Royally Hung Read online

  So, one would think that marriage and Dare could never, ever coexist in the same sentence. I’m the prince voted most likely to be accidentally shot or to gamble away the enormous private fortune my parents left me during a spur-of-the-moment trip to Monaco.

  I don’t do bridal white.

  Tulle, diamonds, and promises of forever?

  Not on my to do list.

  Queenie glares at me, the expression on his face a familiar mix of disapproval and gruff affection. Despite the fluffy nickname I’ve gifted him with, he’s a hard, dirty-mouthed, hands-on fighter. He loves his guns, his beer, and his freakishly huge Maine coon cat that he imported from an animal shelter in the United States because he—and I quote—hadn’t tried online pussy.

  After the helicopter crash that took our parents and his wife, Rose, he moved us into the palace with him and turned the centuries-old flower gardens into an obstacle course and shooting range. It’s the only time I’ve seen him not put Vale first. He refused to marry again. He still wears her ring on a necklace around his throat. He announced that he was Rose’s and that the three of us were heirs enough. He ran the obstacle course with us, too, in the mud, the sun, the dead of night—whenever the nightmares came, because, he said, he’d never be too old to kick our asses.

  He’s like some kind of aged, cranky superhero with telepathic abilities. Certainly, he’s always known what we’ve gotten up to.

  Or maybe it’s the years he spent fighting with resistance groups in the Caucasus Mountains. He learned how to gather intel there because mountain life is all about do or die. He also rides like a demon, shoots better than any man I’ve ever seen, and has a PhD in medieval history from Oxford. He’s powerful and as laidback as a tiger in a zoo—one that could clear its cage anytime it wants and eat its audience.

  Getting into trouble has always been easy.

  Getting out of it, with my uncle around? Not so much.

  This is where I miss having my brother as my wingman. Nik vanished almost a month ago on a “health retreat,” which sounds like a load of shit rather than the relaxing, mature activity the Palace Press Office tried to pass it off as. Honestly, Nik’s probably off doing some top-secret diplomatic mission that will save the world and cure cancer in some genius two-for-one move. Nik’s a great guy like that. By the time he’s king, he’ll qualify for canonization.

  I, on the other hand, am Prince Darejan. You can call me Dare. Yes, that’s both a nickname and a label. I’ve never envied Nik being first in line—and no one has ever mentioned the M word in my hearing, unless it’s been in the context of Oh that Dare . . . can you imagine him getting married? My dick is neither monogamous nor reproductive—and I’m generous, sharing its magnificence with all my loyal female subjects. I’m the playboy prince, royal party central, a maverick who’s as impetuous as he is unpredictable. And unpredictable is good. It keeps my fans on their pretty little toes, because everyone wants a piece of me—and once they’ve got that piece, they take it to market. Remember Shylock who wanted his two pounds of flesh so badly? I’ve been sold out by nannies, tutors, schoolmates, fellow officers, taxi drivers, and dozens of lovers.

  I am so not the guy who settles down. But my uncle’s blasting on ahead, shoving a stack of color-coordinated, tasteful pink leather binders at me. I flip the first one open automatically and stare down at the glossy eight-by-ten of Princess Tallulah Tamsin Something-Something-Something. I’m sure she’s a lovely girl and that I could have her screaming Yes, yes, Dare, do me harder in minutes, but I prefer to do my own shopping.

  Queenie points to the binders in my hands. “I’ve chosen three young women. Anyone of them would make an excellent queen. Pick one.”

  It’s not their capabilities that I doubt. “No,” I say.

  That “no”?

  It’s a token protest, and we both know it. I don’t refuse my king, and that he’s my uncle just makes it worse. Queenie’s presented me with a tasteful a la carte menu when I usually just head to the buffet and load my plate up with whatever catches my eye.

