Royally Matched Page 12

  "This is fucking stupid--it's a book! I'll have a new one delivered for you first thing tomorrow. What else do you want me to do? Tell me and I will."

  "Anything?"

  "Anything."

  I open the door a bit wider, leaning closer, and looking straight into his eyes.

  "Leave. Me. Alone."

  He flinches, brows falling helplessly. "I can't do that."

  I shrug, channeling Miss Havisham's cruel protege, Estella, from Great Expectations.

  "Then you're not really sorry, are you?"

  His fists clench and his body coils, like he wants to punch something. Strange, but I'm not the least bit afraid. Because to the depths of my soul I know without question that while Henry has hurt me, he would never, ever hurt me.

  "If you didn't mean to let me in, why the hell did you open the door in the first place?"

  Estella's smile tugs at my lips. "So I could do this."

  Then together, Estella and I slam the door in the Crown Prince's face.

  I WENT BACK TO MY room, lay in bed and tried to sleep through the annoying racket of the cameras--and failed. I'm scheduled to spend the morning filming with Penelope, which I take as a sign that perhaps God hasn't completely written me off. Because Penelope is bubbly and outgoing and, unlike her sister, she likes me--she's always liked me. Having her on my side may not get me into Sarah's pants--though a man can dream--but it could help get me back into Sarah's good graces.

  Vanessa arranges us like Beach Barbie and Ken dolls. "Hold hands and walk slowly down the beach. Talk to each other and laugh like you're having fun."

  I can't believe I thought this shit-show would be a good time. Christ, I'm a moron.

  Vanessa backs off and calls to the cameraman, "Hold the wide shot. Make sure you get that sunrise in the background."

  I take my chance with the younger Titebottum sister. "I wanted to talk to you about Sarah--"

  "Are you miked?" She cuts me off, her smile frozen in place.

  "Uh . . . no. Vanessa just wants the visual, no sound."

  "Good." She stares off across the water. "Then there'll be no one to witness me saying you're a piece-of-shit bastard and I hope you die screaming."

  It's conceivable Penelope doesn't like me as much as I thought.

  "Come again?"

  "Prince or no prince, if I could, I would cut your balls off, ground them into a fine powder, mix them in water, and make you drink them."

  I swallow hard.

  "That's . . . creative."

  She's still smiling serenely, making the entire exchange all the more bizarre. And unnerving.

  "Have you all gone mad? Christ, it's a bloody book!"

  "Not to her. You see, Prince Prick," she continues, "your family loves you. Whatever fucked-up intrigue or drama goes on in the palace, they truly love you. Not everyone has that. Our mother is off her rocker and our family wouldn't give two shits if Sarah and I rolled off a cliff and disappeared forever. It's always been that way. Except for dear Auntie Gertrude. She's the only one who ever gave a damn about us. Before she died, she summoned Sarah and me to her estate to give us our inheritance, because she knew, despite her will, her arsehole children wouldn't have."

  Penelope's hand holds mine in a strangling death grip.

  "Aunt Gertie gave me her jewels, because she said I was hard and sparkly. She gave Sarah her rare collection of books, because she said Sarah was a dreamer. She told her she could sell them for a pretty penny or keep them for herself--but either way, Sarah would have her dreams. They mean the world to my sister, and you tore one apart. Which makes you a big, fat, limp, useless dick."

  "I . . ."

  Have no clue what to say.

  The chance to reply passes when Vanessa moves in front of us, framing us with her fingers for the photographer beside her. "Get the still shots, Jerry. Gorgeous."

  Without missing a beat, Penny turns into my side, throws her arms around my neck, kicks up one leg behind her, and smiles bigly for the clicking camera.

  Like a professional sociopath.

  Fucking hell.

  In the afternoon, I'm supposed to picnic with Laura in a flowered valley straight out of that awful Twilight film. I can't bring myself to call these orchestrated excursions "dates," even in my own mind. My sense of humor is not quite that delusional. In any case, the picnic is not happening. I have more important plans to execute.

  Covert, off-camera plans.

