Code Name: Tiara by Sawyer Bennett
CHAPTER 6
Jackson
Lifestyles of the rich and famous.
This wedding is over-the-top ridiculous. The ceremony itself was in a massive, old cathedral with over five hundred people in attendance, and my understanding is they had to cap that amount for lack of space. The reception, however, is expecting seven hundred and fifty. That extra two hundred and fifty people are the second tier of the bride’s and groom’s friends who weren’t quite close enough to witness the religious nuptials but were in high enough regard to be given access to the decadent food and expensive liquor.
The wedding cake is seven tiers high and tops me by about four inches. The hotel opened two massive ballrooms which are side by side and separated by a retractable wall to make an enormously vast room. Tables that seat eight have been positioned strategically around the perimeter and set with translucent fine bone china, Waterford Crystal, and luxury linens to serve a seven-course meal over two hours. A full orchestra plays mood music throughout the meal, only to be replaced by a live band—one I learned is a chart-topper in the UK, but I’ve never heard of them—for continued partying. The alcohol flows more freely, changing from the finest champagne to an open bar stocked with top-shelf booze. The swell of the crowd doesn’t diminish, and at 1:00 a.m., the party is still going strong.
Dmitri gave me strict orders, by way of King Thomas, to allow Camille to “let her hair down” and party her ass off, if that’s what she wanted. Dmitri explained that the princess has had a rather reclusive life, given she’s lived on a closed-off island on a royal compound surrounded by a wall. Though the social scene in Bretaria is apparently quite good, given her duties and responsibilities, Camille has had little time to hang out with friends.
It was during that conversation that I learned the man who was with her at the amphitheater gala was truly just a friend. Her best, actually, although everyone who was anyone were holding out for the two to marry. Dmitri was convinced that was never happening as over the years, he’d watched the two grow up as more brother and sister.
Knowing that Camille has to meet high royal expectations and has heavy responsibilities, it’s no wonder she sometimes takes chances that perhaps she shouldn’t. Dmitri told me about finding Camille and Marius outside the wall, about to jump off a cliff into the sea below. Part of me was horrified she would break rules designed for her protection, but part of me admired her desire to fly free.
And yes, that means I feel a bit sorry for her. The one thing I am starting to understand is that Princess Camille’s tiara seems a lot heavier than I previously thought.
So yeah… Dmitri is right. Let her have fun and party hard at this reception. I don’t mind watching her like this, hanging with her girlfriends while laughing hysterically and dancing her ass off to wild punk music that grates on my ears.
Admittedly, Camille hasn’t had as much alcohol as she has the leeway to drink. During the long dinner, she sipped on two glasses of wine. When the band struck up, she switched to martinis and has had two of those. Although I haven’t spoken with her, I’ve been monitoring her carefully, and I can’t quite determine how much of her joyful abandon is from the alcohol or sheer happiness at being out with her college friends.
Maybe both.
She’s not showing the classic signs of inebriation. She’s able to dance in her four-inch heels without a bobble, and she’s definitely not doing any drunken lurching. In fact, the woman knows how to move her body. I haven’t been able to hear her speech to see if it’s affected, but I’ve seen her engage in conversations with young and old alike, and nobody is laughing at something preposterous she’s said. Rather, she seems genuinely engaged in her conversations and isn’t flighty or distracted. If I had to say anything, I would say she’s got a good buzz going on, and honestly… it’s not so bad to watch.
Tonight has been quite the easy babysitting job.
My stomach tightens slightly as I think about the phone call I had with my mom just after lunch today, before we left for the wedding. It was 7:00 a.m. their time, and my parents were already up, showered, and had breakfast. They’re natural early risers. My mother checks in on me a few times a week, minus times I was in deep deployment with no access to a phone. While many grown men might be annoyed by such a concerned mother, I’ve never begrudged her the worry nor the nosiness into my life. It’s what moms do.
