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  Z had been content to hang back and watch the festivities from the sideline, keeping an eye on his charge and communicating with the rest of his team stationed around the area via the Bluetooth device in his ear. It should’ve been easy-peasy. It turned out to be anything but.

  Thankfully, the princess had been just a few feet away from him when one of the ambassadors had accidentally stepped on the train of Esme’s ridiculously frou-frou—and ridiculously expensive—gown. She’d gone to move one way, and the dress hadn’t gone with her due to the ambassador’s ill-placed foot. Next thing Z knew, there’d been a tiny, but audible clicking noise and the back of the princess’s strapless dress had begun to slowly open from the top down. Luckily, his reflexes were hyper-fast from his time in SEALs, and it was only a moment before he had his arm around her, holding her dress closed as he escorted her quickly from the ballroom and over to this quiet alcove in the hallway.

  Normally, he’d have enjoyed the view of a gorgeous woman’s bare back, but the princess was his job, not his girlfriend. Besides, she needed his help right now, not his libido getting out of hand. He tried to coax the broken zipper up again, but his fingers slipped, landing on the smooth, creamy skin of her lower back. Warm and silky.

  Not helpful, dude. Not helpful at all.

  That’s when the toe-tapping started. A constant clack-clack-clack of her uber expensive stiletto sandal against the polished marble floor. “Whatever it is you’re doing back there, can you please hurry up?”

  “I’m trying, your highness.” He did his best to keep his tone even and bland but figured a bit of annoyance must’ve crept out anyway, given the narrowed look she gave him over her shoulder. The stupid earpiece kept slipping out of his ear because of the angle of his head, and he cursed softly, clicking it off and letting it hang down his chest. He’d be fine protecting the princess himself in this small space, and he’d put the dumb thing back in his ear as soon as he was finished anyway. “That guy did a real number on this zipper. It’s all out of alignment and a couple of teeth are missing. I’m trying to get it to work again but rushing me isn’t helping. This isn’t exactly my forte. I’m used to getting women out of these things, not into them.”

  He winced, regretting those words the minute they left his mouth.

  Smooth move, dumbass.

  God, he’d dealt with raids on sniper-infested enemy villages that were less dangerous than this current situation. Don’t touch, don’t look, don’t think about her at all. Just get the damned dress zipped and get on with it.

  “You’d think for what this thing costs, they’d make the zipper out of indestructible titanium or something, right?” He chuckled, hoping to cover his early snafu, but only shoving his foot further into his mouth if her continued silence was any indication. He squinted at the zip and managed to get the pulley wedged over one of the missing teeth so that he could carefully work it upward. “I’ve got it working again, sort of. There’s still an opening near the bottom though, where the zipper doesn’t connect anymore. Got anything in that tiny bag of yours to hold it together, your highness?”

  From watching her closely over the last couple of days, he knew she probably did. Esme Hollycombe was nothing if not organized and well-prepared. Plus, she did all those fussy hobbies like knitting and crochet and even embroidery and lace making. Z wasn’t the kind of guy to know much about those, except his mom had liked them too. A familiar pang of sorrow stabbed through his chest as he straightened, one hand still holding the open bottom of the zipper closed. Whenever he thought of his parents, God rest their souls, the same grief pinched his heart. It had been twenty-six years since they’d passed and the pain still felt as fresh as it had back then.

  “As a matter of fact…” the princess said, digging around in the red satin clutch that was made of the same fabric as her dress. “I do have something.”

  Z gave a silent snort and grinned. He’d known she would.

  She passed him a needle and a tiny spool of black thread over her shoulder. “It’s the wrong color and the thread is a bit too thick, but if it gets me out of this mess and back into the ballroom, I don’t care.”

