American Prince: A Royal Romance (Sand & Fog Series Book 9) Read online

  American Prince

  Sand & Fog Series

  Book 9

  Susan Ward

  Copyright © 2019 Susan Ward

  All rights reserved.

  All Rights Reserved. In Accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher or author constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The use of actors, artists and song titles, and lyrics throughout this book is done for storytelling purposes and should in no way be seen as an advertisement. Trademark names are used in an editorial fashion with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright page

  About The Book

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  Dedication

  Quote

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Part Two

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Part Three

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  Excerpt Lost in Him

  Excerpt The Girl of Sand & Fog

  Excerpts Broken Crown and Signature

  About The Author

  About The Book

  We're a scandal waiting to happen…again…

  I never expected my quiet, perfect life with Damon in Wyoming to end as a scandal that could rock even my family. Paparazzi overload, a public shaming on social media, and my deepest secrets—and heartache—trending daily to be read and gossiped about by millions around the globe.

  It’s a lot for a twenty-five-year-old girl. Worse, it’s nearly impossible to get over a guy when the world won’t shut up about him.

  So being American royalty—well, of a sort—I did the only thing I could do as Alan and Chrissie Manzone’s daughter.

  I became a reality TV show.

  No, I’m not kidding. A taped weekly reality show. Number one in its time slot, thank you.

  Each week I get to give some lucky guy a chance to win my heart on national TV.

  Only it won’t ever happen.

  Because my heart still wants Damon.

  American Prince is a sweet and romantic romance, filled with twists you won’t see coming as Khloe and Damon fight for their happily-ever-after. And like all Parker Saga books, this love story is filled with the angst, humor, and heat readers expect from the Manzone family. Fans of the Crossfire Series, After Series, and Dirty Series will love this book. Find out why The Power of Three Readers Blog called Susan Ward “a queen of angst.”

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  Dedication

  For all of those who believe in the enduring power of love.

  Quote

  “The biggest adventure you can take is to live the life of your dreams.” – Oprah Winfrey

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Khloe

  The Present

  THE MAKEUP GIRL IS TOUCHING UP my face when the countdown begins.

  Five.

  Four.

  Three.

  Two.

  In a flutter of blurring fast movement, the set’s cleared.

  One.

  The cameras are rolling.

  I wait for the MC and the promo sounding in my ear. Unlike other shows of this genre, mine is a live feed. Nothing edited. Nothing cut out. The network’s contract demand, not mine, but it’s been fun.

  I take a deep breath and then hear, “Welcome to season two, episode one of The Last Girl. We’re in Seattle with Khloe Manzone and our eligible billionaire of the season vying for her to say I do. Let’s recap how the rules work. Each season, our computer matches Khloe up with her perfect man, and he’s got twelve dates to make her believe it. And at the end of the season, we’ll find out if Khloe’s going to be the last girl he ever dates or if she sends him home.”

  I hear walking, and that’s my cue. I adjust my pose for the cameras and tilt my head in expertly practiced sexiness. Sex sells. Trite concepts like this show sell. My acting like a virgin tease gets ratings. Men lusting after me and being denied means even higher ratings. And off we go on the second season of this pathetic girl-hurt-trying-to-get-a-man’s-attention farce beaming out across the globe.

  There’s no point to this.

  Why am I doing this reality show?

  The chances of him seeing me do this are zero.

  “Straight from the United Kingdom,” fills my ear as I stare out at the elegant patio eatery the show booked for this shoot and wait for the latest man vying for my hand. I decide not to look at him until he’s at the table. He’s going to be a disappointment. The first season’s bachelor certainly was. Handsome, masculine, and rich, exactly my type—I’ll give the software that—but not even close to right.

  Will there ever be a right man for me again?

  There was once.

  I feel my throat convulse and my emotions flaying.

  I need to empty my mind.

  We’re shooting live.

  He’s not watching tonight or any night.

  I know why he stays away from me.

  It’s really sad that I did this show so that he’d have to see me, when all I want is to forget him.

  I’m never going to get him back, not this way. Their hold on him is much stronger than mine. And here I sit, burning for him. I need to figure out a way not to burn for him. How to be less hurt. How to let go.

  I feel a body near my chair. Bachelor two has arrived at last. He took forever walking across the restaurant to reach my table. He could be nervous. It might be his first time live on camera. I shouldn’t be so harsh.

