MC ROMANCE: Wanted by the Alpha Biker (Motorcycle Club Alpha Male Bad Boy Romance) (MC Romantic Suspense Contemporary New Adult Short Stories) (166 page)

Bound to the Alpha Billionaire

Book 8

(Can be read as a standalone book)

By: Lucy Wynand

The Prince’s Possession

Chapter One

              “Your Majesty, I’ve never seen so handsome a prince,” a mellow Irish voice said.  “If I were a ponce, I’d be tossing myself at your feet.”

Geoffrey Wells looked up from the file he was studying to frown at the slim, curly-haired valet.  “You
are
a ponce, Chalen.  It’s why they hired you to make me into a prince.”

“Aye.”  The valet motioned for him to stand up.  “So let’s have a look, then.”

Spending most of the flight secluded in the royal jet’s private quarters had left Geoff’s temper straining at the bit.  Since leaving London he’d spent hours reviewing again all the available data on Prince Jarek, Crown Prince of Aslandia.  Thirty-two years old, British-educated, and thoroughly spoiled, Jarek had been the only son of Aslandia’s King Baran.  Since Baran had died suddenly last week, everyone believed Jarek was coming home to inherit his father’s throne, and rule over the tiny but immensely wealthy kingdom known among Europeans as “the country built by casinos.”

Only a handful of high-ranking MI-6 officials knew that Jarek had been secretly murdered ten years ago, probably by his own father. 

Geoff hadn’t known anything about the prince until last Monday, when he’d been pulled off his desk and marched upstairs to be inspected by the director.  The real shock had been seeing a photo of the black-haired, blue-eyed prince, which had been like looking into a mirror.  From there the days blurred into one long marathon session of being groomed and tutored and otherwise transformed from an intelligence officer with no fortune or family into a billionaire playboy who had everything.

Now he stood up and held out his arms.  “Well?  Will I pass?”

“You’re the image of King Baran’s bloody brat, to be sure, but your jacket’s already wrinkled.”  Chalen Blackstone, a four-generation royal valet, cast a critical eye over him.  “Can’t have that.” 

Geoff glanced down.  “I don’t see any wrinkles.”

“You couldn’t, unless you grow eyes in the back of your skull.”  The valet stepped back.  “Your posture’s still for shite when you’re not thinking about it.  Shoulders back, chin up, gaze down the nose.  Don’t smile.  Look bored.” 

Geoff smothered a yawn.  “That I don’t have to fake.”

“Sorry becoming a royal billionaire is so tiresome.”  He circled around Geoff once.  “You also need to work on your resting expressions.  Come on, me lad.  Give us a proper heir to a dirty little kingdom sneer.”

Geoffrey allowed his upper lip to curl.  “Shut it, or I’ll have my guards haul you off to the gallows.”

“It’s silence, not shut it, and they don’t hang anyone in Aslandia, you dolt.”  Chalen plucked at Geoff’s silk cravat.  “Bullet to the brainpan, or a very short, unhappy life being worked to death in a hellhole mine prison.”

Geoff sighed.  “Come to Aslandia, gamble away all your money, and end up in an unmarked grave.  I’m so happy I’m this man’s identical twin.”   

“Everyone has one.  I’ve always hoped mine would be married to a Playboy bunny.”  Chalen brushed at his sleeve.  “Now, what do you say when someone important asks where you’ve been all these years, Prince Jarek?”

Geoffrey looked down his nose.  “How are you with a rock hammer?”

“Perfection.  Off with the jacket.  I’ll have to steam it before you meet your adoring subjects.  Royals are never, ever wrinkled.”  When Geoff shrugged out of the hand-tailored garment Chalen draped it over his arm.  “Now, how do you behave with the great buggered unwashed masses?”

“Like an ass,” Geoff said dutifully.

“Always.  Stay behind your bodyguards.  No one approaches, touches or speaks to you unless you first give the nod.  You remember, we practiced that one for two days.  If you don’t know an answer, look annoyed and say nothing.  You would not believe how effective the brooding silence can be.”  As Geoff reached for a glass of water Chalen slapped his wrist.  “You don’t eat or drink in front of anyone.”

