Royal Mistake: The Complete Series Page 3

  “I said I apologize.” His jaw clenches. “Believe me, Ms. Simpson, this is not an easy thing for me to do.”

  I search his eyes for a moment—I’m not sure what I’m looking for, exactly, other than a reason to refuse him. But the humiliation of being tossed out of a country for no real reason seems to be more than enough. “I accept your apology, Your Highness.” I motion with my hand toward the door. “There are many other reporters here who are equally—hell, probably more qualified than me to write whatever bullshit story you want written. As a matter of fact, it might be best if you have Frank—”

  “You. It has to be you.” I swear I see him gulp, which makes no sense at all. He draws in a long breath. “For reasons I can’t explain to you just yet.”

  “Sorry, Your Highness. I don’t do mysteries. You can either lay your cards on the table, or you can get the hell out of my office.”

  He taps a finger on the edge of the desk. “This is not your office.”

  “Whatever.” I glare at him for a moment. “I also just resigned—”

  “A resignation which you will rescind when you hear my offer.” He frowns and stares at me for a moment. “My mother pointed out to me that you had an opportunity to exploit your visit a few weeks ago. That you had more than enough material to write a salacious story involving the royal family. She went on and on about how you could have told the sordid tale of my brother’s affair with Lady Karina, about her pregnancy. How you could have written of what happened with her at the State Dinner the night you were there. And that you did not…”

  I lift a brow and pause for a moment, carefully considering my words. “It’s a little hard to exploit anything when you’re being escorted out of a country by armed guards.”

  He doesn’t flinch. “I’ve already apologized for that. Twice.”

  “Once. And barely.”

  He presses his lips into a line. “I’m very sorry for my poor behavior that night, Ms. Simpson. Can you ever forgive me?”

  I shake my head. “What do you want?”

  He pauses for another moment, staring at me. “A news story is about to break regarding the royal family. Several stories, actually.”

  I shrug. “So?”

  He nods, his eyes never leaving mine. “So, we… I should say that I…” He clears his throat. “I am requesting your presence in Montovia.”

  I splay my hands on the desk in front of me. “Sorry, Your Highness, that’s not what I do. It’s not what anyone here does—we write celebrity gossip. We try to dig up dirt on famous people before anyone else does. We—”

  “I’m well aware of what your magazine does. I’m… That is to say, my mother was quite impressed with the reporting you did on Elle’s story. The way you wrote it… She—we all appreciated the way you wrote about Elle’s scandal without making her look like a mockery. Without making the royal family look—”

  “You’re saying you want to give me a story—something that someone else is about to dig up on you—and you want me to write it so that you don’t come out looking like an asshole. Does that about cover it?”

  His jaw clenches again and he stares at me for a long moment. “Yes, Ms. Simpson. That about covers it.”

  Andrew

  Ms. Simpson looks at me as if I am the most vile piece of human scum she’s ever encountered in her life. Considering her choice of career, I find that highly unlikely, but I suppose I cannot blame her entirely for the sentiment, given our last encounter.

  “This is an exclusive offer, you understand,” I tell her. “If you accept this proposal, I have no intention of going to another reporter or magazine with this story.”

  “You mean that you know any other reporter would just screw you over,” she says. “Don’t act like you’re doing me a favor by giving me this story. I would be doing you the favor.”

  “Does that mean you will?”

  “No. I’ve already told you I’m resigning.”

  There’s a determined, stubborn look in her green eyes telling me she won’t be easily persuaded in this. I refuse to beg her—in truth, I’ve made it a rule in my life not to beg anyone for anything—but I am not sure how else I might win Ms. Simpson over to my cause.

  A pity I should need her at all, I think. And a pity such intriguing green eyes should be wasted on a woman like this. If circumstances were different—if she weren’t a goddamned reporter—then perhaps…

  But I refuse to continue that line of thought. It’s bad enough that I’m here asking for her help in the first place. I don’t like relying on others, especially when the good name of my family is involved—there are too many people in this world out for their own gain, too many people looking for the opportunity to grab money or influence with no qualms about taking advantage of those who already have both.

  Curse that Leopold, I think. He was the one who got me into this mess in the first place. He was the one who convinced me to go out that night in Prague, setting off the series of events that led me to this point. Leopold took the weight of the blame with our father, but our family still doesn’t know the full story about what happened that night. And it’s my mistake, my error in judgment that will be made public when this story gets out. It is one thing for Leopold to involve himself in some scandal—it is what the world expects him to do, after all—but I am the heir to the throne. I do not have the same privilege. My actions and my reputation are much more important, and now I must handle the consequences.

  “I am willing to offer you a hefty sum for your troubles,” I tell Ms. Simpson. This is a big deal—usually tabloids pay us for exclusive photos and interviews, not the other way around. But I want her to know I’m serious about this.

  Ms. Simpson shrugs. “Not my problem anymore.” She heads toward the door. “Have a nice life.”

  Her editor is waiting outside the door.

  “Victoria, wait!” he calls after her. But it’s too late—she’s already halfway to the elevator.

