Page 19 of Royal Catch
“Can you ballpark the cash value?” I blurt.
“One more rude remark from you and you’re out,” the queen snaps.
The women stare at me in shock. Apparently, speaking of money really is forbidden, even when you’re on a treasure hunt. Obviously treasure has some cash value, right?
The queen dismisses us in her haughty royal way, but I don’t miss the small smile on her lips. She’s enjoying the hell out of the game.
The eight of us princesses head out the palace doors and over to the road, where three black Mercedes with tinted windows are waiting. I slip into the backseat of one with Francesca and Marguerite. They’re on either side of me—a princess sandwich.
Francesca is a dark-haired princess from a kingdom somewhere in the Middle East I’ve never heard of. She’s quiet, but her dark eyes are sharp and calculating. Here I thought Marguerite was the one to watch, but up close I can see there might be more princesses to consider as serious competition. Elizabeth was right, I do need to look deeper.
A horrible thought strikes in this whole look-deeper thing. Crap. Do not even tell me this treasure is symbolic. I will seriously raise hell if I go through this whole hunt for something deep like “the treasure was within you all along” or “the treasure is nature itself.”
I turn to Marguerite. “I thought since you came up with today’s competition, you might be granted immunity and just watch.”
She shakes her head. “The queen does as she wishes. I’ll bet the clues aren’t even drawn from nature like I suggested. She already traded horses for bicycles. Who knows if there’s even a treasure?”
“You think it’s fake?”
Francesca adds her two quiet cents. “All that matters is who wins.”
“Oh, shut up,” Marguerite snaps.
Francesca turns a lethal glare onto Marguerite, and I suddenly wish I weren’t between them. I’ve seen these women in action. They go for blood and fight dirty, no clean punches.
A stony silence falls, the women each looking out their window.
I breathe a sigh of relief. A few moments later, my mind drifts back to Gabriel, as you do when you’ve seen him practically naked with those magnificent shoulders, glorious chest, his massive…bulge. I want him, even though I shouldn’t. He’s not a stick-in-the-mud rigid royal. He’s a man in difficult circumstances, doing his duty regardless. A man of honor. Damn. I shouldn’t have said I’m a virgin because a man of honor would never cross that line. Maybe I can convince him to do other stuff. Oh, man, I am the worst. Here I am, thinking of my own lusty needs. So what if I haven’t had sex in a year? That doesn’t mean I break character and have my way with the crown prince. Unless…
What if I did? Would it get me kicked out of the competition? Would he show me the door himself?
Stop that! You’re here for Polly, not yourself.
But I might never have a chance to be with his spectacularly hot body again. And, of course, we’d talk. I’m not just about the body. Dirty, raunchy talk.
I’m startled out of my sexy X-rated fantasy when the car comes to a halt. I hadn’t even gotten to the good part yet. Anyway, we just parked by the dock, and it’s another perfect sunny June day on the island with a sparkling blue-green sea and bright blue skies with white fluffy clouds. Paradise.It’s no Tampa, but…
I join the princesses over where a group of bicycles wait. The bikes are cute, red with upright handles, a cushy wide seat, and a basket on the front. I claim one and then have to wait while Albert attempts to teach four princesses how to ride a bike. Albert is too old and stooped to run behind them holding the seat as they pedal, the way most kids learn. Instead he instructs them and waits, looking hopeful.
Pedal, crash!One princess down.
Crash!Another down. She didn’t even get to the pedaling.
The other two princesses balk.
“You must try, Your Royal Highnesses,” Albert urges. “The clues are all over the island. It’s too much ground to cover on foot.” When nobody moves, he adds, “The queen will be displeased if you don’t follow the rules.”
That gets the princesses moving. I’ll say this for them, they really do try. Skinned knees and all, even a few colorful swear words. But after an hour, even I can tell it’s just not going to happen. And poor Albert is red in the face from barking out orders, his scraggly white hair disheveled from running his hands through it in frustration.
I stand from where I’ve been sitting on the ground, cross-legged, and stretch. “What if those of us who know how to ride give the others a lift? You could sit on the handlebars or on the seat if we stand to pedal.”
Marguerite, one of the bicycle-deprived princesses, points at me. “Yes! Let’s do that.”
The three princesses who actually know how to ride promptly refuse. It’s every princess for herself out here.
In the end, the four of us take off on our bikes, and the other four, well, they run. And that’s quite a sight for the islanders, who come out of their cute cottages to see princesses break all manner of decorum to run in the most awkward display of athleticism I’ve ever witnessed. They look like a bunch of five-year-olds, running full out with flailing arms. If only I still had my phone to video it. This shit is gold.
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