The Royal Romantics

My Best Friend’s Royal Wedding

ROMY SOMMER

One More Chapter

a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Romy Sommer 2020

Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Romy Sommer asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008353599

Ebook Edition © January 2020 ISBN: 9780008353582

Version: 2019-12-19

About This Book

This ebook meets all accessibility requirements and standards.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

About This Book

Dedication

Prologue: Khara

Chapter 1: Adam

Chapter 2: Khara

Chapter 3: Khara

Chapter 4: Adam

Chapter 5: Khara

Chapter 6: Khara

Chapter 7: Khara

Chapter 8: Adam

Chapter 9: Khara

Chapter 10: Khara

Chapter 11: Adam

Chapter 12: Adam

Chapter 13: Khara

Chapter 14: Adam

Chapter 15: Khara

Chapter 16: Khara

Chapter 17: Khara

Chapter 18: Khara

Chapter 19: Adam

Chapter 20: Khara

Chapter 21: Adam

Chapter 22: Khara

Chapter 23: Adam

Chapter 24: Khara

Chapter 25: Khara

Chapter 26: Adam

Chapter 27: Adam

Chapter 28: Adam

Chapter 29: Khara

About the Author

About the Publisher

Dedicated to the ladies of Coffee Club, who keep me sane and motivated, and who give me an excuse to drink both coffee and champagne (not that anyone ever needs an excuse for either!)

Prologue

Khara

“You’re off the floor tonight.” My boss grabs at my elbow as I slide behind the bar. “They need you upstairs in the private dining room. One of their waitresses didn’t show.”

“Why me? Surely they could use one of the regular restaurant servers?” I set the tray of dirty glasses down beside the sink and face him. “I just serve drinks.”

“Taking food orders isn’t much different from taking drinks orders, and you’re our most experienced waitress.”

I roll my eyes. ‘Most experienced’ means nothing more than ‘the loser who’s been serving drinks since the moment she was legally allowed to, and still hasn’t got out.’

“Big tippers?” I ask.

Frank shrugs. “You never can tell with the kind of guests who book the private rooms. They like to throw their money around, but when it comes to remembering the hired help …? You might get lucky, you might not.”

I really don’t want to do this. I’m comfortable here on the casino floor, where I know the score and the tips are good. My friend Phoenix would have been a much better choice, but she’s off back-packing around Europe at the moment. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second at the thought of Europe, a place that has always seemed magical but impossibly unreal. The odds of me ever doing something so impetuous are so low no bookie would risk taking that bet.

Frank tries again. “Khara, you said you wanted to move onward and upward. Maybe this will lead to a permanent promotion.” He grips my arm, his expression serious. “You know I don’t want to lose you, but you’re better than this.” He nods toward the casino floor, toward the constant ding-ding-ding of slot machines, the never-ending night, and I hear what he doesn’t say: Don’t end up like me.

“Fine. But can I get a moment to change first?” I glance down at my black tank top bearing the casino’s logo, where an over-enthusiastic gambler slopped beer on me earlier.

“Sure, just remember to keep it classy. Then get your skinny ass upstairs quick as you can. Wouldn’t want to keep Their Highnesses waiting.”

I laugh. Frank is one of the reasons I haven’t already quit this job. Only in his world would my ass be considered skinny.

In the cramped staff locker room, I strip off my top and hot pants and stuff them into my locker. There is one sure-fire way to earn tips in a casino, and dressing classy isn’t it. Luckily, I always keep a dress in the locker in case of emergencies – like an unexpected hot date. With its above-the-knee skirt and plunging neckline, the little black skater dress might not be quite the look management has in mind for its restaurant servers, but it’s classier than the other options I have stashed in there, and yet still guaranteed to get me noticed. And getting noticed is the best way to earn tips.

I hurry up the back stairs to the restaurant. While the casino floor is where the everyday tourists and slot machine addicts hang out, the upstairs restaurant is where the people with money go. It was decorated by a famous interior designer, and has a Mediterranean cuisine menu curated by a Michelin-starred chef, but to me it just looks dark and pretentious. Its only saving grace is the view over the hotel’s lush gardens. The Bellagio has its fountains, the Luxor has its pyramid, and we have our water gardens. In the seven years I’ve worked here, I’ve walked through those gardens exactly once.

The three private function rooms are separated from the restaurant by a long corridor. The restaurant manager sends me to the largest of the rooms where two burly men, who look ominously like bodyguards, flank the door. I’m scared for a moment that they’re going to frisk me, then one nods curtly and holds the door open for me. The guests are already seated. The head waiter gives me a disapproving once-over, thrusts an opened bottle of expensive Champagne into my hands, and gives me a not-so-subtle shove in my lower back to get moving.

Two things are immediately obvious. The first is that the guests aren’t much older than me, and the second is that they clearly started their party elsewhere, because they’re already pretty buzzed.

