I want a princess

t?” The last sentence was in English, the first few, thank God, in Helgmøre’s antiquated Danish. Ruben turned, using his body to hide Cherry from view, dragging a hand

ths. Until Demetria had forced Ruben’s brother to cut a deal. “You can’t take our picture,” he said again, louder now. More confident. “Or you’ll lose the privileges my brother promised.” “Ah, ah. I can’t take your picture.” Flash. “So I’ll blur you out. The king said nothing about your whores—” “Have some fucking respect,” Ruben snapped, “before I—“ “What, Your Highness? Careful.” White teeth flashed in the shadows. “I’m recording.” Of course he was. “So come on, who is she?” Behind him, Cherry whispered, “What’s going on? Why is he taking pictures?” “Don’t worry,” Ruben whispered back in English. “It’s nothing. I—“ “Your Highness! Who is she?” Another camera flash, and Ruben was thrown right back in

king realisation that she didn’t want his touch. Cherry paced her open-plan living room in stockinged feet, her mind churning. Ruben was lounging on her sofa as if he owned the place, watching her with an infuriating smile on his face and an unsettling wariness in his eyes. Finally, Cherry pulled herself together and turned to face him. “So you’re… some kind of celebrity.” She may not speak Swedish, or whatever language they’d used down there, butthat much was obvious. “And you didn’t see fit to tell me that before doing… things. With me. In a public place. Correct?” He rested one hand casually against the back of the sofa and arched a brow. “I suppose.” “You suppose? You suppose?” She sounded like somebody’s mother. Reigning in her unease and her anger, Cherry forced herself to relax. She fluffed out her hair—he’d probably squashed the curls at the back against that fucking wall—then remembered her makeup. Crap. Snatching her bag from the coffee table, she rifled through for a mirror. There weren’t any on the walls of her flat, except for the one in the bathroom. She didn’t n

is command. “No. Tell me what’s going on.” “I will. If you come here.” “Tell me, or the next thing I throw at your head won’t be a pillow.” He arched a brow, but let his hand drop. “Fine. You should sit down, though.” Oh dear. That sounded ominous. Before she could really start panicking, a knock came at the door. An inappropriately loud knock, the kind made by men with large fists and underdeveloped common sense. She let out a huff. “Would that be your mysterious

ake off his shoes. Bloody men. Cherry slammed the door shut. When she returned to the living room, she found Hans standing by the window, peering out into the night, and Ruben on the sofa with… her cat, Whiskey. The fat little tabby was stretched out on Ruben’s lap, purring. Getting fur all over his £3,000 suit. He didn’t appear to mind. He rubbed her belly, and didn’t even flinch when she dug all of her claws into his hand. Cherry tried not to be impressed. “So,” she said, clapping her hands togeth

g on?” She snapped. Hans blinked. Then he frowned at Ruben. “You didn’t tell her?” “I was easing into it.” “No you bloody weren’t,” Cherry spluttered. “You haven’t told me shit!” With a sigh, Ruben plucked Whiskey off of h