Royal Rogue: A Sexy Royal Romance (Flings With Kings Book 3) Read online

  He rolled back his shoulders and let out a breath. Why did I get the feeling he was upset?

  “You okay?” I asked.

  His eyes flicked over my body. “How the fuck could I be okay when you look like that?”

  I looked at him. “Charlie.”

  “Saying my name is only making it worse.”

  “Do you want me to change?” I said, only half-joking.

  His eyes went soft. His lips moved into a small smile.

  “No,” he said. “I never want you to change, honey. Promise me you won’t.”

  I am so in love with you, I wanted to say.

  “I promise,” I said instead.

  He held up the bottle of Jameson I hadn’t even noticed he was carrying. “I knew I’d be needing this tonight.”

  “You afraid to talk to people?” I teased.

  Charlie wrapped his hand—he had these big, perfect hands—around the cap and twisted it loose with a crack.

  “I’m afraid of you,” he said. He held out the bottle to me. “How much I want you.”

  I took it. Met his gaze. “Shameless.”

  “Honest.”

  I tipped back the bottle and took a pull of whiskey. Somewhere along the way, the taste of it had begun to remind me of Charlie. Of dark nights and bright mornings spent in his arms.

  My clit throbbed. How the hell would I make it through tonight without combusting?

  “I don’t know whether this is helping or hurting,” I said, holding the back of my hand to my mouth.

  “Me neither.” Charlie took a longer pull than I had. “Me neither, princess.”

  But the way he said it—the sharpness of his blue eyes—made me think it hurt. Badly.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Charlie

  I’d thought calling off the job would make me feel better.

  And it had. Kind of.

  But truth was the cloud that had been hovering over my head since the day I’d met Jane was still there. My conning days weren’t over yet. I hadn’t figured out how I’d pay Jimmy back yet.

  I hadn’t told Jane the truth.

  Being here tonight—seeing her all dressed up for the foundation she’d poured her heart and soul into—threw the shittiness of my situation into sharp relief.

  Jane did good things. Made good choices. She wanted me here to help her celebrate the good work she’d done. I was happy for her. Genuinely happy that the seeds she’d been planting for years had begun to grow. But it made me realize just how much work I had to do to make things right.

  It made me doubt that I could ever make things right with Jane after all the lies I’d told. Even if I found another job and paid off my debts and bought my freedom—even if all that happened, would she still forgive me for doing what I’d had to do?

  Would she understand?

  Jane nudged me with her elbow, pressing her body into mine in a familiar way. The way lovers touched. The way people who trusted each other touched.

  My heart twisted.

  “You keep spacing out on me, farm boy,” she murmured.

  I put my hand on the small of her back, glancing at the crowd that spilled out of her living room into the tent that had been set up over the patio. It was really loud and warm. There were so many people here. All of them talking, drinking, laughing. Having a good time. Some I recognized—government officials, celebrities, other members of the royal family.

  Jane’s family.

  They were a big deal. Hanging out with Jane—ripping whiskey straight out of the bottle with her, smoking cigarettes on her patio, singing Nirvana in her back yard—I’d almost forgotten that fact. With me, she was just a normal girl. But out in the world, she was Princess Jane Sophia Margaret Thorne. The Queen of England’s granddaughter. Passionately engaged philanthropist. Powerhouse networker.

  “I’m just—I’m impressed by what you’ve got going on,” I said. “Kudos to you for building what is obviously an impressive network. Everyone seems really happy to be here.”

  She smiled, her eyes going warm at the compliment. “We’ve worked our asses off to make this happen. I’m so proud of it, Charlie.”

  There it was again—that twist inside my chest. Because I wasn’t proud of what I’d done. And I wanted to be proud of my life, same as Jane was. Proud of it despite my shit circumstances.

  Jane had made me feel like that was possible. But now I was beginning to doubt myself. Had the hole I’d dug gotten too deep? Was I beyond forgiveness?