  I lift my chin as I wait for him to take my hand per the directing instructions. Come on. Speed this up. We’re two minutes into rolling. Get on with it. How hard is it to remember to lightly hold my hand and introduce yourself? Is the age of chivalry so dea
d that’s hard?

  Nothing.

  He’s just standing there.

  Why is he just standing beside my chair, staring at me—and yes, I know he’s staring at me. I can feel it.

  Warm flesh surrounds my fingers, zapping me with a magnificent jolt of maleness. My heart starts to accelerate because I’ve only known what I’m feeling once in my life. Intense magnetism and strength immediately igniting vibrant and unrelenting wakefulness in me.

  Reacting purely on instinct because my brain has ceased functioning, I shift on my chair to peek up at him, and I’m down for the count.

  I stare.

  Stunned.

  Frozen.

  Trapped in my body, unable to move.

  “Good evening, Khloe. It’s a pleasure to dine with you tonight. I…”

  My heart throbs violently, and I scarcely register the ever-present hurt in me. My ears no longer hear his words. I’m locked in the intense hold of amber eyes, chestnut hair, a strongly chiseled face, and lips I once knew well.

  I know every cut muscle hidden beneath that expertly tailored gray suit. The smell of his flesh. And the tang of his sweat when it glistens on his skin as he makes love to me. The way his body moves in mine. How his mouth devours my body. The shudder of his limbs as we climax.

  My lips are dry.

  The pull from him is as strong as ever.

  I blink out of my semi-daze and somehow manage not to fall apart. It’s him. On my set. After a year. Damon.

  Damon

  The Present

  MY GAZE FIXATES ON HER HAND. It’s lying so close to mine I could touch her. I want to touch her, even if it’s just our fingers intertwined. I fight not to let myself. The feel of her would open the floodgates, and the emotion I’m fighting to hold back would run like rapids through me.

  Instead I take my coffee. I don’t really want it. It’s foul, cheap coffee. The taste it leaves in my mouth is bitter and rough. The small sip sticks in my throat. It can’t get past the lump that’s been there since I first saw her.

  The muscles of my neck convulse.

  Seeing her is hard.

  Not seeing her is worse.

  Feeling like I can’t break through the wall around her is the darkest sensation I’ve ever known.

  The voices in my memory of all the people who told me this was hopeless rise in my head to taunt me.

  I came here anyway.

  I couldn’t stop myself.

  I love her.

  Still.

  But being close to Khloe and this far apart is agony.

  Remembering how we were and trapped in how we are.

  I want her back.

  It’s there on her face.

  She can’t come back to me.

  Maybe everyone is right.

  It’s time to give up.

  Accept how things are and move on with my life.

  No, I’ll see this through.

  As long as we can be together, no matter how we are, there are infinite possibilities.

  Khloe

  I DON’T HEAR THE director yell “Cut,” but there’s movement around me. I pull from the stupor I’ve been in since Damon arrived.

  “You shouldn’t have come here,” I tell him and wait for his reaction. Nothing. His face is downturned. He isn’t looking at me. Fine. He doesn’t have to acknowledge my words. His expression is grim. I know that he heard me.

  My gaze flitters around his chair, and I’m undecided what my next move should be. Damon walking in today has thrown me for a loop. I wasn’t ready for it.

  We both remain as we are: me standing and Damon sitting staring off into nothing.

  We’re done taping for today.

  Why hasn’t someone cut the lights?

  Why won’t Damon look at me?

  I shouldn’t want him to.

  I crave it desperately.

  Feeling how much I want him is my cue to get out of here.

  I race away from the bright light, down the narrow corridor that gets dimmer with each step. The farther from the stage spotlights I go, the less chaotic I feel. By the time I reach my dressing room, my small safe space, I’m nearly in control again.

  Once inside, I bolt the door behind me and stand just inside the dark room. I don’t turn on the lights. I lay my forehead against the door for support to keep me on my feet. I’m not ready to see that there’s no one here with me.

  Damon

  THERE’S SOUND BEHIND ME. I don’t look. I know that irritatingly slow gait by heart. I don’t want to deal with Winthrop yet. My insides tighten, and my shoulder muscles feel like heavy, hard granite.

  “Your Majesty, we need to go,” Winthrop says anxiously.

  I sit up, lifting my chin. Your Majesty. It’s still odd to be called that. Like a bad joke someone’s playing on me. Most days I wish Winthrop would laugh in my face and tell me I wasn’t really king. That the last year hadn’t happened. But no one ever does. Every morning an endless string of demands on me, when all I want is to be with Khloe. Things I must attend to. People who call me Your Majesty. All part of the nightmare I’m in.

