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Chapter One
Gordon Waybrook sighed and shifted his weight in the overly padded seat of the coffee shop booth he’d been sitting in for the last twenty minutes. The seat next to him was empty. Not for lack of trying, though. He’d already sent three women away, but he wasn’t hanging out in Cape Elizabeth, Maine, trying to pick up women.
He was there to scope out his charge, Princess Isabelle VanGuard of Maldeva.
All he knew about the woman was she was a spoiled princess, magnificent in a way that screamed for him to see if she was as stunning under her clothes as she was in them—and she was late. He glanced down at the copy of her official schedule to double-check the time, and sure enough, coffee was penciled in at four o’clock in the afternoon.
Of course, the Princess didn’t have to worry about being on time. People just waited for her and didn’t dare to complain because, well, she was a fucking princess. She probably never said please or thank you. Just expected life to be handed to her with a shiny silver bow. Wait, no. Platinum.
With priceless diamonds.
If she thought he’d bow at her feet and kiss her toes, she had another think coming. She might be royalty and way above his reach, but he was an American.
And he didn’t bow at anyone’s feet unless he fucking wanted to.
Fifteen minutes and thirty-six seconds later…the royal princess herself walked in. As soon as he saw her, he stiffened. She wore big brown sunglasses, and held herself so stiffly he couldn’t believe she didn’t faint from the sheer energy it must take to stand so damn perfectly. Her long legs were covered in black pantyhose, and she wore heels that looked to be at least three inches high. Her blonde hair reached halfway down her back and was flawlessly smooth.
She was drop-dead gorgeous.
Way too much so for royalty.
Two women, who looked to be assistants of some sort, flanked her, their eyes narrow, and their mouths pinched tight. Isabelle scanned the room, her gaze slipping over him and then popping back immediately. When she didn’t look away, he raised a brow and stared right back at her. He expected her to blush from being caught staring at a tatted up dude in a shop…
But she stared right back at him.
Not only that, but she sashayed over, too. That was the only word for it, because her hips swung like he couldn’t believe. Holy mother of fucking shit, she was going to kill him before this mission was over. He cleared his throat and tugged on his collar. Great. Now he’d actually have to talk to her and introduce himself as her guard.
“Hello, I’m—”
“Staring at me,” she said, her soft accent washing over him. “Do we know each other, or do you make it a habit to stare at strange women in coffee shops?”
“Well…” Looking her up and down, he smirked. “You don’t look all that strange to me, so…?”
She laughed, then cut it off and glanced over her shoulder quickly. It was almost as if she was surprised she’d laughed at all. “You must not know me at all, then, because I’m one of the strangest women you’ll ever meet.”
He grinned. “I doubt that.”
“So you just like watching women in shops, then?” she asked, a small smile playing on her lips. They were soft and pink.
“Pretty women?” He shrugged. “Hell yeah. But no, we haven’t met.”
“Ah.” She tilted her head. “I’d hoped we had met, so my coming over here wouldn’t seem quite so…forward.”
He chuckled. “Lady? This is America. You don’t need a proper introduction to walk up to someone. You just do it.”
“In that case…” She nodded at the two women frowning at her from across the room, slid out the empty chair next to him, and smiled. They moved to the opposite side of the room, watching him closely the whole time. Especially the pinch-lipped one. “Nice to meet you.”
Grinning, he nodded. “Likewise. Please. Have a seat,” he said sardonically.
She laughed that musical laugh again. “Thank you. Don’t mind if I do. That’s an adorable accent you have.”
The grin slipped off his face. Adorable? Adorable was for tiny puppies and little orange kittens that chased their own tails. He’d never once been described as adorable.
“I don’t have an accent at all.”
She smiled. “Not to you, but for me? It’s quite unique.”
“As is yours,” he said. After taking a sip of coffee, he motioned the barista over. “Not quite British, but almost French.”
Pursing her lips, she said, “Close enough.”
So, she wouldn’t tell him where she was from. She got an A+ for secrecy.
; The woman who’d been watching him from behind the counter came over, all smiles. “Yes?”