I top up their Champagne glasses, then head to the kitchen to fetch the starter platters. The first course is served on delicate white porcelain plates. Bacon-wrapped scallops, crab cakes, and jumbo shrimp. My mouth waters.

As I serve, I get the opportunity to observe the guests. Four men, three women and, judging by their accents, none of them are American. No wonder Frank called them ‘Their Highnesses’. Perhaps they are. They all sound like Prince Harry. Which one of them is the reason for the bodyguards at the door?

The men are in smart evening suits, the women wear cocktail dresses. I can’t tell designer from knock-off, but I’m pretty sure their dresses don’t come from Target.

The next course is lobster bisque with Caesar salad. My stomach rumbles and I hope no one else hears it. I haven’t eaten since that burger at Wendy’s before the start of my shift nearly eight hours ago. This is why I prefer serving drinks on the casino floor: less temptation.

“I don’t think I’m going to make it to the end of the meal,” I complain to the sous-chef as I watch him flip prime steaks in the kitchen. “Those smell so good!”

He wipes the sweat from his brow and grins. He has the warmest brown eyes imaginable, and the broad-shouldered build of an athlete – a swimmer or a wrestler maybe. “You wouldn’t say that if you were the one grilling them all night. What time do you get off?”

“Whenever that lot do.” I nod toward the dining room.

“Want to go grab something to eat at Tacos El Gordo afterward?”

I grin back. “It’s a date. I’m Khara.”

“Raúl.” He holds out his hand, then ruefully yanks it back before I can shake it. His hand is spattered with basting sauce.

With an extra sway in my hips, I push through the swing doors, balancing the tray of prime sirloin, lobster linguine, and sea bass. The food no longer looks quite as enticing. I can make it through this evening. Tacos shared with an attractive man with a sense of humor beats the fanciest dishes in the world any day.

Half my tray is empty when I feel a hand grasp my thigh. “Hey, gorgeous,” a voice slurs.

I’m not unused to being groped by customers. I should have known better than to assume these people, with their money and looks and rank, would be any different from the drunken tourists on the casino floor. I turn, icy glare in place, to look at the man whose hand is now sliding higher, under the hem of my skirt, getting way too familiar.

What else can I do? I glance at the head waiter, wondering if I’ll be fired if I make a scene. Serving on the casino floor is so much easier. There, I could slap the hand away and give a sharp retort, and no one would bat an eye. Not to mention that Security would be all over a drunk and difficult gambler in a heartbeat. But here …?

The man’s blond hair flops down over his forehead, almost into his pale blue eyes. He might have been attractive, if not for the receding chin and boyish looks. I prefer real men. The kind that work with their hands.

His too-soft hand is still sliding higher, almost at the edge of my panties now. I think I’ve just discovered the reason why none of the restaurant waitresses wanted to work this room tonight.

“Please remove your hand. Sir.” The last is an afterthought, and more for the benefit of the head waiter, who turns to eye me suspiciously, than for the pale man looking at me as if I’m nothing more than another prime steak.

“Do you know who I am?” He says it with charm and a sloppy smile that almost takes the arrogance out of his words. Almost.

“Cut it out, Nick. The waitress isn’t on the menu.” This from the dark-haired man at the end of the table. “I’m hungry and you’re holding up my food.” He sounds bored.

Blondie lets me go, and I scoot around the table to distribute the rest of the plates. When I reach the dark-haired man, he leans toward me, voice low. “I apologize for my cousin. He’s had a bit too much to drink.”

“No shit,” I reply, keeping my voice equally low. I set down his plate, the Chilean sea bass, and turn to leave, but one of the women waves for me to stop.

“What is this? I can’t eat carbs.” Her voice has taken on a haughty tone, completely different from the giggly, effervescent way she spoke to her friends.

“You ordered the lobster linguine.” I keep my voice soft, polite, though it’s an effort.

“Yes, I ordered lobster. Not pasta.”

The dark-haired man laughs, a soft sound, quickly stifled. I glare at him, wishing I could do the same.

“I’ll ask the kitchen to prepare a new dish for you,” I say, forcing a smile for the woman and removing her plate.

“What’s wrong?” Raúl asks as I slam down the tray beside him.

“Damn entitled rich folks, that’s all.” I draw in a deep breath, and let it out very slowly and carefully. I need their money. I have to be able to smile when I walk back in there.

“Can you whip up something with lobster, but no linguine? She can’t eat carbs.”

“No worries.” He smiles and takes the plate from me, carrying it over to the chef.

I lean up against the wall, out of everyone’s way. The familiar sound of real people doing real work soothes my temper. These are my kind of people.

When the meal is done and I go in to clear away the dirty dishes, the porcelain plates are still half-piled with food. Our restaurant isn’t exactly famous for its large portions, and yet the young women have barely touched their food – including the specially prepared lobster.