  “Who’s the king here?” He flattens his palms on the desk and leans forward. He’s still a big, built guy, and his shoulders temporarily eclipse the sun shining in via the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. The desk was a gift from Rose when he ascended the throne. It’s a big, mahogany, gleaming behemoth with approximately a million drawers and built in the early nineteenth century by an English cabinetmaker who had no idea his work would end up in a Slavic palace three thousand miles away. Palace rumor has it that my aunt promptly proceeded to christen that desk with her royal spouse so that he’d always think of her when he had to work. I try, and fail, to imagine feeling that way about any of the three Binder Girls.

  I straighten up from my slouch and make him a bow. “Your Majesty.”

  “You do this, Darejan.” My uncle never shortens my name and he never wastes words. If he wanted to, he could probably take over the world by noon.

  “You’ve got Nik,” I protest. This is like tap-dancing across a freshly seeded minefield. “Nik’s already engaged to perfect princess material, so it’s not like Vale needs me to volunteer my swimmers in the procreative cause. Maybe my older brother could end his month-long incommunicado health retreat and march to the altar instead.”

  Marriage is about duty. About doing what’s right even when I’ve made a career out of doing what’s wrong. Suddenly I’m supposed to become the poster child for All’s Right in the World, and I . . . don’t know how to do that. Not that Nik’s not a wild one when he’s in private—because he is. He’s just much better than I am about giving a fuck and making sure Public Nik looks like Saint Nik.

  “There is some doubt about his marriage,” Queenie admits. He lets those bombshell words hang in the air between us.

  I almost fall out of my chair. “She dumped him?”

  Queenie shakes his head. “I’m not discussing reasons now, but you’re up to bat.”

  He’s not only built like a tank, but he has the mindset of one, too. If he wants me married, married I’ll be—and if he’s actually stopping to pick and choose his words, I’m not going to like what comes next. At all.

  “I need you married, Dare. I need you married now.”

  “You can’t just order a baby the way you would a handbag,” I protest. “Think of the pressure. My poor swimmers might be so stressed they’d refuse to come out.”

  “From what I’ve read, your swimmers routinely score a perfect ten,” Queenie deadpans. No one can accuse the old man of not having a sense of humor. From what I’ve heard, he and my aunt christened every room in the palace after they’d done it on the royal desk. Although they never had children of their own, they gave it their best shot.

  “This is Nik’s job.” Do I sound stubborn? Well, this is my life on the line here. Why wouldn’t I dig in my heels?

  “Maybe Nik won’t be king,” Queenie growls. “Maybe you will be.”

  Do you hear that whistle and the soft, innocuous thud of a landing, right before all hell breaks loose and my life explodes around my ears? That’s Queenie firing his bombshell at me.

  “Things change,” my uncle continues. “I need you to do this.”

  His eyes hold mine, not an inch of give in them.

  “Is that a royal command?”

  My king doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t change his royal mind. “Yes.”

  I can’t refuse an order from my king. The dossiers of the three Perfect Princesses practically quiver in my hands, and it’s possible I panic. Just a little. Bad boy princes don’t get married—we fuck our way around the globe, bringing orgasms and happiness to all. Settling down isn’t something I’d be good at. But since my king commands . . . I do.

  I stand up, shoving my chair back and the binders under my arm. I haven’t been dismissed, but I’m allowed to break the little rules.
r />   “Where are you going?” Queenie barks out the question behind me, and I turn my gaze toward the door.

  “Are you going to call out the royal guards on me?” I’ve fought with those men. I’ve trained with them, bled with them, and yes, I’ve also gone drinking with them. But they’ll do what they’re ordered to do, just like me.

  “Darejan.” Just my name. Nothing more.

  For a moment, I pretend that I’m going to tell my uncle to go to hell. That I won’t do this. That I intend to kick over the traces. But I’m a prince of Vale.

  “Where are you going?”

  That’s an excellent question. I pause, with my hand on the doorknob. “I’m going to get my stag party underway.”

  Every condemned man gets a last meal, and if I’m about to enter the Land of Monogamy and Respectability, I plan to make mine a buffet of girls.

