A Princess in Theory (Reluctant Royals #1)(7)

Still . . . she wondered what it would be like to let someone in. Not Clarence, who’d been a Break Glass In Case of Emergency kind of boyfriend, but someone who might actually prove her hypothesis wrong.

That would be terrifying.

Ledi tossed and turned, as if wriggling free from the thoughts that threatened to bind her, and Portia grumbled on the other side of the bed.

She was fine on her own. She always had been. And if no good guy ever made it past her barriers? Well, that’d be fine, too.

Just fine.

She stared at the ceiling, willing herself to sleep. Her brain had other ideas, taking her on a guided tour of all the work she had to complete and explaining how inability to do so would result in complete and utter failure. Finally, like a rat on a wheel going full tilt, she exhausted herself with all the ways she could fail and the repercussions of each possibility, and began to slide into sleep.

Oh god, yesss, this is so much better than sex, who needs a man? she thought as she was tugged into the sweet darkness of slumber—and then her phone vibrated.

She groaned into her pillow, her body heavy with fatigue, and reached for the phone.

Sender: [email protected]

Subject: Time Is of the Essence

Ms. Smith,

I know that you have received my messages—I can see that they have been read. I do not know why you ignore my attempts at contact. It is imperative that you respond at once or—

“Motherfucker,” she growled.

This time she didn’t delete the email. They wanted a response? She’d comply.

Sender: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Time is of the essence

FUCK. OFF.





Chapter 3


Your Highness—”

Thabiso opened his eyes, his position on the massage table ensuring that his personal assistant’s Italian leather loafers were in his direct line of sight. They were hours into the flight to New York City, but he was sure that if he looked up, Likotsi would still be sporting her tailored suit jacket, vest, and tie, and her shirt would still be as crisp as if it had been freshly ironed. He had long ago resigned himself to never being best dressed in the palace.

He didn’t look up, though. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the masseuse’s nimble hands working his body. Her fingertips pressed into his muscles, which were still tight after three days of stressful trade meetings in Liechtenbourg. Her work was an exercise in futility, given the additional meetings that awaited him in New York, but Thabiso took pleasure where he could. The tabloids that conjectured on the daily lives of royalty would be sorely disappointed if they knew that Africa’s most eligible bachelor spent most of his time stressed about work and trying to get a quick dose of relief, like most mere mortals.

“Sire?” Likotsi pressed.

Thabiso sniffed in aggravation. He had wanted just this brief moment of repose before their wheels touched the ground and the onslaught resumed. He was tempted to press his hands against his ears and scream like he had when he was a child—his tantrums had been legendary, and the king and queen had often remarked that he was lucky he was the sole heir to the crown with the way he tried their patience.

They remarked on his being the sole heir often.

No pressure.

The sound of one loafer tapping against the carpeted floor added an agitating backbeat to the relaxing music the masseuse was playing. Thabiso knew what that tap meant: Likotsi had something important to tell him. Perhaps something to do with the African Union trade agreement.

“They make fools of us with this offer, Prince Thabiso. We must decline it!”

Or maybe there had been another skirmish with the South African farmers who had been encroaching on Thesoloian lands.

“If the crown will not protect our lands, we’ll be forced to protect ourselves, Your Highness.”

There was also the corporation that wanted to mine Thesolo for the rare earth minerals needed for their cell phone screens and hybrid cars. With the way they pressed, one might think those items were more important than the ecological future of a small African kingdom.

“This will be very lucrative for Thesolo’s coffers, Your Highness. I am the finance minister and I know more of these matters than you. Trust me.”

Or, most worryingly, perhaps his parents had finally made good on the threat to find him a bride since he wasn’t taking serious measures to further the Moshoeshoe royal line.

“Son, you have put off this duty for far too long. Our subjects are worried about the future of the kingdom and there are whispers of bad omens.”

It seemed that everyone wanted or needed something from him, and the number of people who saw him as both provider And protector was ever increasing. It was like quicksand, his responsibility; it had been sucking him down bit by bit from the moment he was born. Sometimes Thabiso was certain the pressure would crush him. He was a prince who would be a king, and there was no retiring, no respite, from his duty to his people.

He so badly wanted a respite. That option wasn’t available to only sons, though. Thabiso pushed against the resentment that had started to grow like an insidious weed in the more shadowy corners of his mind. Resentment of his parents for not bearing more children, of his people for expecting him to be more like a mythical prince than a flesh and blood one. Everyone had forgotten there was a Thabiso following the word Prince, so much so that sometimes he forgot, too.