Going Royal 02 - Some Like It Scandalous (11 page)

Pulling out a chair from the tiny oaken breakfast set, Anna sat down and looked at the one opposite her. Derrick hesitated but took a perch. Crossing one leg over the other, she took a deep breath. Every word from this moment forward had to count. “When I was your age, I had two choices. Go to the local community college my parents could afford if I worked part-time or apply to several scholarship funds and go to the four-year school I’d been accepted at...”

Chapter Seven

It was late afternoon by the time he arrived at the tower. Anna was still out—or so Peterson reported to him on the elevator ride up. Unfortunately, a dozen reporters at the North Hollywood house had greeted Anna. Pride filled him, despite the interference of the press she’d held up beautifully. Her security team performed as expected and reported in regularly.

They had no new leads on who leaked her name to the press. Peterson did have a theory, though, and it was one Armand did not care for. His head of security speculated that Armand’s lingering presence in California had led to local reporters researching previous connections that might be present. Chances were, they’d looked into his past years at college and Anna’s proximity had given them a clue.

Their meeting served only as the final trigger. Showering off the sweat, he’d changed and walked back into the living room in time to see the front door open. Anna walked in, still wearing his suit coat from earlier. For the barest moment, he had a glimpse of the weariness in her eyes.

“I’ll let His Highness know when everything is ready,” Kyle told her and then his gaze flicked past her to meet Armand’s. He inclined his head. “Your Highness.”

“Thank you, Johnson.” The man headed for the elevator and Armand shut the door and locked it. Anna set her bags down stiffly.

“Have you eaten?”

She shook her head. “We didn’t exactly have the time.”

Eyeing her, he reached out and took her hand and tugged her toward the kitchen. She was quiet—too quiet—and he let her hand go and opened the refrigerator. “What’s wrong now?”

“Nothing.” Her flattened tone gave her away.

He cut a glance toward her from the corner of his eye. “Uh-huh. I know that nothing. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong.” She padded around to the breadbox and pulled out a loaf. His coat dwarfed her, but rather than tug it off, she’d slid her arms into the sleeves and hugged it to her like a robe.

“Hmm, it doesn’t sound like nothing.” She chose bread, so he opened the drawers till he found lunchmeats and cheeses. “In fact it sounds a lot like something.”

“No. It sounds like nothing. Because that’s all it is, nothing.” She opened and shut the cabinets until she found plates. He added mayonnaise, mustard and pickle relish—something he enjoyed—to the gathering of sandwich fixings on the counter.

“But you said it with a tone.” A tone he remembered all too well—a tone that said nothing meant everything and ignoring it would just cause a fight.

The last thing he wanted.

She circled the island and made it to the pantry ahead of him. She pulled out three bags. One each of pretzels, chips and dried apple crisps. They circled each other, dodging with an expert ease. Anna added the bags to the counter, setting each item at an exact angle and in the order they’d need to build sandwiches.

“I didn’t say it with a tone.” Her voice climbed a half note with exasperation.

“You did.” He pulled open a drawer and took out a knife. He flipped the bread onto the plates and nudged the drawer shut with his hip. “Your shoulders are stiff, your eyes are tired and there’s tension in your jaw. You were uneasy earlier but willing to work with us. This afternoon, you’re tense, solemn and quiet—ergo, your nothing is definitely something.”

“Oh for the love of God, Charlie. Let it go.” She banged her hands against the island for emphasis.

He cocked his head to the side and met her irritation steadily. “No. This works if we talk—not if we ignore it.”

“What this? Making sandwiches requires conversation?”

Counting to twenty in his head—in three languages—helped. “Being together. We left a lot unsaid—and I’d rather we didn’t add any more items to that list. You’re going to be staying here and we’re going to spend a lot of time together.” He ignored the internal fist pump at the idea—it lacked a certain decorum and he was pretty certain she wouldn’t appreciate the gesture.

He spread mayonnaise onto the bread, added a layer of mustard across it and chose three slices of Swiss and two of the turkey before repeating the process with the top slice of bread.

“We’re working together. There’s a difference.” The deflection was so poor it didn’t deserve a comment.

