Not Your Prince Charming: a Royal Wedding Romance (Royal Weddings Book 2) Read online

  “Hola chica,” he said, leering.

  “Don’t you touch me,” she said. “I am—” And then something made her stop. The sense she seemed to have been lacking all day finally kicked in.

  I am Princess Elizabeth and I’m worth a lot if you ransom me… No. They’d probably decide she was too high-risk and throw her overboard. Or worse. “I am not going to let you touch me,” she said, and hoped she sounded defiant.

  He just laughed and said something in Spanish.

  “Where are you taking me? I demand to be released!”

  He leaned forward and took a sniff of her. Yes, she did smell disgusting. That was probably a good thing right now.

  The hatch above opened, and with it a blast of wind and rain. Another man entered down a ladder, and apart from seeming a bit taller there wasn’t much to distinguish him from the first. Apart from the bandanas, they looked like any number of men she’d seen around the islands.

  He looked her over, and the two men had a brief conversation, which seemed to involve much crude gesturing in her direction. Both seemed to be disgusted by the stench of her.

  “I’ll throw up on you again if it’ll keep you two away,” she told them.

  They laughed. She wondered if they understood her. One of them went over to a cupboard and took out a roll of duct tape. Eliza watched with some trepidation, then tried to scramble away as he tore off a piece and stuck it over her mouth.

  She tried to yell at him, to spit and push the tape away with her tongue, but nothing worked. He cuffed her round the head and said, “Cállate, perra.”

  Perra. She knew that word. He’d just called her a bitch. Mel had taught her that—

  Oh God, Melissa! Was she here too? The thought that she might not be alone gave Eliza some comfort, until she remembered that Melissa had been the one to introduce her to Luis in the first place.

  New horror spread through her like poison. No. Surely not. Melissa couldn’t be behind this. She was self-obsessed and flaky, sure, but she wasn’t evil. She wasn’t. Was she?

  The first man picked up a radio as it crackled, and went outside. Eliza glared at the newcomer, who put his hands on his hips and looked down at her. She glared furiously up.

  “It would go better for you,” he said in heavily accented English, “if you shut up.”

  All Eliza could manage in return was a furious sort of squeaking.

  Xavi cracked open a beer, glaring at the girl and trying to hide his glee. Oh, this was even better. Luis had kidnapped someone! And drugged her, by the look of it. A pretty white British girl, to boot, and given her accent and attitude, one who came from money. Far from being an unforeseen complication, this just made everything sweeter.

  He winked at her as he closed the fridge. There were other cans in there, cans it would take but a moment to slip a little something into as he opened them. And then the other three would be shitting themselves and he’d take the helm and they’d have no idea they were being diverted until it was too late.

  In Spanish, he said, “You speak Spanish, honey? You understand what I’m saying?”

  She glared at him.

  “I’m gonna strip you naked and stick a fish hook in your mouth,” he told her conversationally, “and hang you from the front of the boat for any passing sailor to fuck.”

  That got no reaction from her. Xavier concluded she had no Spanish, which was probably a blessing, although he’d still have to be careful what he said. He turned away before he lifted the bandana to drink. No point in being stupid.

  “You are an unexpected bonus, honey. You got friends out looking for you? Family?” He checked her hands. No rings, although Luis had light fingers. “Boyfriend? Some skinny British dude who talks like Hugh Grant? Oh baby, I’m gonna get such a reward for bringing you in.”

  He wondered what kind of ransom Jorge had set. If he’d set one yet. Might be a while before they posted an offer. He wondered what the British Consulate would say. Maybe this would put them in his debt. Probably there’d be cheers and high fives and whatever the British did when they were happy. A tea party or something.

  He saluted the girl with his beer and she glared up at him. Christ, she was even blonde. The more photogenic the better. He could probably free her once the crew were subdued, and then…

  He saw her fingers tugging at the cable ties on her wrists, but Luis had done his job and she wasn’t getting free any time soon. She seemed to sob silently behind her gag, and Xavier felt his bravado wash away.

