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Authors: MaryJanice Davidson

BOOK: The Royal Mess
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Hello, Gorgeous!
They Want Her to Save the World. As If.
 
One minute I'm out with my sorority sisters; the next there's a terrible accident (beyond my friend Stacey's outfit) and I'm waking up in some weird clinic transformed into a human cyborg—with a mission: to stop evil and stuff. Uh, hello? I've got a beauty salon to run.
 
Granted, it is cool to run faster than a Ford Mustang when I need to, even if it's totally hard on my shoes. But then I have to bring in another human cyborg on the run? One who happens to be male, totally gorgeous, smart, funny—and, um, his “enhancements”? —as if!
Drop Dead, Gorgeous!
Fast. Powerful. Deadly. With bitchin' highlights.
 
Ah, weddings—every single woman's reminder that she'll probably die alone, covered in cat hair and dressed in unflattering sweatpants. And as far as bad wedding experiences go, my friend Stacey's could take the cake. 1) I'm dateless 2) I'm a bridesmaid, and 3) Someone just attempted to whack the groom (known, no kidding, as The Boss) in the middle of the ceremony. Whoa . . . hang on. I might not relish reception food or doing the Electric Slide, but anyone who tries to ruin a girlfriend's big day by bumping off her true love will have to go through me first.
 
So now I, assistant hairdresser Jenny Branch, am helping to hunt down a real-life bad guy, and the prime suspect is Kevin Stone, who claims to be working undercover for a group called Covert Ops Protection. Riiiight. All of this is hard to believe—my new role as spy-in-training, the fact that I'm surrounded by people with freaky superhuman powers, and most of all, the way that this unbelievably sexy villain/double agent/whatever Kevin is makes every (and I mean every) nerve-ending tingle the second he comes into view . . . and it appears to be mutual. Living with flying bullets and constant danger is a long way from sweeping up hair at the end of the day. But if it means being around Kevin, a girl could get used to it . . .
 
MaryJanice Davidson's sequel to
Hello, Gorgeous
is a nonstop thrill ride of secret agents, wickedly seductive superspies, and deadly weapons, where a fearless, funny heroine and an irresistible hero could find themselves saving the universe . . . and setting each other's worlds on fire . . .
The Royal Treatment
In a world nearly identical to ours, the North won the Civil War, Ben Affleck is the sexiest man alive, and Russia never sold Alaska to the United States. Instead, Alaska is a rough, beautiful country ruled by a famously eccentric royal family, and urgently in need of a bride for the Crown Prince. But they have no idea what they're in for when they offer the job to a feisty commoner . . . a girl who's going to need . . .
 
The Royal Treatment
 
The Princess-to-Be Primer,
 
Or, Things I've Learned Really Quick, As Compiled by Her Future Royal Highness—Yeah, Whatever—Christina. That's me.
 
1. Telling jokes you picked up from the guys on the fishing boat doesn't go over really well at a fancy ball.
 
2. Must learn to curtsy, stifle burps, and tell the difference between a salad fork and a fruit knife.
 
3. Must not keep thinking about Prince David's amazing eyes, lips, hands, shoulders, uh . . . wait, can I start over?
 
4. Becoming a princess is a lot harder than it looks.
 
5. Falling in love is a whole lot easier . . .
 
In this dazzling, delightfully wacky tale from MaryJanice Davidson, a tough commoner and a royal prince are about to discover that who they truly are . . . and what they desperately desire . . . may both be closer than they ever dreamed . . .
The Royal Pain
In a world nearly identical to ours, the North won the Civil War, Ben and JLo got married, and everyone dresses well to attend the Grammys. Oh, and Russia never sold Alaska to the United States. Instead, Alaska is a rough, beautiful country ruled by a famously eccentric royal family, including oldest daughter, Princess Alexandria, whose acid wit and bad case of insomnia have turned her into a tabloid darling, a palace problem, and overall . . .
 
The Royal Pain
 
Marine biologist Dr. Shel (“Never Sheldon”) Rivers has a problem. Some princess expects him to wait on her, hand and dimpled foot. His boss is taken with the royal redhead—brunette, whatever, it's not like he keeps track of that stuff—and nobody realizes that he just wants to be left alone in his lab. All alone. All the time. Weekends, holidays . . . it's all good.
 