  And for them to happen, I need James.

  He stands between the lighting tripods, arms crossed, eyes ever watchful.

  "Here's the deal," I tell him quietly, "I'm bugging out for the afternoon. I'll let you tail me as long as you hang back and," I point toward Vanessa's custom camera-pimped SUV, "as long as your men keep them from following. This one's strictly off the grid. Agreed?"

  His nod is quick and tight. "Of course, Sir."

  Half an hour later, Mission Ditch Matched is implemented successfully. And I'm in the convertible, with only James following behind, on my way to the library.

  I find Willard in the catacombs of Concordia Library--Sarah explained this is where they do the preservation and restoration work. It's two floors below ground level, but a surprisingly modern, well-lit, and dust-free white room. A precious little old woman with--thankfully for me--poor eyesight directed me here from the otherwise empty front desk area.

  He looks up when I walk in, sliding thick, red-tinted, science fiction-like goggles to the top of his head. "Princess. This is surprising. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

  "I need your help."

  He chuckles. "Oh how the mighty have fallen. I love it. How can I be of service?"

  I've never met another man who could so artfully convey in his tone the opposite of what his words mean. Sarcasm, thy name is Willard.

  "Sarah's pissed off at me."

  The corner of his mouth ticks upward.

  "Sarah rarely gets angry and when she does it never sticks. Did you kick a puppy?"

  "No. I broke one of her books."

  He freezes in place and his voice is stunned into softness.

  "Which one?"

  My intestines squirm with shame. "Sense and Sensibility."

  "Why . . . would you do that?"

  I rub the back of my neck. "I didn't mean to . . . I lost my temper--"

  "Get out."

  He takes the goggles off his head, slamming them onto the table.

  "No, you don't understand--"

  "I understand perfectly. What you don't seem to comprehend is that Sarah is my best friend. The only one I've got. I'm not fucking helping you. Piss off, Princess."

  He turns to walk away.

  And I shout, "She's hurt!"

  That makes him pause mid-step, his back stiffening.

  "I haven't just made her angry, I've hurt her terribly. She's still hurting . . . and I can't stand it, Willard." My hands find their way into my hair.

  I move in front of him, bending my knees to catch his eyes, which seems quite apropos.

  "Help me make it better. Not for me, but for her. Please."

  Willard regards me for several moments. And then he sighs.

  "What do you need?"

  "I need your connections, your contacts. I need to find a book."

  After a three-hour drive, Willard and I stand in a cramped, dusty rare-book shop between two boarded-up buildings, one block from a homeless encampment. Under the suspicious eyes of the shop owner, I check out the merchandise.

  It feels like a drug deal.

  "What do you think?"

  Willard speaks around the large, curved pipe between his lips.

  "Depends. What do you think, Princess?"

  I turn the shiny first edition of Sense and Sensibility over in my latex-gloved hands--the owner insisted. Carefully, I flip through the pristine pages . . . with Sarah's soft, airy voice in my head--from the very first time we met, in that pub more than a year ago.

  "The only thing that smells better
than a new book is an old one."

  I put the book down.

  "This isn't it. She'd want a book that's been read--dog-eared and held and sighed over--not one that's been caged in glass its whole life. She'll want one that's been loved."

  Ever so slowly, Willard smiles. "There's hope for you yet."

  I step over the threshold of Anthorp Castle at two in the morning--exhausted and, yet, triumphant. The rooms are still and empty, all of my guests greedily sucking at the tit of beauty sleep. I head for the stairs, but a form steps out from the music room--and a voice.

  "You missed two call times today."

  Not as empty as I thought.

  I turn to face Vanessa, still in her pantsuit and heels, a scotch and soda in her hand.

  "I had something important to take care of."

  "More important than the show?"

  I would laugh, but I'm too damn tired.

  "Much more, yes."

  She sips her drink as she steps toward me, deliberately. "We needed those shots, Henry."

  "You'll get them tomorrow."