She and I chatted about the things I’ve seen in London the last few days, and she sighs with pleasure. She traveled a lot with Dad when he was active duty and always loved exploring new countries, but they haven’t been able to do that in a long time. My dad had a heart attack about five years ago, and both of them are living a rather sedate lifestyle these days. They have a large piece of property outside Arlington where Mom raises chickens and Dad putters on an old car now and then. It’s actually the retirement they’d dreamed of, but I know Mom would love to travel again. Maybe I’ll take some vacation time and surprise her with a trip somewhere.
The call was great, but just as we were wrapping up, I heard my dad yell in the background, his gruff voice booming. “Ask Jack how the babysitting job is going?”
He then erupted into guffaws, and I had to grit my teeth to not say something assholish, which wouldn’t have been cool because it would’ve been my mom who got the brunt of it. Her tone was apologetic as she murmured, “Don’t listen to him. I know he thinks he’s funny, but you and I know he’s not.”
While my mom generally chooses not to get between me and my father, she doesn’t agree with him about the flack he gives me around my choice to leave the navy. She also knows my dad isn’t saying what he does to be funny, but rather as a backhanded jab. I pushed down my anger, told her not to worry about it, and we said our farewells.
My eyes skim the dance floor where Camille stands with a group of women, including the bride, gearing up to dance to the next song. Apparently at a wedding such as this, everyone brings two outfits: one for the nuptials—a classic British dress with a fancy hat and winter overcoat—and one for the reception, just two shades away from nightclub attire. When we returned to the hotel after the ceremony, Camille went up to her room and changed.
She came out in a dress that nearly had me swallowing my tongue. It was strapless, formfitting, and rose high above the knee. The champagne color worked fantastically with her golden skin acquired from the sun over the Coral Sea. Her strappy sandals were the same color, and I was worried about her ability to walk in them given that the peg on the heel was so thin and delicate looking. So far, though, they’ve held up under her dancing as if made from steel.
Camille’s hair, which had been up in an elegant twist, now hangs in loose, wild waves around her bare shoulders. Ladd, Cruce, and Dozer teased me mercilessly about how hot the princess is and how much of a chore it would be to watch someone who looked like that, but she transcends being hot tonight.
She’s truly stunning.
And while I still work hard to maintain a reserved distance because she is my ward to protect, I don’t feel an ounce of guilt for appreciating what I’m looking at right now.
I instantly go on alert as I watch “The Creep” circle the edge of the dance floor. I’ve had my eye on him all night. This guy, who Paul advised is actually high up in the British royal lineage, has hit on Camille a few times tonight. At first, it was just conversation, but as the alcohol flowed and he outdrank her, whenever he’s approached, he’s a little too close, his smile is a little too big, and he leans in a little too suggestively.
As his behavior worsened, there came a time I thought he was crossing a line, so I started to walk that way to tell him to back off before I made him back off. I was stopped by Paul’s voice through my ear mic, crackling from a shoddy frequency, but I understood him clearly. “Let her handle it. She’s capable.”
I stopped in my tracks and watched.
And sure enough, Camille adeptly put distance between her and The Creep by saying something that I could tell was meant to be polite but was also designed to cut him off. She then pretended to notice somebody over his shoulder who was calling her. No one was there, of course, and I couldn’t hear what she said, but it was clear she was excusing herself from the conversation and without any doubt it was over. She smoothly walked away, and I was proud of her.
Since then, I’ve kept my eye on him. He’s tried a few more times to weasel into her space, but she’s usually surrounded by people, so it’s been difficult for him to grab too much of her attention. If he does, she’s talked her way out of his presence each time.
It’s quite impressive.
Right now, he’s circling the perimeter of the dance floor, a predatory look on his face, his gaze laser-focused on Camille. I follow his progress, moving when he starts to get lost in the crowd, especially as the dance floor fills up from what is apparently a very popular song I’ve never heard.
It’s Camille I keep firmly in my sights and only a small bit of attention on the man who is stalking her. She’s oblivious, once again dancing with her girlfriends. They’ve got their arms around each other, laughing and acting silly. The song is fast and there’s more jumping around than anything, which is far too distracting because Camille’s breasts bounce with the motion.
