“Well . . . I’ll see you tomorrow, Logan.”
Then she’s scurrying to the car and climbing into the back. On his way to the car, Tommy swings past me, tapping my arm. “Mr. Hammond has a visitor. Inside.”
He slips into the driver’s seat and the three of them take off.
I open the door for Mr. Hammond and follow him into the coffee shop. And that’s when I catch sight of the redheaded visitor Tommy mentioned.
The 4th Earl of Ellington rises from his chair.
He smiles the only way he knows how—warmly—while extending his hand. “Mr. Hammond, my name is Simon Barrister. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’d like to speak to you about a business venture that may be lucrative for both of us.”
Eric Hammond shakes the Earl’s hand. “What’s your business, Simon?”
And Lord Ellington’s blue eyes sparkle. “I’m hoping that it will be . . . pies.”
Ten months later
A ROYAL A WEDDING IS a major event on any day, but when the royal getting married is the former Crown Prince who gave up the throne for an American girl he couldn’t live without? It’s a madhouse.
For men like me, it’s a high-octane event—my senses are sharp, on high alert. The place is packed with press, aristocrats, dignitaries, celebrities galore. This is what we do—these are the moments that our training and strategizing prepare us for.
Security is planned out months in advance in a war room—like preparing for a battle. Everyone knows his role; everyone has a position. Tonight, my focus in on Prince Nicholas. Although he’s never far from Olivia’s side, there’s another man who’s assigned to her—Tommy. Olivia, now a princess and a duchess, shimmers like a pretty disco ball—all white silk and jewels. And Nicholas’s smile shines brighter than the tiara on her head.
“Happy” has left the building—and tonight, at the dinner celebrating his royal matrimony, the prince is nothing short of ecstatic.
Though my eyes are scanning the room, I know where the couple is at all times. So when Nicholas raises his hand and calls me forward with his fingers, I react right away.
“Sir?” I bow.
“We’re going to retire to our rooms shortly, but Olivia is concerned about Ellie.”
I’ve been keeping tabs on her too—all night.
At this moment, she’s at the bar, undeniably delectable in a champagne-colored silk gown that hugs her in all the right places.
Or . . . the bloody wrong ones, as far as I’m concerned.
One eager-eyed, posh lad after another is offering her drinks, asking her to dance or trying to impress her with their lofty pedigrees.
Fucking sods.
And she’s putting the eighteen-year-old legal drinking age in Wessco to good use. Marty’s there, laughing and drinking beside her—and her father too—though he’s not imbibing. Despite my doubts, he hasn’t touched a drop for ten months—not since Ellie’s high school graduation. He’s working his program, going to meetings even here in Wessco, staying sober. Good for him—for all of them.
“Ellie’s been assigned security; they’ll make sure she’s all right.”
I checked on who was covering her for the night, to see for myself that they were top-notch.
Olivia glances at her sister. “But you know her better—she’ll listen to you. If she goes out after my dad goes to bed I’d feel better if you were with her.”
I meet Nicholas’s eyes. “We won’t be leaving our rooms for the evening . . .,” he winks at his bride, “possibly for days. We’ll both have peace of mind if you’re on Ellie detail.”
I hold up a hand. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t give it a second thought.”
“Tell me, Ellie Hammond,” Henry says, “are we legal yet?”
Ellie grins, lifting her martini glass. “Eighteen, officially.”
Prince Henry, Nicholas’s younger brother and now Crown Prince of Wessco, lifts a brow. “Good God, you’re practically a cougar.” Then he sighs, looking at her. “Pity, you’re also practically related to me now. And while many of my ancestors wouldn’t let that slow them down, incest really isn’t my bag.”
Ellie nods once. “Bummer.”
“But,” Henry holds up a finger, “that doesn’t mean we can’t have a fantastic time. I’m going to show you the best bits of Wessco. The good, the raunchy and everything in between. What do you say?”
She’s bubbling with excitement. “I say, count me—”
“Out.” I step up to them. Firm and final.
“Your sister wants you to go straight back to your room,” I tell Ellie.
“She’ll be with me,” Henry says.
As if he doesn’t realize that makes it so much worse.
“Your brother specifically said not to leave Ellie with you.”
Henry looks offended and searches around the room for his royal sibling. “That tosser . . . no trust anymore.” He shakes his head. “Lucky for us, my brother and her sister will be completely preoccupied with their own entertainments. What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”
This is a dicey situation. On the one hand, Prince Henry is my boss—he outranks Nicholas now. On the other hand, he’s reckless, self-destructive and irresponsible—and his shiny new title hasn’t diminished those traits. So, there’s no bloody way in hell I’m leaving sweet Ellie in his care.
“I beg to differ, Your Highness.”
And a look comes over his face, a slight bit of shock at being challenged mixed with a shadow of respect. Because while Henry has multiple moral deficiencies, a failure to view himself and his own shortcomings isn’t one of them.
He’s a royal fuck-up, but he owns it.
“I’m taking her to The Horny Goat, Agent St. James, not charging into battle. You and the rest of security are welcome to accompany us. We’ll have a few drinks—or a few dozen—sing some songs and all will be well.”
“Oh, that sounds like so much fun!” Ellie claps her hands. And she turns those heartbreaking eyes on me. “Can we go? Please?”
A simmering amusement rises in Prince Henry’s expression as they wait for my answer. Because he’s also a shit-stirrer. It’s what he does—what he lives for: stirring up all the shit, then sitting back and watching everyone slip in it.
“Come on, Logan,” Ellie whines pleadingly.
Henry loops his arm around her shoulders with a taunting grin. “Yeah, come on, Logan.”
Bastard.
Two hours later, Ellie Hammond, the younger sister of the new Duchess of Fairstone, and the future King of Wessco are on a karaoke stage at The Horny Goat pub. Together. Bouncing around and singing “I Wanna Be Sedated” by the Ramones.
There goes the fucking kingdom.
Thank Christ that Evan Macalister, The Goat’s owner, managed to keep the press out. After the song ends, the pair return to the bar, hailed by the shouts of Henry’s lads. A tall, curvy brunette has been attached to the Prince’s hip all night—she latches to his side, whispering in his ear.
I’ve kept a tally of the alcohol Ellie’s consumed—three martinis at the dinner reception and four whiskeys neat at the pub. She downs a fifth one like water.
“You’re a Viking!” Henry encourages her.