Royal Pursuit Read online

Off the hook? “You don’t want to be king?”

  “Would you want to be president?” he countered, his deep-blue eyes drilling her, reminding her that his laid-back persona hid a sharp intelligence.

  She contained a shudder. Having every detail of her life under public scrutiny and having constantly to compromise to get anything done was not her idea of an ideal career. She’d seen too much political infighting and backstabbing to ever want the job of president. One of the things Taylor enjoyed most about having her own business was the freedom it entailed. She took the cases that interested her, worked the hours she chose. Slowly and steadily she’d built a solid reputation in the professional community. She played straight with the local cops, collaborated with a few of the more honest divorce attorneys. Ultimately, she envisioned taking on a partner or two, expanding the firm. The idea of running a country held no appeal for her whatsoever.

  She eyed Alex, realizing that the prince and the P.I. actually had something in common: no interest in ruling their respective countries. However, their backgrounds and lifestyles couldn’t have been more different. His had been one of wealth and privilege. Hers had been one of survival in the face of a father who’d abandoned her as a child, an older brother who liked to use his fists on his little sisters, and an ex-husband who’d cheated while she’d worked two jobs to put herself through school.

  Although she remained close to her sister Diana, Taylor had tried to put the rest of her past behind her. Her mother had died years ago. Her brother was now serving a ten-year sentence in jail for battering his wife. Taylor tried not to think of him or the hell he’d put her and Diana through. Taylor might be only one month from financial disaster but in the world she came from, that was a luxurious cushion. One she might lose if she didn’t protect the prince from the assassin.

  She decided to start with the basics. “Why would someone want you dead?”

  He shrugged—a shrug that told her absolutely nothing.

  “Look, if you don’t fill me in, I can’t do my job.” She sat back and let him mull over her statement. Either he would talk to her or he wouldn’t. And while those trust-me-baby-blue eyes of his might speak volumes, they didn’t speak a language she wanted to hear.

  He stood and threw the squirrel another crumb, tossed the paper into a trash can and returned to the bench. He didn’t sit but paced back and forth, his long strides making frequent turns necessary.

  He spoke precisely, as though accustomed to people hanging on his every word. Yet he wasn’t arrogant, only ultracivilized—his calm a direct contrast to the violent wound on his neck. “We’ve been having some troubles at home. A year after my father was assassinated, a jealous woman tried to kill our new queen and place her own daughter on the throne. The woman killed herself, but because my brother feared a conspiracy and because our father’s murder remains unsolved, your government sent Secret Service agents to protect our king and queen.

  “We thought the incidents isolated until a few weeks ago, during my brother’s wedding, when someone shot at my sister and me. Nicholas ordered me here and an American agent impersonated me back home. The scheme was complicated, but the man behind the shooting was caught.”

  “His motive?”

  “We believe he intended to kill Tashya and me first, then go after Nicholas when the Secret Service agents, on loan from your government, departed. He was killed before he could be questioned.”

  “Let me get this straight. In the past year your father was assassinated. Then your new queen, the princess and you have all had your lives threatened?”

  “We believed the incidents were unrelated.”

  “You believed? You weren’t sure?”

  He gestured to his neck. “We obviously underestimated our enemy.”

  “You only now think there’s a conspiracy?”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “All these attacks on my family can’t be a coincidence. Yet this attempt on my life may not be connected to those. There are other possibilities.”

  “For instance?”

  “We’ve recently had a crisis on one of our borders. It’s possible the motive is political revenge or terrorism. Or maybe one of Vashmira’s enemies wants to prevent me from opening our embassy in the U.S. and establishing closer ties to your country.”

  “Or maybe an enemy of the United States doesn’t like the possibility of us having close ties to your country. I’d imagine the Russians wouldn’t appreciate an American-Vashmiran air base so close to their borders.”

  “Now you’re beginning to understand the complexity of the problem.”

  She recalled the tabloid pictures of him with so many different women. “Is it possible some woman’s family member is after you for more personal reasons?”

  “Perhaps,” he admitted, his tone honest, his eyes finding hers and holding her gaze. “But you should know I don’t make promises to women I don’t keep.”

  “I’m not here to judge you,” she told him, meaning it. She might require information to concentrate on her job, but his lifestyle meant nothing to her. She believed in a live-and-let-live philosophy and had no intention of trying to change the world. She had enough trouble keeping her own neck above water, enough worries about her business and a younger sister who thought she’d just fallen in love. As for Mr. Lothario, his morals and love life were no concern of hers. Absolutely none.

  So what if other women thought him attractive? So what if they flung themselves at him with no regard for their own self-worth. Taylor had made that mistake once, compounded it by marrying the scoundrel, thinking her love would be enough to change his roving ways. Now she knew better.

  “You may not be here to judge me, but you don’t like me, do you?” He challenged her with a direct look. She found it difficult to continue to meet his gaze but made herself do so.