  “I’ll get her,” I say, striding quickly after her.

  I despise the fact it’s come to this—me chasing after some American reporter who refuses to assist me, as attractive as she might be—but it can’t be helped. I also despise the fact it’s this reporter, the one who sneaked into my country’s state dinner a few weeks ago, who seems to be my best and only choice. I’m still not entirely sure I trust her, but my mother does, and for now, that will have to do. She is my only option.

  I catch her at the elevator. She jabs at the button as I step in front of her.

  “Ms. Simpson,” I say, “our conversation wasn’t finished.”

  “Maybe you aren’t finished, but I am.”

  I suspected she’d be difficult, but I didn’t anticipate this sort of resistance. After all, this woman has been following my family for years—and even broke our laws to attend one of our biggest events of the year—and while I guessed she might still be angry with me for kicking her out, I still thought she would leap at the chance to have an exclusive story about me.

  “I know you weren’t exactly pleased by my treatment of you at the state dinner,” I say.

  She snorts. “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “You must understand, though, I had little choice. You, more than anyone, must understand the lengths some reporters will go to in pursuit of a story. It is my job to protect my family, and that is what I was attempting to do, Ms. Simpson.”

  Her emerald eyes flash. “By deporting me?”

  Her entire being has seemed to come alive with her anger—her cheeks are slightly flushed, her breath coming faster, and for a moment, I find myself stunned by her. But I quickly suppress such a ridiculous reaction.

  “I was simply ensuring that you were not privy to my family’s private affairs. I suspect if it had been any other reporter in there, what little you did see would have already been splashed across the newsstands by now. I admit my faith in the ethics of the media is not very strong.”

  “And my refusal to take a bribe from you w
asn’t a clue I might not be like the others?”

  “At the time, I simply believed you thought you might make more money by publishing or selling anything you learned. I’m well aware of how this industry works, Ms. Simpson.”

  “Well, you were wrong,” she says.

  Behind me, the elevator dings and the door slides open. Ms. Simpson pushes around me to step inside, and I turn and follow her. She glares at me, but I ignore it. A pity such a charming-looking woman should have such a despicable vocation, or that she should be so vehement in her refusal to assist me. Again I find myself musing that under different circumstances, I’d probably have found her dark hair quite lovely, or her eyes scintillating. Right now, though, I can only think of what must be done. Offering her money certainly won’t do any good, so I must try another tactic.

  “Ms. Simpson,” I say as the elevator door closes behind us, “if you weren’t at that state dinner to find a story, then why were you there?”

  She raises her chin. “I was Elle’s date.”

  “And how, exactly, did that come to pass?” I ask. “How does a reporter end up as the date of my brother’s lover?”

  “They weren’t exactly lovers at the time,” she says. “And Elle and I are friends. Unlike you, she seemed to accept the fact that not all reporters are scum.”

  “She hasn’t been dealing with reporters her entire life,” I muse. “Give it time.”

  The cold stare Ms. Simpson gives me is a reminder that I should be trying to win her over, not insulting her profession, so I hurry on.

  “Obviously, you are an exception to this,” I say. “You have morals. And if Elle is any proof, you seem to have the ability to form good relationships with the subjects of your stories.”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but my answer is still the same,” she says. “I don’t want to have anything to do with you or your family ever again.”

  “But are you willing to write off Elle as well?” I ask her. “The two of you must have formed some meaningful bond if she brought you to our state dinner. May I remind you Elle is soon to be a part of my family?”

  She crosses her arms. “Elle is the only exception. I couldn’t care less what happens to you or anyone else in your family.”

  Our elevator must be close to the ground floor by now, but I’m not ready for this conversation to be over. I quickly grab the emergency stop button and pull it, and an alarm bell goes off as the elevator shudders to a stop.

  “Why did you do that?” she demands over the blaring of the bell.

  “I needed a few more minutes of your time.”

  “My answer is still the same,” she says, trying to reach around me to the panel of buttons. I block her way, though, until finally she throws up her hands in apparent exasperation and stops trying.

  “I just ask that you consider my request,” I say. “And not for my sake, but for Elle’s.”

  Her frown deepens. “What does this have to do with Elle?”

  “Nothing. And everything,” I say. “I know you understand how this works, Ms. Simpson. The actions of one member of my family affect everyone else. This story, told improperly, could harm all of us, Elle included.”

  Something flickers in her eyes, and I’m almost afraid to hope it might be some sort of professional curiosity.

  “What exactly did you do?” she asks me.

  “I have no intention of sharing that with anyone except the reporter who agrees to tell my story on my terms.”

  “It must be pretty bad if you’re coming all the way to me with your tail between your legs.”

  I prickle at her words, but I try not to let it show.

  “I am in need of someone I can trust, yes,” I say. “The question is whether or not I can trust you.”

  “You didn’t seem to think so a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Things change, Ms. Simpson.”

  “You must be pretty desperate if you’re willing to change your mind about me.”

  “I’ve simply reviewed the facts and decided this was the best course of action.”

