“He and his American wife divorced not too long ago. Very hush-hush apparently.”
“Then, how do you know about it?” Ele asked drolly.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Juliana grin. “If you want to know something, information is easy to come by.”
Ele’s head snapped to the right to glare at her sister. Then, remembering she was in public, she donned her stoic mask and returned her attention to the practice session.
Juliana got more outrageous every day. First social media, then men bowing before her, and now bartering for information. As much as she hated to even contemplate it, she thought she might have to speak to the queen about this—Jamie first though.
“Is this all we are going to do?” she whispered to Millie. The ten minutes of watching dragged on—about as engaging as watching a tree grow.
Millie, still situated behind her, responded, “Prince James requested this when they were setting up the visit. You know his fanatical obsession with football.”
The three women smiled. If their lives weren’t dictated by the family they had been born into, Ele would have been in the Peace Corps, tromping through jungles, trying to bring clean water to children all over the world. But Jamie, he would have done anything to play, coach, equip, or train footballers. The world knew about his little obsession—he never tried to hide it—and they loved him for it.
Just when Ele thought she would go mad, Sir Nico and two players peeled away from the practice and strolled toward them. Juliana vibrated with palpable excitement. From the brief conversation in the car, Ele was convinced one of the men walking to them had to be T-Dav—ridiculous name. But she had no idea if it was the broody, larger man or the one sporting a guileless smile. Regardless of who was who, they painted a picture of masculine attractiveness. That was her first thought. Her second wasn’t as innocuous. The men in front of her had been chosen for a reason. Both, she was fairly certain, could trace their background to Nava, one of the four island countries that were part of the Federation of Island States. The political machinations of the palace’s public relations office never ceased. With the vote for independence less than a year away, it made perfect sense to take advantage of the royal princesses with these two footballers. She kept her smile firmly in place even though she wanted to roll her eyes at the obvious setup.
When they were a few feet away, the introductions began.
“Your Highness, Princess Eleanor, may I present Sir Nicolas Ramsey?”
Ele nodded as Nico did the same. Based on his bestowed rank, he didn’t need to bow.
“Rowan Beckwith, captain of the National Team, and Tristan Davenport.”
Both Rowan and Tristan bowed but not before she caught the look of derision in Rowan’s eyes.
Oh, yes, you realize this selection was not random.
She tried to communicate her understanding but knew she’d failed when his expression didn’t change. There was no opportunity to connect with Tristan before they were introducing the men to Juliana.
Rowan and Tristan each turned away when they were handed something. Tristan stepped up to Ele, and for the first time, their gazes collided. Ele experienced a second of disassociation, as if she were separate from everything around her. Then, warmth started in her belly and suffused every limb while goose bumps pebbled her body. His light-brown eyes were warm and filled with mirth, like he never stopped laughing and the sentiment was alive inside. The slight upward tilt of his eyes, framed in long and curly lashes, was striking and drew attention away from a nose a tad too large and a mouth a bit too lush.
“So you can support us in style,” he said, his accent common.
Ele startled, making her heart beat double time. Tristan held something out to her, and Ele robotically reached for it. A pair of trainers and a pile of clothes landed in her hands. Under the cover of gear, Tristan’s right hand clasped her left, and he held on as her pulse slowed. He shot her a knowing wink and released her. She wasn’t used to being touched. But instead of the instinctive flinch she braced for, something in her eased.
Millie stepped up, taking the items from her. Ele knew the shaking was going to come momentarily, the physical onset of her panic, which she couldn’t disguise without anything in her arms. Before she could dissolve into a complete mess, Tristan looped his arm through hers and nodded to Millie.
“This way then. Gotta get you suited up for training.”
Ele cast a frantic look to Millie, but then Tristan’s opposite hand closed over hers and squeezed. Everything about this moment went against the staid protocol they’d operated under for the last decade, but instead of everyone rushing forward and forming a barrier between her and Tristan, they seemed to melt into the background.
Ele looked back at Juliana, who was locked in a stare-down with Rowan Beckwith, and then at Robert, who merely shrugged. Her last hope to rescue her, Millie, just smiled indulgently as she prepared to follow them.
“The dressing room is right down the hall. I’ll keep watch, so none of the lads can get in.”
Ele didn’t have a chance to process going into a men’s changing room before she was inside. Tristan turned to Millie and took the clothes from her, placing them in Ele’s hands.
“Specially ordered to the palace’s specifications. You’ll look like a footballer.” His eyes tracked down her body. “A very beautiful footballer.”
Ele audibly gulped, and her face flushed.
“Then, we’ll have some fun.”
He turned and left the room. Ele looked to Millie, whose smile was so bright, it could have blinded someone.
“What are you so happy about?” Ele snapped.
Impervious, Millie said, “Get changed, Your Highness.”
Tristan leaned against the wall, guarding the changing room from everyone else. This had not been part of the plan. All he’d had to do was hand Princess Eleanor her gear and pose for a couple of photos.
At first, when Nico had given them the predetermined signal, his gaze had been drawn to Princess Juliana, like most of the penis-toting world. Her banging body seemed to have marquee lights around it, pulling his attention. She was probably one of the most photographed women in the world. But all of the glancing looks he’d taken at her magazine photos did little to really capture her allure. She was beautiful, sure, but there was this otherworldliness about her that made her freckled face spectacular. When he handed Eleanor her gear though, everything changed. Her rising panic rumbled through him like an earthquake before a tsunami. All he could think about was getting her to higher ground. So, he’d improvised.
He was sure Nico and Rowan were wondering where the fuck he had gone and what he was up to. He hoped no one asked him straight up because he wouldn’t have any idea how to respond. He closed his eyes, properly chagrined by his actions.
“I hope this isn’t how you are going to guard my charge.”
Tristan’s eyes snapped open. In front of him was the scary motherfucker who was Princess Eleanor’s shadow. He had to be six and a half feet—or maybe he just seemed that big against Tristan’s own average height. His frame was double that of a normal man, but he moved as swiftly as Tristan did with a ball at his feet, except this dude was probably packing two guns and six knives.
Tristan cleared his throat. “Just a quick blink,” he quipped.