A Royal Mess. Jill Shalvis

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.

      2

      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.

      At least the cowboy slept utterly silently, though he still proved quite the distraction because he had such a commanding presence she couldn’t seem to stop sneaking peeks at him.

      But unfortunately, she’d sipped too many glasses of water and needed to visit the facilities. Badly. She looked at Ms. Snoring-Loud. Please, someone just shoot me dead if I ever fall asleep in public with my mouth open wide enough to catch flies. “Excuse me,” she whispered, gently nudging the large woman. “I need to get up.”

      The woman jerked awake with a loud snort and glared at her. “I was sleeping.”

      “I realize that. But I must use the facilities.”

      “The facilities?”

      Did they have no class in this country? Natalia pointed toward the front of the plane, past first class where she should have been seated.

      “Oh, you mean the pot?” This was said loud enough for the people in the Republic of China to hear. “You have to pee. Well, my goodness, you should’ve just said so.” She cocked a brow. “Or isn’t a princess allowed to say the word pee?”

      Oh, amusing. Wasn’t she amusing? “Can I please get out?”

      “Yeah, yeah.” The woman heaved herself out of the seat and into the aisle. “Far be it for me to keep the princess waiting.”

      Once Natalia was finally in the “pot,” she stared at her harried face in the mirror. Pale and sickly. She tried splashing her cheeks with water, but succeeded only in making her hair look like the Bride of Fran-kenstein. Very nice.

      The cowboy stirred when she sat back down, and slowly tipped back his Stetson, prying one eye open. One green eye. One amazingly forest-green eye, which looked her over before closing again.

      Unlike everyone else she’d ever met, he didn’t comment on the makeup, jewelry or clothing. “Are we there yet?” he asked.

      “No.”

      “Hmm.” He settled back in the seat, his long, built body far too big for it. His arm bumped hers off the armrest, and she stared at him, shocked he didn’t immediately fall all over himself and apologize as most people did when they accidentally touched her.

      He didn’t even look at her!

      Because he was obviously squished, and because she didn’t want to draw his attention again, she let it go. But even as rude as Americans were, she had to admit, they sure made their men quite magnificent.

      “Are you watching me sleep?” he asked in a low, rather husky voice.

      She jerked her gaze off him. “Of course not.”

      “You’re watching.”

      Not