The Pretend Prince Page 2

  “How are you?” She manages to ask her own question, avoiding mine, and that really pisses me off. Then again, she excels at avoidance.

  Doesn’t she?

  I laugh once more, and my tone is thick with malice. If she thinks I’m going to engage in pleasantries, she’s dead wrong. “Fucking great until now,” is the only response I have to that question before hitting the OPEN button on the panel behind her.

  She needs to evacuate this space—immediately.

  Just as I do, the elevator jerks and then comes to a screeching halt. Now she’s the one plastered against the doors with me pressing against her. This is one way to get rid of her. Too bad the doors never open so I can discard her the same way I did three years ago.

  Without a second glance. However, this time, I’ll be facing her, so she can see the look of hatred in my eyes.

  After way too many seconds of nothing happening, I realize we’re fucking stuck in here—together.

  Oh, hell, no.

  IT WASN’T A PROMOTION

  30 Minutes Earlier

  Prince Julius Monaco is yelling at the press, again.

  Ever since the news broke of his grandmother’s stroke, he’s been doing this more and more.

  Long ago donned a bad boy by the media, he seems to be determined to live up to the title with each response he gives.

  The Prince of Wimberly is the grandson of Queen Helena and the son of Prince Vittore Monaco. He is second in line to the throne, but rather than spend his time training for his royal duties while he waits to become King, he’s running his grandfather’s shipping business in London, not that far from here, but not that close, either.

  Here is the Vespa Isles. They are located off the coast of France. The Isles consist of Alexandria, Catalina, Casanovia, Eastland, Wimberly, and, most recently, Marvella.

  Each island has their own niche, but all are famous for their pink sands and golden sunsets. They also share the need to ship their goods to Europe, which Queen Helena’s ex-husband identified immediately upon moving here some fifty years ago. Seeing the potential to make big money, he built a fleet of freighters and tankers to orchestrate the transport of products. Prince Julius took over the shipping mecca after his death.

  Wimberly has always been the only country in the Vespa Isles that hasn’t followed ancient royal rules. From the Queen herself marrying an English business tycoon outside the royal bloodline—to not demanding abdication when her son married an American actress after knowing the woman for less than twenty-four hours—to allowing her grandson to be schooled in the States near his mother and then work a full-time job in London. Then again, you don’t allow Julius to do anything. He does what he wants.

  Sighing, I sit back in my chair and attempt to play with my nose hoop until I remember I took it out. Without my vice to keep my nervous energy at bay, I continue to watch the video clip on my computer.

  Although I shouldn’t, I can’t help but stare at Prince Julius. At his broad shoulders and narrow hips. At the chiseled lines of his face. The way he arches one dark eyebrow in a skeptical way when he doesn’t like what’s happening around him. At his hair, sticking up this way and that, from running his frustrated fingers through it. And at his firm, kissable lips and at those sharp, pristine blue eyes, like two pools of seawater. There is only one word to describe him best—beautiful. Well, maybe a few R words as well—like raw, refined, rugged, and rogue.

  It’s true.

  Julius is a cross between a non-tattooed Harry Styles and a much younger Hugh Grant, and just as wild and charismatic as both. Or once as charismatic as both, not any longer from what I’ve seen. Now, he appears brooding and temperamental. I hate to think his disposition is because of me, because of what I did, but I fear it is.

  No longer the carefree guy I met three years ago, the now business mogul is wearing a navy suit and white shirt with a purple tie. Even dressed as stiffly as he is, he still looks just as sinful.

  I find myself nervously biting my fingernails when Julius snarls and growls at the question being asked of him for the thousandth time. “Do you plan to marry soon?”

  Waiting for his response makes my stomach flip in the same sick way it always does.

  Pivoting on one perfectly shined black shoe, he runs a hand through his sexy dark hair, and rumples it even more, before responding to the question with his middle finger.

  See—a wild rogue.

