Fuck. No, he certainly didn’t want revolution. “So what do I do?”
“You stay put. You let things die down. You show up to any social events in the States that you are invited to. You talk encouragingly about your cousin’s wedding and how happy you are for her.”
“For how long?”
“However long it takes. A year, maybe two. More likely two. We have a publicity team working with the crown to ensure that both the princess and her new husband are seen in the best light possible, and she is working hard at getting pregnant.” He coughed, as if realizing what he was saying. “Er. You know what I mean. Regardless, until things are settled here, you need to be there.”
A year or two? Good god. He’d been here a week and he was already bored out of his mind. “What am I supposed to do for a year or two?”
“Charity events? Photo ops? I’m sure you’ll figure out something.”
Loch rubbed his brow, frustrated. “So I can’t come home because my cousin married an American. But I can’t abdicate a throne I don’t want because it’ll reflect badly on the crown.”
“That’s right. You’re the most popular royal at the moment, unless you find a completely unsuitable American to marry, too.” The minister laughed uncomfortably at his own joke.
Loch held his breath. He stared at the door to his bedroom. “I’ll get back to you on that.”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but—”
Loch hung up. He gazed at the bedroom door, rubbing his chin. Now he had a plan. Was it the nicest plan? No. Would it take care of all his problems?
Oh, yes. Absolutely.
Chapter Eight
Taylor’s head was a throbbing nightmare, and her mouth tasted like cotton. She groaned softly and hugged her pillow closer, only to discover that her pillow had somehow gotten softer and fluffier overnight. She squeezed it again, testing to make sure she wasn’t crazy, and that was when she realized she was still dressed and under a rather heavy blanket.
Slowly, she sat up in bed and glanced around.
This wasn’t her bed.
This wasn’t even her apartment. It was dark, but even in the dark it felt different than her place. More open. Plus, there was the soft sound of a vacuum down the hall.
Her scattered mind vaguely remembered the hospital room, and Loch’s big hand stroking hers. Something about him taking her back to his hotel to take care of her. Oh. Right. She squinted at the room. It was dark, heavy curtains drawn over the windows, but even in the dark she could tell the room was enormous. Taylor slid over to the edge of the bed—a king bed, no less—and felt around for a light. When she flicked it on, her eyes widened. The bed she’d slept in was magnificent, with a padded leather headboard and tawny, thick blankets made of something luxurious. There were a dozen pillows tossed around and above the bed, and an artsy painting of what looked like paint splatters decorated the mocha-colored walls. Nice chairs and a table were along one wall, and against another there were double doors leading into what looked like a bathroom.
Okay, his hotel was officially nicer than any building she’d ever been in, except maybe Gretchen and Hunter’s magnificent house. Damn. Loch had said he was a noble in Bellissime—a count or a baron or something—but had acted like it was no big deal.
This room told her he was a Big Deal. Capital B, capital D.
Normal people didn’t rent rooms in places like this. Not even close. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and a bolt of pain shot through her body, the breath hissing out of her lungs. Owie owie. She gingerly touched her side. It felt as raw as her head, but the skin didn’t feel broken. Her foot felt hot and sweaty—and hurt, too. A quick glance down showed that her skinny jeans had been slit all the way up to the knee on one side. Freaking lovely. There was a plastic boot around one foot, and she tried to flex her foot inside said boot. Another bolt of pain ripped through her. Okay, she wouldn’t do that again.
She rubbed her face, trying to remember what the doctor had said. Her head had been throbbing so hard she hadn’t paid attention to much. Oh, right. Her ankle was swollen and tender, but not broken. Ditto on the ribs. They felt like hell, though.
Actually, all of her felt like hell, which meant she probably looked worse. And she was here in the bed of the hottest guy she’d ever met. Shit. Time to do some damage control.
Taylor hobbled her way to the bathroom and flicked the light on. She sucked in a breath at the sight because good god, this was an incredible bathroom. Fluffy rugs dotted the travertine floor, and thick, pillowy towels were stacked on a small rolling table next to a bathtub that looked like a gigantic marble bowl resting on the floor. She limped toward it, eyes wide. She needed that tub in her life like yesterday. Off to one side was a shower that looked a lot like a waterfall, complete with rocks for the wall instead of tile, and a half-dozen spray nozzles. Jesus. This bathroom was officially The Shit.
She peeked at the mirror—a gigantic, mosaic-lined oval that covered nearly all of one wall—and winced. Oh yeah, she was a hot mess. The enormous bandage covering half her head had to go, especially because her hair was sticking out in every single direction underneath it. With delicate fingers, she slowly unwound the gauze, revealing a blood-spotted square bandage high at her hairline. She peeled it up and peeked at the damage. Six stitches, lots of purple bruising. Lovely. With her fingers, she tried to comb her hair flat, and then washed her face with a soft towel to freshen up. When she looked about as good as she could hope given the circumstances, Taylor replaced the small, square bandage over her stitches and then hobble-limped back to the bedroom. There were double-doors that must have led out to the rest of the hotel room. Was this a suite or something?