  He grabbed them and quickly threaded the needle then kneeled again to stitch together the bottom zipper. Not exactly Martha Stewart perfection, but you’d be amazed the skills that a guy picked up as a SEAL. Once, he and his team had been out in the Kandahar desert, middle of nowhere, nothing but sand for miles, and one of the guy’s pants had split right down the middle. Funny, but potentially deadly, given the temperatures and the poisonous scorpions running everywhere. Thankfully, one of the guys had stowed an emergency repair kit in his backpack and Z had drawn the short straw, getting the dubious honor of sewing his buddy’s pants back together. Good thing he’d spent years by his mom’s knee as a kid, watching her do her crafts.

  Handling a needle and thread came second-nature to him now.

  Not that he told people that. A SEAL had a reputation to uphold after all.

  The princess sighed, and he felt some tension leave her body beneath his hands. “Listen, I’m sorry I snapped at you, Mr. Raybourn. I’ve just been under a lot of pressure lately. That’s no excuse, I know, but I haven’t felt like myself in a while. With my dad’s illness and my cousin gunning to throw our country into chaos as soon as he takes the throne, it’s all such a mess.”

  “Considering where we are and what we’re doing, I think you can call me Zachary. Or Zach. Or even Z. That’s what my friends call me,” he said, knotting the thread then biting it off with his teeth. He straightened and handed her back the needle. “Not to step out of line, your highness. You can call me whatever you want.”

  She took the needle from him and dropped it back into her tiny bag, then assessed him with a narrowed stare. She really was pretty under all that pomp and circumstance she hid behind. Shoulder-length sable hair, bright hazel eyes, creamy skin for miles, and pretty pink lips. He looked away fast from those. Best not to tempt fate, especially when it was forbidden.

  “Fine. Z it is. And you may call me Esme when we’re in private anyway. I doubt that Sutherland would appreciate you being so casual with me in public. Duty and all.” She smiled and the world seemed to brighten a tad. “Like I said, I really do apologize for being so cross. I’m just worried about everything.”

  He relaxed a bit, leaning a shoulder against the marble pillar beside him and crossing his arms. “Yeah. If you don’t mind me saying so, that cousin of yours is a real piece of work. I’d advise you to keep an eye on him if I were you. He’s got his eye on the prize and he doesn’t care who gets hurt in the process.”

  “I know.” She shook her head and rested her hips back against the wall behind her. “Sadly, we used to be friends, back in school. Then when my father was diagnosed with cancer and Silvester realized he’d soon be king, it seemed the potential power awaiting him went to his head. Now we barely talk and when we do, it’s only to trade insults with each other.”

  Her speech had grown less formal as she opened up to him. That was another thing he’d noticed about her, not just in the last few days, but in the six months he’d been at the palace. She put on a brave, formal face for the world, all fancy talk and precise perfection, but he had to wonder what she was like out of the spotlight, when she was alone. Perhaps he’d finally get a glimpse of the real Esme Hollycombe. Suddenly the mission didn’t seem so dire anymore.

  “I’m sorry about the king’s illness. That’s tough to go through.”

  “It is.” She stared down at her toes, peeking out from beneath the red satin. Her toenails were painted a matching scarlet color. He’d not noticed that before, but now all he could picture was kissing said toes until she giggled and sighed his name. Z cleared his throat and glanced out into the hallway again to make sure their conversation was still private. Not going there again. Nope. “Are your parents still living, Z?”

  His heart sank. “No. They died when I was six.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. That must ha
ve been horrible.”

  “It was.”

  She gave a tiny nod. “My father’s older, I know that. He’s had a long, full life. Death is inevitable, but it’s just so hard when it’s right there, staring you in the face.” She shrugged and sniffled, a sad affair that made him want to pull her into his arms and hold her. He shoved his hands in his pockets instead. He had no business holding the princess. Not now, not ever. This was work, his job, not some royal date night. “I think his continued hope for a cure only makes it worse. If he’d just accept it and enjoy the rest of his time here on earth, it would make it easier for the rest of us to accept what’s going to happen too.”

  “At least you’ll get to say goodbye,” Z said. “I didn’t have that luxury.”