  Christ, he’d been undercover too long. What was he thinking? Rewards and bonuses? She was terrified, although probably not nearly terrified enough. Xavier had seen the way Jorge and his friends treated women. It was probably best she didn’t know what they’d do with her, given half the chance.

  He looked away, afraid his fears would show. Only a few more hours, and then they’d be in US waters and the crew would be incapacitated and he could hand her back over to whoever was worrying about her. All he had to do was keep her safe until then.

  That, and not blow his cover.

  You’re a professional, Rivera. Act like it. He squared his shoulders and had just managed a leer in her direction when the hatch opened and Luis came in, along with a gust of wind and spatter of rain.

  “What do you think?” Luis, looking pleased with himself, strutted across and made a crotch-grabbing gesture at the girl, who looked away in disgust.

  “Very nice,” said Xavier. He let his gaze linger on her tanned bare legs and the way her t-shirt fell off one shoulder, fabric gathering on her breast. “She’s hot.”

  “Oh yeah. I get first try,” Luis said, and Xavier thought he was going to undo his pants right there and take her.

  He tried to look casual, as if kidnapping girls and watching his friends rape them was an everyday occurrence. “Man, really? She’s covered in vomit. You want that all over you? Get her cleaned up first. Wait’ll we get to Nassau—”

  “We’re not going to Nassau.”

  Unease curled in Xavier’s stomach. He knew that, but how did Luis? “What do you mean?”

  “Change of plan. Since I picked up this sweet little chica, we’re heading back south.” Luis went to the fridge and helped himself to a beer. “Dominican Republic.”

  “But that’s completely out of our way.” No, no no no this wasn’t good. Completely the wrong direction. Nassau was one thing—a short hop from Florida, not too hard to travel onwards—but Dominican Republic? A nightmare.

  “Sure, but a sweet thing like her? Jorge said he knows a buyer.”

  Xavier frowned in a manner he hoped looked naturally perplexed, and not furious and panicky. “I thought she was for ransom? She speaks English. I think she’s British.”

  “Even better, dude!”

  No, not better. If they made it to the Dom Rep, the girl would be sold on, probably into the sex trade, and he’d never see her again. No one would ever see her again.

  Xavier had been undercover a long time. He’d seen plenty of things he’d never erase from his memory, and he’d narrowly escaped being a party to sins he couldn’t confess away on a Sunday. It had been a constant balancing act between convincing Jorge and keeping his soul as unblemished as he could manage, and he wasn’t entirely sure he’d managed on the second count.

  He’d done some bad shit to stay undercover, but he’d made amends as much as he could. When he went home and took his Abuela to church, he wouldn’t be afraid of the confessional.

  But if he brought the Rosa’s crew in at the cost of consigning an innocent girl to slavery, Xavier didn’t think he could live with himself. Not to mention his career would be over. He’d be lucky to even see desk duty again.

  “But what about the goods? We have a shipment to make.” I have a rendezvous to make.

  Luis shrugged and took a seat, swinging his nasty flip-flops up onto the rickety table. “So we make it a day late. There’s a storm coming in, man. We tell them weather forced us to turn around. It happens.”
>
  Yeah, but not to me. Shit.

  Xavier forced himself to smile. “We all get a cut of the girl though, right?”

  “Sure. And we get to try her out.” Luis chinked his can against Xavier’s. “Me first.”

  “Sure, bro. You first.”

  He thought fast. Heading south was a nightmare. There was no way he could protect the girl if they ended up back where they’d come from. Not without raising suspicion and therefore letting his cover slide. How the hell was he going to save her and get these three human trash fires into Miami-Dade territory? And in a storm, too?

  “How bad is the weather?” he asked. Maybe they’d be forced to take shelter. Where were they now? Out in open water by the feel of the boat.

  “Not as bad as we’re gonna pretend,” Luis said. “Just a bit of rain, high winds. Not a tropical storm or anything like that. Why, you scared, buddy?”

  “I’m from Florida,” Xavier told him. “A bit of weather doesn’t scare me. Let me tell you something, kid,” he rambled as he thought on, “my family crossed the Caribbean Sea in the eye of a hurricane to get to America. Washed up on the shore with nothing. My mother was expecting me. I was made in Puerto Rico, kid, and born in a hurricane, and raised in Miami. No wind or rain is gonna scare me.”