  She didn’t appreciate the man-woman undercurrent that he’d suddenly inserted into the conversation. She didn’t need this kind of distraction. Perhaps he’d caught a flicker of distaste in her eyes when she’d seen the tabloids, perhaps he’d picked up something in her tone. Her marriage and divorce had not been pleasant and those pictures of the prince cavorting with myriad women had brought up memories she’d rather forget.

  Stick to business.

  She didn’t bother to answer his question and looked from the pavement back up to him. “Tell me about security at the embassy. You think it was an inside job?”

  To her relief he didn’t insist that she answer, allowing her to steer the conversation back to his problem.

  “The guards outside my room were killed, as were the ones at the main entrance.”

  “How did they die?”

  “I didn’t stop to examine the bodies.”

  “I’m sorry. This must be difficult for you, but the details are important. I need to know exactly what happened.”

  “I’d just received a phone call from Nicholas. I’d been sitting at my desk—”

  “You were alone?”

  He raised a supercilious eyebrow as if he thought her question impertinent or amusing. “Except for the guards outside my door, I was alone. I was thinking over what my brother had said. The next thing I knew I couldn’t breathe. My neck hurt like hell and it took a moment to realize I’d been attacked.”

  “You didn’t get a look at him?”

  “It was dark. He grabbed me from behind.”

  He told her about breaking the lamp, fighting back, his mad dash to the street. He hadn’t just been lucky, he’d been resourceful and careful. And he’d known enough to know he’d needed help.

  “Are you sure the assassin fired at you?”

  “I’ve served in our military. His gun had a silencer, but I recognize the sound of bullets striking wood. Why?”

  “I can’t help but wonder why the assassin didn’t just shoot you when he had the opportunity. Why use the garotte when a bullet would have sufficed?”

  He stopped pacing and frowned, his handsome face revealing that he was deep in thought
. Obviously he hadn’t considered this angle. His fingers went to his neck, lingered lightly on the raw wound. “What are you saying?”

  “A bullet is clean, quick and easy. That the assassin used a garotte tells us that his reason for coming after you might be personal.”

  “More distressing to my family.”

  That he was close to his brother and sister, she had no doubt. She could read his concern for them in his eyes, hear it in his tone.

  “I have a few friends I can query. See if any hit men or mercenaries partial to the garotte have been spotted in the District. But it’s unlikely anything useful will turn up.”

  She was taking this case. Not because she ultimately hoped to earn a fat commission. Not because she felt sorry for him. Not because of his stunning good looks. His concern for his family got to her on a level she didn’t want to acknowledge or examine too closely.

  “Now what?” he asked her.

  Standing up from the bench, she waited until a woman walking her French poodle strolled out of earshot. “You need a disguise, new clothes and a safe place to stay.”

  “A disguise and clothes will be appreciated. However, I must return to the embassy.”

  “Why?”

  “To finish several diplomatic agreements, as well as to oversee the building’s completion.”

  “Can’t you complete your diplomacy over the phone? And hire a contractor for the building?”

  They ambled along the Potomac, arguing quietly. She appreciated the logical way he countered her every argument, although ultimately, if she did as he wished, his idea to return to the embassy would make her job harder.

  “Our embassy is equipped with encrypted phone systems. I’d be compromising Vashmiran national security to speak openly.”

  “I cannot protect you if you insist on returning—”

  “I need your investigative skills not your protection. Suppose we move into the caretaker’s cottage that is behind the embassy but inside the gates?”

  We? She knew he didn’t mean the royal “we,” but Taylor and Alex. He’d obviously thought through his plan, so she’d give him the courtesy of hearing him out before she nixed it. “And then what?”

  “Yesterday my secretary sent a memo to an employment agency instructing them to hire a husband-wife team of a general handyman and a gardener. I will apply for the job of handyman and you can be the new gardener.”

  She restrained a laugh. “You’ve had a lot of experience fixing plumbing, have you?”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “It’s the perfect cover.”

  “Except I don’t know a pansy from a peony.”

  “What’s so hard about watering, fertilizing and trimming? At night you can secretly set up security cameras or whatever it is that you do. Obviously our systems are inadequate. As handyman, I’ll have access to every department. No one will even know the prince is there,” he finished.

  She stopped in her tracks, faced him and placed her fisted hands on her hips, not even trying to check her suddenly galloping anger. Had he come to her because she was female? Had he had this cozy little plan in the back of his mind all along? “You intend for us to pose as husband and wife?”

  “It’s only for show. Believe me, I don’t ever intend to marry. The idea of even pretending doesn’t thrill me much, either.”

  She didn’t give a flying fig if he ever married and realized how self-centered he was. Did he think she’d just jump at his beck and call? She wouldn’t play that game. Never again. Fearing that her hands might take on a life of their own and actually slap him, she crossed her arms over her chest. “And won’t your personnel recognize their prince?”

  “You said you could disguise me.”

  “From a casual glance—not from people who know you.”

