Hot Heir: A Royal Bodyguard / Secret Heir / Marriage of Convenience Romantic Comedy Read online

  Hot Heir

  Pippa Grant

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  THE HERO AND THE HACKTIVIST SNEAK PEEK!

  ROYALLY PUCKED TEASER

  COMPLETE PIPPA GRANT BOOK LIST

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Introduction

  Hot Heir

  A Royal Bodyguard / Secret Heir / Marriage of Convenience Romantic Comedy

  If I have to pick a bride of convenience, my first choice would NOT be Peach Maloney.

  My fiftieth choice would NOT be Peach.

  Top spot on my list of occupational hazards? Yes.

  Royal pain in the arse? Yes.

  A bride of convenience? No.

  But I’ve unexpectedly gone from royal bodyguard to monarch, having inherited a crown that was stolen from my family long before my birth. The kicker of this unexpected royal gift? In order to take the throne, I must find a wife.

  Have I mentioned Peach would NOT have been my hundredth choice?

  But I’ve no other options, and she needs a favor that my new position can fulfill quite nicely. So we’ve agreed to play the doting newlyweds out in public.

  In private, though, our rules are simple:

  No touching.

  No talking.

  And certainly no sex.

  I should have known better than to marry a rule-breaker.

  Hot Heir is a romping fun marriage of convenience romance between a surprise heir and a southern hot mess, complete with the bedroom to end all bedrooms, a run-down alpaca, and that thing with the hot air balloon. This romantic comedy stands alone with no cheating, cliffhangers and ends with a royally awesome happily ever after.

  Keep in touch with Pippa Grant!

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  More Books by Pippa Grant

  Mister McHottie (Chase & Ambrosia)

  Stud in the Stacks (Parker & Knox)

  The Pilot and the Puck-Up (Zeus and Joey)

  Royally Pucked (Manning and Gracie)

  Beauty and the Beefcake (Ares and Felicity)

  Rockaway Bride (Willow and Dax)

  Hot Heir (Viktor and Peach)

  The Hero and the Hacktivist (Rhett and Eloise)

  Charming as Puck (Nick and…)

  Exes and Ho Ho Hos (Jake and Kaitlyn)

  And more…

  1

  Viktor (aka a royal bodyguard who only thinks hot air is his biggest problem)

  It’ll be fine, Viktor, His Highness said.

  Perfectly safe. Nothing to worry about, His Highness said.

  You wouldn’t want to disappoint Gracie, would you, Viktor? His Highness said.

  In my twelve years as lead bodyguard to His Highness—Prince Manning Frey, third son of the king of Stölland—I’ve learned to never trust It’ll be fine, Viktor.

  But in the seven months since Miss Gracie Diamonte became a permanent fixture in His Highness’s life, I’ve yet to learn that sometimes, she must be disappointed.

  Were she unpleasant or loud-mouthed or the scheming sort—like the woman I currently find myself attempting to not throttle—it would be far easier to tell Miss Diamonte no. That it’s not the best idea to take a balloon ride over town to view this Grits Festival from above. But His Highness has sworn his eternal love and allegiance to a woman sweeter than honey and kinder than a saint who also bakes the most marvelous cookies I’ve ever had the pleasure of tasting.

  If angels are real, Miss Diamonte is surely one of them.

  Again, very much unlike the woman I currently find myself struggling to not strangle.

  Were we anywhere other than a hundred meters in the air in the scorching midday heat of a record-breaking Alabama summer day, held aloft only by the flame of a hot air balloon that neither of us knows how to operate, with sirens flashing on the roads below us as the local authorities attempt to chase us by ground, I would consider baiting this woman who is the very antithesis of His Highness’s kindhearted Miss Gracie.

  I do quite enjoy baiting Miss Peach Maloney when the opportunity presents itself. And the opportunity does present itself.

  Often.

  Far more often than I’d prefer, in fact.

  Which is why I bait her.

  It makes her tolerable.

  At the moment, however, I’d far rather get us back safely to the ground. “Madam, you own a flight adventure company,” I remind her. “I daresay this current predicament is your specialty.”

  So perhaps I’m not entirely capable of not baiting her. But I do stand by my statement that my priority is returning to the ground.

  Especially seeing as I would not have dived into the hot air balloon basket to save Miss Maloney had she not been in the basket in the first place as it began to rise.

  “I don’t do the flying, and we operate airplanes, not balloons.” Her blue eyes flash, and for the briefest of moments, I contemplate the likelihood of her being able to lever me out of this basket and send me careening to my death, as she, too, seems to be contemplating strangling me.