“We have a personal history that cannot be filed and put away.” He stacked the sandwich together and cut it in half before sliding the plate over to her. Flipping his own bread over, he added the relish and a very thin smear of mustard to opposite pieces of bread. He added turkey, ham and American cheese to his. Sparing her a glance, he found her staring at her sandwich. “Now what’s wrong?”

“You—you—” She stuttered. She never stuttered. It was almost as endearing as the fact that she called him Charlie.

“You still like your water in a bottle, your turkey with lots of Swiss and you hate mustard with any other type of sandwich. Now eat it—you’re too pale.” He released her gaze and finished fixing his, taking the time to put the lids back on the containers. But rather than eat, she put it all away and he sighed.

“This is hard—” She spoke to the refrigerator, but he would take what he could get. She put the items back in slowly, too slowly.

“I know. I wish I could make it easier for you.”

“No—believe it or not, the whole death threat thing, that’s still surreal and not really sinking in. Being here with you—that’s what’s hard.” She rearranged the condiment shelf, putting like with like.

Adding order to chaos.

“I don’t know what to call you. Is your name Armand or is it Charlie? Should I say Your Highness—which apparently you don’t like—or maybe Mister Dagmar? Or is it Andraste...? I don’t know how to do this...” She turned, closing the fridge. Her expression was tense and stricken. “The press was all over that boy’s house and he handled it beautifully. I have a dozen more kids just like him that I have to meet. How do I do that with the press on my heels? What am I supposed to do?”

“You can eat your sandwich.” He set down his and wiped his hands on a napkin before reaching over to open her water bottle and setting it next to her plate. “And you can drink your water. Unless you prefer coffee... I don’t have soda, but I can certainly order some.”

He picked up his sandwich and took a bite.

“That’s it? Just eat my sandwich?” The dangerous tone was back in her voice. The same one she used when she replied
nothing
earlier.

“For now. You need to eat. You’ve had a lot of shocks to your system—” Mustard splattered him. He blinked and looked down at the remains of the half sandwich that struck his face and dripped down onto his shirt.

She smiled at him and took a bite out of the half she hadn’t thrown at him.

Plucking the bread and cheese and turkey took a moment, he set them down calmly on the edge of his plate and hit the base of the chip bag. The compressed air burst the end and showered her in potato chips.

Her eyes went wide and he smiled.

They both lunged for the water bottle, but between them, it fired the water up and showered it down on both of them. Anna had chips in her hair. Mustard clung to his chin. They both dripped. Their gazes collided and she laughed—a deep, belly-rolling laugh that smashed the tension against the rocks—and he grinned...before hitting her with another douse of water from the unused bottle.

* * *

A hysterical fit of the giggles assaulted her when the water splashed against her face. Chilled from the fridge, it soaked right through her silk shirt and sent a wave of goose bumps racing over her skin—but she wasn’t cold. Not like she felt when she’d arrived back at his penthouse. Heat warmed her face and her cheeks ached from holding back her smile—Charlie chased her around the island until he’d dumped the entire contents of the bottle over her head.

She scampered, grabbing a bottle of ketchup from the fridge on her slide by. Whirling, she flipped the cap off and pointed it at him.

“You wouldn’t dare.” But his eyes challenged her and his grin was as feral as it was excited. She squeezed the bottle and he dodged—the ketchup shot across the kitchen in a stream and splatted against the chest of a very nicely dressed, younger version of Armand.

“Oh crap.” She winced.

The man stared at her drolly as ketchup dripped down the expensive fabric to splat against the floor. Armand glanced from her to the newcomer and straightened. He stepped right in front of her, cutting off her view. “George.” He pronounced it
Shorge
and his accent sharpened. “You weren’t expected.”

His brother.

Fantastic
.

The last time she’d seen the younger prince, he’d been barely sixteen, scrawny and long limbed. Heart sinking, she closed the lid on the ketchup.

“Clearly, and I wasn’t aware you were entertaining.” Disdain rolled through the too-cool tone. “But Peterson informed me that all family needed to check in.”

