The Royal Treatment: A Crown Jewels Romantic Comedy, Book 1 Read online

  Damien Peters

  Chief Adviser to the King

  Blog post – Interviews Canceled

  Tessa here. I regret to inform you that the “Ask Me Anything” interviews have been suspended whilst the Royal Family concentrates their efforts on the upcoming referendum. I’m sorry that I didn’t have a chance to get all of your questions answered, and hope that one day in the future, the opportunity will present itself again.

  I’ve taken down the forum until such time as the interviews will be given the green light.

  My cell phone rings. It’s Nikki. “You saw the post?”

  “It was because you left the camera on, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s what the note from the King’s senior adviser implied, but I think it may be more about His Serene Highness throwing his weight around now that he’s home.”

  “Why didn’t you go after him on the blog? You should take a picture of the letter and post it.”

  “I have a feeling that that little move might get me kicked out of the castle.”

  “So? You did what you set out to do. You’ve built your reader base, your advertising dollars are up, and now that the referendum’s been called, you could come back and lead the charge from home base.”

  “I can’t just leave. I made a commitment,” I say, hoping she won’t dig any deeper.

  “If the King kicks you out, it’ll be out of your hands.”

  Sound convincing, Tessa. She cannot know you don’t want to leave because you got shagged last night. Four times. “I honestly think I can be of more use from the inside. For now, I’ll cooperate. That’ll allow me to gather more information. I haven’t found anything I can really use. Oh, crap. I’m being called to a thing. I have to run. Call you later.”

  I hang up before she can say anything else. Guilt clouds over me. I just lied to my best friend. I am a shameless, unprincipled woman. God should smite me down. But if he could just wait until I’ve had a few more rounds in bed with Arthur, that would be lovely, because up to this point in my life, I’ve been really very good. Except for lying to my parents on occasion and now Nikki. And for betraying my principles and my readers by sleeping with the Prince. Oh, just smite me now.

  “I need your advice, but first you have to promise you won’t say anything to anyone about this conversation.”

  I’m in my room and am on the phone with Bram who has called to ask for ‘tickets’ for the ball. Apparently, his new hygienist will ‘definitely go down on him’ if he can bring her.

  “Get me the tickets and you’ve got a deal.”

  “They don’t sell tickets. It’s not a bloody Justin Bieber concert. It’s a ball, which means they send out invitations.”

  “So, get me an invitation.”

  “I’m not exactly an honoured guest, you know.” I sigh. “I’ll see what I can do, but no promises.”

  “Then no promises not to tell.”

  Argh. Why did I start this conversation? Oh, right. Because I slept with the Prince like a total fucking idiot, and now I’m freaking out. “I’ll tell Dad you were the one who filled his ship in a bottle with Coke.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would and will.”

  “You told me you’d never rat on me about that.”

  “I lied. I’ve been saving it for something important.” Ha! So, who’s the smart one now, Bram?

  “Fine. What?”

  Yay! Score one for Tessa! “You know how you’re a total slut?”

  “Did no one teach you how to ask for a favour?”

  “Are you going to deny it?” I ask.

  “It’s called stud because I’m a man.”

  “Whatever. How do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Sleep with women and not develop feelings for them?”

  “I just told you. I’m a man,” he says. “Wait a minute. Are you shagging the Prince?”

  “No! I’m just considering it. Not with the Prince, though! Definitely not with him… and I’m just thinking about it.”

  “Not that bald bodyguard dude?”

  “Not him, either. None of your business. All you need to know is that it’s not Arthur.”

  “Oh, it’s him, all right!” He bursts out laughing. “Good Christ, you really have a gift for completely screwing up your life, don’t you?”

  “For just once, can you try not to be an arsehole?”

  “But it’s so much fun.” He takes a bite of something crunchy and chews into the phone.

  “Back to the question at hand. How do you stop yourself from getting attached?”

  He has another bite and chews for a long time before answering. I pretend I don’t hear it because, not unlike a third-grader, he’s doing it just to get a reaction.

  “I just go into it knowing what it is, I guess.”

  Hmph. “But doesn’t it ever get complicated?”

  “No. I know exactly what I want, how to get it, and how to get out without things getting complicated.”

  Well, this is no help at all. I shouldn’t have asked.

  “You’ll never be able to do it, though, so if you are thinking of sleeping with him, you probably shouldn’t.” Bite. Chew. It’s definitely an apple. “You’re not built like me, Tessa.”

  “How are you so sure?”

  “I’m going to tell you something, and if you ever tell anyone, I’ll find a way to make your life a living hell, got it?”

  Typical big brother threat. “Got it.”

  “It’s because you’re a nice person. You pretend to be all tough and strong, but deep down, you’re just like Grandpa Seth. Way too fucking nice for your own good.”

  “That’s not true. I’m very tough. I can be ruthless, even.”

  “Sure, you can write mean stuff when you’re hiding behind your computer screen, but you could never say it to someone’s face.”