  She shakes her head, but to my relief, some of the anger has seeped out of her expression, replaced by a wry sort of humor. She’s enjoying seeing me in this desperate state.

  “Ms. Simpson,” I say, stepping toward her. “I know, perhaps, that this proposition comes as a bit of a surprise to you, given our history. But I assure you, I did not seek you out on a whim, and I truly believe that this arrangement would be beneficial to us both.” I’m standing quite close to her now—close enough that she has to tilt her head back to look up at me. I get a hint of the sweet, almost intoxicating scent of her, but I try to ignore it. “If you won’t help me for my own sake, then help me for Elle’s. Or help me for your own benefit—for the professional gain, or even just to satisfy your own curiosity. I don’t care why you do it, Ms. Simpson. Only that you do.”

  She still looks undecided, but the fact she hasn’t outright refused again is a promising sign. I lean down toward her, bringing my lips to her ear. I want to make sure she hears every word over the ringing of the elevator alarm.

  “I don’t know what might sway you,” I say into her ear. “But whatever it is, whatever you want, I will make it happen. Trust me, Ms. Simpson—I will make this arrangement very much worth your while.”

  When I pull back again, she looks almost stunned, and I trust my point has been made. I pull a slip of paper out of my pocket and drop it into her bag.

  “That’s my mobile number, should you care to use it,” I say. “I don’t give that to many people, so I hope I can trust you.”

  I turn and push the emergency button back in. The elevator comes back to life, descending the remaining distance to the ground floor. When the doors open, I look back to see her still frowning. I can’t tell whether it’s confusion or merely indecision on her face, but I’ll take either.

  “Have a good day, Ms. Simpson,” I say. “I really do hope you’ll consider working with me.”

  And before she can say a word, I’m gone.

  Victoria

  As soon as he exits through the glass doors at the end of the hallway, I pull out the slip of paper he’s placed in my bag, crumple it in my fist, and walk over to the nearest trash can. My hand gets to the edge of the container before I stop, unable to drop the paper in.

  I grumble to myself. This is not how today was supposed to go. Today, I was supposed to be free—no more royal family articles, no more bullshit stories about celebrity antics no one should care about.

  The near-growl that comes out of me draws a little more attention than it should from the other people in the corridor, and I drop my gaze to the ground, pulling my hand away from the trash as I shove the slip of paper with Andrew’s phone number into my pocket.

  Elle was right about one thing—Andrew is an asshole. He seems to have a special gift for making a person feel she is somehow little more than dirt beneath his feet. And it doesn’t matter how gorgeous he is—or how good he smelled when he was standing so close to me. He’s an asshole, and that’s all I need to remember.

  But he’s in trouble. There’s something about that knowledge that makes my heart beat a little faster—something about it that gives me a feeling that seems ridiculously close to glee. Bringing Prince High-and-Mighty to his knees would give everyone who reads about it that same sense of giddiness if it’s done just right. Showing the world the perfect prince is actually human—oh, he must be horrified at the thought.

  As much as I might hate him for the stunt he pulled at the state dinner a few weeks ago, I know I’m not going to be able to let this go.

  And he said he’d give me whatever I want…

  What the hell do I want? It’s not something I let myself think about much. And the only thing I can come up with is… Not this. I want a career—a real one, not some placeholder job where I pretend to be a journalist. I want to report real news, not the latest celebrity scandal or baby bump or shopping spree.

  I want
a story. One that will put me on the map—one that will have the news bureaus calling me. A story that means something. And something tells me whatever it is Andrew is hiding falls under the category of celebrity scandal rather than real news. Otherwise, there are hundreds—probably thousands—of reporters he could have called. Real journalists—not the paparazzi his country seems to have a special hatred for.

  I should at least hear what he has to say. I close my eyes at the thought—I don’t want to give that jerk the time of day, let alone actually listen to him. And he would have to agree to some ground rules—I’m not going to just write some spoon-fed story he wants published. It would have to be a real story that I write myself.

  I pull the crumpled slip of paper from my pocket and take my phone out before I walk out the glass doors of my office building.

  And I don’t put my phone to my ear before Andrew sidles up beside me.

  He walks lockstep with me for half a block before I shove my phone back in my bag, forcing myself not to beat him over the head with it.

  I finally stop and turn to him. “If you were going to wait for me outside, why even give me your number?”

  His expression doesn’t change in the slightest—and whatever it is he’s feeling, he has it buried under lock and key. And he doesn’t answer my question.

  “If this is some sort of game, Your Royal—”

  “I assure you, Ms. Simpson, this is far from any game.” Something clouds his eyes, but he recovers quickly. “Do I take this to mean you’ve agreed to my terms?”

  “You haven’t given me any terms, Your Highness.”

  “Andrew. And I have given you terms, Ms. Simpson. You’ll accompany me to Montovia where you will be given the full details of what I require.”

  I can’t help but smile. “What you require?” I chuckle. “I don’t think you understand how this works, Your Highness.”

  His jaw clenches for a moment. “Andrew. And I’ve already told you, Ms. Simpson, I will be dictating the terms—”