The Billionaire Prince’s Fake Girlfriend: Undercover Princes, #3

By Leslie North

A royal scandal leads to an attraction they can't deny…

 

Reeling from the discovery that his father hid an older sibling from him, billionaire prince Benoit Georges Moreau goes undercover at a British newspaper to track his half-sister down. Unfortunately, the fiery reporter he's assigned to work with recognizes him instantly. The jig is up—or is it?

 

Jane has built her whole life on seeking out the truth. After living in the shadow of her father's lies for years, she leaps at the chance to uncover a royal exclusive. If she can help this handsome prince solve a decades-old mystery, he'll let her break the story about this shocking royal secret. For Jane, it's a once in a lifetime opportunity to advance her career as an investigative journalist.

 

But as they spend more time together, the fake relationship they craft to conceal Ben's royal identity starts to feel all too real. And it quickly becomes impossible to deny the chemistry between them.

 

When the truth leads to betrayal, will their undeniable attraction be enough for them to take a leap of faith?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Relay Publishing
• Release date: Apr 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201823146

Book preview

1

"I can’t thank you enough for letting me job shadow here at the London Current , Prince Ben Georges Moreau told Susan, the newspaper’s human resources person. I think I’ll be able to learn just what I need in this position."

He felt itchy. It wasn’t a lie... not entirely. Granted, he wasn’t actually at the newspaper to job shadow. And she didn’t know that he was, in fact, a prince, and not just a friend of a friend that she currently thought he was. He was using the commoner name he’d used in uni to avoid attention, so that wasn’t a complete lie, either. Still, the near occasion of lying made him uncomfortable.

Considering what he really was doing there, though, he could hardly be forthright.

Oh, it’s our pleasure, Susan said with a broad smile. "Although I’m surprised you didn’t just shadow with Holly, over at the Fervian Times? She recommended you highly, by the way."

He cleared his throat. I really wanted to be here, he said, which again was the truth.

Susan shrugged. Well, London is like nowhere else, she admitted. "And the Current is solid. Even if we don’t have the prestige of the Gazette or the Times, we do good work here. We’ve got a great investigative section, and our lifestyle section is award-winning."

He nodded, trying not to seem impatient. He had signed up with the excuse of job shadowing because he hadn’t wanted to accept a paycheck for what would amount to espionage. He followed behind Susan, wondering how quickly and quietly he could access the records room. The sooner he got the information he needed, the better.

As they wove through the open-plan office, a maze of low cubicles and the clicking of keyboards, he noticed a woman on the phone. She had auburn hair, shoulder length, curling in waves. She tucked a wayward lock behind her ear as she spoke rapid-fire into her headset.

I know, I know, you can’t say anything on the record, he heard her coax, her bottle green eyes alight, full lips curved in a surprisingly alluring smile. But surely you could say something off the record? Give a girl a hint? She paused. I should be an investigative reporter? From your mouth to God’s ear! Then she let out a peal of laughter.

He frowned. Even in this chaotic environment, she looked like a live wire. And, he noticed, Susan seemed to be leading him right towards her.

I’m afraid that I couldn’t have you shadowing any of our news crew or beat reporters, Susan said, her gaze apologetic. But Jane’s one of our best in the lifestyle and features section. If you want to learn the ropes in our business, you really couldn’t find anyone better. I’ve sent her an email, and once she gets off the phone, she’ll help you, all right? Susan glanced at her watch. I’m sorry, must dash. I’ve got a new hire coming in, and I need to get the paperwork sorted.

Of course, he replied. I really must thank you, again, for all of your assistance.

Aren’t you polite, Susan said, her smile warm. And so formal. Maybe you’ll rub off on our Jane!

With that cryptic remark, Susan retreated, and Ben watched her go.

He was standing next to the cubicle, and the aforementioned Jane was still chattering away, taking notes in an indecipherable scrawl across a pad of paper. There was a vase of chrysanthemums on her desk in a variety of colors: white, purple, orange-and-red striped. They were a bright, brilliant cacophony... much like their owner, he thought.

Then he sneezed.

He grimaced, groaning to himself. No one else seemed to have flowers. Flowers probably shouldn’t even be allowed in the workplace. He sneezed again, wondering if she’d do anything.

All she did was glare at him, as if chastising him for having an involuntary allergic reaction.

It shouldn’t have annoyed him, but frankly, he was under enough pressure right now, completely out of sorts. He didn’t even want to be here, but he needed to, if he was going to find out the truth.

