A Prince on Paper Read online

  Johan wasn’t going to display his pain for public consumption ever again, and he couldn’t put on his Bad Boy Jo-Jo act at his mother’s memorial, so he’d been relieved when Thabiso’s wedding festivities had provided him with an out.

  In the plane’s bedroom, when he’d awoken with the ragged wound of loss gaping within him and the woman he desired in his arms, that infuriatingly needy part of him had decided to shoot its shot in the worst way possible.

  He groaned and sank deeper into his seat.

  All for the best. He could certainly avoid her over the next few days, but ignoring her would be next to impossible. Repelling her would have to suffice. She’d lashed out at him in anger, but she’d been ready to forgive him, by the end. He’d watched her for long enough to know that she was too good, too gentle, for a man like him.

  He knew what could happen to women like that.

  I’ll be okay, Jo-Jo. It’s just a bit of fatigue. All I need is some vitamin C, jah?

  He pulled his tablet from the travel bag he’d stashed in an overhead compartment when he’d boarded, then logged into the spreadsheet he shared with Greta, the assistant in charge of handling his jet-setting playboy schedule, his official social media presence, his paparazzi herding—and his charitable enterprises.

  Johan’s mother hadn’t been wealthy; that was what had made her and King Linus’s love story such irresistible fodder for highbrow journals and tabloids alike. But between the insurance payout for her untimely death, the money she’d arranged to be bequeathed to him since he wasn’t entitled to the royal riches, the allowance given to him by Linus, and a fantastic financial advisor, Johan had more assets than he would ever know what to do with.

  Some of that went toward his expensive clothing, personal trainers, and top-of-the-line hair care products, but he received many things for free—he was a trend disseminator, which was apparently the “manly” term for influencer.

  Most of his money was used to fund the growing network of charitable organizations he contributed to and the employees who helped him with the endeavor, like his assistant Greta. Much of his travel was attending fund-raisers for those charities, but when he was on the front page every week for some new possible scandal, those events were usually seen as PR stunts to make up for his misdeeds. And that was how he preferred it.

  We do not do good to be praised for it, Jo-Jo, but because one good deed is like a ripple in the water. You have no idea how far one ripple will spread, or who it will reach.

  The familiar anger at the unfairness of his mother’s passing lunged up in him at the memory of her words, at the reality that her ripples had been stilled forever, but he tamped it down with practiced efficiency.

  The charities were something he didn’t share with the press, and he’d publicly deny any such schmaltzy sentiment behind his link to them, of course, but his mother’s words had never left him. He wasn’t trying to make her proud, even if she was looking down on him from somewhere. She didn’t—hadn’t—believed in kindness for the accolades they would bring, and neither did he. He was making ripples for the same reason Mother had: because the world needed ripples—in the absence of her kindness, it needed waves—and he would do what he could to create them.

  Quietly.

  Cunningly.

  He scanned the spreadsheet, scrolling down to rows highlighted in red and reviewing information in the Update columns, typing his responses in white font so that Greta would be able to keep track of them. The European Women’s Heart Disease Awareness Fund, the first charity he’d supported, had broken fund-raising records that week. Of course it had, with his mother dominating the news and the awful irony of her death commented on again and again with macabre headlines.

  The day before his mother’s funeral, Johan had marched into the Liechtienbourg Bugle’s offices and punched the editor who’d allowed the headline “Queen of Our Hearts Didn’t Take Care of Her Own.” That had been when Bad Boy Jo-Jo, just a chrysalis of a persona he’d used to fit in at boarding school, had emerged on the front page with flamboyant red wings and a taste for trouble—he’d never left it.

  Johan squinted at the screen of his tablet, which needed his attention more than useless memories.

  The Liechtienbourg Migrant Health and Home organization, his latest charity interest, had come under attack during debates about the referendum—Milos Arschlocher was the man leading the charge on that, claiming that the royal family was allowing Liechtienbourg to stray from tradition.

  Johan tamped out another spurt of anger.

