Page 10 of Risky Match (Royal Spies #1)

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I let out a long sigh as Martina, Erin, and I leave the court.

“Are you okay?” Martina asks.

“That was tough. I knew Blake wouldn’t be excited about playing doubles, but I thought he had agreed to it. I felt like an idiot when he said he didn’t even know I was his partner. Then he tried to talk me out of playing.”

“I didn’t know. If I had, I wouldn’t have let you walk into that situation.”

“I know. Blake and I worked it out though. It’s fine.”

“Fine isn’t enough. I’ll talk with Josh. He will get Blake in line.”

“No. Don’t. I have this under control.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am. I need to hurry now, or I’ll be late for dinner.”

“This way. Your car is waiting,” Erin says.

As we walk in silence, I process how small I felt having to talk Blake into playing doubles with me.

Tears threatened to fall, but I managed to hold them back.

The thought of not playing at Wimbledon was overwhelming.

Even worse, I couldn’t fathom blowing my CRM before it even started.

I had to convince him to play, even if it meant swallowing my pride and begging, which was rare for me.

Usually, people beg me to do something for them.

Then he comforted me with a hug, engulfing me in his lean six-foot-three frame and holding me tight with his bulging biceps and muscular forearms. Damn, he felt good.

I swear I could feel his eight pack through our tennis shirts, and I’m fairly certain that wasn’t the only part of his body that was hard.

His warm body against mine sent shivers from my head to my toes, conjuring memories of our hot night together.

Why does he have to be so damn attractive?

I’d love to run my fingers through his thick, dark hair, lose myself in his deep blue eyes, and let his faint five o’clock shadow tickle me as we kiss.

It’s going to take all my fortitude not to give in to those desires.

And based on our hug, I suspect it’s not going to be easy for him either.

I’ll have to repeatedly remind myself that I’m spying on him because he may be a criminal. No way can anything happen between us. I can’t sleep with someone who may be part of something illegal.

“What time do we have a practice court tomorrow?” I ask.

“Josh is double-checking their schedule. I’ll text you when they confirm,” Martini answers.

“Make sure I have enough time to drive here from the castle. I’ll do my gym workout there if we’re practicing in the afternoon.”

“I’ll let you know.”

My coach and I part ways as Erin and I slip into the black Range Rover.

Recalling the look on Blake’s face when I mentioned dinner with Adrian and Stephen, I smile.

Blake is such a celebrity that I think of him as tennis royalty.

But his reaction was a reminder that he’s not accustomed to dining with titled royals and staying at castles.

My life isn’t normal even for a tennis star like him.

Hell, my life isn’t normal for most royals.

Only a handful of us are part of the Covert Royals program, and I’m the only one trying to have a tennis career while keeping up my royal duties.

That’s why Adrian, Stephen, and I are such good friends.

The three of us were the sole members of the first Covert Royals class, and we still train together in April and May each year, along with those who joined after us.

While I told Blake that dinner tonight is for catching up with the princes, it’s only been a couple of weeks since Adrian, Stephen, and I were sweating our way through martial arts drills, practicing our sharpshooting, running an obstacle course, and learning about the latest listening devices.

Somehow, I managed to meet Martina at the adjoining tennis facility for two hours each day as well. I couldn’t afford to skip that training in case the Wimbledon invite came through. Looking back on those weeks, Covert Royals camp makes my regular tennis training seem like a breeze.

That’s why Blake’s life, with only tennis to think about, seems like a dream to me.

I owe my parents so much for allowing me to pursue tennis along with fulfilling the duties of my birthright.

Most royal parents would have quashed my pro tennis career before it began.

Fortunately, mine were more open-minded.

After a quick shower, I slip into a little black dress and apply some makeup.

Transformation complete, I go in search of the dining room.

It’s a bit of a memory test because I haven’t been here for a while.

But I don’t mind. It’s a rare pleasure to wander around somewhere on my own.

That’s the luxury of staying at the castle.

I’m perfectly safe and don’t need Erin shadowing me tonight.

It’s almost like being at home in the Catalinius palace.

Hearing familiar voices, I walk through the double doors at the end of a long hallway and am instantly enveloped in the arms of my good friends.

