Saving Their Princess

By TL Reeve

Kidnapped!

Sabine Babineaux, daughter of the mayor of New Orleans and waitress at The Three Princesses bar, is snatched from the street after a late night at work and knocked unconscious. Waking in a cage, Sabine is determined to escape and take the other women in the basement lair with her.

Stuart Renwick and Kyle Novak, detectives with the New Orleans police department, are assigned a kidnapping case with multiple victims. However, when one of the missing women, Sabine Babineaux, arrives at their precinct, injured and terrified, they take the damsel in distress under their wings and into their home. But the gallant detectives find their princess a big temptation. What will she say when they tell her they like to share?

Can they work fast enough to find out who the kidnapper is and bring them to justice or will they take more victims or come for Sabine again?

Will Sabine survive long enough to explore her feelings for both detectives? Or will Stuart and Kyle fall at the hands of her kidnapper?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Decadent Publishing
• Release date: Oct 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781613337561

Book preview

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Saving Their Princess

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 by TL Reeve

ISBN: 978-1-61333-756-1

Cover art by Syneca Featherstone

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

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www.decadentpublishing.com

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Saving Their Princess

By

TL Reeve

A Beyond Fairytales Adaptation of

The Three Black Princesses

~Dedication~

To Sara, Robyn, Rhonda, and Dakota, Thank you guys so much for all the late night pep talks and pointers along the way. I really hope you enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. This really was a labor of love. *SMOOCHES*

Chapter One

Once upon a time…

Stuart Renwick sat at his desk, going over his last case of the night. As a detective for the New Orleans Police Department, he should have been out of the station an hour ago. There was something about the breaking-and-entering case he was working on that, for the life of him, didn’t make sense. He flipped through the eyewitness report and sighed. Two witness statements matched perfectly, so how could a third be so far off it wasn’t even funny? How could a woman who lived more than five blocks away from the crime scene know what happened? According to her, she came out of her house at the sound of the commotion and watched a man dressed in black running away from the scene. She also gave a complete description of what he wore, right down to the shoes.

There’s just no way, he grumbled, throwing the file back onto the desk.

No way, what? His partner, Kyle Novak, came around the cubicles separating the detectives from each other and sat down at his desk across from Stuart.

Mrs. Johnson’s statement. There is no way what she said is the truth. He sat back in his chair and folded his hands over his head. Kyle had been his partner for the last five years. All Stuart had to say was that he had a niggle of doubt, and the man believed him.

I read her report today, too. I agree. He was picked up three blocks from Mrs. Johnson’s house, going in the opposite direction. Not only that, he wasn’t wearing black at all. Kyle’s green eyes narrowed as he read the statement once more. Toss her statement. It does us no good.

Mrs. Johnson was a noisy woman. One of New Orleans’s busybodies—always trying to find out from the police what was going on in her neighborhood.

Wait. Which way did the surveillance feed show him heading when he left the store? There could be a chance she’s right. If she is, then we need to make sure we dot our Is and cross our Ts. There can’t be any reasonable doubt here, or else the defense will run all over prosecution. He watched his partner flip through the file and smirk.

North, Kyle said, pointing to the page. He would have had to run west on Conti then south on White Street. Then he would have had to backtrack to St. Louis Street and run north on Dupree Street. From there, he would have been dumped back out onto Conti, in front of Mrs. Johnson’s house. Why the hell would he do that?

He wouldn’t have. Stuart knew it. If his clear shot to freedom was north, he would have continued his path. There was no logical reason to turn around and run in the opposite direction. Okay, we can dismiss her testimony of what she saw that night. I have one more witness statement to go over, and I can get out of here.

Fuck that, Kyle spat. Come on, the game is on at the bar. You’ve been working day and night on this case. It’s time to unwind.

You’re always looking for a reason to get out of doing your job. Stuart laughed.

Kyle was a procrastinator but tenacious and loyal to a fault. Nevertheless, if Kyle had it his way, he would be out in the French Quarter picking up chicks and singing his version of the blues.

