Blackstone Ranger Scrooge - Alicia Montgomery Page 0,46
magical will happen and it will start snowing, like in the movie.” When he didn’t say anything, she turned her head up at him. “What, you don’t believe me?”
He harrumphed. “Woman, I’ve been around you long enough to know not to answer a loaded question like that.”
A laugh burst from her mouth. “Oh, you. C’mere …”
And so, there was no more talking or movies for the rest of the night. When he woke up the next day, Cam felt like he was on top of the world. His polar bear, too, was in a great mood, as if sensing that the bond was within their reach.
“If we’re going to use up our energy like this,” she groaned as he rolled off her after their first round of the day. “You’re going to have to stock your fridge with more food.”
He chuckled. “We still have pizza in the fridge. Let’s heat it up, and then we can go to the supermarket.”
They quickly dressed—her in his pajama top and him in the matching bottoms—and headed out to the kitchen. As J.D. took the boxes out of the fridge, his doorbell rang.
“Are you expecting anyone?”
He frowned. “No. But let me go get it.” Who could be at his door this early? With an annoyed yank, he pulled the door open. “What in God’s name—babushka?”
Natalia Dashokov had to crane her neck back to meet his gaze. “Aleksandr!” Her hands shot up, and he automatically bent down so she could kiss both his cheeks. “Surprise!”
This was some damned surprise, that was for sure. “Uh, good morning, babushka,” he managed to say. What was his grandmother doing here? “Where did you—” His stomach dropped, and his bear let out an annoyed grunt when he realized there was a second person with his grandmother.
“Surprise, Cam,” Arabella Stepford-Pryde greeted, a blonde brow raised as she eyed his half-naked state. “Oh dear. I hope we haven’t come at a bad time.”
“What are you doing here?” he mustered in his coldest tone. He hadn’t seen Arabella in five years. Well, it would be exactly five years on December twenty-fifth.
“Bah, Aleksandr,” Natalia placed herself between them. “Please. I have traveled long and far. Won’t you invite us in and make us some tea?”
His bear roared; its anger directed at Arabella. It seethed at the thought of that vile woman in their den. “Why are you traveling with my grandmother?”
“Tut-tut, Cameron,” Arabella cooed. “She invited me on the trip. Said that she hated these long flights and didn’t want to be all alone.”
When he gave his grandmother a stern warning gaze, Natalia flashed him an innocent look. “What?” She shrugged. “You know it is true. Please, lyuba.”
“What’s going on here?” came J.D.’s voice from behind. “Cam? Who’s at the door?”
This was not happening. This was not happening. His perfect, idyllic dream was about to turn into a nightmare. I should have told her! “J.D.,” he began as he turned around.
She was already behind him. “Is it those pesky mission—oh, hello,” she said to Natalia and Arabella. “Can we help you?”
“Help us?” Arabella’s nostrils flared, and her voice pitched higher. “And just who are you, and what are you doing here?”
J.D.’s expression turned stormy, and her arms crossed over her chest. “Excuse me? Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Lady Arabella Stepford-Pryde. Cam’s fiancé,” she sneered.
J.D. looked about ready to explode, but Cam put himself between the two women. “Ex-fiancée,” he corrected. “We broke up years ago. And aren’t you engaged to someone else now? To the football player?”
“Cam, please,” Arabella laughed nervously. “Calling you my fiancé was a … mere slip of the tongue. I’m just so used to saying it whenever I’m around you.”
“Cameron Spenser, you’ve got some explaining to do,” J.D. said, her teeth gnashing together.
Bugger. “I suppose I do.” And possibly some groveling too.
“Aleksandr, who is this?” Natalia asked, a white brow raised so high it nearly reached her hairline.
Fuck me. If there is a god out there, strike me dead now. “Um, babushka, may I present, Ms. J.D. McNamara. J.D., this is my grandmother, Natalia Dashokov.”
“Cam, where are your manners! I swear this country had turned you positively feral,” Arabella admonished. “That’s Her Royal Highness, Princess Natalia Dashokov.”
J.D.’s jaw dropped. “P-princess?” She blinked several times. “She’s a … does that mean you’re a … prince?”
He massaged his temple. “No, no, I’m not a prince.”
“Of course he isn’t. Royal titles can’t pass through the female line,” Arabella stated as if that was a well-known fact, like the sky