Royally Bad (Royally Wrong Book 1)

when I went to rap on the door to Elvis’ home, and the door opened before I could touch it. I promptly overbalanced and fell over, right at the butler’s feet. A butler. In this day and age! I gaped at him from the polished floor. He looked at me like I was a bit of muck stuck to his shiny shoe.
That’s when I knew I wasn’t being hired to watch a parrot for a year. I was being paid to nanny a bird the owner loved more than a child. A child you left at home while you traveled the world for a year, but apparently rich people do that.
Elvis came with a ninety-five-page handwritten manual, which is one page shorter than the manual issued with the space age espresso maker built into the kitchen wall. But the job comes with a free stay in a nine thousand square foot mansion. No gardening or house-cleaning required—the owner has separate staff for that.
And she’s gone for a “grand tour” which includes several continents and traveling by planes, trains, boats, and automobiles.
Luckily, the butler isn’t around to look down his nose at me. Once he let me in and gave me a tour, he left to catch up with his employer. Lady Drey is paying him and a maid to travel with her.
Leaving me and her espresso machine to live happily ever after. Or at least, for another ten months.
I finish a second latte—I deserve it—and stretch. My agenda for the day: Coffee, check on Elvis, take a long bath, check on Elvis, watch a movie in the theater room. Maybe I’ll let Elvis watch with me. He loves Vin Diesel.
My room is in the east wing, near to Elvis’ jungle room. But it’s no servant’s quarters. I have a private bathroom and a walk in closet bigger than the bedroom at my old apartment. The bathroom has a bathtub in the corner, with windows overlooking the garden and the Tudor style mansion next door. A lot of windows for a bathroom, but okay. I shrug off my robe and fill the bath, adding a generous amount of bubble wash. I don’t bother with modesty—even if someone wanted to spy through the second story windows, I’ve never seen a neighbor. Once in a while there’s a car in the drive, but they probably avoid the side of their house closest to Elvis. I can hear faint strains of Blue Suede Shoes from here, along with the occasional shriek from the parrot.
I sink into the bath and prop my feet up.
“A bath at ten in the morning. So leisurely.” I do my best Katherine Hepburn impression. One must always talk like Katherine Hepburn when one stays in a mansion. “If I’m lucky I will find a rich man to marry and keep me in the style of which I’ve been accustomed.” Going back to my postage stamp sized apartment after this year is going to hurt. Maybe I can add mansion-sitting to my resume. Find another lady on grand tour, with a house full of antiques and a garden full of topiaries and a parrot perched in a tree—
“Elvis,” I gasp, jolting up in the bath. I lose my balance and fall back. A tsunami of soapy water hits me in the face.
“Shit!” I sputter and haul myself out, my feet threatening to slide on the soaked floor. I grab my robe and pelt downstairs, wet hair flying. I pause before the door to the garden to put on the garment, and spot Elvis perched on a Japanese maple.
“How did you get out?” I cry and throw open the door. My exit startles the bird, who flaps away, over the low stone wall dividing Lady’s Dreys’ property from her neighbor’s. Ducking low, in my own version of stealth mode, I scramble over the wall and sneak through boxwoods and rhododendron, stopping frequently to keep my robe from snagging on a manicured branch.
The grey parrot lands above me, on the rail of the large deck.
“Elvis,” I hiss. I’ve got to trap him, but all I have is my robe. I tug it off and sneak around to the deck stairs where I pause to say a prayer to St. Francis, patron saint of animals. Surely, he’s also the patron saint of pet sitters.
Elvis glides down to the deck, four feet in front of me.
Thank you, I mouth, and stalk forward, bare-assed, robe outstretched between two hands. I’m just about to snag the escapee bird when the deck door glides open and a tall, dark haired man steps through, mug in hand, undoubtedly to enjoy his coffee while looking over his garden on this fine, quiet morning.
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Also by Lee Savino
Contemporary Romance
Beauty & The Lumberjacks
After this logging season, I’m giving up sex. For…reasons.
Her Marine Daddy
My hot Marine hero wants me to call him daddy…
Her Dueling Daddies
Two daddies are better than one.
Innocence: dark mafia romance with Stasia Black
I’m the king of the criminal underworld. I always get what I want.
And she is my obsession.
Beauty’s Beast: a dark romance with Stasia Black
Years ago, Daphne's father stole from me.
Now it's time for her to pay her family’s debt…with her body.
Paranormal romance
The Berserker Saga and Berserker Brides (menage werewolves)
These fierce warriors will stop at nothing to claim their mates.
Draekons (Dragons in Exile) with Lili Zander (menage alien dragons)
Crashed spaceship. Prison planet. Two big, hulking, bronzed aliens who turn into dragons. The best part? The dragons insist I’m their mate. 
Bad Boy Alphas with Renee Rose (bad boy werewolves)
Never ever date a werewolf.


About the Author
Lee Savino has plans to take over the world, but most days can’t find her keys or her phone, so she just stays home and writes smexy (smart + sexy) romance. She loves chocolate, lives in yoga pants, and looks great in hats.
For tons of crazy fun, join her Goddess Group on Facebook or visit www.leesavino.com to sign up for her mailing list and get a free book.
Website: www.leesavino.com
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