Page 2 of Some Like It Royal

The man spoke English. The words and the accent were exceptionally clear. But the so-called proposal rang madness in her ears. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Marry me. Be engaged to me. I’ll take care of your bills, get you a real place to sleep and all you have to do is be my princess and help me get those invitations.” He swallowed another mouthful of coffee and took a step forward. “Look, I know it will take a lot of work on both our parts. But we can definitely do this. You’ll be amply compensated. I promise.”

Yeah, she really should have just opened the door and used the Taser on him. While he twitched into unconsciousness, she could have driven away. Better, she shouldn’t have opened the car door at all, just started the car and gotten the hell out of here.

As casually as she could manage, she scanned the upper lot of the downtown Los Angeles parking garage. Unfortunately, at six-thirty in the morning, no one else seemed to need to park up here.

They were alone.

“I’ve got a great place in Beverly Hills. Twenty rooms, six bedrooms—you can have your pick. I’ll throw in all the clothes you’ll need and anything designer we pick up for events. They would be yours to keep.” He held out the verbal enticement like she was some kind of stray dog who would leap at the offer of a free meal.

Not that she wasn’t wishing she could drink his coffee and dive into the bag with the croissants in it, but that was hardly the point. “Do I look like a prostitute to you?”

Probably not the best question considering she stood there barefoot in shorts and a thin yellow tank top, but still…

“I’m not offering you money for sex, Princess. I understand who you are. I’m just offering you an opportunity to besomeoneand help me out at the same time. It’s a win-win proposition.” Strangely, his tone echoed with sincerity, but the words flirted with insanity.

“You think just because I’m an actress looking for work, I’m going to agree to some farce of a marriage so you can get me alone? So maybe I look stupid to you.” He could be Ted Bundy—or worse, Jeffrey Dahmer. All the serial killers in the movies looked sweet and some looked sexy. He didn’t smell like a meth head, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t whacked out on something.

Pity, too. Because anyone who looked as good as he did should really not be a drug addict.

“No, Princess.” He took a step forward and she raised the Taser, looking to keep her options open if she had to run. She could shock him and leave him drooling on the concrete. Not a lot he could do with twelve hundred volts running through his system.

He stopped and held up his free hand, open and palm forward. “Maybe I should start over.”

“Maybe you should get back in your car and go back to whatever wonderland you escaped from and we’ll forget all about this.” It was too far to run for the stairs, but she might make it around the car and back inside.

“Princess, I understand that you may not want to advertise your heritage, particularly if you’re living out of a car. But I’m the guy who can put you on top. That’s got to be worth something.”

Yeah, a one-way ticket to a hugging jacket was what it was worth.

“What’s with the princess shtick? Do you think if you say it enough it will happen? Like Beetlejuice?” She suddenly didn’t want the coffee anymore.

The man—Daniel Voldakov, remember his name, you may need to report him to the cops—sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Princess, let me start at the beginning?”

“I’m thinking your ten minutes are up. I listened. I’m not interested. Thanks for the coffee.” She jogged right and made it to the trunk of her car and around to the other side. He remained next to his vehicle—thankfully—a look of consternation wrinkling his forehead.

“Your birth name is Alyxandretta Dagmar. Your parents were Alexi and Siobhan Dagmar.”

She froze, one hand on the passenger side door. Daniel stared at her steadily and held up his hand as he ticked off the information.

“Your father’s father and his father before him were born in Norway, the grandson and son respectively of the Grand Duchess Elizabeta Dagmar of Russia and first cousin to the Czar Nicholas II.” He didn’t smirk. If anything, he sounded resigned.

“So?” Alyx could have bitten her tongue for interrupting when he went silent for a long moment.

“She was his only surviving relative and potential heir following the Czar’s execution in 1917. Yes, I know that women couldn’t inheritbutshe was one of the only direct heirs. Your family was—isone of the wealthiest in Europe. The grand duchess fled Russia for Norway the night of the coup, barely making it across the border. Her husband was not as fortunate. Her son, Nicolai—named for her beloved cousin—was just four years old.” Daniel stepped forward and took her ignored coffee cup off the top of the car. “They were offered asylum by their family in Norway and remained there until your grandfather immigrated to the United States.”

Slack-jawed, she stared at him. She wasn’t certain what was more startling. The story or the ring of truth she heard in his voice.

Get in the car, Alyx.

But she didn’t open the door. The picture he painted with staccato facts echoed barely remembered fairy tales from her childhood. She recognized the names from vague memories of best-forgotten bedtime stories her father used to tell her.

“How do you know that?” Her father had always called her princess, but he’d worked as an accountant and her mother a schoolteacher. They’d lived in a pretty little yellow house for as long as she could remember. Papa had mowed the lawn. Mama had planted flowers. Alyx had played in the cracked driveway, drawing hopscotch with chalk.

At least she had before they died. A bad patch of ice and a drunk driver shattered her childhood. She’d been left with a single suitcase of clothes and an Imperial teddy bear that currently lay on the floor of her car. If she’d had any family at all, they would have come for her.

But they hadn’t.

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