  Chapter Two

  Edee

  “Edee Jones, get your butt over here right now.”

  Since I’m waist-deep in a pool, camera aimed at two beagles happily paddling around, I’m not inclined to comply. Putting my college bestie’s call on speaker phone is already a huge compromise since I’ve only got an hour to finish here before my client has another obligation. I’m particularly motivated since today’s job pays well, and my student loan payment was due two weeks ago. Funny how a guy can’t hang onto my number to save his life but the collection agency always finds me no matter how many times I change my number.

  “Little busy.” Carla’s at least an hour’s drive away on the Las Vegas Strip and no one’s invented transporters yet. I keep hoping that NASA will get on that, and they keep disappointing me by building rockets and spaceships instead. Who needs to set foot on Mars when there are so many places closer to home that already take forever to get to? The beagles in the pool bark in full agreement.

  The sigh that emanates from my phone is epic. “Are you with a client?”

  “Newlyweds,” I agree cheerfully, snapping away as my furry companions doggy paddle. Their person brought them over here an hour ago for a portrait session, but she’s ducked inside the pool house to use the bathroom. I shot the wedding last weekend; today we’re doing a destroy-the-dress session. Mrs. Beagle’s white lace veil floats around her brown and white face, and Mr. Beagle seems to have lost his top hat in the shallow end.

  Doggie love is certainly easier to come by than people love. It’s not like guys take one look at me and fall madly, badly in love. Brown hair, brown eyes, five foot three, and a few more pounds than I should be—that’s me. Even when people look at me, they usually don’t see me. Their gazes slide right over me like I’m invisible. I’m the stagehand, not the star, and most days I don’t mind. I live with my stepmother and two stepsisters in a Vegas McMansion. When Dad died, my stepmom got the house, the investments, and the contents of the bank accounts. I got his cameras. My stepmother promptly exiled me to the pool house in the backyard where I’m allowed to live in exchange for “helping out around the house.” Translation? I’m the cook, the maid, the gardener, and the pool boy.

  Don’t feel bad for me. I’m a pet photographer. I specialize in doggie weddings, although that’s partly what happens when you have student loans. My art degree qualified me to either do pet glamour shots or work retail for a living, and I’m much happier working with four-legged clients rather than two-legged ones. Someday, sure, I’d like to find my own, two-legged Mr. Right, but until he shows up and actually sticks around, I’ll keep on doing what I’m doing.

  Or not.

  Because hello, opportunity knocking . . .

  “Do you still want to shoot people?” The desperation in Carla’s voice registers loud and clear over the enthusiastic splashing of my clients. She’s sounded more than a little crazed ever since she took a job as junior concierge at the Royal Palace Resort and Casino. Apparently, people who have enough money to require a concierge’s assistance also have ridiculous ideas about what a concierge can achieve on their behalf. From her war stories, it sounds like some clients expect her to cure cancer and deliver a Birkin bag in not one but two hot colors before lunch.

  “Sure?” A new gig would be great, but photographing people would actually require . . . people contact. It’s not like I’m an Oscar the Grouch that hates on the entire human race, but I prefer to minimize the number of people I interact with on a daily basis. How can I explain for those of you who don’t hide when the UPS guy rings your doorbell? Some of us approach life like it’s a big, messy, fabulously hands-on art project; you grab the Play-Doh and plunge right in, rolling and shaping, laughing and talking. Good for you. I find all that interaction exhausting. I like my art—and the people in my life—neatly organized and with a little space. If I’m in the mood for art, I’ll pop into a gallery, take a walk past all the carefully curated pictures on the wall. I like those velvet ropes separating the two of us. I like watching.

  “I have a client for you,” Carla says firmly.

  “A client.” I sound like a parrot—she’s lucky I can’t poop on her shoulder and demand crackers.

  “He’s filthy rich,” she coaxes. “You can charge him astronomical fees and he’ll never even notice.”

  Money.

