Code Name: Tiara by Sawyer Bennett
CHAPTER 11
Jackson
It’s our last day in the Florida Keys before we head to Arkansas tomorrow. Admittedly, it’s been a bit uncomfortable being around Camille since we had the kiss discussion, but not in the way I’d expected. You’d think she would’ve become an ice princess, turning her down the way I did, but the next morning when I walked into the kitchen for breakfast, I was brought to a complete halt. Camille stood shoulder to shoulder with my mom, an apron on, learning how to make biscuits. She had a dusting of flour across one cheek, and she and my mom were laughing about something.
My mom saw me first. “Good morning.”
I muttered the same back, my eyes cutting to Camille to see how she’d play things.
I got a glorious, genuine smile from Her Royal Highness. “Good morning,” she said, and I could not detect one hint of bitterness or anger.
In fact, she was her normal, cheery self, and it made me question if that whole subject of a kiss went down the way I thought it had.
Could I have misread it all?
Nah. It was what I thought it was. I’d merely made a gaff with that kiss statement… or maybe my subconscious was shining through. Whatever. Bottom line, I wouldn’t give in, and I told her that.
Then it became a war of word meaning… wouldn’t versus whether I wanted to. Somewhere in that exchange, it became clear I wanted to kiss her but was being held back, and she wanted me not to hold back and kiss her.
It took every bit of my willpower to walk out of the kitchen that night.
“But I won’t” is what I said to her.
I really want to, but I won’t.
We left Arlington after another visit with my dad, who was hopefully going to be released from the hospital the next day. Since then, it’s been business as usual. We got back on track with our itinerary and stopped in Miami for a night. The last two days, we’ve explored the Keys where she swam with dolphins, gone out on a charter fishing boat, and explored tiny shops where she bought cheap trinkets for her family and friends.
Rather than a hotel, we’re staying in a luxury home owned by a friend of a friend of the Winterbourne family on Sunset Key, a twenty-seven-acre island only about five hundred yards off the coast of Key West. It’s only accessible by boat, and the estate has its own stretch of private beach that borders right up to the patio and pool at the back of the house.
The home is modest by palace standards, a little over 4000 square feet with three bedrooms. It is, however, worth six million dollars because it sits on a private island off Key West and has private beach access. There’s only one dock on the island whereby incoming boats can ferry passengers, although there are several places a boat could pull into shallow waters and someone could walk right onto one of the private beaches.
As such, we’re using extra agents to stand post around the house and more to patrol the island’s perimeter to make sure no one tries to approach from the water. If they come in by dock, IDs are checked before they can come onto the island. While Sunset Key is a little slice of paradise where Camille can relax and have what might be considered a brief vacation, this is actually the most vulnerable place we’ve had her in so far.
On this last day here in the Florida Keys, Camille chooses to do something I find to be out of character. She actually sleeps late, which I’ve never seen her do, even on the morning of her horrible hangover following the wedding reception. At 9:00 a.m., I’m worried enough that I knock on her bedroom door to make sure she’s okay. I woke her from a sound sleep, and she’s actually apologetic for not being up earlier.
“I can’t believe I slept that late,” she says as she stares blearily at the clock. The sheet and blanket are pulled up to her chest, a good thing because I have no desire to see her in her pajamas again. Despite the fact that she was sick and vomiting the night of the reception, I did notice when I found her tangled up in the sheets on the floor that she was wearing silky short shorts and a matching top with spaghetti straps. It covered everything it should’ve been covering but was still sexy as fuck.
I assure Camille there’s no problem and urge her to go back to sleep. She declines, and half an hour later, she’s downstairs looking for a late breakfast. The house came stocked with enough food to last a week, even though we’re only staying for two days. She settles on a bowl of fruit and a cup of tea and then meanders out poolside where she stays for the rest of the day.
I give her space and stay indoors, but I can easily observe her through the sliding glass doors. Other agents roam the grounds, but we’re all unobtrusive. Camille seems to have needed this, and I’d bet $1000 that this might be one of only a handful of days in her entire life when she’s been able to relax completely and not have some duty associated with her royal title pulling at her.
For hours, she stays by the pool, not even sunbathing but relaxing on a chaise under a big umbrella that provides shade. Still, she wears a big floppy hat and sunglasses and looks Hollywood glam in a black one-piece bathing suit with a matching sarong around her hips. She naps and reads and sometimes just looks out over the ocean in contemplation. The entire time, she seems peaceful and happy, and it really brings home the fact that this is one hardworking princess who doesn’t get enough downtime.