Geoff sighed.  “Right, I forgot.  I’m an inbred, overdressed idiot air plant of a man – with facial paralysis.”

“Botox, actually.  Welcome to the monarchy.”  Chalen checked his watch.  “We’ll be touching down at Aslandia International in ten minutes.  I’ve got to see to the luggage now, and we won’t be able to talk again until tonight.  You’re on your own until then, so clear your head, me lad.  As the Americans say, it’s show time.”

Once the valet left Geoff used the in-jet phone to place a call to the London desk for his final check-in, and was immediately transferred to the director’s office.

“We’ve confirmed that the cartel has put someone inside the palace,” the director said.  “We believe it’s this American woman, Meri Madison, who is scheduled to photograph Jarek.  Turning this mole to work for us is top priority, so get on it at once.”

“Yes, sir.”  Geoff felt the jet beginning to descend.  “Any particular approach I should use?”

“The only one that will work for a royal,” the director said.  “Wine and dine, and then seduce and control.  You should have little difficulty.  She’s said to be as lovely as she is dangerous.”

#

“Do you even realize how much danger you’re in?” Paula Lawson demanded over the phone.  “These people are not messing around, Meri.  Come home before you get your throat cut.”

“I will.  I just need the cherry on top,” Meri Madison told her editor.  She smiled as she saw a gleaming jet descend from the clouds.  “And he’s about to land.  Gotta go.  Bye, Paulie.”

Meri walked out of the terminal and onto the red-carpeted tarmac.  The reception party from the palace stood at elegant attention as they watched Prince Jarek’s jet touch down.  Meri went to stand beside the royal press secretary, a sleep-deprived spin doctor named Saral.

“You look very pretty today, Meri,” Saral said, his benign smile not even flirting with his beady eyes.  “Hoping to get lucky?”

“Aren’t we all, Chosef?”  Surreptitiously she straightened the placket of her ivory lace blouse.  Too tall and lanky to wear most dresses well, Meri had opted for the very feminine top over her favorite black trousers.  She’d also coiled her long blonde hair into a pale crown, and applied some strategic makeup to enhance her delicate features. 

Meri knew she looked good enough to attract the playboy Prince’s attention; holding onto it would be the trick.

It frustrated her that they knew so little about Jarek.  He hadn’t been photographed since leaving Aslandia ten years ago to retreat in some sort of sulky seclusion.  The royal heir had often quarreled with his father, the late King Baran, and there had been rumors that after one huge blow-up, Jarek had been deliberately exiled. 

Still, Meri had no doubt the prince had languishing on some private palatial estate where a battalion of servants had provided him with an endless supply of nymphomaniac supermodels, designer drugs, and gold-dusted peacock tongues or whatever the royals nibbled on these days.

“God, I already hate him,” Meri muttered under her breath.

“What’s that, my dear?” Saral asked.

She forced a smile.  “I said I can’t wait to meet him.”

              One the jet taxied to a stop Prince Jarek’s entourage disembarked, and then the heir himself stepped out into the sunlight.  Tall and dark like most Aslandians, he had a piercing gaze that seemed to take in everything at once.

Meri found herself holding her breath as the prince walked down to the red carpet and strolled toward the reception party.  Jarek moved like some large, predatory feline, effortless but intent.  He had the same brilliant blue eyes as his father, but his seemed to glitter with more fire than Baran’s infamous glacial star.  Naturally he had the perfect grooming all royals seemed to pull off, right down to the manicured nails.  On him, however, it looked more like a disguise.  Beneath it Meri sensed power and purpose that a spoiled playboy shouldn’t have possessed, much less concealed.

              Just who was this guy, anyway?

Jarek stopped as his father’s chief advisor offered a low bow and gave the nod.  The advisor instantly offered his condolences, which he deftly turned into a flowery welcome speech.