  Her lips pucker like her drink's gone sour. "You'll be in the dining room, dressed and ready to have breakfast with Princess Alpacca, at six a.m. sharp, is that clear? I've whipped more difficult talent than you into shape, Your Highness. If you know what's good for you, you'll remember that."

  My shoulders straighten, and my voice drops low, and without even trying . . . I sound just like my father. "I'm not talent, Vanessa--and I don't respond well to orders. For the sake of your show, you really ought to try remembering that."

  I'M A COWARD. This shouldn't come as a surprise, but it does.

  I'm a fool. That's new. And bothersome.

  By the evening --or morning, I guess would be more accurate--I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and come to grips with these cold, hard truths. Henry broke my book and that's upsetting, but that's not why I've kicked him out and refused to see him. It's not why I've rejected his apology.

  It's because of the kiss. I keep thinking about it, no matter how desperately I try to forget--my lips still tingle with the remembered caress of his mouth. It was more lovely than I'd imagined or hoped it could be. My stomach spun and my head went light, and my heart thudded fast and thrilled like I was going to die--while feeling the most alive I'd ever felt.

  Because I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted to kiss him back. And I didn't want to stop at just a kiss. I wanted to push myself against him and feel the bulging strength of him everywhere. His stunning arms surrounding me, his large hands touching me. I wanted to know the hard press of his chest against my breasts, the taut, flat plane of his stomach, the bite of his hips against mine as he covered me on the bed.

  I want to know the flavor of his skin, the scratch of his stubble, the taste of his mouth.

  He's not what I envisioned for myself--I was truthful about that part. Henry is wild and careless, but that's not all he is. He's also gentle and kind and patient and giving and intelligent and clever . . . and wonderful. I left those parts out.

  He could crush me; the foreshadowing is clearly written. It's a tale as old as time: the inexperienced bluestocking and the bed-hopping rogue.

  Bloody hell, I'm a trope.

  But the biggest part of my heart doesn't care. It says it would be worth it. It shouts at me that we're strong enough to survive the breaking. Marianne did. We'll glue ourselves back together again and have the amazing, tender memories of a dashing whirlwind romance, the likes of which I have never known.

  My heart asks me if I'm tired yet--tired of being too afraid to jump and leap, tired of keeping my feet so firmly on the ground. I groan and cover my face with a pillow. And Henry's scent surrounds me, fills me. I press it closer and inhale, smothering myself with him.

  And now I've become a cliche too.

  Damn it all to hell.

  I put the pillow aside and drag myself up and out of bed. Big-girl knickers time. I'm going to find him, accept his apology, and give him one of my own. I don't bother with my robe or slippers; I just rush to the door and step out into the hallway--directly on the hard, thick item outside my door.

  Emotions are mysterious things. Sometimes they build slowly, surging like a wave before cresting to a peak and crashing all over you.

  But that's not what I'm experiencing now.

  As I reach down to pick up the worn, aged book off the hallway floor, my emotions hit like a bullet. Hard and piercing, blowing a hole right through the center of me. I smile as tears rise in my eyes. It's like the dual symbol masks of the theater--relief and pain, joy and sadness. I could say it's one of the nicest things anyone's ever done for me, and that would be true. But that's not why it means the absolute world to me.

  It only means so much because Henry did this. And he did it for me.

  I trace the lettering on the cover, shaking my head. And then I open the book and gasp.

  He wrote in it. A first-edition copy of Sense and Sensibility that has survived the centuries relatively unscathed, and the mad bastard wrote in it.

  Of course he did.

  I laugh as tears trickle down my cheeks, feeling a bit unhinged.

  Now you can dream a new dream.

  -H

  I hold the book against my heart, wrapping my arms around it, bringing it with me as I walk straight to his room. But he's not there. For an awful moment I wonder if he's found a different room to sleep in--maybe Cordelia's or Libby's.

  And the pain that lances through me takes my breath away.

  But would Henry do that? And I know the answer before I finish the thought.

  The Henry I know--not the wild lad in the papers or the would-be king who, as my sister said, will have a harem, but the boy who likes to talk in soft whispers about silly things late at night; the one who plays his guitar and listens to me hum and takes me on joyrides through the woods; the man who wants to teach me to swim and wants to be sure I live before I die--he would not.