So, Barry... how’s your wife? Your kids? They enjoying school? she continued.

Ben’s temper rose. He was waiting patiently, and she was simply making small talk? What kind of workplace was this?

He cleared his throat—then sneezed again. And his irritation grew.

She held up her index finger as she kept chit-chatting about some party and other personal details. Frowning, she scribbled a note on a nearby pad and held it up for him to see. This could take a bit, he read.

After ten minutes, and near constant sneezing, Ben was livid. If he didn’t need this woman to keep up a semblance of why he was here—the job shadowing—then he’d have said the hell with it and searched out the records room himself. But he wanted to at least put in an effort, so he wasn’t completely lying.

There was nothing he hated so much as lying.

After his fiftieth sneeze, his temper snapped. It happened so rarely—he normally had a lot better control—but he had simply had it. He reached over, grabbing the vase and dumping it in a nearby wastebasket.

When he turned back to the cubicle, he saw the woman staring at him, a combination of amusement and shock on her face. It’s been lovely catching up with you, too, Barry, she said. We’ll talk again soon. Then she clicked off. Well, well, well. You must be my new intern?

I’m just job shadowing, he clarified. Temporarily.

Good, she said. Because those were my favorite flowers, that I paid for myself, that you threw out.

His cheeks flushed with a rush of heat. Maybe he was too used to being a prince, he realized. He was certainly not used to being ignored. He frowned. I... I’m allergic, he said, as if that were the only excuse he needed.

And of course, it never occurred to you to ask, she said slowly. Or walk away until I was done with the call.

He gritted his teeth. Actually, it hadn’t occurred to him. He was so fixated on her rudeness, he didn’t think to walk away.

You held up a finger at me, he said, so you could chat up your friend while I was sneezing my head off.

Her eyes widened slightly. Because—and pay attention, because this is part of journalism—what looks like small talk is important in developing relationships with your sources, especially in the lifestyle section.

She seemed to be waiting for something, but when he didn’t answer, she tilted her head, studying him. Well. You owe me a new bouquet, Your Majesty, she said, in a sarcastic drawl.

He jolted before realizing she was being facetious. My name is Ben, he clarified. He realized he probably ought to apologize. It certainly wasn’t her fault that she bought flowers that he was allergic to, even if she had annoyed him by ignoring him.

My name’s Jane, she said, reaching out her hand. He shook it, and in that moment, her eyes widened with recognition.

Oh, no. He knew that look. And considering he both needed information from her, and he’d just managed to irritate her by throwing out her favorite flowers, he wasn’t sure how she was going to react. Maybe she’d just gloss over it. Maybe she’d preserve his privacy. Maybe she was a royal fan, and she’d help him out for that reason alone.

Or maybe you’re delusional.

Your Majesty, she repeated, then glanced around, standing and taking a step closer to her. Or should I say... Your Highness?

He closed his eyes. Crap. This was not good at all.

Would you like a cup of tea or coffee? he said quickly. There’s a café nearby, and I’d love to buy you something. And maybe we could talk.

He couldn’t force her, but his words were firm. He hoped his eyes were conveying this was a very, very strong request.

She studied him, not intimidated in the least. If anything, she seemed amused.

A cup of tea sounds just the thing, she said with a smirk. I’ll grab my coat.

Ben ushered Jane off to a nearby café, glad that no one else seemed to recognize him. It wasn’t too crowded, with a few chatty teenagers and the people behind the counter having their own animated conversation. An older woman seemed to be listening to something on headphones. It wasn’t perfect, in terms of privacy, but it’d have to do. His cover was blown. He had to repair the situation as best he could, before things got worse.

"What brings you to the London Current... Ben? she teased in a low voice, her eyes twinkling with curiosity. I’d call you Prince Ben, but..."

He quickly shushed her, looking around. No one had noticed. His profile wasn’t really that big here in London, unless someone was a royal watcher with a sharp eye for familiar faces. Still, given the nature of his mission, as it were, he wanted to stay as anonymous as possible.

You’re going incognito, she murmured. You’re wearing casual clothes, but they’re what rich people think ‘normal’ people wear. That ‘shabby’ coat is probably a thousand pounds easy, and that sweater’s probably been hand knit by virgins in the Scottish Highlands or something. But wearing the clothes, pulling your hair back to try to hide your curls, and wearing those fake glasses won’t really fool anyone who’s truly looking, by the way. It certainly didn’t get by me.