  Could a relationship between a guy like me and a girl like her ever really fucking work?

  Christ, I needed more of that Jameson I’d left upstairs.

  “Oh, look!” Jane nodded at a pair of young women by the doors. “There are two of our grant recipients—come on, I’ll introduce you.”

  Slipping her arm through mine, she led me across the room.

  “Charlie, this is Ria Blankenship and Natalie Gonzalez,” she said, beaming at the women. “They received a grant from The Prince’s Foundation two years ago to set up summer programs for girls interested in computer sciences. And now you’ve got—what is it, a thousand students enrolled in Camp Code this summer?”

  Natalie grinned, nodding. “Over fourteen hundred, actually.”

  “And we sent over a dozen students from last year’s camp to universities on scholarships,” Ria added. “It’s quite an exciting time for us. Next year we hope to double those numbers.”

  I looked at Jane. “And this all started with a grant from you.”

  “Well, really, it started with Ria and Natalie coming up with this brilliant idea to help students get access to classes they wouldn’t otherwise be able to take.” Jane shrugged. “I was merely a facilitator.”

  Ria shook her head and looked at me. “Jane is much more than that. Without her, we would’ve never gotten these programs off the ground.”

  “And she continues to provide crucial support when we need it,” Natalie says. “And I’m not just talking about money. Jane’s generous with her time, too. She’s passionate about what we do. About making a difference.”

  Jane was smiling. My pulse was thumping.

  She wasn’t perfect. I didn’t need her to be.

  But damn it, she was good.

  Too good for me. And I wished that’d stop me from wanting her. I wished that made me want to keep clear of her. But it didn’t.

  I could change. I would. But right then—right then my lack of decency hit me like a fist. I couldn’t breathe.

  How could this not blow up in my face?

  “Congratulations on your success,” I wheezed to Ria and Natalie. “You’re all…what the three of you have done is inspiring. If you’ll excuse me I—uh, need to use the restroom.”

  That whiskey upstairs—it had my name written all over it. A few sips, some time to regroup, and I’d be good as new.

  At least that’s what I told myself.

  Keeping my head down, I slipped out of the room. The security guard at the bottom of the stairs moved aside, allowing me to pass.

  My mind raced as I made my way toward her bedroom. I loved Jane, but would I ever belong in her world? Did I deserve a place in it?

  I hadn’t thought of these things until it was too late. Until I was in too deep and I couldn’t, for the life of me, do the right thing and stay away from her.

  The door to her bedroom was closed. I opened it, closing it softly behind me. I was ready to close my eyes and let out a breath. But immediately my senses went on alert. It was loud in here. Too loud. I could hear music and people talking, like they were in the room with me.

  Instinctively I glanced toward the window. It had been closed earlier.

  Now it was open.

  The hair on the back of my neck prickled to life. The lamp beside the bed was on, but its light was soft, casting the corners of the room in shadow. Heart pounding, I reached for the light switch beside the door and flicked it on.

  A man was standing in front of Jane’s dresser. He f
roze, the Princess Grace painting in one hand, a plastic bag in the other.

  He was wearing black pants and a black shirt. Licks of his long brown hair—a little greasy—stuck out from the bottom of his ski mask. His blue eyes met mine.

  My heart—my stomach—everything inside me plunged into a free fall.

  Owen.

  The moron had decided to go through with the theft without me.

  Rage coursed through me. Rage and panic. The palace was swarming with security. What was his plan? I’d always been the one to do the recon for our jobs. I did the bulk of the homework. Which meant Owen probably hadn’t thought this thing all the way through.

  Jesus Christ.

  “What the actual fuck are you doing?” I hissed, a half whisper.

  He blinked, the holes in his ski mask making his eyes look especially wide.

  “Shit, I’m sorry, you weren’t—I thought—you weren’t supposed to be up—”

  “Put the painting down.” I stayed very still. “Now.”