  Almost instantly, my body relaxes, though. I have no right to want him to remain single; however, my feelings for him are hard to control.

  The paparazzo doesn’t seem to get his message. “Prince Julius,” he calls. “You do know that Wimberly needs an heir, yeah?”

  “Fuck off,” Prince Julius responds, “My sex life is none of your goddamn business.” The rough, deep rumble of his voice, along with the use of the word ‘sex’ sends a shiver creeping deliciously through me, eliciting unwanted memories of the short time we shared together.

  Before I can get lost in the past, though, my phone rings. “O,” I answer.

  “Ophelia, it’s Pierce. Can you come to my office?” The senior staff reporter, who is my temporary manager, shouts into the receiver, and I have to pull it away from my ear.

  “I’ll be right there,” I tell him, pausing the video footage on my monitor and then sliding my aching feet into my new pumps with a groan.

  When I blogged, it didn’t matter what I wore, especially on my feet. As royalgirl.net, I spent all of my time reporting royal news from my flat in Alexandria, always wearing jeans and chucks.

  After Julius, though, searching for crushing news and scandals got old. Still, I did it for two reasons. One, I needed the money. And two, I could better take care of my ailing mother by working from home.

  However, when I was miraculously offered a staff position at the prestigious Wimbledon Life in Wimberly, with a big advance and a chance to write stories that mattered, I took it. My mother’s dementia had advanced, and affording her the care she needed was my primary goal. Also, I figured I could move and start a new life, even if it was in Julius’s native country. After all, he no longer lives here. Even if he does visit, it isn’t like we travel in the same circles. I won’t be reporting on royal news any longer. And also, I’m no longer writing about gossip, so crossing paths with him is very unlikely.

  Although I was promised stories about religion, politics, foreign affairs, and environmental issues, I’ve spent my first two weeks at a vacant desk not doing much of anything. I completely understand, though. All hell broke loose in the Vespa Isles the day I arrived at the magazine, and no one has had time for me with all the breaking news.

  Not only was King Rutherford of Eastwood arrested and his cousin, Truman Laurent, named temporary successor, but a small, forgotten country called Marvella joined the Vespa Isles.

  All very big news items, mind you.

  Things I’d love to be reporting on.

  Having first-hand insight into all crown matters, I emailed the editor-in-chief and offered to help report on the state of affairs, but my emails have gone unanswered. So, for lack of anything else to do, I’ve sat here, watching media clips of the Royals from all six of the Vespa Isles mostly out of habit, and forcing myself not to stalk Julius.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I get to my feet and hope that it’s finally my time to shine.

  Rushing to Pierce’s office on the other end of the floor, I panic when I get there, and the door is open. Taking a deep breath, I peer inside and knock at the same time.

  The senior reporter is on the phone but motions for me to come inside. “Sit down,” he mouths, pointing to a chair on the other side of his messy desk.

  Pierce is a forty-year-old man who drinks too much and smokes too much and, from what I can tell, works just enough to keep his job.

  “She’s here now,” he tells the person he’s on the phone with. “Yes, I’ll let her know right away.”

  When he hangs up, he pushes his glasses up onto his nose and g
lares at me. For some reason, he resents having to ‘manage’ me. Actually, I believe the woman who hired me used the words, ‘show her the ropes’ not manage, but I suppose it doesn’t really matter. “That was Raquel,” he tells me.

  A smile grows on my face. Raquel Livingston is the editor-in-chief of Wimbledon Life, and I admire her very much. She’s ambitious, talented, and has killer instincts when it comes to picking newsworthy stories.

  “She has an assignment for you.” Pierce seems hesitant, telling me about it, and shifts his gaze to his monitor.

  Even though he’s not looking at me, I sit up a bit straighter as a zing of excitement tingles my spine. “What is it?” I can hardly wait to research and write about a subject that is thought-provoking and important.

