Accidentally Royal_An Accidental Marriage Romance Read online

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  Table of Contents

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  Title Page

  Book Description

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  Exclusive: My Billionaire Protector

  About the Author

  Accidentally Royal

  R.S. Lively

  Six-foot-four. Cocky as hell. Dangerously handsome.

  Christian Hesse. Every woman’s fantasy.

  And he turned my world upside down…

  I should have resisted.

  He was too dangerous to touch.

  But too damn tempting not to.

  We spent two weeks tangled in bedsheets.

  He claimed my body and soul.

  Then he disappeared.

  Now I’m carrying his baby.

  And he’s carrying a secret.

  He’s next in line to be king, and he wants me to be his queen.

  But I refuse to submit again.

  And guess what?

  By mistake we ended up married.

  Now he refuses to let me go…

  Chapter One

  Piper

  Planes take off. Fly to their destination. Then land.

  I know this because I spend a considerable amount of my life flying around the world for work, and never once has my plane not landed.

  So why in the hell have we been flying around in aimless circles for the last hour? Considering this leg of the trip – Costa Rica to the hub in Atlanta – is only half of my total travel time today, this little game of ‘Ring Around the Rosie’ is seriously starting to piss me off. Mainly because when the pilot finally decides to land the plane, I have a connecting flight to catch. That I am probably going to miss if we don't kiss tarmac pretty soon.

  Shit.

  "Excuse me," I say, leaning across the empty seat beside me toward the man on the other side of the aisle. "Do you know what's going on?"

  He pulls out his earbud. The wire briefly tangles in his long, stringy hair before dropping onto his tie-dye t-shirt.

  "Hmmm?"

  "Do you know why we haven’t landed? No one's saying anything."

  As if my question set off some sort of alarm, the intercom system crackles, and I hear the pilot's voice booming out.

  "Hello, passengers. For the time being, we have been instructed to maintain our current holding pattern. We hope to be landing soon."

  This is the third time she's hoped we'd be landing soon.

  "I heard one of the flight attendants say another plane landed on our runway," Earbud says.

  "Didn't they learn in elementary school you're not supposed to cut in line?"

  "They almost ran out of fuel," he says, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

  "Holy fuck. That happens?" I almost bite my tongue as my voice bursts out far louder than I intend it to. "Sorry. But, seriously, they can do that? What, the pilot just forgets to swing by the gas station before takeoff? How do they not have enough fuel for a flight?"

  "Weather delays. Holding patterns."

  He chuckles, but I'm too focused on the glaring flaw in this situation.

  "They would put us in this long-ass holding pattern because another plane ran out of fuel because of the same thing?"

  He leans closer to me, his eyes slightly widened as if he had completely forgotten he was the one to initially voice that possibility.

  "I don't know. It's possible." He looks at me suspiciously. "What did you hear?" His eyes dart back and forth a few times, then he leans in even closer than before. A strong whiff of patchouli oil and stale pot smoke hits me, and I wince. "Maybe someone on board knows something. Secrets. They're everywhere, you know. Maybe they're holding us up here until they decide what to do with the spy. I bet it's that woman up there."

  I glance where his wild eyes indicate.

  "The elderly woman crocheting a blanket?"

  "It's always the ones who look the least suspicious. I bet that blanket's a code for something." By the shades of pale blue and green, and its tiny size, I'm guessing it means she has a new grandson. The man's eyes snap back to me. "If we go down, and I die on impact, you can totally use me as a human shield against the flames. I won’t mind. By the way, do you have any identifying marks? Tattoos? Scars? Dental work? If you go first, I'll try to protect those, so the rescue people can use them to identify you."

  Or you could just ask my name. You know. Choices.

  Narrowing my eyes at him, I sink back into my seat.

  "Thank you."

  I guess.

  He pops his earbud back in place and closes his eyes.

  Thank god that conversation is over.

  I stare out the window. I'm rapidly losing hope that I will be able to catch my connecting flight. This is supposed to be a good day. The flight from Costa Rica – where I've been living for the last few months – should have taken less than four hours. From there, a layover in Atlanta, and then on to Boston where I'd hop in my rental car, and be home in less than three hours. Home. Westover is not where I was born, but it's been my home for over two decades. The last few years, though, all I’ve managed to do is stop in for a few hours, maybe a day or two at most, in between assignments for the humanitarian work I've devoted my life to. This trip is supposed to be the first time in three years I've been home for a few weeks, and I'm looking forward to spending some time with my dwindling collection of family and friends. I've learned that not many people are willing to try and maintain a close relationship with someone who bounces around from place to place, tends to forget birthdays and holidays, and is more interested in talking about new agricultural technology than babies or weddings.