  Owen looked at me, gaze burning with confidence. “I’m sorry. I am. About going against what you said. But if I do this, we both get what we want. You get the girl, and I’d get our freedom. We’ll both be free from Jimmy. It’s a win-win situation.”

  I grit my teeth, my hands curling into fists at my sides.

  “In what universe is you stealing a five-million-dollar painting from the woman I love a win for me? I told you the job was off.”

  The confidence in his gaze flickered.

  “I’ve watched out for you,” I said, taking a step closer. “I’ve taken care of you. Gotten you out of every scrape and situation you’ve ever been in. Have I ever not come through on a promise I’ve made?”

  His nostrils flared as he breathed. “No.”

  “Then trust me to come through on this one. I’ll get us our freedom. But this is not the way to do it, okay? Put the fucking painting down.”

  Owen licked his lips.

  “Charlie, it’s five million pounds,” he said.

  I continued to move closer. “Put it down, Owen. Please. Put it down and get the hell out of here. This place is a goddamn fortress. They’re going to catch you. You know that, right? And now you’re putting me at risk, too.”

  I was standing in front of him now.

  He looked down at the painting. Looked back up. “But it’s just one painting, Charlie. She’s got a lot of them.” He motioned to the artwork that decorated the walls. “This is the game changer. Thirty million. The hard part’s done. I’m already up here. I can fucking do this.”

  “The hard part is you getting out of here without being caught. But that’s not the point. The point is that this painting is important to Jane. It belongs to her, Owen, which means it’s not ours to take.” I held out my hand. “Give it to me. Then get out of here. You’re my brother. I love you, but I can’t let you do this.”

  Owen looked at me for a long moment.

  “So you’re choosing her over me?”

  “I’m choosing right over wrong. Hand it over.” My blood went cold at a thump in the hallway. “Jesus, Owen, hand it over and go. I’m serious, you’re gonna get—”

  “What’s going on?”

  The blood froze in my veins at the sound of a voice by the door.

  Deep. Cut glass accent.

  I didn’t need to turn around to know it was Jack.

  I turned around anyway. His eyes flicked from me to Owen and back again.

  Oh, Jesus. Jesus Christ.

  My mind raced. All my options sucked.

  My protective instinct went into overdrive. Owen could still make it out of the palace grounds if he left now. Right fucking now. He was being a jackass. But that didn’t mean he deserved to go down for this.

  I couldn’t let my little brother go to prison.

  But me? Fuck, what did I matter now?

  I promised Owen I’d make things right.

  This was the only way I could.

  Turning back to my brother, I snatched the painting out of his hands. Spun him roughly around.

  “Run like hell,” I grunted, and then I shoved him through the window.

  “Malone!” Jack was calling to his security officer. “Malone, we have to close the gates—”

  “Jack, wait.” I turned to him again, painting in hand. I was breathing hard. I had to stall him for the next minute and a half—how long it would take Owen to reach the front gate, based on the calculations I’d made earlier this week. He was a faster runner than I was, so he’d probably make it there sooner. Still, best to assume ninety seconds to be safe.

  Jack couldn’t close that fucking gate until then. I mentally ticked off the seconds. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

  My gut twisted. I was sweating now. My scalp and beard prickled with it.

  “Wait?” Looking away from the door, Jack’s eyes met mine. “But we’ve got a bloody thief on the loose!”

  “Wait.” Slowly, I raised my hands. All the while counting. Each second felt longer than the last. “Call the police. I—I want to confess.”

  Twenty two. Twenty three. Twenty four.

  “Confess?” Jack said, scoffing. “Confess what?”

  My eyes moved to the painting in my right hand. My heart throbbed. “It was me. I was…I planned the theft. I was the mastermind.”

  “But that other guy—”

  “Call the cops,” I said through gritted teeth. Forty five. Forty six. “It was me, all right? I’ll tell you everything. Just—” My voice broke. His eyes were on me. I took a breath. “For the love of Christ, Jack, I’m offering you my head on a platter. Take it. The painting is right here.” I held up the canvas.

