A Royal Mess. Jill Shalvis

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      IN NATALIA’S WORLD, everyone knew she was a princess, no matter how much she tried to disguise it. And try to disguise it, she did. Mostly to avoid being compared to other recent and far more popular princesses. But there was a part of her that simply enjoyed shocking people. It was an unusual hobby, but it kept her amused.

      Yet, here in the U.S., she was a no one, and the American expression “royally pissed” was taking on a new meaning.

      Of course, according to Amelia Grundy—ex-nanny and current friend and companion to Natalia and her two sisters—a princess never lost her temper, not in public anyway.

      She’d blown that rule several times today alone. She wouldn’t do it again. It was easier, and far more fun, to get a rise out of the gorgeous cowboy next to her.

      Not exactly politically correct, but Princess Natalia Faye Wolfe Brunner of Grunberg wasn’t known for following the rules. Never had been. It wasn’t that she didn’t like her world, but more that she didn’t like having to conform. Not for anyone or anything, including her heritage. So she was different. It worked for her. Her family loved and adored her whether she wore silver and leather and blue makeup or played nice little princess, which she did once in a while to please them.

      But today…ugh. She’d been traveling all day from Europe, and still, the utter lack of…politeness among the American people in airports shocked her. She hoped it was just the airports, otherwise this was going to be a very unpleasant visit indeed.

      Hadn’t Amelia warned her of the good old U.S. of A., land of pop-up minimalls, Hollywood divas and Wild West cowboys?

      If truth be told, Natalia had a secret passion for old westerns. Both her sisters felt she watched too many Clint Eastwood movies, and maybe she did, but they fascinated her. Logically, she knew modern American men didn’t wear hats and carry six-shooters, but it was a good visual, and she appreciated a good visual.

      There was a real good visual sitting right next to her; all long, leanly muscled and wearing the requisite Stetson hat. And he was holding her hand. How sweet was that? She hadn’t imagined a cowboy could be sweet on top of being tough as nails—and she had no doubt that this man with his rugged looks and low, authoritative voice was tough as nails. She looked him over, thinking Hollywood had missed the mark by not using him in movies. “You don’t, by any chance, carry a six-shooter do you?”

      He lifted his hat and stared at her. “Have you been drinking?”

      “No, of course not.” Another thing princesses didn’t do in public…indulge. “I was just wondering. So do you? Carry a gun?”

      He put his hat back over his face, which was a crying shame given how amazing his face was. Not pretty-boy amazing—she got enough of that at home—but amazing in the way the Marlboro man would look without a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. A tanned, lived-in face, so arresting she couldn’t look away, paired with a body that would make any woman drool.

      “I left the six-shooter at home,” he said. “With my talking horse.” He yawned and stretched that tough, coiled body, bumping his knees on the seat in front of him. Swearing beneath his breath, he tried to fold himself back up, but oddly enough, he did it while leaving his large, warm hand СКАЧАТЬ