  Reasonably unlikely that she might overpower me, I decide.

  Which leaves room for error, as I don’t deduct her chances to be nil.

  I don’t like it.

  “Jeeves,” I say, quite distinctly, “how does one operate a hot air balloon?”

  My phone dings twice. Searching.

  “You named your phone Jeeves?” Miss Maloney says. As though a woman named Peach should talk about names.

  “Miss Diamonte took the task upon herself.”

  Peach’s blue eyes narrow.

  She rather dislikes it when I mention her friend. I rather enjoy rankling her, so I mention Miss Gracie as often as possible.

  Especially since His Highness ordered us all packed up and moved to the sweltering pit of hell known as Alabama for the summer. Where we’re now subjected to Miss Peach Maloney’s presence on a weekly, if not daily basis, whereas during our months in southern Virginia while His Highness was finishing his professional hockey season, she was merely a pest by phone.

  Despite all this, I would’ve come to Alabama voluntar
ily for Miss Gracie’s sake, as we’re here because this is her hometown, and being here makes her happy.

  “Terribly sorry, Viktor,” my phone says in a tinny Australian accent, also Miss Gracie’s doing. “Unable to process your request at this time.”

  “Jeeves isn’t doing his job,” Peach says, whipping out her own phone. “You should fire him.”

  “Of the three of us, Jeeves isn’t the one who stole a hot air balloon.”

  “I did not—”

  “Didn’t you, my lady?”

  “Oooh, don’t you my lady me, you—you—fuckleberries.” Her nose screws up, her lips pucker as though she’s about to force herself to kiss a frog, and sweat drips from the juncture of her collarbones and disappears into the hint of cleavage I’ve been pretending I haven’t noticed peeking out of her baby blue tank top.

  The sweat isn’t related to her frustration, not directly, as even at a hundred meters above ground, the air is still sweltering.

  But her sweat—and cleavage—is related to my increasing frustration.

  And my frustration is not the only element of me increasing.

  For as much as this woman annoys me, she does have a way of making certain parts of me stand up and take notice.

  Which is neither here nor there, because as one of Miss Gracie’s best friends—Miss Gracie has to have some flaw, and her taste may very well be it—Peach is off-limits.

  “I daresay the lack of reliable mobile signal may be my very favorite part of summering in Miss Diamonte’s hometown,” I say. Pleasantly.

  Mostly because it makes Peach’s left eye twitch anytime I say anything pleasantly to her.

  And on cue, her left eye twitches.

  Despite our precarious situation, I swallow a smile. “We’ve found ourselves in quite the cucumber, haven’t we?”

  “Pickle, Viktor. We’re in a dadgum pickle.”

  “I rather prefer cucumbers.”

  My amusement at how easy this game is—of course I know the phrase is a pickle—quickly morphs into alarm as Peach reaches a hand to a cord dangling from the balloon into the basket.

  “Shall I assist with that, my lady?” I offer, taking the single step necessary to grip her hand and pull it from the cord.

  I don’t know what the cord attaches to, and I’d rather she not unravel the whole bloody balloon.

  She twists her wrist and yanks her hand away. “No, you big ogre. You wanted me to get us down, I want to get us down, so stand back and let me get this thing on down.”

  Her southern accent flares when she’s agitated. Not a good sign that her drawl is thicker than wool on a March sheep.

  “Perhaps—” I begin, but she cuts me off with a glare so loud my mum can probably hear it back in Stölland, all the way across the Atlantic and halfway to the Arctic. ‘Twould be quite pleasant in Stölland today. Not at all sweltering. Or suffering from the presence of Peach.

  “The higher we go, the farther we fall when we run out of gas,” she says.

  Perhaps I should learn more quickly to deny Miss Gracie the occasional insane lark.

  Though whether she had requested viewing the Grits Festival Parade from the comfort of a hot air balloon or not, had I been present when Peach dashed into the hot air balloon basket, and it began to rise untethered as a figure disappeared out the other side, I daresay I’d still be in this predicament.

  It’s not the flashing emergency lights chasing us from the ground below, weaving in and out amongst the thick groves of oak and magnolia trees, that worry me.

  It’s the simple knowledge that neither of us has the necessary skills to properly bring this balloon back to earth.

  I peer up into the balloon, following the cord she grabbed, and realize it latches at the top.

  An escape hatch. A chimney, if you will.