  “But I saw him with it in his hands,” Jack countered.

  “No you didn’t,” I said. “Because it didn’t happen. It was me. This whole thing was me. No one else.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not. Look. You have me, you have the painting, and now you’ll have a confession. It’s a win-win for you, Jack, so just call the cops, okay?”

  Seventy. Seventy one. Seventy two.

  Jack narrowed his eyes. “What game are you playing?”

  “No more games.” I blinked away a bead of sweat. “Just the truth.”

  At least a version of the truth that didn’t incriminate my brother.

  Jack looked at me for another second, then another.

  “All right,” he said at the same moment I hit ninety seconds.

  My shoulders slumped. I let my head fall.

  Malone appeared at the door.

  “Sir,” he said to Jack. “I heard you calling. Everything okay?”

  Jack was still looking at me.

  “Seems I’ve caught a thief red handed. I’ll notify the Queen.”

  The Queen? But what about the police?

  Before I could ask that question, Malone was across the room. He took the painting, setting it on the bureau, and tackled me to the floor. He pulled my hands behind my back and cuffed me.

  I’m so sorry, I thought. Jane, wherever you are, just know that I am so fucking sorry.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Jane

  I was chatting with a donor when I felt a tap at my elbow. I knew the second my eyes landed on Jack that something was wrong. He was smiling, but his eyes were cloudy. Soft.

  My stomach dipped.

  “Pardon the intrusion. I need to borrow my sister for a moment,” Jack said, gently guiding me out of the living room. He leaned in, murmuring, “We’ve got to go to Buckingham. Right now. Trust me, all right?”

  I pulled back. My heart began to pound.

  “Buckingham?” I said. “Jack, what’s going on? Is the Queen all right?”

  His eyes met mine. “She’s fine. But there’s been an incident.”

  “Involving who?”

  He hesitated. “Charlie.”

  Panic fluttered inside my chest. Charlie had gone to the bathroom just a few minutes ago. Or had it been longer than that? Fundra
isers were like attending your own wedding in a way. I wanted to speak with everyone, thank them. Meet their spouses and children. I’d get so busy talking the event would fly by in the blink of an eye. Tonight had been no different. Which meant I’d been too busy talking to really notice how long Charlie had been missing.

  Shit.

  “Is he all right?”

  Jack just looked at me. That softness in his eyes—my God, it was sympathy.

  “What the hell is going on?” I said again, loudly enough that a passing guest looked up at me. I managed to offer him a tight smile before turning back to my brother. “You’re scaring me, Jack.”

  “We’ve got to go,” he said, slipping an arm through mine. “I’ll explain everything in the car.”

  I followed Jack and his security officer, Malone, as we made our way through the labyrinth of tunnels underneath Buckingham Palace.

  Once upon a time, my ancestors had used the tunnels as a means of traversing London unseen. There was a tunnel to Parliament, and another to the former palace at Whitehall. There was even a tunnel linking Buckingham to the theaters in the West End, built at the beginning of her reign by my grandmother. Little known fact: she was a massive theater buff and could recite the entirety of Phantom of the Opera from memory. I think she spent the better part of the nineties not-so-secretly wanting to be seduced by a masked man who sang her erotically charged musical numbers.

  Now this underground labyrinth was the operational center of our family’s security team. Offices had been carved out of the tunnels, along with conference rooms and even a cafeteria. I’d heard rumors that there were interrogation rooms in the mix, too.

  When Malone opened a steel door and ushered us inside a darkened chamber, that rumor was confirmed. A large glass window of sorts was cut into the wall. It overlooked another room, this one smaller and brighter.

  Charlie was in that room. Alone. He sat in a plastic chair in front of a table. His hands were bound behind him.

  He was still wearing his tux. Still looked impeccably put together, save for the shock of hair that fell across his forehead. There were bags under his eyes.