STILETTO SISTERHOOD - Book Two

Shayne | Royal Rumble

Shayne was used to trouble following her wherever she went, and bad things always seemed to happen whenever she deigned to return home. So it wasn't entirely a shock to discover that Tío Pacho, The King of Spain, drew his final breath within moments of her plane touching down on Spanish soil.

The call came through promptly on her cell from Marco's legal team in New York, where they were running around like hamsters on a wheel trying to ensure everything was in place while she stuffed her suitcases in the back of the palace limousine.

"Bienvenido, princessa," the driver tipped the brim of his hat, lisping the 'c' into the Spanish 'th', as he opened the door to the back seat.

Slumped inside, sunglasses shading her eyes, Shayne popped an Aleeve for her headache and swallowed it down with a mouthful of cold coffee. Jet lag tugged at her weary bones and she cursed the fact she hadn't had a wink of sleep the entire flight over. It was nearly three in the afternoon, and body was six hours behind.

She'd gone to great lengths to keep her return as private as possible by booking her flight less than a couple of hours away from departure with a connection in Madrid and a final destination in London. Anyone paying close attention would think she was taking a last minute trip out to visit Eshe.

Not returning home.

And though she couldn't think of anything worse than being trapped in her home country for three months, seeing her grandmother writhe like a flopping fish in her vintage Chanel soon as Shayne crossed the threshold did give her considerable joy.

Sleep evaded her during the short drive to the outskirts of the city. She gazed out the window as the city shifted into quiet residential streets of sandy bricked houses, and further still past a low rising stone wall with a narrow street that led into dusty, flat open land dotted with trees.

While the grand Palacio del Real—the official Royal Palace located in the heart of Madrid, it was owned by Spanish State. The royal family instead resided in the more modest palace, Zarzuela, on the outskirts of Madrid. A modest structure built when in the seventeen hundreds as hunting lodge and was restored in the 1950's to its current state of white and red brick. Elegant, but comfortable—understated.

The limo pulled up to the front of the gravel path and slid to a smooth stop before a stately home of red and white brick. She'd seen bigger mansions in LA and far more ostentatious. This was hardly a grand castle found in fairy tales, but Shayne was grateful for its understated elegance. The last thing she wanted was to be surrounded by gold filigree, vaulted ceilings and the dust of old royal farts.

"I can manage my own suitcases," she said, passing over a folded wad of Euros to the driver. "Is the Duchess in?"

"Yes," the driver answered, his expression concerned. "Are you sure you don't—?"

"I'm fine. And if anyone asks I'll be sure to tell them how attentive you were." Popping out of the car, Shayne had her bags unloaded as the front door whisked open. A woman dressed in a pressed suit descended the short stack of steps. Concepcion De La Fuente was the oldest member of staff for the royal family, and had managed the household for almost thirty seven years.

Aged had turned her hair grey, the ruthlessly tamed waves cut short and tied away from her long, lined face. And, to her credit, she didn't as much as blink at the sight of Shayne—shaggy haired, ripped jeaned and tattoos on full display.

"Bienvenido a casa, Princessa," she said with a smile and embraced Shayne warmly, kissing both of her cheeks. "We were not expecting you."

"That was the idea."