6. A really nice Motel 6. Instead, he was worried that Edmund guy had given him the king’s room by mistake.

Heck, the whole place was beyond amazing. The country was gorgeous—it all looked like Northern California, except (bad Kurt!) maybe a little better. The people were unbelievably nice. The palace was ultra-cool.

Yep, Christina had really gotten herself a sweet deal. As usual, the crazy cutie had fallen face-first into a pile of crap and gotten up covered with diamonds.

Except…she wasn’t happy here. Couldn’t be. No way—not the Chris he knew. For one thing, look at this place! Everything was a priceless antique.

For another, check the fiancé. Chris so totally did not dig the I’m-not-as-stiff-as-I-look-okay-I-guess-I-am type. Even if he was supersmart. And richer than God. And was gonna have his own country someday.

Nope. He’d done the right thing, coming to Boston. He would—he would save Chris from herself!

Or, rather, he’d save her for him. She was the l’il chickie who got away.

Totally his fault; he knew it then, he knew it now. They’d been going out pretty heavily and then his roving eye had caused trouble and she’d shown up at the same party as his roving eye and some other bim whose name he couldn’t even remember.

There had been harsh words, followed by a flying lamp and a mild concussion. He’d told her to take a hike. She’d told him to perform an impossible act on himself. He’d told her he’d rather do that than choke down another omelet she ruined by sprinkling thyme or whatever into it. She told him it’d be a cold day in hell before she made an omelet for him without spitting into it. Then she’d left. And he thought that was okay; he thought he was happy, he thought his concussion would heal up in no time.

They’d made up the next year, when time had softened her heart and woken him up to the colossal mistake he’d made. He didn’t do anything about it then, because it was kind of a new thing, a nice thing, being friends with a woman who wasn’t a cop, or a stripper. And he had time; they were both young.

He’d always planned to hook up with Chris again, knock her up, have her squeeze out a few l’il chicks, hang out, get old, all that good shit. Y’know, after. After he sowed some more oats and got ready to settle down and shit. Chris was a great gal and all, but not exactly a demon in the sack. He wanted to see a bit more of the world before settling on a single ice-cream flavor.

Then: the newspapers. All of ’em, it seemed. Christina this, Christina that, Christina was friggin’
engaged
—how’s that for a cosmic yuk-yuk?—and now he had to fix it, fix them, and if Princey-poo got in his way, Kurt was gonna knock him on his ass.

Nothing personal. But this was his future wife they were making off with. Chris was born to be Mrs. Carlson, not—jeez, the idea!—Queen Christina.

There was a rap at his shiny door (thing was probably solid gold, he thought uneasily) and then the prince stepped inside, followed by that super-tall dude, Edmund, and a guy not quite as tall, but sure broad through the shoulders. He had salt-and-pepper-colored hair, and his handshake swallowed up Kurt’s hand; it was like being close to an aging quarterback, one who could still plow through the field if he had to. He had intense blue eyes, and—and looked a lot like an older, craggier version of Princey-poo, come to think of it.

“Hey, fellas,” he said, retrieving his squashed hand with some difficulty. It was a lot like shaking hands with an old grizzly bear that had a few swipes left in his claws. “Hey, dude. You must be the king. Nice place you got here.”

“Hello, Detective Car—”

“Dudes, dudes! I’m not on the job. My name’s Kurt.”

“Kurt, appreciate you coming back with my kid here.”

“Oh, hey, no
problemo!
It was great to see Chris again. And great of the prince,” he added with a nod at said prince fellow, who looked like he was chewing on lemon peel, “to invite me.”

“Yeah. Well, listen, about that—where’s your sidearm?”

“In my apartment back in L.A.,” he said. “Don’t worry, I didn’t smuggle any firearms into your country.”

“Dammit!”

Kurt blinked. The king turned to Edmund. “Get him fixed up.”

“At once, Majesty.”