  God, I'm such an idiot.

  I want to find him, I need to see him--now. I check the library first, the dining room and music room, and I hear the buzz of cameras, mounted on the walls, following me as I go. I get to the kitchen . . . and there he is, like a tired lump at the table, bent over, his head resting on his arms. His eyes are closed, his mouth soft and his jaw lax.

  He looks younger like this. Peaceful.

  I've seen Henry playful and teasing. I've seen him frustrated and tense. But peaceful is his most beautiful state. My hand reaches out, tracing the strong crest of his brow and cheeks, nose and chin, without actually touching him.

  With an intake of breath, his long lashes flutter and dark green eyes gaze up at me.

  "Sarah?" he asks drowsily.

  I love how he says my name, warm and soothing like a snuggling embrace.

  "Thank you for the book, Henry," I whisper. "Thank you."

  He sits up, smiling adorably and rumpled. "You like it?"

  "I love it." And I hope he hears the sincerity in my tone. "It's my new favorite."

  "Sense and Sensibility was always your favorite."

  "But now it's my favorite for a better reason." I reach out for him. "Come on. Time for bed."

  He takes my hand, but when I give him a tug to pull him up, he pulls harder and a second later, I'm standing between his spread knees. He stares at my hand in his, brushing his thumb across my knuckles, sending warm, spiraling tingles to my very core.

  "I'm sorry about the things I said." His voice is raspy and the tingles tighten. "I didn't mean them."

  "I'm sorry too." My words rush out because there's so much I want to say. "I don't think you're selfish or thoughtless. I don't think you're a Willoughby. I don't believe you'd hurt me."

  "I did hurt you."

  My heart breaks, not for me, but for him.

  "Only because I hurt you first."

  His lips tug up at the corners and his head gives a little nod. "You've become . . . important to me, Sarah. I mess up a lot; I always
have. I don't want to mess this up."

  What a strange pair we are. The sad boy and the frightened girl.

  I look into his eyes, moving closer, putting my hands on his shoulders. "I won't let you mess it up."

  "We're friends then?" he asks. "I'm usually pretty good at that."

  Is that what I really want to be--Henry's friend?

  Again, I know the answer before I finish the thought. And the answer is no. But I can't just blurt it out. How would that even work? What would it look like? I've never been good with speaking and I can't see how this time would be any different. My stomach churns threateningly.

  I have to think it through, figure it out, organize the words in just the right way. Figure out what Elizabeth Bennet would have said if she had to give the speech instead of Mr. Darcy.

  So I nod. "Yes, of course we're friends."

  Balls, balls, balls.

  WE GO TO BED, but neither of us goes to sleep. I don't know about Sarah, but I'm too relieved to be near her again. Excited. It's like Christmas night after you've opened your presents and you've gotten exactly what you wanted more than anything. No one wants to sleep after that; you just want to keep touching and holding and looking at the lovely new toy.

  "Did you think I was silly, getting so upset over a book?" she asks me, lying on her back, looking at the ceiling.

  I lift my arm, showing her the platinum-linked ID bracelet dangling from my wrist.

  "My mother gave me this when I was eight. I never take it off. I own a Maserati and crowns, but this is my most precious possession. I understand sentimental value."

  She sighs, turning in bed to face me, her hands tucked beneath her cheek. It's my favorite Sarah pose, the perfect mixture of fuck-hot and innocent.

  And I want to kiss her so badly my lips throb.

  "I overreacted, for . . . several reasons. I'll try not to do that anymore. From now on I should probably imagine what your grandmother would do, first. She's such a strong woman--a very good role model. I can't imagine her crying about anything."

  "I saw her cry once."

  Sarah moves in closer, her calf resting near mine under the covers. "Did you? When?"

  I tuck my arm beneath my head, resting on my forearm, looking at the ceiling, thinking back. "After my parents' plane went down . . . it took a few days for them to find the wreckage. Do you remember?"