Page 3 of Incognito (Royally Reckless #1)

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N atasha rifled through her wardrobe, flicking past formal dresses, sundresses, skirts, and casual pants, before coming to rest on her favourite pair of jeans. At times like this, being super-organised—or obsessively tidy, as Ella liked to tease—was a definite plus. She’d dithered long enough.

After sliding the worn denim off the hanger she wriggled into them, noting with irony that the only good thing Clay had left her with after their disastrous relationship was a slimmer figure. Stressing over what he’d cost her—and her family—had made her shed pounds.

After slipping a fitted pink top over her head, pulling her hair back in a low ponytail, fixing silver hoops in her ears, and sliding her feet into black ankle boots, she stood back and stared at her reflection in the floor-length mirror behind the door.

She’d deliberately chosen her favourite outfit, the type of outfit that made her feel good and gave her a boost, to meet with the prince, but knew it wouldn’t help. No matter how casual she tried to dress or how confident her outfit was supposed to make her feel, she was a mess.

Dealing with Dante Andretti would’ve been hard enough without the runaway prince playing some weird rebel game where he wanted to hide his identity.

The same identity she needed to shout from the rooftops to boost the hotel’s profile, and ultimately, save it.

“Damn,” she muttered, dashing a slick of gloss across her lips and waving a mascara wand over her lashes, knowing it would take a heck of a lot more than makeup to give her a much needed confidence boost.

She needed the prince’s help.

Apparently, he needed hers.

Then why the awful, sinking feeling their needs were poles apart? Or worse, she’d be coerced into putting his first… and all because of a charming smile and a pair of blue eyes that haunted her since the first time she’d seen them in print on a computer screen.

Why couldn’t he be a boring, fuddy-duddy prince hell-bent on performing normal royal duties—like getting his face on every media outlet.

Why was he masquerading as a sexy bad boy?

Though he couldn’t help the sexy part, wasn’t he taking the rebel image a tad far? How did a guy like that own a pair of worn jeans anyway? Wouldn’t he wear perfectly pleated formal pants all the time?

And why did he specifically need her help to perpetuate whatever game he intended to play?

Determined to get answers to the questions swirling through her mind, Natasha picked up her keys and purse, and headed for a rendezvous with a prince.