Jill Shalvis - A Royal Mess

Fran didn’t reappear.

Smart Fran.

“Well.” She sat back, looking genuinely surprised at being ignored. “Honestly. I’m starving back here and they’re eating.” She huffed over that a moment, then raised her voice. “I’m a starving princess, you know!”

Fran poked her head out. “Please. I’m going to have to insist you keep it down.”

“But—”

“You can have me beheaded as soon as we land if you’d like, but for now, I’m the queen.”

The curtain closed with finality.

“I really am starving,” Princess-In-Leather said to Tim, somewhat subdued now.

“I’m sorry.”

She stared at him. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

“Let me guess. A starving princess?”

“Yes!” She seemed pleased, until she realized he was humoring her. “Well, this is different, not being recognized.” But she laughed and shook her head while putting on a set of headphones.

Crazy, thought Tim.

From behind them, Tish popped her head between them. “Hi!”

Princess-In-Leather smiled and removed her earphones. Loud, obnoxious noise pumped out of it. “Hi back,” she said to the little girl.

“I’m this many.” Tish leaned over the back of the seat, smacking Tim in the head when she held up five sticky fingers.

The princess nodded. “I’m that many times four plus four.”

Tim did a double take. “You’re twenty-four?”

She blinked overly made-up gold eyes at him. “How old did you think I was?”

“Twelve.”

“Twelve, huh?” She took off her leather jacket, revealing a little black crop top that told him she indeed was far older than twelve.

She laughed at his expression. Tish laughed, too, and dropped her lollipop. In Tim’s lap.

Tim removed it before Tish could and mentally tossed his nap right out the window.

“Tish, sit down,” her mother called.

Yes, Tish, sit down. He stared at his companion. She smiled. He did not. He’d liked it better when she was twelve.

A different flight attendant came through the aisle, tossing each passenger a pathetically small bag of peanuts.

His hungry companion wasn’t quite quick enough on the uptake and took hers in the face. She stared down at the bag of peanuts that landed in her lap. “I hate commercial flights.”

But at least she’d forgotten her fear. That left him in the clear. Hoping for a little sleep, Tim settled back, confident she’d be okay now.

And quiet.

Hopefully very quiet.

“I can’t sleep while flying,” she said, sounding a little dejected as she played with the bag of peanuts.

Crinkle. Crinkle. Crinkle.

With a sigh, he reached out and put his hand over hers.

“Thank you,” she whispered, entwining their fingers and holding his hand. Amazingly, she said nothing more.

And that’s how he ended up holding a crazy juvenile delinquent’s—no, not a delinquent at all, but a woman’s, a crazy woman’s—hand.

IN NATALIA’S WORLD, everyone knew she was a princess, no matter how much she tried to disguise it. And try to disguise it, she did. Mostly to avoid being compared to other recent and far more popular princesses. But there was a part of her that simply enjoyed shocking people. It was an unusual hobby, but it kept her amused.

Yet, here in the U.S., she was a no one, and the American expression “royally pissed” was taking on a new meaning.

Of course, according to Amelia Grundy—ex-nanny and current friend and companion to Natalia and her two sisters—a princess never lost her temper, not in public anyway.

She’d blown that rule several times today alone. She wouldn’t do it again. It was easier, and far more fun, to get a rise out of the gorgeous cowboy next to her.

Not exactly politically correct, but Princess Natalia Faye Wolfe Brunner of Grunberg wasn’t known for following the rules. Never had been. It wasn’t that she didn’t like her world, but more that she didn’t like having to conform. Not for anyone or anything, including her heritage. So she was different. It worked for her. Her family loved and adored her whether she wore silver and leather and blue makeup or played nice little princess, which she did once in a while to please them.

But today…ugh. She’d been traveling all day from Europe, and still, the utter lack of…politeness among the American people in airports shocked her. She hoped it was just the airports, otherwise this was going to be a very unpleasant visit indeed.

Hadn’t Amelia warned her of the good old U.S. of A., land of pop-up minimalls, Hollywood divas and Wild West cowboys?

If truth be told, Natalia had a secret passion for old westerns. Both her sisters felt she watched too many Clint Eastwood movies, and maybe she did, but they fascinated her. Logically, she knew modern American men didn’t wear hats and carry six-shooters, but it was a good visual, and she appreciated a good visual.

There was a real good visual sitting right next to her; all long, leanly muscled and wearing the requisite Stetson hat. And he was holding her hand. How sweet was that? She hadn’t imagined a cowboy could be sweet on top of being tough as nails—and she had no doubt that this man with his rugged looks and low, authoritative voice was tough as nails. She looked him over, thinking Hollywood had missed the mark by not using him in movies. “You don’t, by any chance, carry a six-shooter do you?”

He lifted his hat and stared at her. “Have you been drinking?”

“No, of course not.” Another thing princesses didn’t do in public…indulge. “I was just wondering. So do you? Carry a gun?”

He put his hat back over his face, which was a crying shame given how amazing his face was. Not pretty-boy amazing—she got enough of that at home—but amazing in the way the Marlboro man would look without a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. A tanned, lived-in face, so arresting she couldn’t look away, paired with a body that would make any woman drool.

“I left the six-shooter at home,” he said. “With my talking horse.” He yawned and stretched that tough, coiled body, bumping his knees on the seat in front of him. Swearing beneath his breath, he tried to fold himself back up, but oddly enough, he did it while leaving his large, warm hand in hers.

Not a woman easily touched, Natalia nearly melted. He wore a dark blue T-shirt. And denim. Let’s not forget the denim, which looked incredibly soft and perfectly worn. She’d bet all the earrings in her left ear that he hadn’t bought them that way, but had worn them in with years of work.

Contrary to what one might imagine a princess’s wardrobe to contain, she herself had several pairs of jeans, none of which were with her now, as she preferred stirring things up, and leather seemed to do that nicely.

It was a middle-child thing. When she’d been ten years old her mother had taken her to a “specialist” to find out why she had to be the center of attention all the time. All it had netted her mother was a big doctor’s bill, though Natalia could still fondly remember the cool candy he’d handed out after each session. Anyway, her mother had never discovered Natalia’s problem, but Natalia figured she knew. She loved attention.

Which was why she was here, alone. On her first solo trip sans attendants on her way to a royal friend’s wedding, where she planned on representing her family and making them proud. For once. But she hadn’t counted on good old-fashioned nerves.

She was sandwiched in between the once-again prone cowboy and a three-hundred-pound woman who’d fallen asleep with her mouth open. Her snores had gone from loud to off-the-sonic scale, even over and above Blink-182’s latest CD blaring out of her earphones.