Around 5:00 p.m., Camille comes into the house and announces she’s going to grab a shower. She also announces, “I’ll make dinner tonight. I was thinking of grilling some shrimp.”
I give her a skeptical look. “Do princesses know how to grill?”
She grins at me—see, no hard feelings about my refusal to kiss her—and says, “How hard can it be? You start the grill, you lay the shrimp on it.”
I shake my head at her. “You may be good at many things, Your Highness, but you should always leave the grilling to the men.”
She shoots me a mock glare. “Sexist.”
The princess then turns and marches up the stairs to the master suite to take her shower.
She actually might be able to cook.Hell, for all I know, she’s the grill master for the Bretarian palace. But until she goes to sleep tonight, I’m going to let her have one complete vacation day, so I get to work.
I’m actually pleased with myself at how things turn out. A quick Google search and I found an amazing recipe to marinate the shrimp—soy sauce, garlic, lime juice, and ginger. I skewered the shrimp and placed them over the hot grill, needing only a few minutes on each side. Prior to that, I’d whipped up a pineapple-jalapeño salsa—also thanks to Google—and had some asparagus on the grill alongside the shrimp.
It wasn’t a lot, but then again, Camille doesn’t eat like a horse. I do, so I added a double batch of shrimp for me.
It’s almost six when Camille comes down the staircase, and when she walks into view, I have another moment—they’re happening quite frequently—where I look at her as if for the first time, and my breath catches. You’d think that I would get used to her beauty, her grace, and let’s face it, the one thing I’ve noticed more and more, her sexiness.
But she’s a fucking vision walking down the stairs in a simple white cotton dress that has a tank top and a loose bottom that swirls around her knees. She wears no embellishments or adornments on her body, not even earrings, and her wet hair is piled on top of her head. Her face is scrubbed free of makeup and she’s barefoot. She’s never looked lovelier.
I know she loved my parents’ old farmhouse, but if you ask me, Camille is completely suited to quaint tropical island living where she wears nothing but summer dresses and runs around barefoot all the time without a care in the world.
I hate to admit it, but I could get used to living here and just watching her be that way.
And I hate myself for even thinking that. It goes far beyond what I should be thinking about Camille. It also embarrasses me, because I am all about my career. Never in my life did I think, at the age of twenty-seven, I would contemplate retiring to an island off the Keys to just hang out with my woman.
Pretty sure if I ever let any of my single friends in on these feelings, they would call me a fucking pussy. Also pretty sure if I told any of my buds who’ve married or recently fallen in love, they would tell me I have it bad.
So I am not about to admit those thoughts to anyone, not even myself.
Camille comes into the kitchen where I’m pulling the pineapple salsa out of the refrigerator. “I hope you’re hungry,” I say casually, trying to banish my absurd thoughts running amok.
She rubs her stomach in response. “Starved, actually.”
I lead her out to the back patio where I have set the poolside table with plates, ice water, and two wineglasses. Chilling next to the place settings is a bottle of pinot grigio.
I walk over to the table and pull out her chair, and I don’t miss her startled look over my gallantry. In the time we’ve spent together so far, including a handful of meals where she didn’t have set appointments, I’ve never pulled out her chair for her.
I ignore her look and move to the grill. Opening the hood, I pull the skewers of shrimp and veggies off the cooling racks and place them on a platter.
As I set the food on the table, Camille looks around and asks, “Where’s Paul?”
“He went to the mainland to pick up the rental car we’ll use to drive back to Miami. He’ll eat there. We’ve moved an extra agent into his place on the perimeter.”
“Oh,” she says, draping her cloth napkin over her lap.
Before I sit, I uncork the wine, pour her a glass, and then settle it back into the ice bucket.
As I take my chair, she asks, “Aren’t you going to have a glass?”
“I’m on the job,” I remind her.
She looks to the wineglass beside my plate and then back to me in question.
I shrug. “The setting didn’t look symmetrical with only one wineglass.”
Camille bursts out laughing, and to my surprise, she stands and reaches across the table for the bottle of wine. I really should argue when she leans over and pours me half a glass. I should also ignore the fact that when she leans over, it deepens her cleavage, and all kinds of lewd thoughts run through my brain.
She’s not even fully seated before I pick up the glass, wanting to gulp the whole thing down, hoping it will chill me the fuck out. Instead, I wait for her to pick up her glass and then I offer a toast. “Here’s to the end of what I hope was a fabulous day for you.”