Kurt’s hand was swallowed again. “Nice meeting you, Kurt. You have any problems or questions, let me or Edmund know.”

“Or even,” Edmund said, “Edmund or me. If you wish to be grammatically correct.”

“Uh, thanks, Mr.—uh—king.”

With a wave, the king took off, leaving him with the skinny guy, and his archrival.

“Are your quarters satisfactory?” his evil nemesis asked politely.

“Yeah, dude, they’re fine.”

“This is a key card which will get you into the shooting range, anytime. A member of our security team will assist you in selecting a firearm. The king signed your carry permit this morning. All we ask is that when you’re escorting Lady Christina—”

“Keep an eye out for the bad guys,” Kurt said, instantly understanding everything. What luck! What total fucking luck! He practically snatched the key card. “No sweat. Hey, nobody’s gonna mess with
my
ex-girlfriend, unless it’s me.”

Nobody laughed at his (admittedly lame) little joke.

“So you let me come back with you, and now you’re giving me a gun and letting me practice on it, and letting me hang out with your—with Christina. You must really want us to get back together,” he joked.

“Ah…well…I know you aren’t here to try to win her back, so to speak, and—”

“Actually, dude, I kind of am,” he said, half apologetically. He cursed his hippie mother for instilling him with a scrupulous sense of honesty. “I mean, you seem like a nice guy and all, but this whole palace gig—it’s just not for the Chris I know. It’s just not. And I’m hoping she’ll remember that if we hang out enough.”

“Detective Carlson, that is entirely inappropriate behavior,” Edmund said.

“Damn right!” the prince yelped.

He shrugged. “Sorry, dudes. That’s the way it is.”

A bump as his rival’s chest touched his. Hmm. The rival was pretty solidly built. And about three inches taller. “Shoot your mouth off all you like,” he growled, “but be sure to keep your hands to yourself, or I’ll cut them off.”

“Oh, yeah? They still do that up here?”

“Edmund! Off with his head!”

“Sadly, Your Highness, I left my axe in my other pants.”

“Well, start carrying one,” the prince snapped, then stormed out.

“Uh…he was kidding, right? I mean, I read up on the guy. He’s a marine biologist or a zookeeper or something.”

“Yes, of course, sir. A marine biologist descended from a royal family known for cutting the Gordian knot as opposed to untying it.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means,” Edmund said, just before his more restrained exit, “welcome to Alaska.”

“H
ow,” Prince David demanded by way of greeting, “could your tattoo have escaped my notice?”

Christina paused in mid-chomp, then put her tomato sandwich back on the plate. She’d successfully seen Kurt tucked into his room and decided to treat herself to a snack. She was eating in one of the sunrooms, the one with the view of the ocean, today a mild slice of blue in the distance. The tomato was a rich, ripe red—a good trick for this time of the year—and drippy. She wiped her chin with her forearm and asked, “What bit you on the ass today?”

“Note how she didn’t answer my question.”

“What I’m noting is that you’ve picked up Eds’s icky habit of referring to me in the third person. And it’s a fine question—how
did
my tattoo escape your notice?”

“Well…” He sat down across from her, oblivious to the drenching beauty of the scene. As usual, she was momentarily distracted by his extreme yumminess. “We’re usually in a hurry—”

“Because you never know when Nicky or Al or Alex or Alex or Jenny or Eds will burst in on us—so
not
conducive to horniness, by the way.”

“—and it’s usually dark—”

“And cramped,” Christina added, smiling. “And sometimes furry. I still say we find that closet again.”

He looked distracted, then shook himself. “So, where is it?”

“You’re asking me? I still need a map to find the bathroom.”

“I mean,” he said through gritted teeth, “your tattoo.”

“Oh, dear.” She picked up her sandwich and took a bite. “After all those closet gropings, you have to ask?”