The wastage is enough to make me want to throw the food in their faces. Instead, I keep on smiling and stack the dishes on my tray.

The head waiter circles the table once more, clearing away the empty Champagne bottles, and opening the next. Haven’t they already had more than enough to drink?

The dark-haired man looks up from studying the dessert menu. His gaze snags on me, slowly kindling. It’s a look that gets under my skin, prickly and hot with a hint of amusement, and I don’t like it at all. He is by far the best-looking man in this group. His dark hair is artfully tousled, his green-gray eyes are piercing, and his chin is definitely not weak. He exudes confidence and charm, but I’m immune. I’ve met enough of his type.

At any given moment, there are dozens of men like him in Vegas. Bachelor parties and frat boy weekends and conference groups. All with money to burn and the same attitude of entitlement. Most of them barely give me a second look, since I’m just the hired help, but those that do notice, like this one, are even worse. They seem to think that because I wear a short skirt and an apron, I’m as easily available as the drinks.

“Anyone for dessert?” I ask brightly.

The three women, all blonde, all skinny, and indistinguishable from one another, shake their heads in unison, and I hear Frank’s voice in my head. Nothing but bone – nothing to hold onto. I suppress a grin, but not quickly enough.

The dark-haired man raises an enquiring eyebrow at me; that amused look is in his eyes again, almost as if he read my thoughts. Then, “I’ll have the New York cheesecake.” He holds out the menu to me, but when I reach to take it he doesn’t let it go, teasing me. Or more likely taunting me, like a typical playground bully.

The woman to his right pouts. “But I want to go down to the casino.”

“And you will, Flora. As soon as I’ve had my dessert. Or you could go downstairs in the meantime and I’ll join you there later, once I’ve had dessert.”

Flora’s pout deepens. “But it’ll be no fun without you.”

Having observed them all evening, I completely get where she’s coming from. This dark-haired man is the one who has kept the dinner conversation flowing, deftly handled his cousin’s moods, made everyone laugh, and flirted with the ladies. He’s also the least drunk in the party. Without him, they make a deadly dull group.

Nick the Obnoxious’ eyes narrow as he looks from his cousin to me. “I know what your idea of dessert is.”

The dark-haired man merely laughs, then flashes a flirty smile at Flora. “Don’t listen to him, Flora, darling. You know I love you and only you.”

I stifle another laugh, cover it with a cough. Maybe for this week. I’d bet all my worldly goods this man says the same thing to many, many women. And because he has money, I’ll also bet these brainless model types are just queuing up to be next.

When I return to the dining room with his dessert, the room is empty except for the dark-haired man. Since the burly bodyguards disappeared along with the rest of the group, I assume he’s not the VVIP.

He takes his time, sipping the last of his Champagne, and twirling the stem of his glass. Now that the others have gone, he looks bored.

The head waiter brings the bill, and he signs it with a flourish. The tip is generous, and I breathe out a sigh of relief. Since no cash or cards change hands, they must be guests in the hotel. Not that I care.

Silently, I clear away his dessert plate and empty Champagne flute. It’s just the two of us in the room again, and I can feel his gaze burning me up. It strokes down my legs, making me feel naked. Hot, bothered, and naked.

Nervous, awkward, I nearly tip my tray and have to grab for the glass.

He laughs.

I glare.

With the bill already paid, I have nothing to lose. “Don’t you have someplace better to be?”

“When you’ve seen one casino, you’ve seen them all.”

Talk about preaching to the converted. I’ve worked in this one long enough that I’d be happy never to step foot inside another casino. And as soon as I graduate – if I ever graduate – I plan to get a job somewhere that has windows that let in real daylight.

“Throwing your money away at the tables is supposed to be thrilling,” I say. Not that I’d know. I have better things to do with my money than throw it away, but I’m desperate for him to leave. Raúl’s shift in the kitchen has already ended.

But the dark-haired foreigner merely shrugs again, and this time the movement looks weary, as if he’s not bored but tired. If being the heart and soul of this little party is so much effort, why does he bother?

“There’s more to Vegas than casinos. You could always try the Stratosphere Tower, or the Zombie Burlesque show,” I offer.

His cool green-gray eyes kindle again, wiping away that weary look. “What time do you get off work?”

Seriously? I narrow my eyes at him, but say nothing.

“You can show me what lies beyond the Strip. I can pay.”

My back stiffens. I may be almost permanently broke, but I am not for sale. “I already have a date,” I say stiffly.

He shrugs as if he doesn’t believe me. “In case you change your mind …” He smirks as he lays a room card down on the table, no longer even bothering to pretend he’s looking for a tour guide.

Anger ripples through me, white-hot. “The waitress is Not. On. The. Menu.”

