Her Royal Highness (Royals #2) - Rachel Hawkins Page 0,68

have sent the pictures on already. He took them on his phone, not with the camera.”

She looks over at me. “That’s their trick. Show up with a big expensive camera, everyone assumes that’s what you’ve used, so no one thinks about the phone.” She turns back to stare out the massive front doors at the scene on the front lawn. “It’s rather ingenious of them, really.”

With that, she turns to head up the stairs, and I follow after her, grabbing her elbow.

“Go tell them that!” I say. “About the phone. Maybe he hasn’t sent—”

But Flora is already moving away. “That’s sweet, Quint, but I promise you, it’s a done deal.”

I watch her vanish up the stairs, and Sakshi comes to stand next to me, following my gaze.

“This is why her mother wanted her to have a security detail up here,” she tells me. “Flora sells more magazines than her brothers put together.”

“Even more than Seb?” I ask, and Sakshi nods before twirling a strand of her long dark hair and turning to face me. Well, to look down at me, what with her being an Amazon and all.

“Do you like her, Millie?” she asks.

Gah. My throat feels tight suddenly, my face probably bright red as I gesture vaguely. “Yeah. I mean, we’re definitely getting along better now, so—”

“No.” Sakshi’s hand comes down on mine, covering the back of it. “I mean . . . do you like her?”

Cutting her a look, I pull my hand back. “Isn’t this the kind of thing we should be asking in notes? The kind with boxes, check yes or no?”

She smiles at that, but there’s real concern in her face when she looks at me. The corners of her mouth turn down, her eyes narrowing just a little. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

It’s close to what Darcy said about Jude, that I was setting myself up for heartbreak, and I don’t like that comparison.

“Trust me, neither do I,” I reply.

We all hang out downstairs until the police car drives away and Dr. McKee comes in, briskly clapping her hands and telling us to disperse. Everyone follows her order, but I hang back, waiting until the hall is mostly clear to approach the headmistress.

“Dr. McKee?” I ask, and she turns, eyebrows raised like she’s surprised to see me there.

“Yes, Miss Quint?”

“What’s going to happen with that guy?” I ask, nodding out toward the front doors.

Dr. McKee turns to follow my gaze, reaching up to pat at her chignon. “Oh, I assume they’ll take him to the station in the village, put the fear of god into him, and send him back to Edinburgh or Glasgow or wherever he came from.”

“Is the queen going to hear about it?” I ask, and Dr. McKee pivots on her heels to face me fully.

“That’s none of your concern, Miss Quint,” she says, which I take as a yes. Will that mean more security people around? Flora will hate that.

But I don’t say anything, just nod and give Dr. McKee my best Humbled and Quailed face before jogging up the stairs.

I open the door to see Flora sitting on my bed.

Holding the magazine about her that I’d shoved under my pillow. And, stupidly, kept there ever since.

She looks up when I come in, and as I close the door behind me, she holds up the magazine.

“Bedtime reading?”

“Saks had it,” I say. “A-after Skye, I was curious about your life and the people in it, so I asked for help, and—”

“And then decided to get into the lucrative side business of spying on me for the tabloids?”

The words are so unexpected that I take a step back. “What?”

Flora tosses the magazine to my bed, standing up and folding her arms over her chest, one hip cocked slightly. She looks every inch the Mean Girl I’d tagged her as on my first day, and I realize that I’d forgotten just how cold she can be when she wants.

“That photographer was up here because someone has been leaking information. I just checked the various blogs dedicated to tracking every breath me or my brothers take, and what do you know?” She pulls her phone out of her pocket, wiggling it at me. “Story after story about me, about you, about us going to Skye, about what went wrong at the Challenge. And now I see you’ve been reading up on me.”

I’m still gaping at her. “Do you . . . honestly think I’m calling up Scottish tabloids and telling them