The Royal Mess

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Authors: MaryJanice Davidson

BOOK: The Royal Mess
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“AND HE ASKED FOR YOU PERSONALLY.”
G
ulping the last of her coffee, Nicole swung into the driveway of the Outer Banks Co. She was surprised to see a strange car beside her boss's and the other guides'. She nearly always beat the clients in. Who'd bother showing up at 6:30
A.M.
if they didn't have to?
She hopped out of her truck, locked it, then crossed the damp lawn, enjoying the spring sunshine. Winter had a pretty good grip every year, but it always eased up, and she was always surprised when it happened. It was finally jacket weather, which meant in hot Great Plains states like North Dakota it was shorts weather.
Spirits high, Nicole bounded up the steps and into her boss's office.
And groaned.
“We meet again, Nicole,” the bodyguard told her. He was decked out for fishing—old jeans, faded flannel shirt, work boots. His curly black hair was rumpled, as if he'd spent the time waiting for her running his fingers through it. She wanted to run her fingers through it, to see if the texture was as silky as it looked.
No, she did
not.
“Nicole, this is Jeffrey Rodinov—”
“We've met,” she said shortly.
“Who works at the Sitka Palace,” her boss, Mike Freeborg, continued excitedly. “And he asked for you personally.”
More from MaryJanice Davidson
 
 
DOING IT RIGHT
HELLO, GORGEOUS!
REALLY UNUSUAL BAD BOYS
THE ROYAL TREATMENT
THE ROYAL PAIN
THE ROYAL MESS
 
 
And look for her stories in these anthologies
 
PERFECT FOR THE BEACH
BAD BOYS WITH EXPENSIVE TOYS
HOW TO BE A “WICKED” WOMAN
VALENTINE'S DAY IS KILLING ME
 
 
 
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
The Royal Mess
 
 
 
MaryJanice Davidson
 
 
 
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Author's Note
As with
The Royal Treatment
and
The Royal Pain
, I've taken liberties, and as of this writing, Alaska still is not a country. However, it is possible to spend a wild night with a charming lady and, occasionally, bastard princesses do result.
The events of this book take place two years after the wedding of HRH Prince Sheldon, American citizen, to HRH Princess Alexandria, House of Baranov.
This book is for my father, Alexander Davidson III. He is not the inspiration for King Alexander II; he is King Alexander II. I have received praise I do not deserve for making up such a colorful monarch. The truth is, all I did was observe my father for three decades and write down what I remembered.
Acknowledgments
Thanks as always to Kate Duffy, supreme-o editor of the multiverse. She is unfailingly patient, never runs out of clever ideas, and best of all, thinks I'm great.
And to Ethan Ellenberg, my agent, for setting up the deal and generally keeping me out of trouble as I juggle various obligations.
Also thanks to the wonderful flap copy writers and cover designers at Brava. I can't write decent flap copy (the blurb on the back of the book) with a gun in my ear, and I've noticed that without a nice cover and intriguing flap copy, you could write the next
War and Peace
and it'll just sit on the shelves. Not that this is the next
War and Peace
. Or even the next
Gone With the Wind.
But still. You see what I mean.
My name's on the front, so if you like this book, I'll get the credit. But all I did was cough up a manuscript; the finished product was a group effort.
Basically, this book is for the unsung heroes of publishing—the ones who worked just as hard as I did, but whose names aren't on the cover.
“Bastard, adjective: Born to parents who are not married to each other: baseborn, illegitimate, misbegotten, spurious, unlawful.”
—Roget's II: The New Thesaurus,
Third Edition. 1995
 
“You are a pest, by the very nature of that camera in your hand.”
—Princess Anne, to a photographer,
quoted by John Pearson, in
The Selling of the Royal Family
 
“If God made me a princess, why didn't he take a little more time and make my hair so it wouldn't snarl?”
—Robert N. Lee, Rowland V. Lee, Princess,
Tower of London, while the Princess's
mother is combing her hair, 1939
 
“Your life doesn't run you. You run your life.”
—Alexander Davidson II
 
“What?”
—MaryJanice Davidson
Prologue
April 26, 2007
 
Dear King Alexander,
 
My name is Nicole Krenski, and I am your illegitimate daughter. My mother was Tanya Krenski; she was formerly a bartender at the Suds Bucket, which is where you met. You saw her socially for about three weeks before you married Queen Dara. (She—Mom, not the queen—used the money you gave her to finish paying for her journalism degree, moved to America, and we lived in Los Angeles for many years while she worked as a reporter for the
Times.
Not the queen, Mom.)
I'm sure you get these kinds of letters all the time, so I've enclosed my DNA results, as well as most recent blood work. If you prefer your own physicians to examine me, tough nuts . . . I hate needles.
My mother passed away recently without ever telling
me who you were. When her attorney read me her last will and testament, I was pretty shocked, and it's why I had to write to you.
To tell you a little about myself, I am five foot seven, with blue eyes and dark brown hair. My birthday is March 20, 1972. I enjoy tennis, cooking, and the collected works of Pat McManus and Carl Hiaasen. I work as a hunting and fishing guide for the Outer Banks Co. out of Juneau, and in my spare time I punch up scripts for Hollywood. The former is infinitely more satisfying, but the latter pays the rent.
I don't expect to hear from you, so don't feel bad. To be blunt, I can understand how a bastard popping up out of nowhere would be awkward for you and the rest of the royals. I just wanted you to know about me, but I understand you have many responsibilities, both family and professional.
I've attached my contact information in case you want a lackey to reach me. But if I don't hear anything, no hard feelings.
Sir, I hope this letter finds you in all good health.
 
Sincerely yours,
Nicole

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