The Royal Mess. MaryJanice Davidson
Dante ruled the royal family with equal parts love and uncompromising ruthlessness. The RST (Royal Security Team) had as much respect for Dante as they did for any of their charges. They also took bets on whether Mr. Dante had ice water for blood or nothing at all.
“Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on?” Dante asked mildly.
Jeffrey shook splinters out of his hair. “He yelled. I came. Nobody’s here; it’s clean. Doc’s on the way.”
“I don’t need a damned doctor!”
Edmund stared critically at the doorway. “No, but you certainly need a carpenter. At the risk of wasting time by repeating myself, my king, how can I be of service?”
The king gargled in reply and thrust the smushed paper at his assistant. Edmund read it in four seconds, then read it again.
“Hmmm.”
“That’s it? Hmmm? I’ll hmmm your scrawny butt, Dante.”
“I tremble before your wrath, my king. May I see the envelope?”
“I thought you screened all the king’s mail,” Jeffrey asked, dying to know what was in the mysterious letter, but too proud to ask.
“Ninety percent,” Edmund replied absently, glancing at the envelope, which had been neatly slit by one of the battalion of royal secretaries.
“Yeah, and I keep telling you to ramp it up to ninety-five,” the king said, gesturing to the piles of paper all over his desk.
Mr. Dante ignored the king; he was probably the only person in the country who could get away with it. “A few things slip by. Perhaps one of the admins read it and felt it was for the king’s eyes only.”
“Ya think?” The king ran his blocky fingers through his thick black hair. Although in his early sixties, he looked fifteen years younger, with very little gray in the hair he had passed on to nearly all of his children. “I got another kid running around?”
“Or not.” Edmund was now looking at a piece of paper that was still in the envelope. “DNA tests can be faked. This entire thing may be a fake. You have not forgotten you are the seventh richest man on the planet, I trust.”
“Well, holy old cripes, I guess it slipped my mind.”
“Mr. Rodinov, will you kindly holster your weapon? Goose season is several months away.”
“Yes, sir.” Jeffrey didn’t bother to point out that a nine mil would be a poor weapon for hunting geese. “Majesty, if you don’t need me, I’ll be at my post.”
“Thanks, Jeff.” Only the king got away with that; he hated the nickname. “And thanks for the response time. Sorry I scared you. Cancel the doc, okay?”
“Quite all right, sir. And I will.” Jeffrey bowed but, as Baranov royal protocol was much less rigid than most other royal protocols, was able to turn his back on the king and walk out.
He canceled the code seventeen, then took up his usual position, but since there was no longer a door, could hear everything. That was fine. That was more than fine. He liked being invisible. It made his job infinitely easier.
The Boss and Mr. Dante’s voice drifted into the hallway. Jeffrey took it as a mark of trust that neither of them bothered to lower their voices. “My king, there is one question on my—”
“Yeah, you know I had doubts about marrying Dara.”
“I was always surprised you went along with an arranged marriage.”
“Hey, my dad was sick and it was what he wanted. And you know how it is—a crown prince without heirs makes everybody nervous. But I still felt like they were jamming that wildcat down my throat. So I had a fling before the wedding. Nice gal. Really nice gal. Bartender, like the letter said. The woman made a mean Rusty Nail and that’s no lie.”
“Fascinating.”
“We had a good time. She knew who I was and didn’t give a ripe shit. I liked that. Hell, I loved it.”
“And then . . . ?”
“And then I got married. She knew the score; we had a nice good-bye and that was that. She never told me about any baby. Why didn’t she tell me?”
“I’m still trying to deduce why she bedded you,” Edmund admitted.
“Shaddup. Not a peep. Never asked me for a thing, never wrote me, never called. I just thought . . . you know. A nice memory and that was it. Then Dara got knocked up right away with David and we were off to the races.”
“So you’re saying it is biologically possible.”
“You kidding? I was barely out of my teens. I could go all night in those days. And we did, believe me.”
“Majesty, could you hand me that trash can? I’m feeling the uncontrollable urge to vomit blood.”
“Knock it off, tight ass. First thing we gotta do is find out if this, uh—”
“Nicole, Majesty.”
“Yeah, if this Nicole is the real deal. And then—”
“Perhaps it’s best if we take it one thing at a time, my king.”
“Yeah, perhaps.”
“I will contact the lab that did these tests. If they verify the blood work, I will make arrangements for our own tests.”
“Yeah, but she says she doesn’t want any more needles.”
Jeffrey heard a short silence, and then a distinctive sound: Edmund snorting. “You are her king, sire, and your will is Alaska’s will. Her wishes have no bearing on the situation.”
“Great, Edmund. Spoken like a true Nazi.”
“I live to serve, Majesty.”
Chapter 2
Nicole Krenski, bastard princess of Alaska, daughter of a bartender and a king, counted to ten.
“Hey, I almost got that one,” her client chirped, yanking on his fishing rod with all his might.
“That’d be great, Jim, if we were fishing for pine trees. Give that to me.” Before I stick it up your ass. With a few practiced tugs, the Daredevil lure freed itself from the tree and plopped into the water. Nicole slowly started reeling it in, and felt a nibble. “Okay, you got a bite. Now remember what I told you.” Twenty-five times. “Carefully set the hook and—”
He snatched the rod from her hands and gave a mighty yank, which only ripped the lure out of the fish’s mouth.
“Hey, I think I’m getting the hang of this!”
Nicole scowled at the short (her height) balding stockbroker on vacation from New York City. “Jimmy?”
“Yeah, babe?”
“Do not call me babe. And if you ever take a fishing rod away from me without my permission, you’ll be shitting five-pound test line for three days.”
Jimmy gulped and managed a smile. Nicole knew full well that clients hit on her when they got a look at her tits and eyes and whatnot, and gave up when she proved she had nothing in her veins but river water. At least as far as her customers were concerned, she’d sooner lay a grizzly than someone who paid her bills.
Jimmy sketched a mock salute. “You got it, boss lady. Ready to try again?”
“Sure.” One. Two. Three. Four. Five. “Nice and easy. Use your wrist, not your arm.” Six. Seven. Eight. “Release the bale. And—you’ve caught another tree.”
Meekly, Jimmy handed back his rod. “Could you get that out of the branch for me, please?”
“My pleasure,” she groaned. Oh God, please save me from