Chapter 1 My skin itches like it's too small. Like I've got a really bad sunburn. Like it's the most uncomfortable thing I've ever worn. Which, let's face it, at the moment is totally true. Well, that or I've got a raging case of the chicken pox. Or maybe it's just that the monkey suit I'm currently stuck in is a disaster. Or it could be . . . Jesus, the possibilities are limitless right now, aren't they? Surreptitiously, I slide a finger between the too stiff, too starched collar and my too dry throat. Then take my first deep breath of the night. Yeah, it's definitely the monkey suit. Or at least that's my story and I'm sticking to it. So much better than the alternative . . . After years of wearing my dress uniform to formal events, it feels strange as heck to suddenly be stuck in an awful tuxedo. Sure, it's Tom Ford, but the perfect cut doesn't make the psychology of the suit--or this night--any easier to accept. I flex my shoulders, adjust my jacket, covertly pull at my cuffs a little. And try to look like I'm not strangling on my perfectly knotted black silk bow tie. It's easier said than done, considering everything about this night is strange as heck. Then again, everything in my life has felt uncomfortable--and so much worse--since that royal helicopter swooped down onto that damn yacht thirteen weeks ago. Uncomfortable and upside down and wrong . So damnably wrong. But how can it be anything but wrong when I'm the one standing at this stupid gala, keeping a stiff upper lip while my brother--my twin --is missing? Maybe locked in some hellhole somewhere. Maybe injured. Maybe dead . Just the word makes my stomach churn and my hands shake. I shove them into my pockets so none of the vultures currently studying my every movement can see. They're determined to find some sign of weakness in me tonight, and I'm just as determined not to let them. "Your Highness. It's so lovely to see you here!" a voice trills behind me. Jesus. Any higher and she'd be breaking the sound barrier. Why in God's name is it that rich women--especially older, rich women--think talking in that ridiculous trill makes them attractive? All it does is turn people off. Well, that and get every dog in the neighborhood on high alert. I make sure none of my annoyance shows as I turn around and come face-to-face with a woman who looks vaguely familiar. A little voice in the back of my head tells me I should know her, but I gave up listening to that voice a long time ago and not even stepping into Garrett's shoes is going to change that. "Hello, ma chérie," I tell her, taking the hand she extends and bringing it to my lips. She giggles like a twelve-year-old. "It's so good to see you again. William and I were hoping you'd be here." It's the mention of her husband that triggers my memory. She's Florence Thackeray, wife of the British ambassador to Wildemar. Her husband is an old school friend and a frequent golfing buddy of my father's. I force a little more sincerity onto my face because of the family connection. But to be honest, any friend of my father's is automatically suspicious in my mind. "I was hoping to see you here, as well. How is"--I rack my brain for several seconds--"Betsy?" She draws back in surprise. "Betsy?" Crap. Okay. "I meant to say Betty. How is Betty?" Her face pinches in obvious annoyance. For God's sake. How the hell am I supposed to remember the name of every daughter of every damn ambassador in the damn country? Just because not-Betsy-or-Betty and I screwed in the garden during a long state dinner one summer night a few years ago doesn't mean we've kept in touch. God save me from meddling mothers. Still, I'm supposed to be trying, so . . . "Your daughter. How is she? The last time we spoke she was on summer break from Cambridge." " Bootsy has finished up her degree and is now working in the embassy. Here . In Wildemar ." And that's my cue to bug the hell out of Dodge. "Well, please, give Bootsy my love. We'll have to have you all over to the palace soon." I drop another kiss on her hand, then slide into the crowd swirling around us. I make a mental note to ask Roland--the family's social secretary and general master of all things that make me miserable--what it would take for me to get a pair of earplugs and a lobotomy before that happens. Why the heck am I doing this? I fume as I make my way through the crowd. Why the heck am I even here? I should be at home researching the information from our daily briefing on Garrett's disappearance or badgering our security or intelligence forces about what else they can do to find him. I sure as shit shouldn't be here pretending to give a crap about all this. So why the heck am I? Excerpted from Royal Pain: His Royal Hotness by Tracy Wolff All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