  He taps the keyboard on his computer with a single finger to wake it up and then prints something. “She wants you to write an exposé on Prince Julius.”

  Immediately, I tense, and confusion overtakes me. “An exposé?”

  His stare swings to mine as he slides the paper he just printed into a folder and hands it to me. “Yes, an exposé. I believe you should be familiar with the term from your previous job.”

  Taking what is offered to me, I don’t bother to look inside. “I know what it means, but I was hired at this company to write stories that matter.”

  He narrows his gaze. “And Raquel thinks Prince Julius’s playboy ways and refusal to get married matter to the legacy of the Crown.”

  My throat leaps into my mouth, and I’m tongue-tied. “I…I can’t…write about the Prince.”

  Opening his desk drawer, Pierce pulls out a crumpled up paper bag and reaches inside it. “Yes, you can, O. You could write this story in your sleep. Even if you couldn’t, Raquel is very excited about it, so pretend you can.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He speaks like I’m clueless. “What’s not to understand? It’s a story. She’s assigned it to you. Dig deep and uncover every sordid detail of the Prince’s life. She mentioned that she especially wants to know about his time on that American television show.”

  Oh God, do they know that was me? That Lia Heart from the States with the red hair is really Ophelia Heart from Alexandria with the dark hair?

  Oblivious to my turmoil, Pierce goes on. “In addition, she’s curious about his nearly two-year love affair with Princess Liz Laurent and wants you to uncover the cause of their breakup.”

  My stomach falls as it always does at the thought of Julius having moved on so quickly after me. “Curious about what exactly?” I ask.

  “Like, did he cheat on her, is that why they broke up?”

  “He would never.”

  Pierce shrugs. “Whatever. It isn’t my business or yours. And you shouldn’t bring your own morals into it.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Sure, you are. I don’t know why, and you don’t either. That’s why you’re being assigned to the story.”

  I gulp, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. “But why that story? This is a reputable magazine, and it doesn’t publish dirt.”

  Unwrapping a sandwich, he takes a bite. While still chewing, he says, “She doesn’t see the truth about the Prince’s life as dirt. In fact, when you read the assignment I handed you in detail, you’ll see she wants to publish a series of articles in the life and style section over a six-week term, highlighting the Prince’s life and even that of his father and grandfather.”

  I’m shaking my head before I realize it. “I don’t think I can do it.”

  Setting his food down, he raises his brows. “This assignment isn’t optional.”

  “I know but—”

  He cuts me off. “You do it, or you might not have a job.”

  “You don’t have the authority to make that call.”

  “No, but Raquel does, and she has made it clear to me that she wants this article written. And I’m afraid if you don’t do it, you won’t get—.”

  Hot temper lights up my eyes as I jump to my feet and hold my head high, cutting him off by saying, “What? I won’t get to do the job I was hired to do?”

  Flustered, he gets to his feet and comes around the desk. “Look, Ophelia, I don’t understand why Raquel wants this story written. I agree, it isn’t our typical style, nor is it like her to go after any one person. However, with that said, she still wants it done, and nothing you say or do is going to change her mind.”

  I shake my head. “You don’t understand. I can’t. No, I won’t.”

  He sighs. “Then my advice to you is that you go upstairs and talk to her yourself. Tell her about your concerns, but make sure you keep your emotion out of the conversation. If she still won’t back down, and you refuse the assignment, then you’ll have to make a choice. Just, whatever you do, do it yourself. Don’t get me involved.”

  Understanding what I have to do, I rush from his office and toward the elevator. While I wait for it, I stand in the hall in my too-high heels and weigh whether Pierce is the villain or if my mentor is.

  Either way, I know I can be the hero.

  At least this time around, anyway.

  STUCK IN THE MIDDLE

  Back to the Present

  Prince Julius Monaco’s bewitching aura captivates me. I lick my lips, my hands trembling as I half-heartedly attempt to push him back.

