Page 1 of Royal Player
Chapter One
Polly
I just got off probation, and I’m fre-e-e!
I throw my arms up to the sky and let out a little laugh. It’s summer, and I’m on the Rourkes’ yacht, which picked me up in France for my first visit to the kingdom of Villroy. I’m tempted to shout “I’m king of the world!” off the bow of the boat, but it’s a little precarious on the bow and, technically, I’m a princess. I satisfy myself with a brief toe-tapping happy dance. I can’t wait to see Anna, the queen of Villroy. She’s the reason I got probation.
That sounds bad, doesn’t it? But it was a good thing. She and her husband, King Gabriel, helped me avoid jail time in the US for identity theft.
Hmm…that sounds bad too. It was all for a completely understandable reason. I’d better back up to the beginning. I’m Princess Mary Louise Lyon of the Beaumont Islands. Polly to my friends. I’m the only child of very traditional parents in an old-school monarchy. So, I’d just returned home from college in the US last year when my parents began to suggest (read: harass the shit out of me) that it was time I marry and produce the next heir. It only took one meeting with the husband of their choice, Peter, a business tycoon on Beaumont claiming to have royal bloodlines from some now defunct kingdom, for me to come up with my escape planbackto the US. I’m what you call a strategic thinker. My parents call me impossible.
In any case, I paid for a fake ID in the US so I could move freely about as a princess-in-hiding, but it turned out the fake ID was from a deceased person whose aunt noticed her dead niece had bought an apartment building in Tampa, Florida. (It was my gift to Anna, who lived there at the time. I found her, a distant cousin, through the AncestryWise website and thought we could be friends. See, strategic thinker here—find an ally.) In hindsight, I was naïve about the fake ID, thinking it would just be a made-up person. I should’ve asked more questions. I truly regret it, and I reached out to the deceased person’s family to make reparations. There’s now a scholarship in her name at her alma mater, funded through my charitable foundation.
Two good things did come of it—Anna and I became close, and I earned an MBA degree while on probation. (It’s the reason I gave my parents for my extended US stay. They don’t know about my arrest thanks to Gabriel burying the story.) Now I’m going to be reunited with Anna, who’s eight months pregnant. I’ve been granted a brief reprieve to be there for the birth, which I will use to come up with a strategic plan to get out of my impending marriage to Peter without destroying my family and the kingdom in the process.
No pressure.
Peter has backed me into an impossible corner, blackmailing me into the marriage. My parents have no clue about the blackmail. If I tell them, they won’t allow the marriage and Peter will follow through on his threats. Three years ago, my parents took a loan from him to finance the renovation of one of their resorts on the best beach. (They wanted a more modern style to compete with Peter’s modern resorts.) Now the debt is due, and they don’t have the money to pay him back. I only know this because, on my brief visit home before travelling to Villroy, I overheard my mother telling my father she was worried Peter would seize the property, as is his legal right in an island foreclosure.
I went to talk to Peter privately in his office about my parents’ concern, hoping to extend the terms of the loan. That’s when he told me not only would he seize the property, which would only put them further in debt from the loss of income, he’d let everyone know they have debts they renege on and now they must raise taxes exorbitantly to keep things going. He would shred their reputation, painting them as rulers with no honor. All of this is aimed at starting an uprising against the monarchy, which he vowed to topple. And then he made me an offer—marry him, make him king, and the debt is forgiven. All of our properties will be consolidated under his control, and he’ll make sure they’re all profitable and modernized, thereby ensuring a thriving future for Beaumont.
What choice did I have? I must save my family and my kingdom. Monarchies are a dying breed, and I won’t allow mine to be extinguished while I draw breath.
I returned to the palace and told my parents, the words bitter on my tongue, “I admire Peter’s business savvy and agree he’d be an ideal candidate for a husband.”
They were overjoyed, having hoped for the match even before their current troubles. Peter was always the ideal alliance in their minds because he owns half the resorts on the main island. We own the other half. Our kingdom is made up of a chain of islands in the Caribbean, dependent on tourism. Peter has never shown his true colors to them.
My marriage is also urgently needed because my father has decided to step down as king. He’s seventy-three and his Parkinson’s disease is getting worse. He doesn’t want to be seen with tremors in public. My mother, the queen, is only forty-six, but she will not be allowed to rule alone because she’s a woman. Old. School. I’m not allowed to rule alone either. If I don’t marry soon, they’ll pass my birthright over to my younger male cousin. Itinfuriatesme. I’ve been groomed to be queen my entire life. It is my place, my birthright.
I turn and shield my eyes to get a better view inside the cabin of the yacht at my longtime maid and chaperone, Marge. She’s in her fifties now, her shoulder-length hair more gray than brown, which she claims is my fault. I love this woman, who in many ways has been a mother to me. When I was a kid, my high energy and quest for adventure drove my parents and my tutors nuts. Enter Marge. Strict and no-nonsense, she was charged with the impossible task of keeping me on the straight and narrow. She’s been with me since I was shipped off to boarding school at nine years old, all through college, and reappeared when my parents discovered I was staying in the US for my MBA/probation. She appears to be sleeping sitting upright on the sofa. Poor thing. She said she thought she might be coming down with something. Her throat is sore.
I go into the cabin, and her eyes slowly open. “Polly, where is your veil? It isn’t proper, and too much sun will give you wrinkles.” She’s the only staff member who addresses me by my preferred name and only in private. Otherwise, it’s “Your Highness,” “Princess Mary,” or “ma’am” like everyone else.
“The sea breeze stole my veil,” I fib. I always try to ditch the veil—required of single royal women in my kingdom—when I’m away from home. This is an old argument of ours. She feels the need to point out the lack of veil to do her chaperone duty, knowing I’ll have some excuse.
She harrumphs.
I sit next to her and press the back of my hand to her forehead, checking for fever the way she always does with me. “You feel a little warm.”
“I’m fine.” She shifts away. “Even so, keep your distance in case I’m contagious. I don’t want you to make the queen ill so close to the birth.”
I go to the small refrigerator and retrieve a cold bottled water for her.
“Don’t make a fuss over me!” she barks hoarsely.
“Here, you sweet thing.” I hand over the water. “Fluids and rest, Marge’s orders.”
She takes the water, her lips pursed. “Don’t be fresh, giving my orders back to me. Those are for your own good.”
I smile and sit next to her. “And now it’s time to take a dose of your own medicine.”
She scowls but opens the water and takes a sip, wincing as she swallows.
“We’ll get you a doctor once we’re settled at Amalie Palace.” That’s the palace on Villroy.
“It’s nothing.” She takes another sip of water. “Polly, I need to tell you something.”
The hair on the back of my neck rises. I can count on one hand the number of times Marge has needed to tell me something, and it isnevergood news. “What is it? Is something wrong with my father?”