  For hot air to release from.

  Maybe.

  Peach tugs.

  The flap opens, and the balloon drops sharply. I grip the side of the basket as she pitches into me, and instinct has me wrapping an arm around her.

  She inhales sharply.

  I catch a scent of salt and sweet lime, reminding me of the slice of pie Miss Diamonte ordered me to take back to my quarters and enjoy last night.

  “I’m not a damsel in distress,” Peach breathes.

  “One would never make that mistake, my lady.”

  “Then why are you trying to save me?”

  The question catches me by surprise. ‘Tis my sworn duty to protect a royal prince and his family. It’s a natural extension to protect anyone in danger.

  Including the source of the danger, at times.

  “Let. Me. Go.”

  For all her bite, there’s a quiver in her voice, and her blue eyes have gone smoky. I release her as requested after affirming she’s securely holding the basket and not at risk of tumbling. “Of course, my lady.”

  She scrambles back, pressing herself against the edge, putting a mere hands-width of space between us, as the basket is rather small.

  Her gaze rakes down my body, lingering on my arms. Her eyes go darker. A familiar tightening low in my gut and a rising in my knob suggest I’d do well to think of my departed grandmum naked.

  Peach visibly swallows. She again yanks on the cord.

  This time, we’re both braced.

  The balloon is sinking, which is a good thing. However, the breeze is carrying us toward a field of orderly bushes or small trees.

  “Perhaps some steering is in order, my lady.”

  “There’s no steering. It’s a balloon. And stop with the my lady thing.”

  I peer once more at the balloon above us. The fabric is flesh-colored, topped with a stem and a leaf because of course Peach would steal a balloon shaped as her namesake.

  “I apologize, my lady. I was incorrect about the cucumber.”

  She twists her neck to peer at me, her eyes telegraphing unfiltered suspicion. And a good deal of irritation too.

  Yes, yes, the my lady was unnecessary. But fun. Fun is a relatively new phenomenon in my life. I’ve come to quite enjoy it.

  “It seems,” I say, “this is more of a peachy situation.”

  Her ruby lips purse side to side, as though she’s debating the best answer.

  “Before the authorities accost us,” I continue, “perhaps you could enlighten to me as to your intentions and rationale in absconding with this remarkable flying fruit?”

  Rare color rises in her high cheekbones, and as she’s done several times since we took flight, she peers down at the ground.

  Not at the police cars and fire trucks, but rather toward the field where we left from.

  As though she’s searching for something.

  Or someone.

  I have a rather good suspicion of whom she’s seeking, but I keep it to myself.

  To see if she’ll lie, or if she’ll finally come to her senses and confess what we all know.

  Not that I intend to hold my breath while I wait. ‘Twould be suicidal, as I doubt this woman has ever confessed to a thing in her life.

  Were it not for her personality, she would be a lovely specimen of a woman. Average height, with enough curve in her hips and breasts to suggest a healthy appetite, but enough muscle definition to confirm she also takes care of herself. Her blond hair is always in place despite its natural wave—though the wind is playing gleefully with her ponytail this morning—her nails always match her lips, and when she’s alone with Miss Gracie—or rather, when she believes herself alone—she’s prone to laughter and mischief.

  The laughter, I appreciate.

  The mischief—were I in a profession where I could appreciate it, I’m still quite unsure I’d be capable of enjoying the trouble.

  “I thought I saw a baby,” she finally replies.

  “In the balloon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “And so you rushed in to rescue it when you realized the balloon was rising into the air
of its own accord, the wind having activated the trigger to cause the flame to open on its own and fill the balloon with hot air?” I prompt.

  This is quite the entertaining story, full of holes and nonsense, though it would be far more entertaining were it being told safely on the ground, rather than as we rapidly descend toward the orchard below.

  “I thought I saw its mother jump out the back.” Her chin juts as she continues the lie. “Like it was being abandoned.”

  She reaches for the cord again, but I grab her hand. “Perhaps we could attempt to drift past the trees before descending further, my lady?”

  “Perhaps you could leave the aviating to the woman who owns a flight adventure company?”

  “It’s becoming rapidly clear why you don’t pilot the planes. Tell me, what did this baby look like?”

  “A sandbag. Once I got right up on it.”

  “And what did this mother look like?”

  More color floods her cheeks, but her gaze doesn’t waver. “All I caught was brown hair and a thick build.”

  “Fascinating. The figure I saw was quite distinctly blond and slender.”