Page 94 of The Prince Who Loved Me

The door next to his opened and his bodyman came out. “Yes, sir?”

“There’s a woman in my bed.” Sebastien kept his voice calm, though he wanted to punch a hole in the wall. “Please remove her. Bring a robe.”

“A woman?”

He dashed down the steps again. Eulalee stood in the lobby with a guest who immediately raised the camera hanging from her neck. Damn, he should have used the servants staircase. He threw up his hands to ruin the picture and dashed into the kitchen.

A face appeared in the window above the sink and Sebastien turned his back.

The laundry room. He’d be safe in the laundry room from anyone prying around. It had only one small window, and if he sat on the floor, no one would see him. He swung a right from the kitchen, nearly crashing into Wendy.

“Sorry,” he said.

She held the phone at her ear and covered the mouthpiece. “What’s going on, Sebastien? How do people know you’re here?”

“I think it was a former guest. Sorry for all of this. I’m going to hide.”

She uncovered the mouthpiece. “No, ma’am, we don’t have any vacancies at the moment.”

He reached the laundry room and sat on the floor, his back against the washer. He called Brandi again, but she didn’t pick up. He didn’t blame her, based on what she overheard: him expressing doubt that she was sincere. Agreeing with his father that she was the wrong type of woman for a royal. What she didn’t hear, what he didn’t have a chance to put into words, was he didn’t care anything about that. He loved her for her. Her personality, her humor, even her insecurities. He’d tried to show her.

Truth was, his father was right. Brandi had too much independence, too much spirit, too much rebelliousness to fit in smoothly with court expectations. But she fit in smoothly with him, and that was all that mattered.

If she would only answer his texts.

The echo of the house phone sounded even in the small room. It rang a few times and then stopped, then started again.

He texted Loïc, pausing when his phone rang.

It wasn’t Brandi. He almost didn’t answer it, but Thomasina Wile had been good to him, and he owed her. “’Allo.”

“Sebastien. Your sketches. Nearly all of them have sold. Do you know how incredible that is for an artist with a first-time show?”

His stomach bottomed out, leaving him even more empty inside. She had said earlier only his later sketches had been praised at the art show. “It’s because I’m a prince.”

“It’s because you’re good,” Thomasina insisted. “Once all the commission is figured out, you’ll be getting a sizeable check.”

The show was supposed to let him see if he had the talent everyone told him he did, and his identity ruined that. “Split the total among the other artists that were there. It’s not fair to them that their debut was ruined because of my heritage.”

Thomasina gasped. “But… are you sure?”

“I am.”

“That’s very generous, Sebastien,” she said.

Rob came in about ten minutes later, carrying a laundry basket overflowing with linens and blankets, his face a mixture of annoyance and anger. Sebastien had to pull in his legs so the other man didn’t trip on his feet.

Rob glared down at him. “I’m thinking of calling my next bookA Royal Pain in the Ass: How the Paparazzi Ruin the Lives of Everyday Princes and Their Friends.”

“In Middle Georgia,” Sebastien amended.

“They do it everywhere.” He put the basket on top of the washer. “I could make a lot of money selling you out.”

“Yes,” Sebastien said. “Yes, you could.”

“Do you need anything?”

Just Brandi. “No, thanks.”