Ellie Darkins – Falling For The Rebel Princess (страница 1)
From princess to rock-star royalty!
Self-proclaimed “black sheep” Princess Charlie of Afland has worked long and hard to be taken seriously in the music industry, managing to keep her royal obligations, and her secret heartbreak, under the radar. Until one night in Vegas changes everything...
Rock star Joe Kavanagh gets more from his Vegas gig than he’d bargained for...a princess bride and a PR story to die for! As the initial attraction, which led them down the aisle, turns into something deeper, keeping their marriage strictly business proves increasingly difficult...
A glint of gold caught Charlie’s eye and stopped her dead.
She went over her memories, rooted to the spot, staring at the ring, trying to pull apart what was dream and what was real. After eighteen hours traveling and many more without sleep, the past twenty-four hours barely felt real. Images and memories played through her mind as if they had happened to somebody else.
The thrumming, heaving energy of the gig last night. That had been real. The music capturing her senses, hijacking her emotions and pumping her full of adrenaline. Real.
Hot and sweaty caresses just before dawn. Dream.
Dancing with Joe in the club, trying to talk business, shouting in his ear. Moving so closely with him that they’d felt like one body. Feeling the music play between them like a language only they spoke. Maybe that was real.
The slide of his bare skin against hers. So, so dreamy.
Him talking softly, trading tracks, sharing a pair of headphones, until one and then both of them fell asleep. God, she wished she knew.
But as she raised her left hand and examined the demure gold band on her third finger she was certain of one thing.
Las Vegas chapel wedding.
Falling for the Rebel Princess
Ellie Darkins
ELLIE DARKINS spent her formative years devouring romance novels, and after completing her English degree decided to make a living from her love of books. As a writer and editor, she finds her work now entails dreaming up romantic proposals, hot dates with alpha males and trips to the past with dashing heroes. When she’s not working she can usually be found running around after her toddler, volunteering at her local library or escaping all the above with a good book and a vanilla latte.
For Mike and Matilda
Contents
‘NOT YET!’ CHARLIE GASPED, willing herself to be dragged back under.
In her dream her skin was hot and damp, on fire from his touch.
Awake, her tongue felt furry.
In her dream her body hummed, desperate for the feel of him.
Awake, her eyes stung as she peeled them open.
In her dream she begged for more, and got everything she didn’t even know she needed.
Awake, she needed to pee.
She admitted defeat and stretched herself properly alive, wincing at the harsh Nevada sunlight assaulting her in the hotel room. As her toes encountered skin she flinched back, realising that she did have this one, small reminder of her dream. The man who’d taken the starring role was beside her on the mattress, his face turned away from her, his arms and legs sprawled and caught in the sheets. She looked away. She couldn’t think about him. Not yet.
Easing herself out of bed, she willed him not to wake. And worked her thumb into her waistband, rubbing at her skin where her jeans had left a tight red line. The T-shirt she’d slept in was twisted and creased, and she glanced around the room, wondering whether her luggage had been transferred when the hotel had upgraded them to a luxury suite. She shuddered when she caught sight of herself in the mirror and tried to pull her hair up into some sort of order.
It had started out backcombed and messy, and her eyeliner had never been subtle in her life—but a couple of hours’ sleep had taken the look from grunge to tragic. She wiped under her eyes with a finger, and the tacky drag of her skin made her shudder. And desperate to shower.
A glint of gold caught her eye and stopped her dead.
No. That had been the dream. It had to be.
She went over her memories, rooted to the spot, staring at the ring, trying to pull apart what was dream and what was real. After eighteen hours travelling and many more without sleep, the past twenty-four hours barely felt real, images and memories played through her mind as if they had happened to somebody else.
The thrumming, heaving energy of the gig last night. That was real. The music capturing her senses, hijacking her emotions and pumping her full of adrenaline. Real.
Hot and sweaty caresses just before dawn. Dream.
Dancing with Joe in the club, trying to talk business, shouting in his ear. Moving so closely with him that they felt like one body. Feeling the music play between them like a language only they spoke. Maybe that was real.
The slide of his bare skin against hers. So, so dreamy.
Him talking softly as they lay on the bed, trading playlists on their phones, sharing a pair of headphones, until one and then both of them fell asleep. God, she wished she knew.
But as she raised her left hand and examined the demure gold band on her third finger, she was certain of one thing.
Vegas chapel wedding. Real.
She banged her head back against the wall. Why did she always do this? She was losing count of the number of times she’d looked over the wreckage of her life after one stupid, impulsive move after another and wished that she could turn back time. If she had the balls to go home and tell her parents that she didn’t want their royal way of life and everything that came with it, maybe she’d stop hitting the self-destruct button. But starting that conversation would lead to questions that she’d never be prepared to answer.
Thinking back to the night before, she tried to remember what had triggered her reaction. And then she caught sight of the newspaper, abandoned beside the bed. The slip of the paper under her fingertips made her shiver with the memory of being handed one like it backstage in the club last night, and she let out a low groan. It had been the headline on the front page: Duke Philippe bragging about his forthcoming engagement to Princess Caroline Mary Beatrice of Afland, otherwise known as Charlie. It was the sort of match her parents had been not so subtly pushing on her for years, the one she was hoping that would go away if she ignored it for long enough. She knew unequivocally that she would never marry, and especially not someone like Duke Philippe.
She’d left the cold, rocky, North Sea island of Afland nearly ten years ago, when she’d headed to London determined to make her own way in the music business. Her parents had given her ten years to pursue her rebellion—as they put it. But they all knew what was expected after that: a return to Afland, official royal duties, and a practical and sensible engagement to a practical, sensible aristocrat.