  After addressing what he could, he reviewed his dossier on Njaza, the diplomatic visit that he’d arranged to take place after Thabiso’s wedding. No Liechtienbourgish official had been to the former colony since Linus’s father, decades ago. It hadn’t been possible, or rather it hadn’t been permitted, until the recent coronation of King Sanyu, and Johan wasn’t sure how he would be received. The previous king had banned travelers from Liechtienbourg, with good reason after the Liechtienbourgish rich had squeezed Njaza dry and then left the country in the throes of civil war.

  Sanyu, who had been two years ahead of Johan and Thabiso at their elite prep school in the Swiss Alps, had been one of the few who had avoided bullying Johan in those first weeks before he had figured out that the other boys didn’t care what he was actually like as long as he would roughhouse, say crass things, and only cry if it was from anger—the only acceptable emotion, it seemed.

  The flight attendant walked in carrying a tray that held the kale-carrot-mango protein shake he’d asked her for, and Johan shut down his tablet. As she placed the drink down, she gave him the conspiratorial look she’d been sporting since he’d left the bedroom.

  “Is Ms. Jerami still . . . sleeping?” she asked coyly. When he’d first boarded, the woman had gone into the state of nervous shock that overtook lots of people when they met him, even those accustomed to dealing with VIPs. Johan was a bit of an outlier even amongst royalty. He fell into the category of semi-celebrities people thought they knew, and now that he’d seemingly lived up to his reputation, the flight attendant felt comfortable enough to basically ask if he’d worn Nya out.

  Johan reminded himself about his big bad wolf line—he was hardly the one to pass judgment on this woman for seeing him exactly how he’d taught people to see him. He modulated his voice to vague disinterest. “I hope so. She looked like she could use the rest.”

  The attendant raised her brows, and Johan inhaled deeply.

  “Nothing happened between us,” he said on the exhale, his bluntness only slightly softened by the charm he ratcheted up. “She didn’t know I was in there because, as you know, I asked for privacy when I boarded. I’d appreciate if you kept any misunderstanding about that to yourself.”

  “Oh yes! Of course, Your Highness.” She executed a little curtsy, but as she straightened, she winked at him. “My lips are sealed.”

  Scheisse de merde. By tomorrow there could be all kinds of “mile high club” puns screaming from the front page of the tabloids.

  “Nothing happened,” he reiterated. He almost added that he wasn’t “your highness” either. He was the stepson to the King of Liechtienbourg and half brother to the actual prince; he was Liechtienbourg’s literal redheaded step-prince. He’d once printed up cards to hand out to people in a fit of youthful pique, but that had gone over like burnt schnitzel with the king.

  He sighed, then fluttered his lashes in the flight attendant’s direction until he had her full attention. “Mariha—what a beautiful name that is. Now, Mariha, I don’t mean to push this, but I must make sure that there are no falsehoods spread about me and the princess’s cousin. That would be terrible for everyone involved, wouldn’t it? If it was discovered royal staff had spread lies that might hurt Ms. Jerami?”

  He tried to muster his look of affable pleading underlined with stern threat.

  “Right, Your Highness,” Mariha said carefully. “I understand. I’ll go wake Miss Jerami because we’ll b
e landing soon.”

  Her gaze lingered on his, as if they now shared a thrilling secret, and then she strode away. Johan groaned and pressed his head back into the headrest. He was off his game. Even though he’d run away from Liechtienbourg and memorials and memories, he couldn’t escape the general malaise that came with this anniversary every year.

  He pulled out his phone and did a quick check in on Lukas, whom he expected to be in bed given the time difference, but who appeared as ONLINE in their chat app.

  Jo: Ça va, petite bruder?

  The message was first marked as RECEIVED and then as READ, but no telltale “Baby Bro is typing” appeared as it usually did. After a moment, Lukas’s status switched to OFFLINE.

  Johan’s breath went shallow for a moment but he didn’t panic.