  That number might drop even further if I show up any later than I already am.

  Finally, the intercom crackles and the pilot's voice blares through the speakers once again.

  "Alright, folks, it looks like we've gotten approval for landing. Please make sure your seatbelt is securely fastened and your tray is in the upright position. Thank you for your patience."

  Most of the words after 'approval' are drowned out by the cheers and clapping from my fellow passengers, but I noticed the pilot sounds just as strung out as we feel. That is not reassuring. I need these wheels to touch the ground. Now. After tugging on my belt for the tenth time to make sure it's fastened, I grip the
armrests beside me. I might fly frequently, but that doesn't mean I’m comfortable with it. I'm still very aware of the fact that I am a non-flying creature, hurtling through the sky at hundreds of miles per hour, in nothing more than a big metal tube for protection. Usually, I can ignore it. But it gets harder to do so when things don't go according to plan.

  We land, successfully, of course. Thank God. I feel like I can breathe again. Until I start thinking about my connecting flight and panic sets in. It’s scheduled to leave in a little less than thirty minutes. When I booked this trip, I thought the hour and a half layover in Atlanta would be a nice buffer between destinations. I would relax and make it to the next plane with plenty of time to settle in. Maybe pick up a snack and a magazine. Instead, I'm gripping my carry-on with every ounce of strength I possess while eyeing the other passengers around me like a gladiator preparing to fight my way out of the Colosseum.

  The door opens, and I shove myself into the aisle, showing no mercy as I push through the crowded plane toward the door. The few passengers ahead of me step out of the gate and I finally break free. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I start running.

  Of course, my connecting flight is all the way across the terminal, I mutter to myself. Of course.

  I jog as briskly as possible through the herd of passengers milling their way through the airport. Using every bit of my limited coordination skills, I twirl and dodge and scramble down the moving sidewalk. The minutes are ticking by. I should have already boarded. I'm always late. Always. The whole reason I booked the flights the way in the first place was so I couldn't possibly be late for this flight.

  Wrong. The whole fucking flight was doomed the second I booked a ticket on it.

  Still running, I glance back over my shoulder to make sure I didn’t trip the middle-aged man I just cut in front of and feel myself hit something. A stray luggage cart. What asshole left that here? My body bounces back from the sudden impact and I crash, flat on my ass, to the floor. Industrial airport carpeting has absolutely no give.

  "Shit!" I shout.

  My bag flies across the hallway, the ancient zipper splitting open, causing everything inside to burst out and scatter across the floor. Scrambling toward the mess, I try to shove my belongings back in as quickly as possible, no thanks to the gawking eyes of the people passing by. I scoop an assortment of papers, notebooks, pens, and two paperbacks back inside before I realize I should probably focus on retrieving the box of condoms and sleek little case –definitely not an electric toothbrush – that are still laying on the dusty carpet.

  "That's a bummer, man."

  I look up to see Earbud rushing past, a backpack that looks like a giant hacky sack thrown over his shoulder.

  "We had a moment!" I shout after him. "You were going to use my body to deflect the fuel fire, the least you can do is help me!"

  "I can help you."

  A voice with a faint European accent that I can’t quite place comes from behind me and I turn around. Rather than seeing the man who spoke, however, I come face to face with a pair of my (thankfully clean) pink lacy panties, dangling precariously off a finger that I desperately hope is just a floating appendage. A floating appendage with a disembodied voice.

  Shit.

  I snatch the panties and shove them into my bag before daring to look any higher. I actually might die of embarrassment. And, of course, my good Samaritan has broad shoulders, a perfect smile, and is hot as hell – and based on the look in his sparkling dark eyes, clearly thinks this situation is hilarious. Before I can say anything to stop him, he crouches down and starts picking up even more of my embarrassing belongings still scattered on the floor.

  "I'm fine. Thank you so much," I say, trying to block his hand from the condoms. "Seriously. I can handle it from here."

  "Are you sure?"

  He picks up a travel-sized bottle of lube and the corner of his lips twitch. I scoop everything else into the bag, then snatch the tube out of his hand, tossing it in.

  "There. See? All done. Thanks again."

  I climb to my feet and start toward the gate again, my cheeks burning. At this point, there are less than ten minutes before the plane leaves. I'll be lucky if they don't slam the door in my face. I realize the Panty Dangler is now running beside me. Gripping my bag tighter, I try to run even faster. He seems to take this as an invitation for an afternoon jog and speeds up beside me, the leather bag hanging from his shoulder barely moving with the smoothness and confidence of his gait.

  "I'm really fine," I say. "I can handle it myself.”