  “I—” She met his gaze, her own full of questions and sympathy, but the arrival of one of his team members cut their moment of privacy short.

  “Your highness,” the security guard gave a stiff bow. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we’ve gotten word from Sutherland that your father, the king, is being airlifted to the hospital as we speak. Things are not looking good, your highness.”

  The guard gave Z a quick glance, his eyes darting to the Bluetooth earpiece still dangling loose from the cord near his ear, and then back to Z’s face again. “I tried to contact you via the usual channels, sir. But you weren’t available.”

  “Let’s go,” Z said, shoving the Bluetooth back in his ear then taking Esme gently by the elbow to guide her past the ballroom and out to their limo waiting at the curb. He got her settled in the back seat then turned back to the guard. “Have the rest of the team meet us at the hospital.”

  Chapter Three

  Esme sat alone in her father’s empty hospital room in the ICU, listening to the sounds filtering in from the hallway beyond. The monotonous beep of heart monitors, the endless inflation and deflation of automated blood pressure cuffs, the distant sobs of a person who’d lost someone dear.

  Soon enough that would be her.

  Her father was still alive, for the moment, but given the rapid progression of his cancer, he would not have much longer. Pancreatic cancer was one of the most virulent types, and he’d already lasted well beyond his initial prognosis of one year.

  The technicians had just been in and wheeled him downstairs to have yet more testing done. The king still held out hope for a cure, but Esme had at last come to terms with the fact that her father would never get better. This was it. The end of the line.

  She sighed and stared up at the ceiling.

  God, why had it taken her so long to accept the reality? Her only excuse was that she loved her father. But she had loved her mother too, and that hadn’t stopped the queen from dying either. If only she’d resigned herself to it early, perhaps she wouldn’t be in this mess now. Perhaps she could have gotten her father to pass the necessary legislation so that she could have taken her place in the line of succession and ruled her country. But no. She’d spent two years avoiding the truth of her father’s decline, as if living with the constant possibility of his death had made her immune to the consequences, and now it was too late.

  She’d done plenty of research, even scoured the countryside to see if her father might have sired a male heir out of wedlock, but he’d been perfectly faithful to his wife. Esme was an only child and a woman—and that meant that in her homeland of Prylea, she was out of luck when it came to the throne that should have been her birthright.

  Of course, she could have gotten married and pregnant herself and that would’ve solved things too. A grandson was considered a more direct heir than a nephew. Except she’d been so busy the last few years, first with finishing her schooling, then with helping her ailing father with tasks around the palace that she’d had no time or interest for dating. On the few, rare occasions when she had gone out, the men had only seemed interested in her title and not her as a person. She’d learned her lesson well on that count a long time ago and didn’t plan to ever make that same painful mistake again.

  So, changing the law was out. Finding a suitable husband in time was out.

  Seemed the entire future Esme had planned for herself was out.

  Unwanted tears stung the back of her eyes before she blinked them away. Princesses did not cry, especially in public. Her mother had taught her that, and Esme was a very good student. She squared her shoulders and stood, determined to make the best of the horrible situation and put on a brave face for her father. Her heart might be broken but her spirit was strong, at least for now.

  Esme turned to walk out into the hallway for some fresh air and exercise and nearly collided with a broad, tux-covered chest. Strong hands gripped her arms to steady her and the comforting scent of sandalwood and citrus surrounded her. Mr. Raybourn. Z.

  “Pardon me, ma’am,” he said. “I mean, your highness. I mean, Esme.”

  The fact he fumbled over his words made her smile, despite her sadness. “It’s fine.”

  She stepped back and he dropped his hands. Her bare skin tingled from his brief, warm touch and she shivered. “It’s fine.”

  He frowned then removed his jacket and slung it around her shoulder. “You’re cold.”

  It was a bit chilly, she realized. In truth, she felt numb from everything that was going on. Still, his jacket felt like a security blanket around her and she clutched it closer. “Thank you. Any word on my father yet?”