  The thing is, the raw masculine energy that he exudes is filling the small space really quickly, and the only reason I’m still on my feet is that his hard body is pressing me against the wall.

  He’s breathing hard, his chest heaving and stretching the fine fabric of his navy suit jacket with every breath he takes. The very same suit jacket I saw him wearing on my computer monitor not even thirty minutes ago.

  Oh my God, he was in Wimberly then, at this very building, out front, and I was so lost in watching him, I hadn’t even noticed his whereabouts.

  Note to self—I really need to work on my observation skills and not just my journalism skills.

  His eyes continue to crawl down my body, and even though I know I’m wearing clothing, I feel naked. “What the fuck are you doing here playing dress-up?” He asks this with malice so deep in his tone, it feels like tiny shards of glass are attacking my heart.

  His blatant hatred for me, along with my shock at seeing him where I work, has not only made my knees wobbly but my tongue tied.

  I open my mouth, and when nothing comes out, I close it. I know how he feels about me—how much he hates me. I also know there is nothing I can say or do to change those feelings. And yet, I want to say something meaningful. Something to take away the hurt in his voice. But I already know nothing ever will. Still, the longer he remains glued to me, the weaker and weaker my resolve to never drop to my knees and beg his forgiveness becomes.

  When his eyes climb back up to meet mine, they look like two lasers zeroing in on me, waiting for the bomb that is me to detonate. In this moment, I want to do whatever I can to make him love me again.

  Stupid.

  Stupid.

  It’s a stupid thought, especially when he abruptly steps back, with disdain clear in his body language.

  Now having some much-needed space between us, I’m able to stand on my own two feet. Like this, I find myself searching for a way to form a cohesive sentence that doesn’t include another form of ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Before I can speak, though, he reaches into his pocket and grabs his cell, answering it without even looking to see who it is. That’s when I realize he must have moved away to take a call, and a bit of sadness overcomes me at the loss of contact.

  “Julius,” he barks in answer.

  I watch as he grips the phone tightly. This close, I notice how dead his eyes look. He’s cold. Heartless, even.

  I did that to him.

  I did.

  Whoever is on the other end of the call seems to be pissing him off even more than he already is because his cheeks turn a blazing shade of red, and his lips form a perfect scowl. “That’s not your call.”<
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  There’s silence as he listens, but soon, he’s fuming at whatever the person on the phone is saying.

  “I’d be careful if I were you,” he warns with such a menacing tone that if I were the one on the other end, I’d make certain to actually be careful.

  He is running his free hand through his hair as if frustrated or perhaps bored, but then something that’s being said piques his interest because he appears to suddenly be listening intently.

  His stare narrows on me, and I want to shrink back. “What did you just say?” he snaps, and not even ten seconds later, he throws his phone against the wall, causing it to crack when it lands.

  With a raised brow, I glare down. “Before breaking your phone, perhaps you should have told whoever that was you were talking with that we were stuck in the elevator at Wimbledon Life?”

  “It isn’t broken,” he quips. However, when he bends to pick up the device, his eyes are on my knees instead of the screen, so he wouldn’t know. The scrutiny makes it seem like my skirt is too short, and I attempt to smooth it, but it feels tighter than it should and won’t move. Making matters worse, he decides to grab the folder I dropped while he’s down there.

  Once he’s risen to his full six-foot-two height, he gives me another one of those penetrating gazes, and my entire body turns into one giant goose bump. All of a sudden, my silk top feels ten sizes too small, and I wonder if he can see my nipples pushing against the fabric. When he doesn’t look away, I fear he does. I stop breathing, hoping that will help control my involuntary reaction to him.

  Finally, he glances at his phone and away from me, and I can breathe. “Well?” I prompt.

  “That wasn’t anyone who I wanted help from anyway,” he sneers in response.

  “So, it is broken then?”

  “Use yours to send an SOS,” he barks.

  I raise my hands to my sides. “Does it look like I brought my phone with me?”