“Yes, it is good to be home,” Jarek said in his deep British-accented voice, cutting short the advisor’s fawning outpourings.  “I will go to the palace now.”

Meri jumped as the prince’s gaze met hers, and he beckoned.  She moved quickly to present herself, dipping into the expected curtsey.  When he nodded, she said, “Welcome home, Your Majesty.”

“You are American.”  He gave her the once-over.  “Pretty hair.  This blouse does not suit you.  What is your name?”

“Meri Madison, Your Majesty.”  She felt flattered and insulted, all at once.  “I’m here to interview and photograph you for World Times Magazine.”   

“Is that all you want to do?”  Before she could reply Jarek turned to the chief advisor.  “She will ride with me to the palace.”

Chapter Two

              Once safely inside the state limousine, Geoff raised the privacy screen and watched the American trying not to fidget.  Given the director’s warning he’d expected her to be quite attractive, which she was.  Seeing the gleam of her hair in the sunlight had drawn his attention at once – he’d never seen a woman with such fetching white-gold hair – but the elegance of her platform diver’s had made his cock twitch.

Recognizing the keen intelligence in her hazel eyes, however, had immediately put him on his guard.

              Geoff could fool most of the world into believing his various impersonations; even in today’s world of stolen identities and hidden personas most people accepted without question that you were who you claimed to be.  Instinctively he knew that Meri Madison wasn’t one of them.   

Since she’d knocked him a bit off kilter, Geoff decided to return the favor.  “You are very nervous with me,” he said.  “Why?”

She moved her shoulders.  “I’ve never been alone with a prince.  To be honest, I’ve never even met one before you, Your Majesty.”

“You may call Jarek when we are alone.”  Geoff glanced out the window at the shouting, waving masses lining either side of the road to the palace.  Poor bastards had no idea that when his mission was complete they’d be mourning the man whose homecoming they’d gathered to cheer.  “Your name, what does it mean?”

“Meri?”  She seemed startled now.  “It’s an abbreviated form of my given name, Meredith.”

He remembered not to laugh, and instead arched his brows.  “You are named for a happy end?  A merry death?”

She pressed her lips together for a moment before she said, “My grandmother, actually, who is not merry and will probably live forever.  I’ve heard that your namesake was a very famous Aslandian hero.”

“Jarek the First.”  He nodded.  “He founded the family dynasty while defending my country against the barbarian hordes, slavers, prospectors and the like.  He was not very politically correct about it, was he?”

“Maybe that’s how he got his name,” she said carefully.  “Among other things he kidnapped a princess and forced her to marry him and bear his twelve children.  History remembers him as Jarek the Ruthless.”

“Perhaps he should have been called Jarek the Fertile.”  He liked that she’d done her homework.  “Now you will wish to know if I intend to follow in his footsteps.  If I am as merciless as my ancestor.”

“I’d never presume to question your intentions or your character, Your – Jarek.”  She made a face.  “That said, the international community is very curious about you.  My editor gave me a list of question to ask, if I ever got the chance.”

He’d wager it was an endless list, too.  “These are personal questions?”  When she nodded he made a languid gesture.  “You may ask one now, and then you will answer one for me.”

“Fair enough.  Why did you stay away for ten years,” she said, “and why did you really come back?”

“A conjunction does now make two questions into one,” he chided.  “You don’t follow instructions very well, do you?”

“Occupational hazard.”  She straightened her spine.  “All right, then, one question:  what have you been doing for the last ten years?”

“Preparing for this day.”  He smiled at the annoyance that flared in her eyes.  “Now you will answer mine.  What would you do if I kissed you, right now?”

She went still.  “Ah, nothing.”

Geoff reached out and took her slim hand in his.  “Are you quite sure of that?”

Meri nodded slowly, and then gasped as he tugged her across the space between them.  “Your Majesty, please.  You can’t—”

“I am a crown prince of Aslandia.  Here I can do anything I like.”  He cupped her chin.  “Do you understand that?”

Meri nodded slowly.  “You’re not at all what I expected.”