  “Not that I’ve heard, ma’am.” He held up a finger and turned away slightly to speak to someone through his Bluetooth headset—another member of the security team, she assumed. Finally, he turned back to her, his blue eyes solemn. “I’m sorry about all this. Would you like me to call someone to sit with you? A friend or family member?”

  Esme shook her head. “No, thank you. I don’t really know anyone that well in DC.”

  Z cocked his head slightly as if considering something, then gave a curt nod. “Were you going for a walk?”

  “I was.” She inhaled deep. “Sitting alone in that room, waiting, is about to drive me insane.”

  “Understood.” He glanced around the hallway then back to her.

  “Part of the job?”

  “I could use some exercise myself, actually. Standing guard in front of a door all night isn’t exactly good for the circulation.” He gave her a crooked little grin and for the first time she noticed he was handsome. Sure, she’d seen him off and on for the last six months around the palace, usually wearing the black suit uniform of the other security guards and always busy, but this was the first time she really saw him as a man. Tall, broad, well-muscled from his time in the navy. Golden-blond hair, piercing blue eyes, tanned, smooth skin. He was the epitome of the all-American boy. Women probably swooned at his feet wherever he went.

  Good thing Esme wasn’t most women.

  She nodded, and they headed down the hall and around the corner. A glance behind them showed another guard had already taken up residence outside her father’s door. Perhaps that was what Z had been talking to his team about earlier. If so, she admired his organizational skills.

  Thankfully, it was late enough at night that most of the visitors were gone. Those who lingered were nestled in at their loved one’s beside for the evening, so there weren’t many gawkers lining the corridor to stare at the two people who were grossly overdressed and out of place.

  Silence between them stretched taut and she felt the need to fill it. Esme prided herself on her conversational skills. It was an essential part of diplomacy. After all, looks might catch a man’s eye, but sharp, witty conversation would capture his secrets.

  “So, do you miss it?” she asked Z as they strolled past a long bank of windows. Nighttime DC glittered in the velvet darkness like scattered jewels. “The SEALs, I mean.”

  Z shrugged, staring straight ahead. “Sometimes. I’ll get back there soon enough though. My team’s like my family. It was tough leaving them behind to work in the palace.”

  “But what about the danger? Surely you don’t mis
s risking your life every day.”

  He chuckled, low and deep. The sound of it rolled over her like a gentle wave, pulling her a bit further under his spell. He glanced down at her, a good foot taller than her own five-foot-three, his blue eyes glittering in the moonlight streaming in through the windows. “You get addicted to the adrenaline of it, you know? The constant alertness and watchfulness. I love it. Love standing between whatever enemy we were fighting and freedom. Love the sacrifice and the salvation. Love everything, really.”

  “What happened?” She’d tried to find out more about him in his employee files at the palace, but most of his career had been a series of missions so confidential that the files were redacted down to almost nothing. All she could really tell was that he’d been very highly regarded—until that had abruptly changed, after which he had been sent to her country as a gesture of goodwill to her father and a veiled punishment for Z, himself. She’d have to get her info straight from the source. But that was fine, she wanted to hear it from him. “Why did you leave and come to work in Prylea?”

  “There was an…incident.”

  “Incident?”

  “Accident.”

  “What kind of accident?” she asked, unable to stop herself even though the look on his face said she shouldn’t go there. They turned another corner and proceeded down another hallway, this one apparently unoccupied, if the quiet darkness was any indication.

  “Are you always this nosy?” Z stopped abruptly and turned to her, his face half hidden in shadows.

  “Are you always this paranoid?” Esme countered before she caught herself. Thank goodness the hallway was dark, because her cheeks prickled with heat. She exhaled slow and hung her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry into things that are none of my business.” So much for my vaunted conversational skills, she thought wryly. She always struggled with tact when she was tired and overstressed.