  “I just called you a slut, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, but we’re on the phone. Also, I am one.” Crunch. Chew. How big is that fucking apple? “Listen, remember that time when Finn and I were burning worms with a magnifying glass? You set up a hospital and tried to revive them. You spent hours out there, and by the time Mum made you come in for supper, you were bawling. Over some worms. Then you and Grandad had the worm funeral? Remember that? With the bagpipe music and the little matchbox coffins? Face it. You’re a nice person. You always have been.”

  “Fine, I’m nice. Now how do I sleep with someone without starting to imagine it’s anything more than a shag?” Well, four mind-blowing, toe-curling, I’ve-died-and-gone-to-heaven shags.

  “I already told you. You can’t. So, unless you and Definitely Not The Prince are going to end up riding off into the sunset in a white carriage, you better stay the hell away from him. Because you’re going to get hurt.”

  Crap. That’s what I thought.

  Twenty-Six

  A Girl Can Change Her Mind… Can’t She?

  Tessa

  So, I have not exactly taken Bram’s advice. Instead, I have slept with Arthur every night for the last four glorious weeks. We’ve shagged so much, I can’t even think straight. I find myself both completely exhausted and deliriously happy, probably in much the same way as a new cult member during the indoctrination phase.

  I honestly don’t know how he has so much energy. I’ve had to replace my morning run with night sex, and occasional morning sex, oh, and yesterday, we did it in the middle of the day in his office. Mmm. That added thrill of getting caught seems to do something unexpected for me. Anyway, Arthur still gets up for his morning workout with Ollie, manages all of his obligations throughout the day and evening, then comes knocking on my door all freshly showered and delicious for round after round of orgasmic fun.

  Almost better than the sex are the little romantic moments we’ve shared. We’ve managed to sneak away to the rooftop terrace twice now, and both times, it was wildly romantic. Arthur brought up a bottle of wine and some cheese, crackers and grapes, and we had
a little picnic while the sun went down. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do with a man—the right man, that is—and it’s as perfect as I imagined it would be. The rest of the world dissolves, and it’s just the two of us alone. No phones, no laptops, no money problems, no referendums, just us.

  This may all sound like a dream come true, but it’s clearly very wrong. And it wouldn’t take a Lars to figure out that this is going to end badly for me, both emotionally, when my heart is smashed to smithereens, and career-wise, if anyone finds out.

  The one other negative, and it’s a biggie, is that now the King is back, I haven’t had access to any meetings. Everything is done behind closed doors, and I find myself wandering the palace grounds half the day taking photographs of flowers and interesting architectural elements of the buildings for my photography site. Even though my Royal Watchdog site is getting a decent number of hits every day, I’m spinning my wheels instead of moving forward.

  I should just go home. That would be the smart thing to do. But I’d hate to kick Nikki out when she’s expecting to have two full months to herself. Also, she hasn’t fixed the wallpaper yet, and I really should give her a chance to do that. It has nothing to do with the fact that this entire fabulously exhilarating secret affair will end the moment I walk out the door. Nothing at all.

  I’ve been sitting at my desk all morning making lists of the pros and cons of the monarchy. But what it really reads like is a list of all the things I was wrong about over the past two years since I started the Royal Watchdog, because most of what I thought I knew was actually a result of misinformation and assumptions made by other royal-haters like me. Turns out, I don’t hate them. They neither loaf around during the day, nor drink and party all night. They’re a hard-working bunch, seven days per week.

  Who knew?

  Their real fault is in neglecting to communicate this with the public, but they are attempting to fix this, and even if it is the eleventh hour, at least they’re trying. Now that I’ve gotten to know them (especially Arthur, obviously), I can see that more than anything, they’re so private because they’ve been through a horrible tragedy, and not because they all truly believe themselves to be unaccountable to the public.

  I’ve had ample time with the recipients of the many charities they support, and not one person had anything negative to say about anyone in the family. In fact, they all said that without the family’s fundraising and awareness campaigns, most of these charities would have folded long ago. Now, of course, I don’t expect them to be unbiased (or even truthful) when they’re the recipients of big wads of cash, but still, they wouldn’t need to gush about the members of the family, either.

  Then, there’s Troy. Dexter would be lost without him. And where would Troy end up if not for Arthur? Back at some dingy warehouse, getting yelled at? Not if I have anything to say about it.

  But now what? I can’t very well go public and tell the world I was wrong.

  Can I?

  Text from Lars: Would you be able to arrange for Tabitha’s class to be given a tour of the palace? They’re learning about our system of government, and it would be a huge deal for her if you could make that happen.

  Voicemail message from Mum: Tessa, is that you? (Long pause.) Oh, I’ve got your machine again, haven’t I? Grace, next door, said that you posted something about getting a good deal on a gown for the ball, and since her daughter is getting married this fall, she was wondering if you could introduce her to the designer for a mother-of-the-bride dress? Call me back as soon as you get this, please.

  Voicemail message from Charles Porter, building manager: Hello, Tessa. The work has been completed on the shrubs out front. I’m sliding the bill under your door, even though I know you’re still living at the palace. The board does not consider that an excuse for non-payment. You have thirty days before interest starts to accrue. I also wanted to mention that your lease is coming up for renewal at the end of May, and I would like to discuss it with you.