I growl internally and tell myself to stop that shit.
Camille’s group gravitates my way, closer to the edge of the dance floor near where I stand. I’m wearing a tuxedo—part of a new wardrobe compliments of the king so I blend in—and I don’t look overly suspicious as I stand poised to move if necessary.
The Creep moves in closer, and my blood starts to boil as he comes up behind Camille, his eyes pinned lecherously to her ass. He has a drunk, sloppy smile as he slithers closer, an almost entitled look on his face that says, “Yeah … that ass is mine.”
There is no doubt he’s going to make a move I most certainly won’t approve of. I move closer until the tips of my toes are actually on the dance floor.
And when he does make said move closer, it isn’t to talk but rather to touch. His hands reach out to grab her hips with the intent of moving close and grinding against her in dance.
Unfortunately for The Creep, I’m pretty damn quick. His hands barely grab onto her before I’ve got one of them in mine, twisting his forearm and bending his wrist inward. It puts immense pressure on his ulnar and median nerves, sending excruciating pain all the way up his arm and into his shoulder.
The man screams like a baby while dropping to his knees. I’m aware of how disruptive this could get, and I want to minimize any further fallout. Luckily, the band is still playing at full decibels and the only people who’ve realized what’s going on are Camille, her group of friends, and a handful of other people around. I loosen my grip, releasing the pressure on his nerve so his pain recedes. I grab him by the scruff of the neck and haul him up with ease, as if he were a marionette with me pulling the strings, and before anyone can say a word, I’m escorting him through the crowd, out a side door that leads into the galley preparation area. The whole thing takes less than twenty seconds.
The Creep flails around as I drag him along a short hallway to an exterior exit door. I don’t have to look behind me to know that one of the other agents will be following. Paul will remain behind to be our primary eyes on the princess.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” the man demands in a weaselly tone, made even worse by his British accent. “I am the Royal Viscount Baxley Mankenshire, and I demand you unhand my person at once.”
It’s hard not to laugh at his formal language, but I merely tighten my grip, although the guy is so drunk, he’s easy to control one-handed.
I turn around and shove him not so gently up against the wall before releasing him. “You’re out here because you put your hands on Princess Camille. Your viscount title doesn’t mean shit to me.”
“Camille and I go way back,” the dickwad says, because any guy named Baxley has to be a dickwad. “We dated in college.”
I can’t help it… I’d clearly been gaining some respect for Camille over the last few days, and it just got dinged a little to hear that she’d find this turd attractive.
I open my mouth to give him a stern lecture, which will include a promise of further bodily harm if he comes near her again, but before I can utter a word, the door flies open and Camille runs out with Paul hot on her tail. My eyes go to him and he explains, “She can run pretty fast in those heels.”
I try not to snicker because it’s funny he’s chasing the princess, but she’s safe and secure and it doesn’t matter.
What does matter is that she’s probably enraged that I’ve attacked a member of a royal house, and former boyfriend, and is now out here to defend him.
I buck up, prepared to defend my actions, when she whirls on The Creep and says, “I suggest you leave right now, Baxley. You’re drunk and highly inappropriate, and my security have orders from my father to put a bullet in the brain of anybody who touches me.”
I jerk in surprise at this proclamation because that information was not passed on to me. I glance at Paul, ducking his head, hiding a smirk. It’s then I notice that Camille wobbles slightly to the left, and I realize she’s a little more inebriated than I thought. I imagine once the whirlwind of dancing settled down, and she came out here to see what was going on, the alcohol caught up with her.
In his nasally, British accent, The Creep expresses his offense. “How dare you threaten me with such a thing, you high-and-mighty bitch.”
His words are cut off at bitch as my hand shoots out and closes around the front of his throat, squeezing and choking everything else off. Baxley’s eyes bug out of his head, and it’s Paul who speaks in a low murmur, “Easy, Jackson.”
I can get in serious trouble for this. My job is to protect the princess no matter what, but in this moment, she’s not in physical danger. I am, however, assaulting a member of the British royal family for calling the princess a bitch, and I’m not sure how that is going to fly.
