The Prince's Runaway Lover
Publication Date: July 14, 2015
About Robin Covington
Excerpts for THE PRINCE’S RUNAWAY LOVER – Robin Covington
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!”