He stared at her, gobsmacked. Was he that obvious? He’d tried so hard to hide in plain sight, but she’d made it seem like child’s play.

Beyond that, she continued, still amused, you seem to want to work at a newspaper. What’s the story?

Damn, she was good. He studied her carefully. Maybe I’m just interested in becoming a reporter?

Sure. And I’m living in London because I was hoping to become a Shakespearean actress. She rolled her eyes, then took a sip of tea. Try again.

He wasn’t sure if he found her funny or annoying. If he weren’t trying so hard to accomplish something so important, he would’ve enjoyed her quick wit and sexy, heart-shaped face.

He blinked. That was an odd thing for him to notice, considering the situation.

You could try to keep it a secret, she continued again, sounding almost bored, even as her bright eyes studied him. "But I have to warn you, if I want to find out something, I find it out. And I work for a newspaper... the lifestyle section. Just a few hundred words on why the Prince of Reinia is going around pretending to be someone else would probably get published."

He swore under his breath. Blackmail?

Not exactly, she demurred. Just pointing out facts. You can trust me, or you can try to keep doing whatever sneaky thing you’re considering—and I must say, you really do not have the skill set for sneaky.

"I am not trying to be sneaky, he said, affronted. That sounds so... lurid!"

She shot him a lopsided grin. Secretive, then?

He sighed. Well, she had him there.

Why should I trust you? he said.

Her eyes widened, and he realized he’d just thrown gas on a fire. If someone says something’s off the record, I respect that, she said. "That said, I dig and find out information on my own. If you want me to hold a story, you’ll just have to give me a damned good reason to. Otherwise, I will not only find out what you’re hiding, I’ll find out the story behind that, and make sure the whole thing’s published. So how about we cut the theatrics, and you tell me what’s going on?"

Well, this had been a long shot, at best. If she was as good as she said she was—he could use the help.

I’m trying to find out a... story, he said through clenched teeth. "Something that may have happened about thirty-five years ago or so. I’ve tried looking into the older publications from the bigger newspapers, but had no luck. I finally decided to try looking into the London Current, but your newspaper’s records are not publicly available. They haven’t been transferred to online-friendly versions, and you can’t borrow microfiche or similar from libraries. I’ve checked. The only way is to look at the microfiche in the records room at the Current."

She stared at him, and he could all but see the gears whirring around in her mind as she took another liberal sip of her tea.

So, your parents are involved in some kind of scandal? she said, in a low voice. I’m guessing infidelity, maybe. Or another heir?

"How the hell do you know that?" he snapped, before realizing that he’d inadvertently confirmed her assumption.

Her lips quirked in the tiniest smile, but her eyes blazed like she was a modern-day Sherlock figuring out a tough case. "The London Current is a well-rounded newspaper now, but thirty, forty years ago, it had a scorching hot gossip section, she said. Wasn’t until about twenty years and two brutal libel lawsuits ago that they pulled back on their gossip coverage. If you’re looking for something at the Current from thirty-five years ago? Something that couldn’t be found at the bigger, more prestigious newspapers in the same era? You’re looking for dirt. And you’re trying to keep your identity a secret while you dig. That means it’s something you don’t want people to know about. You’re, what, thirty-two, yes?"

He nodded silently, stunned.

It’s probably nothing to do with you, then, or your birth, she mused. Which means it’s something with your parents. They’re both only children—it wouldn’t affect anybody else in your family tree, not in that time frame. You’re looking to see if there’s any gossip about your parents, one or the other, seeing someone else… maybe more. Am I wrong?

He was shaken. She’d put together all this on nothing. What would he do if she decided to pursue it?

Good God... what if she put it together before he did?

Do you promise to keep it off the record? he growled.

She nodded.

He took a deep breath. I was going through my father’s correspondence. He had a stroke recently. He ignored her sympathetic expression, pressing forward with a low voice. I found a letter, an old one, in his study. A woman wrote and said that she was back in London, and she’d confirmed that she was pregnant. A girl.

Jane’s eyes went wide.

She promised that it wouldn’t interfere with his life, he said. The date was... well, it was thirty-five years ago.

Jane bit the corner of her lip. Your parents were married at the time, she noted.

He felt the shame, the anger over it. The sharp edge of betrayal that his father was capable of doing this to his family. And he’s lied about it this whole time, he ground out.

"You’re looking to... what,