The Playboy Prince (Piacere Princes, Book One) (4 page)

“You have.”

King Alfonso had been widowed many years before, when the boys were knee-high to a horsefly. He never remarried, and his only brother had died a young man in the war – not long after he’d abdicated the throne for reasons unknown
 

“Not by choice, and your brother has been a huge help since he returned from university, almost a decade ago now.”

Yes, Niccolo Piacere, the perfect son. The perfect would-be king. He’d already given the crown an heir, as well. Salvy did adore his niece, Elisa, mostly because the girl was a holy terror and far too much of a handful for his brother.

“Well, you have Nico, and of course, Luca is always looking to take on more responsibility.”

The King’s mouth turned down at the mention of his nephew, distaste written all over his face. If Salvy was a disappointment, Luca was dangerous—he had his own ideas about how the kingdom should be run, and who should govern it.
 

King Alfonso grunted. “Your cousin is not a topic I care to discuss. I’m ninety percent sure he’s behind each and every one of these stories.”

His father nodded toward the trash can, then folded his hands and leveled his son with a piercing blue gaze. He’d passed the same eyes on to both of his sons, along with jet black hair, strong jaws, and a tendency to always think himself right.

“Since you seem disinclined to make a decision regarding the future role you would prefer to have in the running of this country, I have decided to give you two options. You will choose one before the end of the day tomorrow, or I will choose for you—and I doubt you will be happy with my decision.”

Salvy’s stomach tightened, irritation with being called onto the carpet like a little boy turning quickly to anger in the face of the King’s tone. He said nothing, watching his father in silence. He was afraid of what might come out if he opened his mouth.

“You will make a concentrated effort to settle down—and at your age, that includes finding yourself a nice girl and starting a family, to convince the people of your stability—and take on a daily role in the running of this country, or you will join the church.”

“What?”
Salvy spoke the word too loud, but he was too confused to care. “The
church
? You want me to be a priest?”

“You’re lucky I’m not remanding you to the monks,” his father snapped, and nothing in his expression or posture led Salvy to think he might be bluffing.
 

“This is ridiculous. It’s not the fifteen hundreds—you can’t just demand that I find a bride within the fortnight.”

“An
acceptable
bride,” King Alfonso emphasized. “And since, based on your behavior, I can’t be certain you know what that means, let me clarify—a woman with a sterling reputation, from a good family, who will bear you heirs and raise them to be men and women who we can trust with this country going forward.”

“Jesus.”

“If you prefer, you can spend your days with him.”

The office fell silent, tension thick between the men. Salvy struggled to wrap his mind around what his father was asking—no, telling—him had to be done in order to keep his place in the family. If he joined the church, he would be trading all affiliation with the Piacere name for the priesthood. As hard as he might work to make his father, and the world, believe he cared little about what that name meant, Salvy did enjoy the benefits. Often.
 

“How long do I have to find this bride and settle down?”

It was the only acceptable option, which the King must have known before he laid them out. His father wouldn’t be around forever, and marriage didn’t have to mean giving up all of the fun he was having on the side.
 

The strength of his distaste for the idea of a sham marriage surprised him. He had no problem with the institution. He even had a healthy respect for it, and found that making a mockery of it didn’t sit well with him.

What choice had his father given him, though? What chance did he have of finding a real wife on such short notice?
 

None. He would simply have to be sure that whoever he chose would be informed of the nature of their arrangement—namely, that she was to accept the title and money and say nothing of any dalliances he desired—before they signed any legal document.

“How about a month?” King Alfonso’s lips twitched with sardonic humor. “This isn’t the fifteen hundreds, after all.”

Salvy got up and left without a word, his blood boiling with fury. He hated being backed into corners. Hated being forced to make a decision he wasn’t ready to make.

Perhaps he had gone too far in Las Vegas. He’d clearly pushed the King past his ability to look the other way, and for that, Salvy was certainly sorry.

Not because he’d upset his father, but because this whole ludicrous situation was going to put the British Ginger Prince back in the lead for most eligible royal.
 

And Salvy hated nothing more than losing.

“Jesus, Salvy,” the woman underneath him gasped as he rolled off of her, winded but feeling better than he had since he woke up in Vegas two days ago.

He knew her name this time. Valla. They’d been fuck buddies since boarding school, and nothing had changed the status quo—not even her recent marriage to a very rich man twenty-five years her senior.

“What, old Michele doesn’t give it to you like that?”

Val snorted. “Michele can’t get it up, most nights, but you know you spoiled me for sex at sixteen, Salvy. No one was ever going to live up to you in the bedroom, so why not marry for money?”

The comment brought the reality of his father’s ultimatum to mind, quashing his afterglow. He needed a good long nap, to tell the truth, but after leaving that horrid meeting all he’d wanted was some familiar comfort.
 

“What’s wrong?” Valla asked lazily, turning onto her side. One sizable breast brushed his arm. “You look like someone told you that princes weren’t allowed to get laid anymore.”

“Funny enough, that’s not so far off.”

She arched one manicured brow. “What’s that, now?”