We touch our glasses, and they make a faint clicking sound.
I watch her over the rim of my own glass as we sip. She closes her eyes and savors that first taste. When she opens them, she smiles sheepishly. “I have to say, today may have been the best of my trip so far.”
Camille reaches out to the platter of shrimp and asparagus, and using tongs, places the food on her plate. She then passes the tongs to me. “I actually feel guilty for taking a day off. Haven’t even checked my email today.”
As I’m loading my plate with food, I ask, “When’s the last time you took a day off?”
Camille shrugs as she picks up a skewer of shrimp and uses her fork to slide them off. “I honestly don’t remember. I don’t think I’ve taken a vacation since I got out of college. I finished school and went right to work for the family enterprise.”
Camille launches into a long-winded summary of what life has been like for her since she graduated. Much of it I’d already picked up on. First and foremost, she serves as a representative of the mining part of the family business and secondarily as a member of the royal crown. This makes sense because this monarchy’s ruby trade has always taken precedence over the flamboyancy of being a royal. It doesn’t mean King Thomas doesn’t attend royal duties. He has a lot of them, which also includes being an advisor to the parliament that rules Bretaria. And now that Camille is in the business, the king tends to concentrate on the royal side of things while Camille works the mining side, under his watch, of course.
“But my father is pulling me in more on royal duties now,” Camille says as she cuts up a shrimp. “Believe it or not, I actually have to take classes on the history of the Bretarian monarchy since its inception.”
“I guess your schooling is never done, huh?” I muse.
“Always learning something every day, aren’t we? Otherwise, how do we develop as people?”
“Good point.” I pick up my wine for a sip. I’m not usually a wine guy. Give me a beer, and I won’t even care if it’s craft. Better yet, some whiskey. But I sip to be social and because it tastes great with our light meal.
When I set my wineglass down, I ask, “Okay … it’s clear you’re a hard worker and you don’t take vacations. I do know that you sneak out of the palace to go cliff diving, but what else do you do for fun?”
Camille gives a mirthless laugh. “I’m not saying this to make you feel sorry for me, but sneaking out of the palace was pretty much the highlight of any given day for me.”
“Parties? TV? Shopping?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Boring.”
I laugh and settle back in my chair, enjoying the view of her before me. “Come on, Princess… give me something. What’s the most adventurous thing you’ve ever wanted to do? We can even make it happen on this trip. Skydiving? I’ll arrange it. Drive a race car around a track? I can totally set it up.”
Camille settles back in her chair and mimics my actions, clasping her hands over her stomach and resting her elbows on the armrests. She looks upward as if pondering before locking her baby blues tight on me. The look on her face is positively mischievous. “I’m not much for jumping out of planes. But if I had to do something adventurous, I think at some point on this trip, I’d approach a hot guy and solicit him for a one-night stand. Maybe I’ll arrange to have you take me out to a nightclub and let me pick somebody. Of course, it would be completely safe because I would have you, Paul, and probably half a dozen other agents making sure I’m okay. I mean, not the sex part—I’d handle that, and I already have some condoms tucked away for just such an occasion.”
I can do nothing but stare at her, my eyes practically bugging out of my head. Surely she’s joking. Camille gives me a sweet smile and leans forward in her chair, putting her attention back on her meal. She resumes eating as if she didn’t just drop the biggest, most explosive bombshell I’ve ever heard in my life.
Princess Camille has added to her itinerary random sex with a complete stranger.
And the pisser of it is, I can’t stop her from doing it. She’s an adult. My job is to make sure she’s safe. In all actuality, I can watch her from a distance in a nightclub while she picks the man she wants to fuck. I can be discreet and follow her back up to her suite, and I can sit with my ear pressed against the door to make sure he’s not hurting her. But past that, I can’t do much else.
My stomach rolls at the thought of listening to her have sex with somebody else, particularly if she’s enjoying it.
Camille’s head pops up and she looks at me brightly. “Do you think we could arrange for a boat ride after dinner? I’d love to be on the open water one more time before we leave tomorrow.”
And just like that, she changes the subject.
She did it so she didn’t have to hear my thoughts on the matter, even though I’m nowhere near ready to tell her exactly how I feel about it. I’m far too disturbed by it.
I think she knows it too.
Camille dropped that bombshell pretty much to say she’s moved on, making it clear she’s going to do what she wants.
Apparently, she’s decided she’s going to get that kiss one way or another, and I’m not sure how much of this is bothering me that she could so easily forget wanting to kiss me just a few days ago.