Now here's Miss Royalpants, insisting that he escort her around the marine institute, explain what he's doing, kiss her until her toes curl . . . no, wait, that was his idea. She's not even apologetic about being born into a royal family! Says it's his problem to overcome, not hers. Which leaves him with one option: to kiss her again. And again. And . . .
 
So she's nothing like he expected. In fact, Dr. Rivers can see that this fantastic, exasperating woman has problems no princess should ever have to deal with. And he has an idea to help her get some much-needed sleep. Of course, it involves getting very, very tired beforehand, but if she's up to it, then so is he . . .
 
In this delightfully madcap sequel to
The Royal Treatment,
the Baranov family is back and as unpredictable as ever, and a prickly princess and cranky Ph.D. are about to discover that love conquers attitude every time . . .
Doing It Right
Lovers who'll steal everything . . . your wallet, your keys, your inhibitions, and sometimes even your heart.
 
Thief of Hearts
 
There's never a dull night in the ER for Dr. Jared Dean, especially when the woman of his fantasies beats the crud out of the city's toughest mobster. It's enough to get a guy all hot and bothered. Kara, a/k/a The Avenging Angel, is sort of a Robin Hood with better shoes. But her latest stunt has the gorgeous doc on a mobster's hit list. There's only one thing to do: guard Dr. Jared's fine bod until she can figure a way out of this mess . . .
 
Wild Hearts
 
Gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous. Too bad he was trying to steal her car. Kat Wechter has no intention of letting that happen, but it's amazing what an irresistible bad boy can drive a woman to do (pun intended). And Chester “Chess” McNamara is not your typical car thief. Seems he's fueled (ouch) by more complicated motives. And to find out what they are, Kat is more than willing to go along for the ride . . . (couldn't resist).
If you love MaryJanice Davidson's wickedly
funny romances, don't miss DOING IT RIGHT,
in stores now.
 
 
 
