The Controversial Princess (Smoke & Mirrors Duet #1)(18)

“Giles,” he declares, taking my hand to his mouth and landing it with an over-the-top kiss.

“Hello, Giles,” I purr, letting him pull me into his chest.

“Hello, Princess.” He grins, sliding his hand onto my bottom. “May I kiss you?”

Don’t ask, just do! I push my lips to his, tasting whisky and cigarettes, and he moans as we sway and kiss, drunk and a little clumsy.

“Hey!” Eddie’s yell is fierce, and I break away from Giles, ready to argue my case and defend Giles from my brother’s wrath. I mean, come on! Eddie set this up. Am I expected to look and not touch? I locate my brother, but when I find him, his attention is not on me, and neither is it on Giles. It’s on another soldier, a younger lad, who has his mobile phone pointing in my direction. I just catch the flash of the camera before Eddie practically rugby tackles him to the Oriental rug, snatching the mobile from his grasp.

“Bloody hell.” I take my fingers to my mouth and belt out an ear-piercing whistle. Damon bursts through the doors a second later, searching me out. When he finds me, I point to Eddie, who is now holding the click-happy perpetrator down while he scrolls through the pictures on his phone.

Eddie curses, grabbing the young soldier by the scruff of his neck and pulling him to his feet. “There’s an unwritten rule when in the company of a royal, lad. You do not take pictures.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know.” He holds up his hands in defense.

Eddie snarls and thrusts him into Damon’s waiting grasp. “Time for you to go home.”

Damon manhandles him out of the room, looking back at the mobile phone in Eddie’s grasp. “You going to take care of that?”

“Done.” My brother drops it to the wooden floor by the door and stamps on it with his army boot.

“Nice touch,” Damon quips, pushing the kid out of the door.

“Okay, the show is over.” Eddie grabs a nearby bottle of tequila and strides over to me. “Open up.”

I smile and lie down on my back, hanging my head off the edge of the table. Then I open my mouth and Eddie tips the bottle, filling my cheeks with tequila until I hold my hand up for him to stop. I wince as I swallow. “Where’s the lemon?” I shudder.

Eddie laughs. “Don’t be a wimp. Next.”

Giles drops to his back and follows my lead, and as soon as he is done, the next person takes their position, until the whole length of table is lined with horizontal bodies, mouths wide open to take their hit. Eddie roams up and down, a continuous flow of tequila streaming into the waiting mouths until the bottle is empty and he casts it aside on a loud whoop.

As I wobble my way back up to standing with the help of Giles, I spy Damon at the door brushing his hands off, his way of telling me the problem has been dealt with. I nod on a hiccup when he gives me our sign. I’m fine. Thumbs up.

“Sure?” he mouths, taking the handle of the door, ready to close our noisy rabble back inside the room.

“Sure.” I search out my vodka and gingerly bend to retrieve it, lifting it to my lips as I raise my body back upright. Although the clear, cool liquid doesn’t make it into my mouth, instead spilling down my front before my lips meet the rim. My eyes pop out of my head at the sight of a man standing next to Damon by the double doors. What the hell?

Damon once again gives me a thumbs up, but this time he follows up with a thumbs down.

Yes or no? Yes or no? Yes or no?

I don’t know.

Josh Jameson remains still, watching me closely while I stall answering Damon. Today his long, lean legs are covered in some well-fitting stonewash jeans, his prime torso covered in a black T-shirt. Oh . . . my . . . goodness. My thumb hovers in no man’s land, straddling between thumbs up and thumbs down. The dangerous surge of energy powering through my alcohol-drenched veins should serve as a warning, should force my thumb downward to tell Damon that Jameson is not welcome. Yet when I peek down, I see my thumb pointing toward the ceiling, and when I cast my eyes back to Josh, he’s smiling discreetly at me where I stand on the table, his gaze hooded. Then he subtly starts rubbing his palm against his jean-clad thigh. He’s warming it up. The energy powering through me sparks and crackles, and my lungs drain as I lift the vodka to my lips.

My stare follows Josh to the Sonos player, where he fiddles between that and his phone for a few moments. Then he cranks up the volume to max, turning toward me. I scowl at him when the track registers in my warped mind. Oh, he thinks he is hilarious. Yeah Yeah Yeahs “Heads Will Roll” bursts from the speakers, and the party goes wild, everyone roaring their delight at Josh’s choice. Everyone except me. Off with his head, indeed. I watch him make a beeline for me, nothing but pure intent and determination written all over his aggravatingly handsome face.

“Who invited you?” I ask when his thighs meet the edge of the table before me, his neck craned back so he can look up at me standing over him.

“Prince Eddie.” He’s smug, and when I shoot a disgusted look Eddie’s way, my brother shrugs, looking cautious. Like he’s regretting it. “Thought you’d be pleased to see me.”

I huff and swivel, dancing my way to the other end of the table, finding Matilda and engaging in some outrageous dance moves with her.

“How did he get in?” my cousin asks, dancing but looking to the other end of the dining room.