  Voicemail from Jack Janssen, Prime Minister: Tessa, it’s me, Jack. Just checking in with you to see if you’ve given any thought to my offer. Call me back. I’d love to have you aboard.

  Message from KingSlayer99: You haven’t been online for days. What’s going on? I expected that you’d be leading the charge. Avonia needs you, Tessa. Where are you?

  It’s late at night, and Arthur and I are wrapped up in each other’s arms. Despite basking in the rush of endorphins at the moment, there is a niggling feeling of unrest that is threatening to spoil my good mood. The Prime Minister’s message has everything to do with it. I still haven’t told Arthur that, in a vague sort of way, he’s offered me a job.

  I can’t remember a time in my life when I’ve been this conflicted over anything. The very reason I’m here is to advance my career, which aligning myself with the Prime Minister would ultimately do—maybe. But when I think about Arthur, I just can’t bring myself to do it. Also, I really haven’t uncovered anything newsworthy to give Jack Janssen anyway. I called him back earlier and left a message to that effect, and tried to sound both non-committal and definitely interested at the same time, which resulted in my tone of voice rising and falling at the strangest places and ended with me saying I was coming down with a sore throat.

  Arthur sighs happily and laces his fingers through mine. I turn to face him and just stare for a long moment, taking in his perfection in this moment of contentment. God, I like him so, so much. I should tell him about the Prime Minister. But how can I trust him? I mean, really trust him? He was very plain about trying to seduce me to get me to vouch for his family, and I’ve bloody well let him do it. The smart thing to do is to keep the Prime Minister’s offer a secret. That way, when this fantasy with Prince Arthur ends, I’ll at least have a soft place to land as far as my work goes.

  Or not.

  It’s all a big gamble. The truth is, I’m in over my head. I do not belong here in the palace, and I certainly don’t belong in the middle of a feud between our nation’s leaders.

  “What’s wrong, Ms. Sharpe?”

  “What makes you think something’s wrong?” I smile sweetly at him.

  “Because you’re making that little clicking sound with your tongue that you do when you’re deep in thought.”

  “I don’t click my tongue.”

  “Of course you do.” He kisses me on the cheek. “Don’t worry, it’s endearing.”

  “I think I should go home,” I blurt out.

  “Do you mean back to your room?”

  “No, back to my flat. Back to my real life.”

  He lifts himself onto his side and stares down at me, his face lit by the moon outside the window. “Why on Earth would you do something like that?”

  “Because, I’m supposed to be here in a professional capacity, and now that your father is back, I’m not accomplishing anything in that regard. Besides, sleeping with you isn’t exactly smart. If word got out, it would crush any credibility that I have.” I sigh. Also, I feel very guilty every time I see you, knowing I’m entertaining a job offer from your worst enemy.

  “You agreed to give me two months. Don’t go back on your word.”

  “I’m not. I mean, I don’t want to, but things have changed since I agreed to stay.”

  He touches my bottom lip with his thumb. “Yes, they certainly have—in ways I don’t think either of us could have anticipated.”

  “That’s the problem. I don’t know what we’re doing here, and I honestly don’t know what to think.”

  “Don’t think. For once in your life, just let yourself feel, and I’ll do the same.” He nuzzles my neck, then plants soft kisses from my earlobe down to my collarbone. “Do you want to leave?”

  “No.”

  “Then stay. I know we shouldn’t be doing this, but there are few things in my life that have felt this right before. When we’re together…” He stops himself from finishing the sentence, and I am dying inside to know what the last few words would have been. “It mat
ters to me that you’re here, Tessa. I need you to know who I am. Even if we lose, I could almost live with it if I felt like you understood.”

  I blink back tears and whisper, “I see you, Arthur.”

  “You may be the only person who ever has. Give me another two weeks, Tessa, before you go back to your life.”

  Back to my life? Huh. Well, that tells me that I’m making the right choice to keep the Prime Minister’s number in my contact list…

  Twenty-Seven

  Cavemen and Dead Kings

  Arthur

  I stand next to Tessa at the bottom of the palace steps and watch as the children disembark from the school bus. She asked me to lead her niece’s fifth-year class through a tour, and I was happy to agree to it. I know the past few weeks have been rough for her, with my father shutting down her interviews, leaving her to sit by and watch as camera crews and journalists parade in and out, getting the scoops that I know she wishes were hers.

  I’m also hoping this will help reduce the guilt I feel when I think of the dossier I have on her. Even though I’ve only used a few very small bits of information from her online dating profile (and that was weeks ago, frankly), I know I really should have told her about it by now. Relationships are built on trust, and I’m afraid I’ve failed her in this regard. But telling her the truth now would be a disaster, especially since she’s been burned so badly by men before. She would most likely turn on me in a most spectacular way, and if there’s one thing I can’t risk right now, it’s to have a spurned anti-royal blogger on my hands. So, maybe a few little lies can be buried without consequence…

  I look over at Tessa, lovely, lovely Tessa, and decide to come clean. As soon as the referendum’s over.

  She looks up at me. “Thank you for doing this, Arthur. I know you’d rather poke out your eyes with a bobby pin than give a tour to a bunch of nose-picking ankle-biters.”