D
r. Jared Dean hated being interrupted more than just about anything in the world. So he was annoyed when he heard the crash of something falling over in the chart room.
For heaven's sake,
he thought darkly, scrawling orders for one of the seven patients he'd admitted that evening,
just put the charts back in their rows, you guys. Don't play keep-away with them.
“What's going on in there?” Shari, one of the RN floats, asked without looking up from restocking the meds cabinet.
“The guys have too much time on their hands,” Jared said, writing
NO NARCOTICS!!!!!!!
in Mrs. O'Leary's chart and underlining it twice. Mrs. O'Leary (“Like the lady with the cow, honey.”) was a frequent visitor to the ER. To all the emergency rooms in the city, actually. She was in her late forties, impeccably groomed, ridiculously rich, and hopelessly hooked on Demerol and Vicodin. Jared had been trying to get her into a drug treatment program for two years, to no avail. Mrs. O'Leary thought drug addicts were smelly street people who skin-popped heroin (not that she knew, or used, the phrase “skin-popped”), not grand dames of society who contributed six figures to charity every year.
“Can't blame them for horsing around. Third shift can be a snoozer.” He glanced at his watch—three in the morning, groan—and swallowed a yawn.
“Maybe we should threaten to sic the A.A. on them,” Shari joked.
Jared snorted. He didn't believe in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, a balanced federal budget, city buses that ran according to the bus schedule, or vigilantes who ran around at night righting wrongs. The newspapers had been whispering about the A.A.'s activities for almost a decade.
“At least the clerks aren't pulling this crap during first shift,” Shari added, shoving a hank of her strawberry blond hair out of her eyes. “You know how those morning weenies can get.”
Jared was about to answer her when there was a dull thump. The sharp crack of someone slamming against the window brought him to his feet. He moved past an open-mouthed Shari, headed for the chart room at a dead run, and fairly leapt through the doorway, ready to start chewing some ass . . . or kicking some.
Instead, he stood there with his mouth open. Nothing he'd seen in his years as a med student, intern, and ER resident prepared him for the sight of a startlingly beautiful woman engaged in a vicious hand-to-hand battle with the largest man he'd ever seen.
And winning.
She was stunning. Petite—her assailant was well over a foot taller—and delicately built, with small hands and feet. Her white blond hair was skinned back into a French knot at the nape of her neck. She looked like a princess, one who could pour tea or break your nose, depending on how you addressed her. She was dressed in dark colors—black turtleneck, black leggings, dark shoes—which accentuated her fair skin and hair. Exertion had brought a delicate flush to her features.
Her assailant wasn't nearly so attractive—dirty blond hair shaved close to his skull, thick black eyebrows that met in the center of his forehead, fists the size of bowling balls, a nose that had been broken at least twice. Thick lips skinned back from his teeth as he snarled wordlessly at the woman and sent a punch whistling toward her wide-eyed face.
Jared opened his mouth to shout a warning . . . and the woman deftly blocked the punch, twisted the man around without letting go of his arm, and slammed him, facedown, on the table. Jared winced at the
pop
the man's shoulder made coming out of its socket.
The man howled curses, which were abruptly cut off as the woman grabbed a fold of skin at the nape of his neck and slammed his head into the table.
Silence.
“Look out,” Jared said, finally able to articulate. The woman's head snapped up and she stared at him. For a long, electric moment, their eyes met and Jared had the absurd thought that she could see all the way down into his soul. Her mouth popped open in a small
o
and she gasped, a quick intake of breath that made her breasts (high and firm, his mind reported happily, if uselessly) heave.
“Don't worry,” he said. She had the look of a doe trapped in the headlights, which was ridiculous—what could he, mild-mannered physician and volleyball player—do to her, kick-ass princess? “I'm here to rescue you.”
Her lips twitched at that and she sidled toward him, then dashed past him as he came forward to meet her, turning left out the door. He could hear her running lightly and damned quickly.
“Hey!” he yelled and took off after her. Blessed—or cursed—with a Texan-sized curiosity bump, he had to catch her. She could tell him why there had been a fight, who the unconscious man was, her name, and if she was free for dinner any night this week. This year. She was the most intriguing woman—certainly the most beautiful—he'd ever seen.
He couldn't say “he'd ever met” because they hadn't exactly been properly introduced. A fact he intended to remedy, posthaste. Part of him wondered what he was doing, chasing a stranger around hospital hallways in the wee hours of the morning. Another part of him urged him to run faster.
He caught sight of her just before she darted around a corner and forced himself to put on speed.
Come on, Dean, you wimp,
he thought contemptuously.
You've got to be a head taller at least—certainly your legs are longer. Catch up!
And, on the heels of that:
Where the hell is security? For that matter, where the hell is anybody?
Speaking of dead ends, he just about had her cornered in one; she'd zigged when she should have zagged and there was no door at the end of this hallway, just a window, too far above her head to climb out. She was facing him, trapped with her back against the wall, when he jogged around the corner.
“There you are,” he panted, slowing his pace. “Are you okay? Did that guy hurt you? Before you hurt him, I mean?”
Her eyes, which had been narrowed to blue slits studying him, now widened in surprise. He was hopelessly dazzled and gave in to the feeling—he was a long way between girlfriends and she really was spectacular. Had he thought her eyes were an ordinary blue? Coming closer, he could see they were the color of the sky on a cloudless day, pure and perfect. Paul Newman blue. Not that he was attracted to Paul. Because he wasn't. But the man had gorgeous eyes, and Jared was comfortable enough with his heterosexuality to admit it.
“If you're hurt,” he said, trying not to wheeze, “I'd be glad to take a look at it for you. It's the least I can do, since you got me out of finishing my chart work. Dull stuff, believe me.”
He heard himself babbling and told himself to shut up. She said nothing, just kept studying him. He noticed she wasn't even out of breath.
Kicking ass must keep her cardiovascular system in top form,
he thought.
“Seriously,” he said. “
Are
you okay? Is there anything I can do? If you're in some kind of trouble, I can call a shelter, find you a safe place to stay.”
Still she said nothing, but her lips twitched, as if fighting a smile. He wasn't sure what the joke was, but took a cautious step forward. “Everything's all right,” he soothed, as if calming a wild doe, “now if I can just get you to come with me, I mean without rearranging my kidneys first, we'll find an exam room, make sure you're okay, and then we can talk about the trouble you're in. Whatever it is, I bet we can fix it if we put our heads together.”
She opened her mouth and he waited eagerly, then they both heard the noise of pounding feet.
Well, well,
he thought tiredly,
what do you know—security finally woke up from ye olde one
A.M.
snoozefest.
Whatever she had been about to say was forgotten as she reached up, just barely catching the bottom edge of the window. The hospital's windows were old—no wire mesh—and deep-set. He watched with utter astonishment as she grabbed hold of the ledge and flipped her legs up and over her head, her boots smashing through the glass and the rest of her following through.
He figured it was a good thing they were in the lowest level of the hospital, because he had the feeling she would have gone through that window even if they'd been ten stories up. He wondered if the boots she wore had protected her from lacerations. Given the woman's incredible speed and luck, he assumed they had.
“Well, it was nice meeting you,” he said numbly, and was nearly run over as two security guards came thundering around the corner. “She went thataway,” he added, pointed to the shattered window. “And don't even try, she's long gone. Come on, I'll show you where the other one is.”
The guards had a thousand questions. Jared couldn't tell them much and what he could tell them—the woman won, the woman was incredibly tough but seemed strangely vulnerable, the woman had eyes like the sky, the woman was going to be the mother of his children—he prudently kept to himself.
“You said the other one was in here, Dr. Dean?” one of the guards asked, and that was when Jared saw the woman's assailant was gone. The only thing left of him was a small puddle of blood on the table, presumably from a nosebleed. “Fan out,” the guard said to the others, “he can't have gone far, not after Dr. Dean bashed him around.”
“Actually,” Jared began and then shut up. He didn't want to get the woman in more trouble, so he'd take the blame for KOing the bad guy. It hadn't been the first time people had taken in his size and assumed he was capable of violence. And he had been, in his youth—certainly he'd been in more of his share of after-school scuffles. But years of stitching up victims, of probing for bullets and setting smashed limbs, had made him lose his taste for it. “Uh . . . actually, I should get back to work.”
“You got a description for us, Doc?”
“For Nosebleed? Sure. About six-five, two hundred fifty pounds, shaved blond hair, one black eyebrow, one dislocated shoulder, one broken nose.”
“Uh-huh,” the guard asked, stepping close to Jared and sniffing him. This might have been intended to be a subtle move on the guard's part, except the man had a deviated septum and Jared could hear the shrill whistling intake when the man inhaled. “Broken nose, one eyebrow, we'll get right on it. You have anything to drink before you came on shift?” Sniff-sniff. Whistle-whistle.
“Don't be ridiculous,” Jared snapped. “I gave up booze when I took up heroin. Seriously, I haven't had a drop. The bad guy really did look like some sort of mutated freak of nature. Now go get him!”
Before he catches up with what's-her-name, he added silently.
The guards went, save for one who stayed behind to make sure Jared did his part of the dreary paperwork. Jared obediently followed him to the security office to fill out a report.
For the rest of his shift, he couldn't help looking over his shoulder and peeking around corners, as if the woman might have come back. Ridiculous thought . . . but Jared kept an eye out, regardless.
He wondered who she was.
 