That’s not to say Stuart wouldn’t be out there as well, but he wouldn’t be singing. He preferred to stand back and people watch. Mardi Gras festivities afforded him those pleasures. Many times, he stood off to the side while on shift and watched different women show their tits for beads. Yep, there’s nothing like New Orleans.

Conversely, those skills he used to people watch came in handy as a detective as well. His ability to remember the minutest of details had helped them solve several cases. It had also helped him enjoy solo spank fantasies while recalling Debbie’s berry-red nipples and smooth-as-silk pussy. He smirked, feeling the front of his pants tighten.

True enough, but it’s Friday, man. Let’s go grab a cold one and watch the game. We can come back, refreshed, on Monday.

Stuart had to admit he did want to grab a beer, and his favorite team was playing. Fine. One beer. Then I’ll see you Monday morning, and we’ll finish this up. He stood behind his desk and returned the file to the locking drawer. I’ll drive.

I swear, it’s like you don’t trust me or something. That hurts my feelings. Kyle gave him a mock pout then shook his head.

You’re completely dangerous. I feel sorry for any woman who marries you.

So do I. She’ll have to put up with your ass, too. Kyle laughed. A couple of years after they started working together, they’d figured out they made a good team in the bedroom, also. A couple of times, women asked if they were gay. The answer, of course, was a hard no, not in the least; they just enjoyed sharing. Finding the right woman, however, was a whole other story.

Too true. Stuart smacked his best friend on the shoulder before they walked out of the station and headed down the block to the bar.

The Iron Fist was a new bar on the outskirts of the warehouse district. The place had only been open a few years, but the guys at the station seemed to enjoy it. So, at least once a week, they all got together for a round of drinks. This week, not so much. Stuart knew it was his fault.

They stepped inside, and he instantly relaxed. It was a higher-end bar. Modern tables filled the space along with six sixty-inch flat screen televisions. In the middle of the ground floor was a long rectangle bar done in natural lacquered walnut. There were seven taps of domestic beer and five taps of homegrown brews. The shelves were filled with only the best liquor, and the atmosphere was friendly without being overly touchy-feely.

What’ll it be, guys? The big black bartender, Clancy, asked. The man towered over them at an impressive six-foot-four inches tall and weighed a hair over three hundred pounds. With coal-black hair and dark-brown eyes, he was intimidating, to say the least, but he was a giant teddy bear to all the women.

Two beers, Stuart answered, taking a seat with a clear line of sight on the big screen TV across from them. Who’s winning the game?

I don’t know, man. I ain’t watchin’, Clancy said, placing the long-neck bottles on the bar in front of them.

No, you’re too busy watching the honeys, Kyle piped up. I know you all too well, Clancy.

Fuhgedaboutit, man, the bartender answered, a broad smile tugging at his lips. Anything else, guys?

Nah, we’re fine, big man, Stuart answered, turning back to the game.

The score was all tied up. The bases were loaded, and his team was up at bat. It was already bottom of the eighth. Damn, he should have gotten there sooner. What a hell of a game. The batter took a couple of practice swings, adjusted his shirt, and set himself up for the pitch. When the first ball came in low and outside, he let it go. Stuart gripped his beer a little tighter. Anticipation curled deep inside him. One more hit. One more home run and this game was over. The batter swung with the second pitch and missed.

Tension built in the back of Stuart’s shoulders waiting to see what would happen next. He had always been this way when one of his favorite teams was playing. Sure, it bordered on obsessive, but damn, this was his team playing. Come on, Ortiz. You got this.

Pardon me, a lilting voice said, catching Stuart and Kyle’s attention.

An old man, no bigger than a child, his beard the consistency of brambles twisting and springing in different directions, stood a few feet from their table. He wore green woolen britches, and a red shirt completed the gnome-ish look. His gait was strained as though walking was a chore for him. When he took a step closer to them, Stuart noticed his knees were like a bird’s, bending from behind. He stood there for a moment more then sat down and took off his hat, laying it before him.

Curious, Stuart