The Bossy Prince (Rugged and Royal #3) - Lili Valente Page 0,14

brought under control. It’s hard to slip by a target unnoticed when your breath is slapping people in the face.

Zan: That might be wise, yes. But seeing as Nick has no prohibitive medical issues, I’m sure we’ll work well together.

Blaire: And you don’t think the fact that you’re closely connected in your personal lives will be a problem? Nick said you intend to keep the trip a secret from your families, but if they were to discover you’re in Bali together, you consider that an acceptable risk? It wouldn’t make things difficult for you personally?

Zan: One of my sisters is married to his brother, and the other is engaged to marry his other brother. The women in my family clearly have a weakness for Von Bergen men, so…

Blaire: A weakness most women share, I’m sure. They’re quite a trio. Genetic lottery winners, every one.

Zan: Exactly. So it wouldn’t be hard to sell a lapse in judgment with my brother-in-law. And then we’d move on and put it behind us. One of the good parts of having a family prone to high profile drama—an island fling between Nick and I wouldn’t be news for long.

Blaire: Well, then, it sounds like you’re ready to mobilize in forty-eight hours. Good luck, and don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything at all. We’re all past ready to see Stefano behind bars. A win here would be a great start to the New Year. Have a happy one, by the way, if we don’t connect before then.

Zan: You, too. And truly, don’t waste another moment worrying about Nick and me. We’re on the same page.

Chapter Six

Alexandra

Nick and I are not on the same page.

Nick is, in fact, on my last nerve.

It turns out he’s a bossier boss than I expected—at least with me.

Refuses to let me bring my sidearm, insists on going over our cover story so many times I could recite it backward in my sleep, and this afternoon, he barged into my guest room at the Gallantian palace to steal my suitcase, insisting he has “a better eye for island wear,” and that I shouldn’t worry about picking out my own clothes for the trip since fashion clearly “isn’t my forte.”

Apparently, my soon-to-be fake-boyfriend thinks I’m a shitty dresser.

But so what?

I do not and never will care about fashion.

That’s Lizzy’s thing and, to a lesser extent, Sabrina’s. I was the triplet most likely to shred her clothes zipping through the Marine-inspired obstacle course I built by the vegetable patch or stain her dress crawling through the grass to spy on my nanny while she was on the phone with her boyfriend.

I do, however, care that I’ll be walking into an enclave of well-armed criminals without a gun. Nine times out of ten, I’m able to escape conflict using my wits or martial arts skills, but Stefano’s men are always packing.

Always.

If our cover is blown, the chances that we’ll end up under fire are better than good.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I’m suffering from serious pre-mission jitters. I don’t like Nick calling the shots. I don’t like that someone with less experience is steering this ship, and I really don’t like that I’m going to be sharing a bed with that man for a week and a half.

Mostly because the stupid tingling nonsense isn’t improving with prolonged exposure.

If anything, it’s getting worse.

But I’m not going to let Blaire or Neville or anyone else—especially Nick— know that. I’m going to prove to the higher-ups that I can work well with others in an intimate setting, I’ll land the promotion to Southwest Regional Director, and I’ll move forward in my career without Nickolas Von Bergen casting his smug, entitled shadow all over it.

All I have to do is play nice for two more weeks.

I can do anything for two weeks. And once we board the Von Bergen’s private jet the day after tomorrow, “anything” will no longer include my insane parents, our exuberant siblings, or the paparazzi stalking our every move.

Our visit to the veteran’s home yesterday—a trip estimated at an hour, tops—clocked in at nearly four. We were ambushed by reporters on our way out and forced to pose for pictures in front of the outdoor Christmas tree while answering an endless barrage of inane questions. By the time we finally loaded into our caravan of black SUVs to head back to the castle, my feet were so frozen I vowed never to leave my room in heels