  “Look, I have a reputation as a fashion plate. A clotheshorse. Dye my hair, dress me in overalls and put a tool belt on my hips, and no one will even notice me. Employers who come from the upper classes rarely notice the faces of the people who serve them. Anyway I know how to go unnoticed. I’ve been sneaking out of the palace since I was nine. Hiding under the nose of my enemy shouldn’t be that difficult and will allow us to investigate.” He grinned a grin that should have charmed her but didn’t simply because she refused to let it.

  His idea had merit. Sure, she could hide him, but for how long? To investigate properly she needed to meet the people with whom he worked, and he’d come up with a plan that would allow her access to the embassy and the people there.

  She thought out loud. “We’ll need to create a fake identity for you.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “It costs money.” She frowned at him, considering his plan, wishing she didn’t think they just might pull it off. “I suppose this cottage has only one bedroom?”

  He shrugged, his eyes peeking over the sunglasses at her with glittering amusement. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been inside it.”

  “DO YOU THINK blondes really have more fun?” Alex peered into the hair salon mirror where his black hair and eyebrows had just undergone a major bleach job, transforming his dark hair to sun-streaked surfer blond.

  Not about to admit that he looked good, Taylor had considered doing the bleach job herself. But she was no good with hair and feared that a poor job would call attention to Alex. She paid the bill, wondering how long her dwindling cash would last. They still had to buy clothes, his tools, and fake identification for both of them. If she had to pose as the handyman’s wife, she couldn’t very well use her own name, which would pop up in a database reading that she was a licensed private investigator.

  “What’s next?” Alex asked her, clearly enjoying his new look. She imagined the man would look sexy even if he were gray or bald, and the last thing she should be doing was noticing.

  “We shop at Be-Thrifty.”

  Ten minutes later she led him inside the thrift shop and watched him take in the stacks of shoes, the secondhand furniture and the people, some having driven there in a Lexus or Mercedes, combing the racks of used clothing. She’d be willing to bet a year’s rent the prince had never been inside a secondhand store.

  She headed toward the men’s clothing. “What size are you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “I’ve never bought clothes…off the rack.” He paused to stare at a faded T-shirt that read So Many Men, So Few With Brains.

  She bit back a chuckle. “Well, these clothes are nice and soft and already broken in by their former owners.”

  He peered at her over his sunglasses, giving her a look that told her he understood she was teasing him. However, nothing seemed to mar his upbeat mood. “I think a shirt with a high collar might be best.”

  “You don’t like T-shirts?”

  “It won’t hide my neck.”

  She hated that he’d had to remind her of such a basic fact. But she refused to let him know. Instead she breezed toward the stacks of jeans, pulled out a pair of denim overalls that looked as if they’d fit. She plucked a shirt off the rack, handed him both items and shoved him toward the dressing room. “Go try them on.”

  With a frown he snagged a pair of men’s boxer shorts off a table. She didn’t ask. She wasn’t going there. She absolutely didn’t need to know why he needed boxers.

  Several minutes later she tapped her foot, impatiently waiting for him to exit the dressing room. He hadn’t been the least bit shy about his change of hair color, and she figured he’d be pleased to wear some clean clothes. “Let’s see.”

  “They don’t fit.”

  From his tone, she’d figured wrong. His former good mood and amusement seemed to have disappeared in the dressing room. “Let me see.”

  “The pants are too long. The workmanship is shoddy.”

  “Really?”

  “There’s a rip in the knee. And two of me could fit in here.”

  “Get out here already.”

  He opened the louve
red door but didn’t step past the threshold with even one bare foot. Yet even partially hidden, she thought the change in his appearance remarkable. The baggy overalls, the old shirt frayed at the collar and the blond hair had made a startling difference.

  “They’re perfect.”

  “I look like…”

  “A handyman?”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “It was your idea,” she reminded him. “Have you changed your mind?”

  “One pair of ill-fitting pants is hardly enough to deter me.”

  She turned away to hide her grin. “You’ll also need several more jeans, a few extra shirts and a pair of sneakers.”

  After the clerk rang up their purchases and offered the bag containing all of them to Alex, he seemed a bit confused—as if he was waiting for someone else to step forward to carry his new clothes. He adjusted quickly enough, taking the bag by the handle and following Taylor to a phone booth where she set up an appointment for his first job interview.

  “WE SHOULD HAVE bought an instruction book,” Alex complained after they’d secured fake ID from a disreputable-looking kid. In a basement smelling of photographic chemicals, the teenager had made them driver’s licenses that looked quite real. He’d warned them that if checked against the Department of Motor Vehicle records, the forgeries wouldn’t hold up and then handed them Social Security cards.

  Now, as Alex and Taylor stood in front of the employment agency doors, he hesitated. He would have preferred to go into the interview prepared. Taylor had instructed him to use an endearment instead of their new names when he referred to her, as there was less likelihood of a slip-up.

  “We don’t have time for you to read a book on how to do a job interview.” She opened the door, but he didn’t budge. “You’ve memorized your new background, dear?”

  “I’m a high school graduate and have been working in Florida building homes for retirees. There’s just one problem, darling.”

  “What?”

  “My construction knowledge is limited. That’s why we should have bought a repair book.”