Royally Bad (Royally Wrong Book 1)

grunting and squealing on screen has stopped for the second time.
I blow out my breath, and hope no one notices my nipples are hard under my blouse.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Evans says.
“It’s bad, but not impossible. We need to give the media a new story: ‘The Playboy Prince reformed.’” I hold up my hands and sketch air quotes. “He sowed his wild oats but he’s ready to move on. Boys will be boys, the whole bit. It’s sexist, but the media buys it. A year of him acting like a monk, doing charity work, and most importantly, staying out of the scandal papers will do wonders for him. He’ll need to keep his shirt on.” I straighten my glasses and look up at Evans. He’s got his arms folded across his beefy chest, and looks skeptical. “It’ll work. I know what I’m doing.”
“I know,” Evans said. “That’s why we hired you.”
“Okay, so we start scheduling events. First a public apology. Then some donations to charity, a few popups at society dinners.” I nod. It all unfolds in my head: Theo suave and clean, the tattoos hidden safely away under a suit. I know this playbook—redeeming the bad boy. I got this.
“Sounds great,” Evans says. “It’s just what he needs. But it’s not going to work.”
“What’s the problem?”
“We don’t have a year.”
“Hmmm,” I tap a pen against my lips. “We can work with a shorter timeline.”
“We have a week.”
“A week!”
“That’s when he goes before the board. That’s when they decide. And that’s not all.” He hesitates. “There’s the matter of the queen. Rumor is, she’s finally asking about her grandson, and she’s not liking what she hears.”
“The queen? As in, the queen of Sweden.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t even know Sweden still had a queen.”
“Their Parliament holds all the power, much like in England. But the queen is still an important figure. And her daughter was Mr. Kensington’s mother.”
“Estranged daughter,” I correct. On this, at least, I’ve done my homework. “She left home at twenty, went to university in New York and dropped out. Fell in love with an up and coming businessman. From what I understand, Mr. Kensington only had five hotels back then.”
Evans nods.
“The princess gets pregnant, they marry, the queen finds out and cuts her off,” I tick off the rest of the story.
“Only to regret it when her daughter dies of complications in childbirth.”
“Leaving an infant son and a mogul with a broken heart.” I shake my head. “That has to hurt.”
Evans scoffs. “If it did, the queen didn’t show it. She hasn’t even met her grandson.”
“I didn’t mean her. I meant Theo—Mr. Kensington the younger.” I fall back slowly in my chair. Only child, now orphaned, shunned by his royal family. Kept from his rightful… throne? Did they still have thrones? “All right. I can work with this.” Mentally I flip through my contacts. I can do this. Pull favors. Plan photo ops. “I can do a week.”
“There’s still a problem,” Evans says. “He won’t do it.”
My head is still spinning from thinking about turning a tattooed, filthy-rich bad boy into a suave socialite with the innocence of a choirboy overnight. “Won’t do what?”
“Any of it. The apology, the charity gigs.” Evans shakes his head. “Mr. Kensington doesn’t want to clean up his act. A few of the board members were friends of his father. They hired you to save his reputation, so they can give him one last chance. But he doesn’t care.”
“Then he needs a therapist, not a fixer.” I say sharply.
Evans shrugs. “For the money we’re paying you, you can be both.”

3
On my way to the pool, I school my face into a stern expression, one I often saw employed by Ms. Mavery, the librarian at my high school. I found it works on handsy boys and misbehaving clients alike. Combined with my business suit and unflappable poise, I will be unstoppable.
I hope.
I follow the sound of classic rock to the pool. My polished approach is spoiled somewhat when my heel catches in a crack of the pavement. By the time I free myself, the whole party is staring—a handful of men and twice as many women. And Theo, who is still not wearing a shirt.
“You’re fired,” he shouts as I come close. The ladies around him erupt into laughter.
I continue down the marble steps, passing topiaries and statues of cavorting nymphs. I’m sensing a theme here. Maybe living among all this lascivious art made Theodore Kensington subconsciously decide to be a modern-day Bacchus. I smile to myself. “Art and the Playboy Psyche” would make a great thesis paper. Miss Mavery would love it.
“I said you’re fired,” he repeats, and there’s a serious edge to his voice. This isn’t just Theo, the bad boy idiot, playing to the crowd. This is Theodore Kensington, testing me to see what I will do. Whether I can stand up for myself.
“You can’t fire me.” I come to a stop before his pool lounger. “I don’t represent you. I represent your dick.” I point to his swim shorts. Fortunately, he’s wearing shorts. Otherwise it’d be halfway to an orgy around here. I don’t think Mr. Evans would like that.
“My dick can speak for itself,” Theo says, and sets off another round of giggles.
“It certainly can. That’s your problem. Your dick is getting rave reviews on entertainment news shows. Apparently, it just delivered the performance of a lifetime. You’re a grown man,” I’m full on channeling Ms. Mavery here, “who got caught with his pants down and more than just your hand in the cookie jar.”
Theo wears a half-smile. There’s a gleam of intelligence behind his model looks. Thank God. Give me something I can work with. “So I’ve got a PR problem.”
“Mr. Kensington, you are the PR problem.” You and your harem. Besides the three women I saw climb out of the car this morning, there are four more, all in the tiniest bikinis ever invented. They might as well be wearing thick pieces of string. And high heels.