“Good.”  Geoff brought her palm to his mouth, and pressed a kiss in the center of it before he released her.  “You will have dinner with me tonight, and I will show you more things . . . unexpected.”

#

              “There.”  Holanna, the palace maid assigned to Meri, stepped back and smiled.  “You look beautiful, Miss Madison.”

“Uh-huh.”  Meri glanced down at the slinky gold silk dress Jarek had sent for her to wear.  “I’m guessing this is dry-clean only?”

“Do not concern yourself.  You will not be wearing it very long.”  The Aslandian woman stepped closer and lowered her voice.  “Piscas bid me say you should provide him with a memento of your evening with the Prince.  Something useful to the cartel.”

Meaning something they could use as blackmail to control the prince.  Pretending to work for a bunch of terrorists in order to expose their grip on Aslandia had forced Meri to do some nasty things, but this assignment was exceptionally slimy.

“His Majesty may not want to have sex with me,” Meri pointed out.  “And even if he does, my cameras are all locked up in the palace media room.”

Holanna nodded and tucked a golden orchid behind Meri’s ear.  “Take this bloom and place it anywhere within three feet of the prince’s bed.  It has a micro recorder inside the petals.”

So she’d have to accidentally on purpose wreck the flower, Meri thought, and nodded.  “All right, I’ll do my best.”

“Piscas will reward you handsomely for your efforts,” the maid said.  “Only be sure that the sex is of the sort to cause a scandal for the prince.”

“You mean, kinky and twisted,” Meri said.

Holanna spread her hands.  “When it comes to sex, Aslandians are very traditional, conservative people, Miss Madison.  You need only encourage His Majesty to tie you up, perhaps administer some intimate discipline.  That will serve our purpose very well.”

Since her quarters were in the guest wing, Meri had to walk across the sumptuous palace to Prince Jarek’s private dining room.  Passing through the royal gallery made her glance at the portraits of every king since Jarek the Ruthless had spawned his dynasty.  All of them were dark, blue-eyed men who projected such intensity and menace she felt as if her insides would curdle. 

Why didn’t Jarek have the same effect on her?

“Because I’m hot for him,” she muttered as she stepped out of the gallery and stopped before the guards flanking the entrance to the royal wing.  “Good evening,” she said politely.  “Ms. Madison to have dinner with His Majesty.”

One of the guards handed off his ceremonial sword to the other and frisked her with an impersonal efficiency before searching her clutch.  When he finished, he nodded to his partner, who opened the door for her.

“Thank you,” Meri said through her clenched teeth, and walked down another portrait-lined passage.  At the end of it another guard glanced over her before admitting her to the king’s private chambers.

As she walked in, Meri had the sense of passing through a looking glass into another realm.  The king’s private dining room had rarely been seen by outsiders and had never been photographed by anyone but the royal historians. 

Dark blue-flocked walls, hung with incredibly intricate Aslandian tapestries and sporting marble medallions carved with the royal family’s crest, soared over her head to curve above three enormous crystal chandeliers.  A polished mahogany table long enough to seat two hundred comfortably occupied the center of a tennis court-size hand-knotted carpet.  Real candles, not electric lights, illuminated the splendid porcelain, crystal and silver table settings.  Huge vases of fresh flowers and small objects d’art occupied every corner table, wall nook and pedestal. 

At the far end of the table sat Prince Jarek, whose sapphire eyes followed her every move.

“This is breath-taking,” she said, remaining on the far side of the table.  “The dusting alone must take days.”

“Weeks, I should think.”  Jarek rose and came to her, his Savile Row suit as perfect as his hair and his smile.  “This dress suits you very well.  Much better than that dreadful blouse from this morning.”

              “It does.”  Meri would bet he was already thinking about taking it off her, too.  “You have an eye for fashion, Your Majesty.  Maybe I should have you do all my clothes shopping.”

              “Ah, but I lack motivation.”  Jarek reach out and caressed her cheek.  “I’d rather have you naked.