  “Give me a moment, Winthrop.”

  “Sir, it’s not safe.”

  It’s never safe.

  I realize my eyes are still closed. I must’ve forgotten to open them. No, I stopped myself. I can’t see reality with my eyes closed.

  My blurry gaze comes into focus.

  My glance takes in the area around me before landing there. I don’t want to see. There is no way to look in that direction and prevent it.

  I didn’t need to look to know the truth. The air has a lifeless, vacant feel to it. No matter how much I willed it, Khloe isn’t here with me. Whether I stay or go doesn’t matter.

  Reluctantly, I stand up, and Winthrop gestures toward the door where my two bodyguards wait.

  “Clear the hallway,” Winthrop orders the additional bodyguards waiting beyond the door for me. There are people everywhere, but my security detail cuts a wide swath down the passageway toward the elevator.

  No one is ever allowed near me. Not to touch. Not to talk. Not even to laugh. I haven’t known any of that in a very long time. Not since Khloe and the day our life together changed.

  Kings are objects, not people.

  Without making eye contact with anyone, I step into the waiting elevator. The metal doors close, and there’s an exhale of breath beside me. Winthrop. Relieved. Fuck him.

  The metal box moves ploddingly from floor to floor. Ten of them, but the doors never open. The bypass switch has been locked to keep people out of my small iron vault. It moves straight to the ground floor for Damon, as though there are no floors in between the one I was on and the ground level where the car is.

  The elevator doors open. “There are no paparazzi on the street,” Winthrop announces, and he sounds as close to happy as he ever gets.

  I don’t acknowledge his comment. Winthrop as my private secretary is part of the curse my father left me. First being his heir and then having to rely on his former secretary. Last, the truth he never told me: Kings have no choices. They serve the people and the Crown, and both run them.

  The lead guard steps out, and I follow him. There are people all around staring at me. Not that it matters. I can’t stop and talk to any of them, or even smile. But I’m aware of them watching me.

  A blast of warm air hits me as I step outside. It feels good to be in the sun…well, as good as anything can feel when one lives submerged in misery.

  I pause halfway to the open Bentley door. It’s a beautiful day. It’d be nice to walk a bit, to do nothing but be alone and process having seen Khloe. Perhaps if I had a few private minutes with my thoughts I could figure out a way to fix where Khloe and I are so we both could be happy again.

  Bring her back to me.

  Be with her where I ache to be.

  “Sir, the car,” Mortimer prompts.

  I sh
ift my gaze to Mortimer, my head bodyguard. Why does he still work for me? I remember what he did on behalf of my father back when he was king. How Mortimer detained me at the airport in London and imprisoned me in my bedroom at Saxe Castle. Mortimer kept me from Khloe once before. He’s not a friend. I shouldn’t trust having him this close to me.

  Reluctantly, I climb into the back seat, and the door is slammed behind me. My security detail scurries. Mortimer takes his place riding shotgun by the driver, and Winthrop runs around the car to settle on the seat beside me.

  The Bentley lurches forward, and I stare out at the city.

  “We were lucky today, sir,” Winthrop says, not bothering to look at me but instead rummaging through his briefcase for something. “You can’t come back here again. Having it public knowledge you come here is a security risk. The British people will not survive another blow of losing a king as unexpectedly as they lost your father. You must give up your obsession over the girl and rule your country.”

  My face snaps toward him. “She’s my wife.”

  “It’s better that doesn’t become public knowledge. Better for her. Better for all concerned.”

  “Why is that, Winthrop?” My jaw hardens. It’s a stupid question. I know the answer. I skip over the obvious and to what I’m not allowed to say. “She is my wife whether anyone knows it or not. The Queen of England whether anyone calls her that. She is my heart, my strength, what gets me through everything I’ve been thrust unwillingly into. I wear the crown for her. Don’t tell me to stop loving Khloe.”

  Winthrop’s beady eyes lock with mine. “She isn’t coming back to you, Your Majesty. It’s time to accept it and do as her family asks.”

  Her family.

  He means Alan.

  It’s as though a sharp-edged piece of barbed wire has been tightened around my heart.

  My gaze bores into his. “She’s my wife. No one will tell me what I have to accept or do. You forget yourself, Winthrop. You forget who I am.”

  “No, sir. I do not. You’re the King of England. Leader of the United Kingdom. Your people need you. And your wife is gone.”

  Fuck you, Winthrop.