Armand glanced over his shoulder at her and his gaze flicked from her face to her chest and back up again. She lifted her eyebrows and looked down. Embarrassment surged and she pulled his damp jacket closed. The water soaked right through the silk shirt, clearly outlining her breasts, and her nipples stood out in stark relief.

George walked over to tug a paper towel from the dispenser and blotted at the ketchup.

“I’m sorry about that,” she began, looking for the right words to dress the apology up in...

I’m sorry you walked in and I sprayed you with ketchup?
I’ll pay for your suit cleaning?
Don’t mind the wet T-shirt contest.

Armand’s dress shirt clung to him, hugging the smooth, cut lines of his musculature.

He still worked out. They’d run in college—he a lot more than she—but he’d also enjoyed going to the gym. A habit he’d dragged her into—mostly because watching him lift weights was sexy as hell. She cleared her throat. “I should...let you two talk.”

“That would be pleasant.” Dismissal hung right off the end of George’s statement. Armand’s back stiffened.

“That was rude.” Armand’s voice went flat, cool, and she knew that tone—just like his accent—which echoed so loudly in the words. The tone cried angry.

“My apologies, Your Highness. I am unaccustomed to the polite rules that include ruining a five-thousand-dollar suit. It must be an American thing.” His brother’s tone was equally cold.

She moved out from behind Armand and met the cool disdain in the younger prince’s gaze. He barely spared her a glance, as if she weren’t worthy of his attention. The silence in the room stretched, and Armand’s left hand curled into a fist—the lines around his mouth turned white.

“Of course. It’s a completely bourgeois middle-American way of saying suck on it.” She beamed and brushed her fingers against Armand’s fist. She’d only ever seen him get into two fights before—the first when a guy in a bar dumped his beer all over her. It had been an accident, but the belligerent drunk leered and Armand slugged him. His friends waded right into the brawl that broke out.

Friends—friends who were his security force.

The second had begun as a playful tussle during a flag football match on the field. It escalated so quickly when the other team hit him—and he responded in kind.

But it would be better to not start another brawl in the kitchen. Particularly with him wearing her mustard, mayo and turkey sandwich and both of them soaked from the water play. In fact, the kitchen was quite the disaster.

“Apologize, George.” Armand didn’t bend, his gaze fixed on his brother. “Now.”

The younger prince scowled, but the expression rippled away and disappeared behind a placid, cold remoteness. He turned to look at her and inclined his head in a sharp nod. “My apologies, Miss Novak.”

The words were correct, but the tone told her to go to hell. She appreciated the distinction. “Please accept mine as well.” Hers lacked the force to penetrate his chilly reception, but in this case—escape might be the better part of valor. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m just going to change and get to work.”

Armand’s fingers locked around hers and tugged her back.
Or maybe not...

“George can excuse us. There’s a suite downstairs waiting for him.” His grip was like silken steel, gentle but unbreakable. He kept her at his side, his gaze zeroed in on his brother. Her stomach cramped. The tension surged through the room, a chemical electricity that sizzled across her skin.

“As you wish, Your Highness.” George bowed, spared her one cool, scathing look and marched out the way he came in. The door closed in the other room and they were alone again.

She shifted uneasily and glanced down to where his hand held hers. He slid his fingers between hers, interlacing them, and gave her a light squeeze. “He’s young and full of himself.”

“He loves his brother.” And shared none of that affection for her. “I should...clean this up.”

“No. We can clean it up together after you eat.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed one knuckle. The warm touch of his lips sent another wave of awareness tingling through her. Her nipples tightened further if that was possible, stinging against the cold bra clinging to them.

He rescued her half sandwich from the other side of the counter and sat it down in front of her.

“Maybe you should go talk to him? He must have flown a long way...”

Shrugging, he plucked a chip from her hair and nibbled it. “Still crunchy.” He grinned. “And salty.”

“Armand—”

“Do you want a fresh sandwich?” He cut her off.

Sighing, she picked up the half-eaten half sandwich and shook her head. She wasn’t hungry anymore, but he held her hand captive and he wanted her to eat. So she ate. He turned and stretched back to open the fridge, still holding on to her while he got them two fresh bottles of water.