Page 1 of Cross Me

CHAPTER ONE

ALEXANDER

Whoever said it was good to be King had clearly never had the pleasure.

The Royal family has come under increasing scrutiny the last two years due to the controversial actions of Alexander, who recently succeeded his father to the throne. Alexander’s decision to marry a half-American was the subject of contentious public debate. The crown seemed intent on making an even bigger statement with Alexander’s recent approval of Prince Edward’s marriage to Scottish man David McClane. Vocal minorities and religious organizations throughout the world have attacked the king’s support for the union. The Catholic Church issued a statement condemning the act and it’s been the source of much media speculation in America. Other activist groups, however, applauded the Crown’s progressive stance, stating that Alexander and his family are breathing fresh life into stale Royal traditions. Will public opinion swing in favor of the king’s choices, or is Alexander threatening the stability of the Crown? Only time will tell, but—

The television snapped off and I glanced over my shoulder to find my wife leaning against the bathroom’s doorframe. “It’s too early for bad news, X.”

She had voiced opposition to mounting a television in the bathroom, but given that I was expected to be up on world news and that I had very little time in the day to catch up on what the media was saying, I had overlooked her concerns. I reached behind me and took the remote, flipping the television back on, but changed the channel to a cable sports station. “I was just checking the times.”

“Since when are you into racing?” She was calling my bluff, but what my wife didn’t know was that I had recently become much more interested in racing. When I didn’t answer, she hit me with, “You don’t even like driving.”

“I like driving you.”

“Driving me crazy maybe.”

I continued to shave, which was a dangerous proposition because my eyes kept drifting from my own reflection to hers. The dawn light had begun to filter into the bedroom, haloing her in a soft glow that accentuated her luscious curves and made her look like God’s gift to man. She was certainly God’s gift to me. Her dark hair cascaded over creamy shoulders. Last night I’d pressed my lips to them as I rocked her to two climaxes. In the mirror, her own lips twisted into a knowing smirk as if she knew exactly what I was thinking. As I was usually thinking about finding a way to get her naked—something I had never kept secret from her—the smugness was warranted.

She moved towards the counter, hips swaying slightly. Her smile slipped as she studied herself. In the harsher artificial light of the bathroom, I could see what was making her frown. Faint blue smudges circled her eyes and she looked even more pale than normal.

“Have you considered the houses I found for Edward?” she asked.

I’d looked at my wife’s list yesterday. She’d been obsessing over his wedding present since we’d returned from the holidays and he’d left on his honeymoon. “I’d like him closer.”

“Windsor is close,” she gurgled as she brushed her teeth.

“Windsor Castle is a bit extravagant for everyday use, Poppet.”

She shot me a look. “Have you seen our house? There’s a smaller house in Windsor that sounds perfect and its only half an hour from the city.”

“That place?” I shook my head. “It’s unacceptable. Practically falling down.”

“You need to make a decision soon or they’ll never come home from Seychelles.”

I wouldn’t if I were my brother. I kept this to myself. It would be taken care of, but for now I had more pressing concerns.

“Are you feeling all right? I heard you up earlier this morning.” I tried to keep the concern in my voice to a reasonable level, but it was a struggle.

“I’m fine,” she said, but it did little to reassure me. At the moment, my wife’s moods swung between angelic calm and hysterical rage. I had learned the hard way not to get up and join her when morning sickness hit. I didn’t want to allow her to go through it alone, but since my presence seemed to upset her even more, I’d had to keep a restless vigil from the bedroom.

I found other ways to manage her care, though, waking our daughter and doing my best to help Clara get extra rest. That was the hardest, because it usually meant keeping my hands to myself, even when I wanted to spend a few quiet moments together before the rest of the household intruded on our lives.

“Did you get enough sleep?”

“Sure,” she said noncommittally as she glared at her reflection. “I look terrible and I have the Child Watch Symposium this afternoon.”

She turned the faucet on in the marble sink and bent forward to splash cold water on her face. I took the interruption to quickly wipe remnants of shaving cream from my jaw.

“You know, maybe that’s a sign you should stay home,” I said, stepping behind her. I stopped my arms around her slender torso, one hand resting over the tiny bump that only we knew about, while the other took a slightly less sentimental path up to her breast. My thumb circled its furl through the thin satin of her nightgown. Clara responded with a soft moan.

“Are you trying to distract me?” Although, even as she pretended to be annoyed, she leaned into me, allowing better access. I slid my hand under the flimsy nightgown and continued my gentle assault. “Because you aren’t going to convince me not to go.”

We’d been having this argument for some time. After I’d proposed, Clara had struggled with her decision to leave her career behind. When I’d asked her to marry me she had known that one day I would become the King of England. It was inevitable. Before our wedding, I’d promised her plenty of opportunities to continue working on the social programs she’d overseen for Peters & Clarkwell. None of that had gone according to plan. I’d still convinced her to marry me, but both of us had taken on new responsibilities so quickly we might have suffered whiplash. My father’s assassination had backed me into a corner, forcing me to ascend to the throne years before I had expected. Clara’s discovery that she was pregnant had pushed us both into parenthood, something I’d always thought I didn’t want. For the last year and a half, we had been adjusting. I’d had Clara exactly where I wanted her—by my side, in my bed, and, most importantly, home, where I could keep an eye on her personally. Now, despite being pregnant again, she was determined to finally rise to her public responsibilities as Queen. No amount of charm could dissuade her.

“I can think of much better ways for you to spend your day.” My other hand abandoned its protective vigil and slid to the hollow between her thighs, working its way past the fabric to the wet heat there.

“You have meetings all day,” she breathed. I couldn’t help but detect a note of challenge. The message was clear: if I wanted her to abandon her plans for the day I would have to do the same, something we both knew was impossible.