Page 93 of Spin Control

So I look at His Royal Highness Étienne Beaumont, Crown Prince of Druvia, and I tell him everything.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “I’ll make sure you can hand that envelope to my father.”

“What?” I yell. “Are you usurping? Are you a usurper?”

“No,” he says, laughing hard. “I am in no way ready to be king. But since we don’t know what Elio’s plan is after the envelope, the hand-off needs to happen. We can ensure proper security and protections are in place.”

I exhale heavily.

“Don’t worry, Wes,” Étienne says. “It’s all going to work out.”

The next day, I take a shower and shave. I put on the tux, but not the mask. I go to the state dinner, where I sit next to a Dowager Countess from Spain. Not even her genuinely great tale about going on a date with a rockstar that turned into a six-month trip around the world in the ‘70s can quell my nerves.

The envelope sits heavy in my jacket. I just want it gone.

I think back to Montréal and Elizabeth’s cool, commanding voice telling me I’m not allowed to be nervous. Though the memory doesn’t have the exact same effect in a ballroom with a painted ceiling, wainscoting edged in gold leaf, and a gleaming wooden floor, I still breathe easier. And when the King of Druvia takes the stage and begins his birthday address, a focused calm washes over me.

As the speech ends, Étienne excuses himself so he can be a safe distance away from us when the hand-off happens, just in case. Then, I walk up to the King of Druvia.

“Wes Grant. You’ve always been trouble.”

I almost laugh. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty.”

He grins in the same way Étienne does. “This time, at least, I don’t think it’s your fault.”

“Oh, it’s never my fault, Sir.” He laughs, a rich, warm sound. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard it.

Since my back is to the majority of the room, I watch as the king’s eyes sweep the place before he asks me an innocuous question about the racing season, buying time for his security team. Finally, he nods.

I take a deep breath and pull out the envelope. The cream paper is thick and luxurious, sealed with blue wax.

“Don’t worry, Wes,” the king says. “We’re going to get this bastard once and for all.”

He takes the envelope and I brace myself for whatever scene from a James Bond film might unfold around us. But nothing happens.“Happy birthday, Your Majesty.”

As I walk away, every muscle in my body relaxes. I did it. My part in this is over. I’m heading to the bar to ask for a heavy-handed pour of very expensive Scotch, when all of the lights in the ballroom go out.

There are gasps and shouts, the sound of crystal shattering.

A loud sound cracks through the room.

I don’t even realize I’ve reacted until I’m on the floor.

But I am.

Because that’s what you do when you hear a gunshot.

37

The thing no one tells you about being kidnapped is that it’s shockingly boring.

After the dinner where Stas basically announced everyone better start looking for a new mob boss to serve, they’ve kept us separated. When I’m not locked in my room, I’m at the dining table with four giant men who watch me like a hawk.

You’d think at least one of them would have a soft spot for me, but no. It’s very annoying.

The other thing I’ve learned about being kidnapped is that it really messes with your sleep schedule. I wake up in a panic multiple times each night. So when I find myself wide awake in what has to be the wee hours of the morning, I’m not really surprised.

The noise that thunders through the house moments after I open my eyes does surprise me, though. I bolt upright and switch on the lamp, my heart beating hard. There are shouts, followed by the sound of gunfire.