  Luis snorted. “No way you were born in a hurricane, bro.”

  No, he’d been born in Mount Sinai Hospital on a sunny day twenty-five years after his family had arrived in Florida. “I damn well was. Hurricane Sanchez,” Xavier invented. It wasn’t as if the kid was going to look it up.

  If he continued with his plan, he could still drug the crew and turn the boat around himself. He was pretty sure they had enough fuel to make it to Miami and back more than once, but did he have the time? Would he have to make an emergency stop? He really didn’t want to have to go to Cuba. Cuba would be a nightmare. Even the Bahamas could potentially snarl this up. He wanted to hand the gang into the hands of the—

  He forced himself to stop. He hadn’t even allowed himself to think it all this while, just in case he said the wrong thing or it showed on his face.

  Just then Alberto came in, and Xavier swung to his feet to get him a beer before he got his own. Pill from pocket to palm, pop the can open, drop it in, say, “Whoa dude, it’s foaming, must’ve gotten shaken up,” and hand it over.

  At least Alberto didn’t ask any questions. He started drinking, and taunting the girl, and Xavier joined in, biding his time. When Luis finished his drink Xavier gave him a spiked one too, and it wasn’t long before the two of them started to look pale and sweaty.

  “You okay dude?” he said, as Alberto rushed towards the head.

  “Maybe some bad seafood,” muttered Luis, and swallowed some more beer. And then he was scrambling up the ladder, trying to unfasten his pants as he went. Xavier could only hope the rain would wash the deck clean.

  He winked at the girl as she sat there looking disgusted by the whole thing. How did the British manage that? Stiff upper lip and disdain, even while kidnapped, tied up and covered in vomit.

  “You got some class, chica,” he told her, and slipped a third can of beer into his pocket as he climbed the companionway to the deck.

  There was a foul smell coming from the starboard side. Evidently Luis hadn’t made it to the bail bucket they used in emergencies. Xavier stepped carefully, made it to the cockpit and nodded to Jorge.

  “Rough night.”

  “I’ve seen worse.” He probably had. Jorge had been making these runs a long time, and not much dented his calm exterior.

  “Beer?”

  “No thanks.”

  Dammit. Xavier shrugged and popped the tab anyway, taking a sip. “Luis tells me we’ve turned around.”

  “Yeah. Can’t risk Nassau with the girl.” Jorge sighed. “Apparently the dude whose party it was has an arrangement. Cheap coke, and pick a girl to take home. Do what you want with her. Another tourist going missing from an illegal rave? Nobody is going to care.”

  Really? Surely this would have been bigger news. Girls going missing all the time from fancy private parties? Xavier didn’t work human trafficking, but he was sure he’d have heard…

  Jorge caught his frown, the perceptive bastard. “We don’t do it often. Usually drop them off on a beach somewhere, nobody makes a fuss. But this one? Man, you seen her?” He whistled.

  “Yeah, she’s hot. And hey, look, private party, must be money there, right? Won’t we make more ransoming her?”

  “Not with the buyer I have. Besides, ransoms are risky. Rich people send out private security, we all get shot. I’d rather take my money, my friend.”

  “Sure,” said Xavier, shrugging as if the money was all he cared about too. “But we’ll miss our delivery time.”

  “I called Hector. He said no sweat, so long as he gets a cut.”

  “So many cuts, are any of us gonna make any money on this?” said Xavier idly, but Jorge didn’t take the bait.

  Best not to push it, not now. Not when he was so close.

  Xavier palmed the last pill, waited until Jorge’s attention was elsewhere, and slipped it into the beer. He set the can down, and straightened up. “Okay, well I’m gonna try to get some shut-eye. Wake me when we’re nearer.”

  “Sure.”

  He was just leaving when the door slammed open and Luis said, “Mother of God, brother, I have the shits so bad! Are you okay? What did you have to eat?”

  Jorge frowned. “The same as you. I’m fine.”

  Xavier rubbed his stomach and shrugged. “I’m fine. Must have been a bad prawn or something.”