  There was a perfectly reasonable explanation for his lack of response. Maybe Lukas had noticed he had a message, half-awake, then fallen back to sleep. Or hadn’t actually read Johan’s message, and would respond in the morning. It wasn’t as if his brother, the person he cared about most in the world, would purposely avoid him.

  He switched to his secret social media handle to check the relentlessly nosy royal watcher accounts that had begun to track Lukas despite Johan’s distracting antics.

  The first thing to pop up in his feed was a photo of his brother, looking sad and pale as he stood in front of the memorial to their mother, holding a wreath. His mouth was a grim line, but his posture was straight and his expression steely. He looked every inch the image of a handsome, dutiful future king, surrounded by strangers in dark suits, and it made Johan’s stomach turn. He’d tried so hard to keep Lukas out of the spotlight, but the comments below the image showed his control over that was slipping as well.

  @BougieBourger I never noticed but he’s SO HOT. I hope everyone votes YES in the upcoming referendum, but if the NO vote wins and the monarchy is abolished, he can come bunk with me.

  @GimmeDatBraustein Oh, the poor leibling. Some woman is going to be a very happy future queen, though, if they make it through. Is it true he’s seeing Princess Sadie?

  Johan frowned. Of course people thought that a picture of a motherless boy in mourning was a great time to conjecture on his dating life. They’d done it to him at the actual bloody funeral.

  @crispincakes Jo-Jo didn’t show up! But didn’t he freak out at his mother’s funeral? It’s no wonder—

  Super.

  Johan stopped reading and put his phone away. He hadn’t had to suffer the full indignity of social media dissection when his mother had died, and some newspapers had been respectful enough not to publish the photos of his breakdown. He wasn’t going to keep reading to see what people trying to revive his trauma would say about it.

  He reached through the starched collar of his shirt for the thin, ornate ring on a chain around his neck and took a deep breath. He reminded himself that feelings were useless, unless they belonged to other people and could be protected or used to his benefit—never both.

  Maybe Lukas had learned from him, a bit too well. Johan hadn’t done much regarding the upcoming referendum because there was influencing as distraction and influencing as politics, and the latter was not his domain. But the always scheming little voice in the back of his mind felt a bit of pride if his brother had known that his appearance would sway people to a yes vote. The voice of his heart, which reasoned that Johan schemed so Lukas wouldn’t have to, wasn’t quite as amused.

  Nya shuffled down the aisle as he was finishing his smoothie and took her seat across from him. She kept her gaze straight ahead, sphinxlike, and the sun streaming in through the window outlined her profile and her crown of braids in gold. Her burnished silhouette was lovely, and Johan imagined capturing it on a cameo, like the old Liechtienbourger love charms—except he would never have the right to own such an object.

  “Hello again, Naya,” he said, with a deferential tilt of his head. The plan was to walk the tightrope of annoying her—within reason—so that she would avoid him over the next few days, but not so much that she really hated him.

  She turned her head slowly, regally.

  “Yes, Jo-Jo?” There was the slightest hint of unruffled derision in her tone as she used the tabloid nickname for him.

  He was both affronted and delighted.

  Could she possibly understand how much he hated that name? No, but she’d assumed that he wouldn’t be pleased by it. She was soft and gentle, but not all the time, he was learning.

  He fought off a smile, and cleared his throat.

  “I’m going to apologize again,” he said. “There is nothing humorous about a strange man propositioning a woman trapped on a plane with him, and it’s not my style.”

  He looked up at her through his lashes and grinned, a one-two combo he thought would work best on a generally reserved woman like Nya who wasn’t used to being the center of attention. Now she would blush, and stammer, and accept his apology not out of reflex but because he’d charmed her. Then he could go back to ignoring her for both of their own good.

  She gazed at him steadily, but didn’t say anything for a long while. Johan’s jaw began to ache from holding his patented smile in place—it usually worked much more quickly than this.

  He was off his game, indeed.

  Just when the awkwardness was becoming almost intolerable, she tilted her head back and looked down her nose at him.