I release my grip on Baxley’s throat and turn to Paul. “Will you escort this gentleman to his vehicle so he can leave the premises? I’ll take the princess back inside.”
Paul nods and takes The Creep by the back of his neck the same way I propelled him out here. He goes muttering and cursing, but at least he goes.
I turn to Camille. “I’m sorry if it offends you that I did that to your ex-boyfriend.”
Her eyes grow as large as saucers. “My what?”
“He said you two dated in college,” I reply, realizing by her reaction that was probably an exaggeration.
Camille wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. “As if I’d date someone named Baxley. It’s a dickish name.”
I actually have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop the bark of laughter and then force a serious tone. “Would you like to go back inside and continue your party with your friends?”
She beams a glorious smile at me, and fuck if it doesn’t take my breath away. “I would like that very much, Jackson. Thank you.”
Camille then loops her arm through mine, hooking our elbows together, and I have no choice but to escort her back in that way.
♦
My hips rotateand grind, thrusting my cock deeper into her warmth. My face is pressed into her neck, her skin soft and sweet smelling. She raises her legs and wraps them around my waist, digging her heels into my ass.
“Harder, Jackson.”
I go harder.
Deeper.
I take every inch of what she’s giving me and then I demand just a little more.
“Going to come,” she whispers just before she starts quaking in orgasm underneath me.
Her fingers slide into my hair and she grips it tight, moaning her release.
I’ve got no choice but to let go, and I fuck her hard.
So hard that the headboard bangs against the wall.
Thump.
Thump. Thump.
I jolt awake, sitting up straight in my bed and straining my eyes in the darkness, my ears open and listening intently.
Another thump, followed by a cry of pain, and then a crash.
All coming from Camille’s suite next door.
“Fuck!” I fly out of bed and grab my gun from the bedside table. When I’m working, I wear sweatpants and a T-shirt to bed rather than my normal naked nothing so I can move quickly toward danger. I rush to the door that separates my room from hers. I push the knob downward and come up hard against a locked door.
“Son of a bitch,” I curse, wondering what the hell Camille was thinking by locking the door between our rooms.
I specifically told her not to.
I take one step back, raise my right leg, and knowing it’s going to hurt like hell because I’m barefoot, I give a front push kick to the door with enough force that the casing splinters and the door crashes inward. I rush through, gun ready to fire the minute I locate whoever is in her room trying to hurt her.
The lights were left on in the main living area, and I can quickly tell there’s no one here. I rush to her bedroom, and from the light flooding through the doorway, I see Camille on the floor wrapped up in her sheet.
I move to the bedside table and turn on the lamp, making a quick scan of the interior of the bedroom. It looks clear, but I open the closet door to be sure, finding it empty but for her clothes. I turn my attention to Camille on the floor tangled in her sheets and looking otherwise okay. I’m confident she made the noises I heard but I still feel a sense of relief when I check the bathroom and it’s empty.
I look back to her as she sits up. “Are you okay?”
She stares at me with bleary eyes, her hair a mess of knots and tangles from what was clearly a restless sleep.
She doesn’t answer me.
I press, “Did you fall out of bed?”
It makes sense. The thumps I heard … thump, thump … Holy fuck, I was having a sex dream about Camille.
Thatwas Camille in my dream.
Christ.
I banish that thought and set my gun on her bedside table. Crouching, I ask her again, “Are you okay?”
She looks up at me piteously and says, “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Camille makes a gagging sound deep in her throat, and I move at the speed of light. She’s too wrapped up in her sheet to disentangle herself, so I scoop her off the floor and run into the bathroom. I manage to get her on her knees, bent over the toilet, and a big hunk of her hair wrapped in my hand to hold it back before she starts vomiting.
Behold Princess Camille Winterbourne.
It should be enough to turn off any man, but I notice as she’s retching her guts up, I’m still sporting a massive hard-on tenting my sweatpants from that dream.
Luckily, she’s too sick to notice.