It took Kara an hour to stop trembling. Every time she started to calm down, the thought . . .
Jesus! He almost had me!
. . . would cycle back into her brain and she'd get the shakes again.
Carlotti, who'd been an utter creep since he was ten—and possibly before that—had chased her around like a dog, cornered her, and likely would have killed her—after having a little fun first, the raping swine—if she hadn't gotten the drop on him.
She had spotted him before she was even all the way through the door of the club and immediately turned and walked out. She started running when she heard him scrambling behind her and the chase was on.
Now, in the privacy of her apartment, she collapsed on her thirty-dollar thrift shop couch—tastefully upholstered in puke orange—and relived the chase. Carlotti was big but fast—and driven. If fear had been the fuel for her legs, hatred was his.
Screw up one lousy drug shipment for the guy by siccing the Man on him,
she thought morosely,
and that was five years ago! And he's still holding a grudge, still wants to kill me. Guy's watched a few too many
Godfather
movies.
That was Carlotti's problem—one of his problems, anyway. He fancied himself a Corleone, when in reality he was a Clouseau. Everyone on the wrong side of the law knew the mob wasn't the all-seeing, vengeance-taking organization depicted in the movies. And as for “organized crime”—ha! It wasn't organized at all. A few groups of loosely connected dealers, that was all. Sometimes they were successful in contracting crime to the local talent. Most times, not.
These days, the mob was a lot more interested in legitimate business—video arcades, karaoke bars, beauty salons. It was absolutely ridiculous how much a thriving salon could make in a fiscal year, especially if they also handled manicures. Lucrative and infinitely less dangerous than, say, running hookers.

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