  “Do you mean it? Or are you just trying to make yourself feel better?” Her voice was firm, with no hint of his charm having worked on her.

  “Yes. I mean, no. I’m apologizing because I shouldn’t have behaved that way,” he responded, surprised to find himself flustered.

  “If you take a moment to think before saying offensive things to a woman, and then don’t say them, you’ll have nothing to apologize for and she won’t have to make you feel better about it.” She tapped her index finger thoughtfully against her temple as she looked at him, then reached for a magazine on her tray table and pulled it into her lap, ignoring him.

  “What?”

  “Keep your apology.” She flipped the magazine open.

  Oh là. He was losing his touch.

  This . . . was not how things were supposed to play out. She was supposed to accept his apology with a shy smile. Maybe a giggle.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, more to himself than to her.

  She glanced at him from the corner of her eye.

  “Weren’t you the one who told me I shouldn’t excuse you?” she asked. That surprising anger that he’d heard before she’d cried crept into her tone. “I get it. It was a joke to you. But I’ve had some time to think and I don’t want your apology or your protection. I want to not be treated like a sex object or a . . . a sugar bubble depending on your mood.”

  She turned a page decisively.

  Oh là là.

  Johan tore his gaze from her and tried to wrap his mind around the current situation. Nya—wallflower Nya, barely able to make eye contact Nya—had just soundly put him in his place. For a second time. She was like a feather pillow with a knife hidden in its down, and he kept managing to sit on the pointy end.

  He hadn’t expected that response from her at all, which was worry enough in itself, but his reaction was even more troublesome.

  He liked it. He quite liked it.

  Oh là là là là.

  He was prepared to sit in silence because he was supposed to be ignoring her, but then he heard a little shuddering sigh emanate from her direction and glanced across the aisle.

  Her head was bowed over the magazine but the fingers of one hand tapped the pages nervously. The imperious demeanor she’d sported when putting him in his place had slipped away and she seemed smaller. Sadder.

  “Ahem.” He took a moment to recalibrate his idea of her and what she might need to lift her spirits before speaking. She’d laughed a bit at the body fluids bit, though he sensed that she liked being joked with more than raunch. “What exactly is a sugar bubble, s
o I can avoid treating you like one?”

  “Google it,” she said, though the edge of her mouth turned up just a millimeter. So she wasn’t entirely immune to his charms, then? He could work with that. All he needed was the slightest crack and he could ease his way in, turn this situation around.

  Okay, maybe he was manipulative. But he didn’t like seeing Nya Jerami cry, nor did he like her sighing and troubled across the aisle from him.

  He would distract himself from his worries about Lukas by helping her ease her own. That’s all this was.

  He picked up his tablet and tapped at the blank screen as he pretended to do a search. “Hmm. ‘Sugar bubble is the name for a beautiful opalescent form of dark pearl, hollow with a thin shell. It appears delicate but is actually almost indestructible.’ Oh, but this sounds like something good, this sugar bubble.”

  He looked over and saw her shoulders shake a bit, but her head was still down. She lifted a page of her magazine but didn’t turn it. She was listening.

  “This is interesting, too. ‘Many people think the Trojan War was started over Helen of Troy, but this is a common misconception as her nickname was Sugar Bubble. The war was actually over the theft of this rare jewel, but fighting over a woman sounded more macho in the history books.’”

  Her head swiveled in his direction, a smile on her face that rivaled the sunlight glowing through the window behind her. There was a repressed amusement in her tone when she spoke. “You’re lying.”

  “Ouay.” The word came out deep and low because he was flirting, despite his best effort not to.

  “This isn’t going to make me accept your apology,” she said cautiously, but then closed the magazine. “What else does it say?”

  Johan worked his bottom lip with his teeth in faux studiousness to suppress his grin.

  “Let’s see, let’s see. Paris stole the famed sugar bubble from Menelaus because the king owed him some money, and Paris really wanted to buy this sweet new chariot—”