Royally Matched (Royally #2)(41)

“I . . .”

Have no clue what to say.

The chance to reply passes when Vanessa moves in front of us, framing us with her fingers for the photographer beside her. “Get the still shots, Jerry. Gorgeous.”

Without missing a beat, Penny turns into my side, throws her arms around my neck, kicks up one leg behind her, and smiles bigly for the clicking camera.

Like a professional sociopath.

Fucking hell.





In the afternoon, I’m supposed to picnic with Laura in a flowered valley straight out of that awful Twilight film. I can’t bring myself to call these orchestrated excursions “dates,” even in my own mind. My sense of humor is not quite that delusional. In any case, the picnic is not happening. I have more important plans to execute.

Covert, off-camera plans.

And for them to happen, I need James.

He stands between the lighting tripods, arms crossed, eyes ever watchful.

“Here’s the deal,” I tell him quietly, “I’m bugging out for the afternoon. I’ll let you tail me as long as you hang back and,” I point toward Vanessa’s custom camera-pimped SUV, “as long as your men keep them from following. This one’s strictly off the grid. Agreed?”

His nod is quick and tight. “Of course, Sir.”

Half an hour later, Mission Ditch Matched is implemented successfully. And I’m in the convertible, with only James following behind, on my way to the library.





I find Willard in the catacombs of Concordia Library—Sarah explained this is where they do the preservation and restoration work. It’s two floors below ground level, but a surprisingly modern, well-lit, and dust-free white room. A precious little old woman with—thankfully for me—poor eyesight directed me here from the otherwise empty front desk area.

He looks up when I walk in, sliding thick, red-tinted, science fiction–like goggles to the top of his head. “Princess. This is surprising. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I need your help.”

He chuckles. “Oh how the mighty have fallen. I love it. How can I be of service?”

I’ve never met another man who could so artfully convey in his tone the opposite of what his words mean. Sarcasm, thy name is Willard.

“Sarah’s pissed off at me.”

The corner of his mouth ticks upward.

“Sarah rarely gets angry and when she does it never sticks. Did you kick a puppy?”

“No. I broke one of her books.”

He freezes in place and his voice is stunned into softness.

“Which one?”

My intestines squirm with shame. “Sense and Sensibility.”

“Why . . . would you do that?”

I rub the back of my neck. “I didn’t mean to . . . I lost my temper—”

“Get out.”

He takes the goggles off his head, slamming them onto the table.

“No, you don’t understand—”

“I understand perfectly. What you don’t seem to comprehend is that Sarah is my best friend. The only one I’ve got. I’m not fucking helping you. Piss off, Princess.”

He turns to walk away.

And I shout, “She’s hurt!”

That makes him pause mid-step, his back stiffening.

“I haven’t just made her angry, I’ve hurt her terribly. She’s still hurting . . . and I can’t stand it, Willard.” My hands find their way into my hair.

I move in front of him, bending my knees to catch his eyes, which seems quite apropos.

“Help me make it better. Not for me, but for her. Please.”

Willard regards me for several moments. And then he sighs.

“What do you need?”

“I need your connections, your contacts. I need to find a book.”





After a three-hour drive, Willard and I stand in a cramped, dusty rare-book shop between two boarded-up buildings, one block from a homeless encampment. Under the suspicious eyes of the shop owner, I check out the merchandise.

It feels like a drug deal.

“What do you think?”

Willard speaks around the large, curved pipe between his lips.

“Depends. What do you think, Princess?”

I turn the shiny first edition of Sense and Sensibility over in my latex-gloved hands—the owner insisted. Carefully, I flip through the pristine pages . . . with Sarah’s soft, airy voice in my head—from the very first time we met, in that pub more than a year ago.

“The only thing that smells better than a new book is an old one.”

I put the book down.

“This isn’t it. She’d want a book that’s been read—dog-eared and held and sighed over—not one that’s been caged in glass its whole life. She’ll want one that’s been loved.”

Ever so slowly, Willard smiles. “There’s hope for you yet.”





I step over the threshold of Anthorp Castle at two in the morning—exhausted and, yet, triumphant. The rooms are still and empty, all of my guests greedily sucking at the tit of beauty sleep. I head for the stairs, but a form steps out from the music room—and a voice.

“You missed two call times today.”

Not as empty as I thought.