He slumped back in his chair and stared out the window. “Well, if you don’t
want
to tell me…”

“It’s not so much that I don’t want to tell you, it’s that I think you should find out for your—yeeeek!” The plate went flying, her tomato slices parted ways with the bread, her chair slammed back onto the floor, her legs went over her head, and then he was nuzzling her neck and groping under her shirt. “Subtlety, thy name is not—that tickles!” Her legs sticking up in the air as they were, it was difficult to get leverage to fend him off. Not that she entirely wanted to. Still, her pride was at stake. “David, for God’s sake, it’s noon and the door to the sunroom’s wide open and we’re not exactly well—hidden—
God,
your fingers are cold!” A horrid thought crossed her mind. “You didn’t come from the penguins to me, did you, you fucking pervert?”

He’d pulled her shirt over her head and seemed temporarily stymied by her bra—ha! Back clasps. “No,” he said. “It’s just chilly in here today.”

Not for much longer! Yow. “David,” she giggled into his throat, “will you cut it out? I’ll tell you, all right?”

“Kurt knows,” he muttered, peeking under a bra strap.

“Ancient history, Penguin Boy, and we already had this conversation, remember? What, it’s my fault you’ve been in such a hurry to get some that you never bothered to look for distinctive markings?”

He scowled at her. “So you’re saying it’s my fault you went out and got yourself marked with permanent ink like some sort of biker lady?”

“Chick, David, biker chick, and no, but the only reason you’re in here with your cold fingers is because you’re mad at Kurt.” She pushed her hair out of her face to give him a glare of her own. “Which is so totally dumb, by the way, I mean—why’d you invite him in the first place?”

He muttered something she couldn’t quite catch, then they both froze when they heard footsteps. He kicked the chair, which wobbled back upright, snapped open the lock on the French door, and hauled her out onto the balcony. He glanced down, observed the four-foot drop, then booted her over.

“My sandwich!” she wailed on the way down.

He landed beside her in a crouch and tackled her. Cripes! At least the grass was warm. The few patches that had escaped the snow! Fucking ten-month Alaskan winters…

“Not to mention your shirt,” he said, and whatever weird mood he’d been in seemed to have passed, because he was grinning at her. “Now let’s hope whoever it is doesn’t look out the window.”

“They’re gonna be too busy peeling tomato slices off the wall.” She shivered in the chill spring air. “You owe me lunch, buckaroo.”

“Done and done.” He peeked into her cleavage.

“For God’s sake.” She sat up, shoved him away, presented her back to him, and unsnapped her bra.

There was a long silence, followed by his “Oh.”

“See it?”

“Hmm.”

“Happy now?”

“It’s an albatross.”

“Congratulations, Dr. Baranov, those years of college when you never had sex appear to have paid off.” She snapped her bra again and started to stand, but he held her down with a hand. Weirdly, he was still frowning.

“An albatross, Christina.”

“Yes, David, I know, I’m the one who paid for it,” she said patiently. Why was he looking at her so strangely? “Anybody who tells you tattoos don’t hurt is a fucking liar, by the way. I figured, smack in the middle of my back, where my bra strap hides it, something small—and it still hurt!”

“A royal albatross, in fact.”

“Now, don’t go reading too much into this,” she warned.

His eyes were faraway and he wasn’t looking at her anymore, he was staring at the sea. “It’s a large seabird that regularly circles the globe.”

“Are you channeling Marlin Perkins now?”

He ignored her interruption. “In fact, it’s a seabird famous for never lingering long in one place. In fact, it spends only about a tenth of its life on land…the rest of the time it’s on the move.”

“Also, it’s pretty and I liked the black specks on the wings. David, will you lighten up?”

He blinked and looked at her. “Sure,” he said. “I was just surprised. It’s very pretty.”

“Well, thanks.”

He kissed her, his tongue tracing her lower lip before delving inside, and she slipped her arms around his broad shoulders. Boy oh boy, it was too bad they were out on the lawn where God and everybody could see them, because she—