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But I’m already climbing, racing up the ladder and into the helicopter as fear churns sickly in my stomach.
I may be the spare, but I’m still a member of the Wildemar royal family. And right now all I care about is making sure my brother—and my country—are safe.
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 fucking disaster.
Or it could be…Jesus, the possibilities are fucking 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 fuck to suddenly be stuck in a goddamn 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 fuck. 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 fucking 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 the fuck 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?”
Fuck. Okay. “I meant to say Betty. How is Betty?”
Her face pinches in obvious annoyance. For fuck’s sake. How the hell am I supposed to remember the name of every daughter of every fucking ambassador in the fucking country? Just because not-Betsy-or-Betty and I fucked 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.