  “Alberto is sick too. Maybe we had some bad water.”

  “Yeah. Better stick to beer,” Xavier said.

  To his immense relief, Jorge shrugged and picked up the can. He took a few swigs from it, then held it out to Xavier. He tilted it to his lips without swallowing, handed it back, and made his way back out to the cabin. Sure enough in about twenty minutes Jorge rushed in, hammered on the toilet door in frustration, then dashed back out again. Alberto was in there, whilst Luis appeared to still be out on deck.

  It’s all you deserve. He’d originally planned on sedatives, but their effects were tricky to control and he couldn’t risk one crew member becoming suspicious when another dropped unconscious after a single beer. No, a fake stomach complaint was the way to go, and besides, it amused him to rob them of their dignity.

  He glanced at the girl, who looked disgusted by the smell coming from the head, as well she might. This was going fine. Ten more minutes to get them totally incapacitated, and he’d head back up, find out where they were and change their heading, and make the rendezvous only a little late. Hell, even the rain was lessening.

  That was the plan, at least, until he went back outside, and Jorge pointed a shaky finger at him. “How come you’re not ill?”

  “Good constitution. Want me to take over at the helm?”

  Jorge peered at him in a way Xavier didn’t like. Unlike his brother, Jorge was smart. He’d taken the longest to convince that Xavier really was a disillusioned immigrant trying to make some cash, just as he’d said. A year and a half to set all this up, because Jorge was a suspicious bastard.

  “Why do you want to take the helm?”

  Xavier shrugged. “Because you can’t? I don’t want the cockpit full of shit, man. Someone needs to be at the wheel, and right now it’s gotta be me.”

  Triumph surged through him. He made to go in that direction and Jorge said, “No, I’m not that ill. I can stay there.”

  No no no. “There’s really no—”

  “I know where we’re headed. I know our contact. What’s he gonna think when some stranger answers the radio?”

  Jorge came closer, shaky and pale but much more able to stand than the other two. Dammit, he clearly hadn’t drunk enough.

  “Okay, dude. Your call. Let me know if you want me to take over,” Xavier said, raising his palms and going back inside.

  God dammit! He
made it down the companionway, swore loudly, and kicked shut the bathroom door on Alberto’s moaning. He pulled up his bandana to try and mask the smell. It didn’t do much.

  He closed his eyes and tried to think. His eyes strayed to the cupboard with the life raft. Where were they? How far from land? Why hadn’t he checked their position when he was in the cockpit?

  If he let Jorge take them to the Dominican Republic then the girl would be lost to them and he’d have to set up another sting to get these guys. More months of waiting for a shipment to Miami. More trust being built as they got over this episode. If they ever trusted him again. He’d probably be pulled out after this disaster and then it would all be for nothing.

  And the girl would be in hell.

  His eyes fell on her again. She looked up distrustfully, her eyes blue and angry. She was so pretty. They’d ruin her.

  When he’d been a child, his Abuela had put the fear of God into him, quite literally, about the consequences of misbehaviour. She’d made it pretty clear that it wasn’t only bad deeds that sent you to hell, it was standing by and doing nothing while people got hurt.

  In his mind, Marisol’s eyes flashed with hurt as she cried, “You should have married your job, you love it more than me!” but that was no help. Thinking of Marisol never did him any good.

  Then think of Benita. Goddammit, his conscience was being a bitch today. Benita, the biggest stain on his soul. The mistake he couldn’t atone for. Wherever she was, and whatever had happened to her, her blood was on Jorge’s hands. Her disappearance was on Xavier’s conscience.

  He wouldn’t add another innocent person to that tally.

  He made a decision, and crossed to the cupboard with the real life raft in it. Checking the dry bag, he made sure it really was the right one, and then he closed it tightly and slung one strap over his shoulder, clipping the other to his belt. He grabbed a length of bungee cord.

  The girl watched him warily, eyes going wide as he reached for his hunting knife.

  He knelt and tied the cord to her ankle, tensing for a kick she didn’t deliver. He asked her in English, “Can you swim?”

  For a moment her contempt was overtaken by bafflement. She nodded.