  "That's good," he says.

  We’re still running side by side when I finally see my gate in front of me. The door is still open, a small victory in the long and frustrating day I’ve had so far. The female attendant standing behind the counter looks distinctly pissy about my now very late arrival, and I push my boarding pass toward her without any pretense of pleasantry. My jogging partner steps up behind me and before I can comment, I see that's he's holding his own pass. At least that explains why he followed me.

  I take my pass back from the disgruntled employee and rush down the corridor into the plane. Everyone else in the cabin is sitting down in their seats and looks cool and collected as I frantically make my way down the aisle and drop into my seat. Taking a few breaths to pull myself together, I latch my seatbelt and give it a couple of hard tugs. I can feel the person beside me glaring at me. It's hard to miss since the three-seat configuration of the cabin means she's approximately an inch and a half from me. My bag is still sitting on my lap and I dig through it to find the pack of gum I always have at the bottom. I shove two pieces into my mouth, then hold the package toward the glaring woman.

  "Gum?"

  She grimaces like I've offered her an arsenic-dipped lollipop, and turns back to face forward. Glancing around, I notice all the seats in the cabin are full. Everyone is locked and loaded...so where is the safety speech from the flight attendant? Why aren't we taking off? Minutes pass and the energy around me starts getting antsy. The intercom crackles ominously before a baritone voice echoes out.

  "Hello, passengers. Thank you for joining us today on our flight to Boston. We're experiencing a slight delay, but I assure you, we will be on our way soon."

  I crumple forward, resting my head on top of my bag. I did it again. Simply by booking this flight, I had cursed it to be late. This always happens. The logical part of my brain tells me this isn’t true. My perpetual bad luck isn’t powerful enough to detain two planes in one day. And even if it is, chances are someone on the opposite end of the promptness spectrum is on the flight. That should at least balance the scales.

  We sit for a few more minutes before I hear footsteps come up and stop beside me. I turn my head just enough to see a pair of sensible black pumps and shimmer-free pantyhose in the aisle beside me.

  "Piper Ashcroft?"

  I sit up and look at her.

  "Yes? That’s me.”

  "Can you come with me, please?"

  My heart feels like it's stopped. This is like one of those true crime shows. The NSA or CIA or FBI saw that I've traveled to several South American countries in the last year and now they want to detain me in a tiny windowless room and shake me down. I take my bag and stand, scooting sideways out of the seats as I vacillate between being offended at the narrow-mindedness of people, and suddenly suspicious of the man who brought me to the airport in Costa Rica, and was very interested in helping me with my bags.

  "OK," I say when I'm standing behind her.

  I brace myself for whatever's coming next.

  "You've been upgraded!"

  Well. I wasn’t certainly expecting that.

  "What?" I ask.

  "You've been upgraded to First Class for this flight!" she says, her fake cheery voice grating on my ears.

  "Upgraded?"

  "Yes," she repeats slowly. At this point, she must think I am either slow or learned English as a second languag
e. "Come along. Let's get you to your new seat."

  I follow her up the aisle again, feeling the other passengers glaring at me with a new level of disdain. I'm the passenger who can't make it to the flight on time, yet now I'm being escorted through the mysterious curtain to First Class. Maybe this is a way for the universe to redeem itself after punishing me with two delayed flights.

  The smile I've put on fades as I pass through the curtain and the flight attendant stops and gestures at the one empty seat in the cabin. Her pale face is suddenly flushed, making the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose stand out even more. I can see why. Even as she tries to get me to sit down, her eyes are focused on the man sitting by the window. The aggravatingly sexy man with thick, wavy hair and dark, mischievous eyes. The Panty Dangler.

  I look from him to the flight attendant and back again. He grins at me and I shake my head at the flight attendant.

  "This has to be some sort of mistake," I say. "I've never been upgraded in all my years of flying."

  "I arranged it," he says. "You looked like you were having a rough day, so I thought I'd make it a little better."

  It would seem much more innocent if the gleam in his eyes and tone of his voice didn't have an underlying current of suggestion.

  "I appreciate it," I say, "but I can't accept it. It must have been really expensive." I look back at the flight attendant. "If you'll make sure he gets a refund for the difference in tickets, I'll just keep my seat in coach."

  The woman's expression fell slightly.

  "I'm sorry," she says. "That's not possible."

  "Why? I just left."

  "We filled it with a passenger from the waitlist."

  He chuckled. "See? It all worked out."

  One of my least favorite phrases in the world.

  "Miss? If you could please take your seat, it's time for takeoff."

  "Someone else is in my seat."

  "This seat," she says, obviously losing the tiny amount of patience she still had with me.