Then I turn and walk out, my hands shaking so hard the glass wobbles dangerously on the tray.

Chapter 1

Adam

One year later …

As we crown the rise that separates the estate from the outside world, I see an ominous black car pull up beside the stable block and groan aloud. The sleek stretch limo with its dark-tinted windows can’t mean anything good. My horse, sensing home and her nosebag of hay, picks up her pace, but I’m less keen. Whoever is being driven in that vehicle, it’s certainly not anyone I want to see. Has my father sent someone from the office to check why I’m skiving off work again? I wonder if I should turn around and keep riding until the unwelcome visitor is gone. Riding is my one escape, my only chance to be alone, away from the stifling confines of family and work and expectations, and I resent this intrusion.

But Bonney is growing tired and needs a rub down and a rest. Unwillingly, I keep her on course. I slow her to a walk, though, reluctant to find out what this visitor wants from me. Because there is no doubt that it’s me that he – or she – wants, and I am so tired of everyone wanting things from me that I can’t give.

By the time I reach the red-brick stables, a relic of the Victorian era, a groom has already come running to take the reins. I dismount, just as the uniformed chauffeur leaning up against the vehicle moves to open the limo door. The visitor who steps out is tall and slim, grey-haired and wearing rimless glasses. I don’t recognise him, so maybe he hasn’t been sent to drag me back to the city for some mindlessly boring meeting I forgot.

“Adam Hatton?” the man asks.

I nod, otherwise ignoring him as I give Bonney the apple slices out my pocket and a pat, before relinquishing her to the hovering groom.

“My name is János Alsóvári.”

The name doesn’t ring any bells, but it’s enough to tell me where the visitor is from. Or rather who. “My uncle sent you?” I ask, stripping off my riding gloves and finally turning to face him. And that can only mean one thing: my cousin Nick has got himself into some kind of trouble again. His escapades are growing tiresome. He’s over thirty, for heaven’s sake, and well past the age when all-night parties at Mahiki, losing a small fortune gambling, or getting photographed with drunk and/or naked women should have lost its appeal. When is he ever going to grow up?

“What has Nick done now?” I ask, unable to hold back a sigh.

The visitor clears his throat. “It is my unfortunate duty to inform you that Prince Nicholas died this morning.”

I freeze in the process of removing my second glove. Maybe I heard him wrong?

But the man’s face tells me I didn’t misunderstand his words. He looks the way I feel. Tired.

“What happened?” I manage at last.

“He wrapped his roadster around a tree in the early hours.”

“He was drunk?”

“Of course.” The man’s expression remains neutral, but his lips press together, betraying his disapproval.

“Was anyone else injured?”

János shakes his head and I breathe out a sigh of relief. At least Nick didn’t take anyone with him. Where were his bodyguards? I rub a hand across my face, trying to process the news. I shouldn’t be surprised. The way Nick lived, hard, fast and completely without regard for anyone or anything, an early death was almost inevitable. Still, it feels as if a sledgehammer has slammed into my chest.

Nick. I saw him at the polo club just last weekend. And we’re supposed to play a match on Sunday. I know I shouldn’t be thinking of something like that right now, but I can’t help but wonder who we’ll get to replace him at such short notice. Rik’s halfway around the world in the Caribbean with his new bride, and these days Max is too busy being a prince. Everyone else I know who’s any good is already in a team.

“Your uncle requests a meeting with you. He is at the townhouse in London.”

I’d almost forgotten the visitor was still here. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

János’ lips press together again. “Now.”

“I’m hardly dressed for a meeting.” I glance down at my jeans and muddied riding boots.

“His Royal Highness requests your presence. Your attire is of no consequence.”

I shrug, and allow the man to bundle me into the limo. The chauffeur takes his seat up front. The dark glass is up between the front and back, leaving János and me alone in the back. The car pulls away, following the curve of the drive through a copse of trees and past the neo-classical mansion that’s been the Hatton family country seat for just two generations. My mobile phone and wallet are upstairs, still in the jacket of the three-piece suit I wore to work this morning, but I suppose I’ll hardly need them where we’re going.

“What does my uncle want with me?” I ask János. Though in my head the question is phrased a little less politely. After all, there’s nothing more I can do for Nick now. Unless Uncle Lajos is already planning the funeral, and wants me to get involved. But my uncle has never done anything in haste, which is why this whole mad rush seems bizarre.

Or does he hold me responsible for Nick’s death? He hasn’t held me responsible for Nick’s behaviour before, even though I’ve felt responsible.

János doesn’t answer. I want to ask how he found me. I lied and told my secretary I was meeting a client when I left the office early this morning. The groom is the only one who even knew I’d come home to my parents’ house. Lucky guess, or does my uncle have some sort of scary intelligence network at his disposal? Since I know I wouldn’t get an answer to that question, I don’t bother asking.