The Prince's Runaway Lover
by Robin Covington
Publication Date: July 14, 2015
Genres: Contemporary, Romance
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Synopsis: Crown Prince Nicholas Lytton was never supposed to be ruler of Callanos. He was the "spare to the heir," pursuing a decadent life of the rich and royal - extreme sports, physical pleasures, and glorious irresponsibility. Until his brother died. Now Nick is to be coronated king, and no one believes he's ready. The best way to secure his crown is to do the unthinkable...find a queen. While Isabel Reynolds works in the palace gardens, she has no desire to draw the attention of the way-too-flirty, would-be king. For she's not the woman everyone thinks she is. Even if she wanted - or was tempted by - the promise of love, it would only end in disaster. Because while Isabel may be able to catch a king, her secrets would only destroy him...
Excerpt for THE PRINCE’S RUNAWAY LOVER – Robin Covington
Prologue:
The pounding on the door
was seriously messing up his rhythm.
Nick tightened his grip on the waist and resumed his hard
thrust into the tall blonde bent over and leaning against the dresser in the
hotel room. Her friend, a curvy redhead, reclined on the bed and watched them,
the flare of heat in her eyes telling him that she’d soon be taking her turn¼again.
It had been a great fucking day. An interesting, if
somewhat easy, climb on Sugar Loaf Mountain just outside of Rio de Janeiro took
up most of the day and then he and his best friend, Christopher Wheaton had
headed into the city, bounced through a few clubs, and Nick had brought vanilla
and strawberry back to his room.
And now some asshole was banging on his door and ruining
his concentration.
“Back the fuck up dickhead!” he shouted over his
shoulder, pushing in deep with a snap of his hips. It felt good. Really good
and he wasn’t going to stop just because some lost drunk thought this was his
room.
The
knocking resumed, this time with a deep, angry shout in perfect, pissed off
harmony. “Nick, you asshole, open the door.”
It was
Chris. He sounded panicked and that was not something he ever was. Chris was
the calm one, the even keel guy. Nick
one the one with the highs of winning gold medals for his country and then the
lows of getting hauled into the police station for drunk and disorderly with a
screeching, jealous woman and the paparazzi in tow.
So, if
Chris was trying to bring the door down at three in the morning, then something
was really wrong.
Nick let
go of the blonde, reaching down to the floor to snag his jeans and tug them on
over his protesting hard-on before heading over to open the door. The deadbolt
and room safety locks were tricky to manage with drunk fingers but he finally
slid them both into the right position. He jerked the door open, revealing
Chris standing in the hallway.
His
expression was¼stricken¼that was the first word that
bypassed the alcohol still sloshing around in his brain and the minute it
manifested, ice ran through Nick’s veins. He took a step backward, glancing
down at the hand Chris extended out to him. He held a phone in a tight grip,
the skin around his knuckles pale in spite of the time they’d spent outside all
day in the Brazilian sun.
Nick took
another step back, instinctively getting as far away as possible from the
device. Whatever¼whoever was on the other
end of that phone was not calling to tell him good news.
“Is it my
father?” He asked, not even trying to hide the fear that tinged his words,
Chris
shook his head, his eyes filled with grief, sorrow, and pity.
“Who is
it Chris? Who are they calling about?” His anxiety spiked even higher with the
knowledge that it wasn’t his father, that the Alzheimer’s hadn’t finally
claimed the body that had once held the mind it had already stolen.
Chris
held the phone out to him, his gesture silently insisting that he take it
before he answered the question, “It’s sbout Alec. It’s about your brother.”
***
Nick stood in the
blazing sun that sat high in the sky over his home country of Callanos.
A red-eye
flight from Brazil had been arranged within the hour of taking the call. Chris
had ushered the women out of the room, packed his things and even arranged for
a private fitting of the suit he currently wore in one of the VIP lounges in
the private terminal of the Leonardo Da Vinci International Airport in Rome.
Sometimes it didn’t suck to be a member of one of the world’s richest royal
families.
The layover
had been long enough to get fitted with the black, silk suit and to pick up the
two caskets currently being unloaded from the private jet. Draped in the state
flag of Callanos and the standard with the Lytton family coat of arms, the
dark, mahogany boxes containing the bodies of his older brother and his
sister-in-law were accompanied by a dozen men from the royal guard. The
procession was slow and somber as they were escorted to the matching black hearses on the airport
tarmac.
Nick
watched, dry eyed and numb with the shock of all that had occurred in the last
twelve hours since his mother had called with the terrible news. The machine of
the monarchy had jumped into gear and he followed along, not so much led by
conscious thought but by a lifetime of force-fed tradition.
It was
that tradition that had the fully uniformed honor guard standing at attention
as his brother’s casket was eased inside the back of the waiting vehicle. The
loud stomp of their boots against the hard surface of the road was in unison,
in perfect step as they marched into formation and lowered the flag and their
weapons in a grave salute.
The crack
of rifles firing¼once, twice, three times
made him jump a little bit, even though he knew they were coming. But he was
prepared when the lead guard shouted and the entire group repeated in unison,
“God, save the King!”
And then
Nick watched, stoic and silent as they turned and marched into perfect
formation to face him. Once again, the weapons and the flag lowered as they
snapped into perfect position and executed perfect salutes at the same time
another rifle blast rent the silence in two.
And then
for the first time, Nick heard the words he did not want, words that fell down
around him like the avalanche he’d barely survived a year ago on a slope in
India. The words were sharp with their
finality, sealing his future and his fate as they were directed at him.
“Long live the King!”
About Robin Covington
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