  It’s an unfortunate fact that we all need it, right? I’d like to be all lofty ideals, but the truth is that I have those afore-mentioned student loans. And some century, I’d like to be able to move out of my stepmother’s pool house and into my own place where I can call the shots. Ergo, since my checking account is currently model thin rather than sporting a Rubenesque plumpness, I don’t hang up. Or laugh at her.

  “I’m listening,” I say instead. I’m actually feeling cautiously optimistic about this.

  “I need you to come right now,” she orders. “He’s not the patient type. He’s a prince.”

  “Among men?” I joke.

  “Literally,” she says. “He’s a prince from some teeny-weeny, oil-rich country on the Black Sea who’s in town to celebrate his engagement.”

  Wow. I can practically feel my stepmother vibrating with interest. She’s a veritable pointer dog when it comes to finding and flushing out wealthy men for my two stepsisters. She’d have the ring off the fiancée faster than fast if it were possible.

  “Who’s the lucky lady?”

  “No idea but he wants pictures of tonight’s party and any follow-up events.”

  Shooting a royal wedding would be fun, although I can’t imagine an honest-to-God prince would hire an unknown like me. I’ve done a few people weddings, although beagles are, frankly, more my speed. Plus, dogs generally more appreciative. Most little girls—and more than a few boys—daydream at least once about Prince Charming sweeping into the ball and picking us out of the crowd. He promises we’re special, dances us around in dizzying circles, and makes it hard to remember that we were someone before he arrived in his boots and his uniform—and that we’ll still be someone after he’s long gone, gallivanting after the chick who drops her glass slipper on the stairs because that’s all the recipe for happily-ever-after that he needs. I make sure that the day you walk down the aisle, you get lifelong, full-color memories of the wedding of your dreams. No matter what comes afterward, whether you wake up next to your very own prince or he turns into a frog, you’ll have something to remember.

  Carla plunges ahead. “Please? I need someone who knows how to work a camera and who won’t try to hump a newly off-market prince.”

  I snap my last beagle shot and wade toward the steps, pitching my voice to be heard over the sloshing sounds. “I can resist.”

  I’ve kissed enough frogs that restraint won’t be a problem. As my friends like to point out, I don’t have a history of breakups—I have break crashes. One way or another, the men in my life walk out and ghost me.

  “You haven’t seen him.” She actually sounds doubtful.

  “He’s safe from me. He won�
��t even know I’m there.” No matter how pretty this prince’s package is, recent experiences have thoroughly vaccinated me against men. I’m a walking litany of bad first dates—guys who stand me up because they’ve got a hotter date with their pot dealer, guys who don’t say a word or who won’t stop talking about themselves, guys who can’t be bothered to look embarrassed when last week’s date swings by our dinner table to say hello. These experiences are the ultimate in dating inoculations. They’re also the world’s best lust blocker. You remember that art analogy I hit with you? After my experiences, I’m definitely in look-don’t-touch mode.

  I can totally resist a rock-star billionaire prince from a tiny country I’ve never heard of and can’t be bothered to Google.

  * * *

  * * *

  While princes can do whatever they want, there are rules for us mere mortals. Lots and lots of rules that are disclosed to me when I arrive at the hotel. Rule numero uno is that no photos be taken without an explicit, verbal buy-in from His Royal I’m in Chargeness. He also reserves the right to review all pictures and delete any that he dislikes. That particular caveat will make my job harder, but since the man has agreed to a ridiculously large fee, I sign a mountain of papers swearing under pain of death that I will never, ever disclose anything I may see. Yep, I can be bought.

  Let’s be honest. Most of us can. Maybe you think you’d hold out. That the almighty dollar wouldn’t sway your opinions. But then you just haven’t been offered enough money—and let’s just say this mystery prince is very, very generous. Except for a pounding headache, I’m entirely, deliriously happy as I head for the penthouse rooftop suite where Prince Darejan of Vale, a tiny, oil-rich country somewhere on the Black Sea, is hosting a bachelor party, having rented out the casino’s top-floor penthouse for a ridiculous sum of money.