Prince Stephen is two years older and an inch shorter than his younger brother Adrian.

They both have golden hair with brown streaks, but Stephen wears his slightly shorter.

That’s where the similarities end, though.

Stephen is serious but empathetic, like his father.

Adrian, on the other hand, finds interesting ways to have fun while still achieving his goals.

They’re both wonderful guys I’m lucky to have as friends.

“We’re so excited you’re at Wimbledon this year,” Adrian says.

“Thanks. It’s been a long time coming.”

“We know. And that’s why we’re horrified that you were denied the invitation to play singles. You clearly earned it,” Stephen says.

“You know about that?”

“Of course, and we’re upset for you. I can’t imagine how disappointed you must be,” Adrian says.

“Extremely. Thanks for understanding. Tennis is important to me, but I love my family and country more. That’s why I eagerly embraced the opportunity to prepare for covert missions with the two of you when I turned seventeen.

It made me feel special that I could do something for my country and our allies.

I also knew there would be personal sacrifices, but this one hit particularly hard. How did you find out?”

“We’re your contacts for the mission. Tonight’s your follow-up briefing,” Adrian says.

“I should have known. Hopefully, the briefing includes dinner though. I’m starving.”

Stephen laughs. “We promise to feed you. We can’t have the next mixed-doubles champion collapsing from lack of food.”

“Definitely not. Can you imagine the tabloid headlines? Princess Collapses on Tennis Court Due to Food Deprivation! ” Adrian teases.

“You two are such jokesters. It’s like being around my brothers, except they would never approve of the covert part of our lives.”

“I’m surprised you’ve kept that from them. I was sure they would find out when Xander became king,” Stephen says.

“I made a deal with my parents that we wouldn’t tell him unless it became a matter of national security. It took a bit of persuasion, but they eventually agreed.”

“You always have been persuasive,” Stephen says with a wink.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Now, I’m ready for dinner and the briefing. The video briefing only gave me the basic outline of the mission. I’m still in shock that I’ll be spying on my tennis partner.”

“I’m sure you weren’t expecting that part,” Adrian says.

“Not in my wildest dreams. By the way, who’s here from British Intelligence?”

“Matt is on his way. He should be here any minute,” Adrian says.

“Matthew Harrington? The Deputy Director?”

They nod.

That’s a new development. This mission must be more serious than I thought if someone in his high position is handling the briefing tonight.

“My prior missions have never involved anyone at his level. I should have guessed though. The briefing suggested that this mission isn’t like any of my prior ones where I was a glorified messenger.”

“Your Royal Highness will be much more than a messenger this time,” Deputy Director Harrington says as his shoes click across the polished hardwood floor.

We turn and watch as the middle-aged gentleman in his finely tailored suit and tie approaches. He’s noticeably aged since I last saw him. I wonder if it’s stress that added the wrinkles to his face and the extra gray to his salt-and-pepper hair and mustache.

Reaching us, he stops and bows his head to each of us in turn, showing his respect for our titles.

Extending my hand, I say, “Deputy Director Harrington, please call me Bri.”

When we arrived for our first training, we were disappointed to learn that British Intelligence doesn’t use Double-O designations for its agents.

Apparently, those designations only exist in movies.

Instead, we go by our first names unless a mission requires aliases, which are usually common names that no one we encounter is likely to remember.

It’s not that we wanted a license to kill, but we liked the idea of being special agents with secret identities.

“Thank you, Bri. And please call me Matt tonight.”

“I’m anxious to hear about the mission. I gather it’s serious and potentially dangerous.”

“Before we discuss the details, let’s have dinner,” Matt says.

Adrian leads us to the table for four, and servers magically appear with heritage tomato and burrata salads accompanied by glasses of sauvignon blanc.

When the staff leaves, Adrian says, “Bri, I know you’re probably avoiding alcohol during the tournament, but it’s customary to toast the beginning of each mission for good luck. Will you join us?”

“Of course. One sip won’t hurt.”

“Then raise your glasses to completing this mission safely and, in doing so, protecting the history and integrity of our countries. Cheers.”