“Don’t you worry.” He ran a hand over the swell of her hip and pulled her into him, resting his fingertips on her ass. “That’s not exactly it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My father is tired of my so-called antics and has given me two choices—settle down or join the church.”

A throaty laugh erupted from Valla’s throat, irritating Salvy. He cut it off with his mouth, letting his tongue loose in a rough takeover of hers. Her hands roamed his back, then dropped to cup his ass, as she kissed him back with a fervor that stoked his blood.

He turned her over and then lifted her onto all fours, getting to his knees behind her and sliding a fresh condom into place. As he buried himself inside her, hands on her hips to hold her steady for his hard thrusts, he didn’t think about his father. Didn’t think about what pieces of himself he would be forced to give up in service of a crown that would never be his. He just moved, instinct and practice driving their bodies together.

Val moaned when he moved one hand and curled his fingers in her hair, pulling her head up by the long strands. “Oh, yeah. Harder, Salvy!”

He obliged, fucking her like it was the last time until they both came in a torrent of groans and shrieks, the bed ending up halfway across the room from where it had started.

“Well,” Valla said once they’d regained their breath. “I can see that you don’t want to talk about the trouble with your father.”

It wasn’t even that he
wanted
the crown—he didn’t. He liked being royal but not having the responsibilities that Nico did, and it was nice to live without expectations.
 

“He wants me to get married. Can you fucking believe that shit?”

“It’s funny,” Valla agreed, sitting up to pull a T-shirt over her head. She wandered to the dresser and found a pair of cotton shorts, slipping them on next. Her husband would be home soon, and the room reeked of sex. “It’s like he doesn’t know you at all. He’s expecting you to be some kind of storybook prince, when that’s always been Nico’s gig.”

The phrasing gave him an idea, one that went off like a lightbulb over his head, and Salvy sat up. He stood, giving her the space to take the sheets off the bed and toss them in the hamper, and his mind raced as he put on his clothes.

He kissed Val hard on his way out the door, something like hope blooming in his blood for the first time since his father had given him the news.
 

“What was that for?”

They never practiced any sort of intimacy with their clothes on, and the surprise in her dark eyes made him regret it. He didn’t want to rock this boat. In Cielo, his options for women who wouldn’t talk to the tabloids—or his cousin Luca—were limited.
 

“You gave me a great idea, that’s all. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome!” she shouted after him as he took big strides down the hall.

Salvy glanced down at his watch. The stationer’s was probably open for another hour; if he hurried he could set the plan in motion before he had time to change his mind.

The royal family had used the same businesses and craftsmen for generations—tailor, caterer, decorator, nannies—and the title of Royal Stationer belonged to a man called Stefano. He ran the prestigious Royal Stationery Shop on Main Street, but the place was empty when the bell over the door marked Salvy’s arrival.

Stefano looked up from his computer and startled, then scurried around the counter and launched into a deep and antiquated bow. “Prince Salvadore, what an honor! I…I didn’t…did I forget you were coming by today, because—”

Salvy held up a hand. “It’s okay, Stef. I didn’t have an appointment.”

The man glanced out the door, to where Salvy’s security detail had taken up sentry on either side of the entrance, and swallowed. He appeared to be counting in his head to calm down. He’d always been an unnecessarily nervous man.
 

He swallowed as his gaze swiveled back to the prince. “What can I do for you, Your Highness?”

“I need some invitations printed up, and I need them to go into the mail first thing tomorrow. I know it’s a rush.”

“I can handle it.” Stefano swallowed, a gleam of panic in his watery eyes. “How many?”

“How many people live in Cielo?”

The man’s eyes bulged out. “I think about twenty thousand, my prince.”

“Well, they don’t all need one. Just one for every household. Let’s print up fifteen thousand and call it a day, okay?”

“Fifteen…fifteen
thousand
?” Stefano licked his lips.

Salvy waited for him to say it couldn’t be done, but the man was a national treasure. He only nodded, over and over, as though his head was attached to springs.
 

“Very good, sire. What shall they say?”

“It’s very simple. The Piacere family is giving a ball, three weeks hence. We would like to invite every eligible woman and her family to attend, as Prince Salvadore—” He paused, checking that Stefano was still with him. “—is in need of a bride.”

“A…a bride?”

“Yes, as in, to marry. The invitations shall say just that, dictate formal attire, and invite guests to make plans to attend a three-day feast as well as the dance and wedding ceremony.”

Silence hung in the small shop while the two men regarded each other. Stefano looked as if he had a million questions rattling around his fifty-year-old brain and no possible way to choose which to ask first. Salvy clapped him on the shoulder.
 

“This will be our little secret, understand? No one knows until the invitations have arrived.”

“Very good, sir. Will you want to be involved in the lettering or paper choices?”

“No. I trust you. Just use the template my father favors—the one he sent out announcing Elisa’s birth should do nicely.”

“Very well. It shall be done, as you ask.”

“Lovely. I’ll make sure you get a twenty percent higher fee if you can meet the rush deadline.”

Stefano looked as though he might pass out from anxiety, joy, or some combination of both. On his way out the door, Salvy snapped his fingers, thinking of one last thing.