The Royal Mess. MaryJanice Davidson

resign or slaughter the royal family, or both.

      “God, what a kid,” Al continued, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head. He sighed happily. “Got the drop on us, jammed that .38 in the back of Jeff’s head—”

      There was the dull thud as Jeff banged the back of his head on the wall, his eyes closed. Politely, Al and Edmund ignored it.

      “—sassed me like you wouldn’t believe, then kicked us off her property. It was unbelievably wonderful.”

      “It, er, sounds unbelievably wonderful.”

      Jeffrey banged his head again.

      With a worried glance at the head of his detail, the king finished, “Nobody’s talked to me like that since Christina joined the family.”

      “She certainly sounds like a Baranov,” Edmund admitted. “Sire, it is vital we verify her bloodline. You realize the ramifications.”

      Al did. He wondered what his eldest son, David, would think about all this. What all the kids would think.

      “D’you think I should tell the kids now or wait until we have proof?”

      Edmund hesitated. “My king, I would not presume to advise you on such a personal matter.”

      Jeffrey made a strangled sound that he managed to turn into a cough; Al laughed outright. “Since when? You got a fever or something, Edmund?”

      Jeff cleared his throat. It sounded like gravel in a blender. “Let me go back, Majesty.”

      Surprised, Al glanced at his bodyguard. “What? Jeff? Did you hit your head too hard on the wall?”

      “Sire, let me go back and try again.”

      “Jeez, I dunno . . . I thought we’d give her a little space before trying again.”

      “My king, you know that is unacceptable!” Edmund was as upset as Al had ever seen, and that was saying something. He had actually raised his voice. “We cannot let this sleeping dog lie!”

      “Try to resist referring to my kid as a dog.”

      “I require proof she is your kid, my king. And you know why. And you know we cannot delay.”

      The king shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Yeah, but—”

      “Sire, forgive the interruption, but let me go back,” Jeff urged. “First thing tomorrow. I’ll switch detail with Reynolds. I can do this. Please let me do this.”

      “Jeez, Jeff . . .”

      “With all do respect, Jeffrey, if the king could not persuade her, I fail to see what—”

      “Hush up, Edmund. Give me a second here.”

      Al thought about it. The two men let him. Finally, he said, “I don’t see the harm. And if you’re willing, it’s fine by me, Jeff.”

      “Thank you, sire.”

      “Wait.” This time Edmund was thinking, and the two others let him. After a short silence, Edmund made a suggestion, showing his usual cool good sense, and Al instantly accepted the advice. Then he gave Jeff his instructions.

      “My king,” Jeff acknowledged, and bowed. Then he did something Al had never seen him do: he grinned.

      Chapter 8

      Gulping 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. A Minnesotan who had moved to Juneau fourteen years ago, Mike looked quite a bit like his Norwegian forebearers: large, broad-shouldered, blond hair, green eyes. The other guides called him The Viking. And although he looked fierce, he had the temperament of a pampered kitten. “And he asked for you personally.”

      Nicole groaned again.

      “You okay?”

      “No.”

      “Diarrhea?”

      “I wish.”

      “Oh.” Mike shrugged his massive shoulders. “Well, anyway, show him a good time.”

      “I will not.” She felt her face getting hot, which made her mad, which made her redder.

      Oblivious, Mike continued. “Fill the boat—not that you’re taking the boat—so he goes back to the palace and tells them all about our little outfit here.”

      “I quit,” Nicole said.

      “You can’t quit,” her boss yawned, showing his back fillings. Nicole quit three or four times a month. “Sandra Dee’s coming back next month and she also asked for you personally. That was a five-hundred-dollar tip, right?”

      “Then I’m on vacation effective this minute.”

      “Ha! We both know you have no life at all. This job is your vacation.”

      She cursed his perfect estimation of her character.

      “Now get going.”

      Nicole glared at the bodyguard, who smiled back. “Prepare for a day in the darkest depths of hell,” she informed him.

      “Oh, I’m prepared,” he replied. “I’m bristling with weapons and pepper spray, not to mention my rape whistle.” Courteously, he opened the door for her. “After you, Nicole.”

      Chapter 9

      Jeffrey landed the fish, deftly worked the hook out of its lower lip, and then tossed it back into the river.

      Nicole was sitting beside him on the bank, her head in her hands. “You know how to fish,” she mumbled into her palms.

      “Could be I went out a time or two with my dad,” he admitted, baiting the hook and casting again.

      “And you sound like a local.”

      “As local as you can get,” he admitted. “Russian on my dad’s side, Ekok on my mom’s.”

      “That explains the blue eyes and the built-in tan. You’re sure as hell not a tourist. You don’t need me to take you out.”

      “Maybe I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind since you shoved your gun into my head.” This, unfortunately, was nothing but the truth.

      Nicole jerked her head up and glared at him. He froze, mesmerized by the Baranov blue eyes. Funny how he knew six other people with eyes that exact same shade, none of which had the same effect on him. “Very funny. You can go back and tell the king he’ll die of old age before I show up and get poked and prodded, and then play princess for him and those other