Royal Love Read Online Fiona Davenport

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Insta-Love, Virgin Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 29423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 147(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)

It had only taken one look for Tristan St. Clare to know that Dani Kendall was meant to be his. But the sexy professor had a secret he was worried would tear them apart. The young beauty who’d stolen his heart had no idea that he was a billionaire…and a prince.

Tristan hadn’t meant to keep Dani in the dark for so long, but he was worried that her dislike of the limelight would make her run from his royal love.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************



“Dr. St. Clare!”

I paused as I exited the Columbia University classroom building where I’d just finished giving a lecture. Sighing, I moved to the side so I wasn’t in anyone’s way, then slowly turned around to face the person calling my name. “What can I do for you, Ms. Cabot?”

Aymzlee Cabot, an entitled, obnoxious, spoiled brat taking my Ancient Studies class, stopped a few inches from me, and I immediately backed up. She batted her false eyelashes, and her lips formed a pout—which looked ridiculous because they were so thin. Then she flipped her long, blond extensions over her shoulder before putting a manicured hand with diamond-encrusted nails on my arm.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Ms. Cabot,” I snapped, recoiling with a dark scowl, angered at her overly bold action. In my country, if she’d tried to touch me without permission, I could have had her hands cut off. Well, maybe not so much these days, but she would definitely have spent at least one night in the castle’s detention center while they processed her for breaking the law.

However, I was in America, not the small country nestled in Europe where I grew up, and I was definitely not royalty here. So I tamped down my fury and settled for a scathing glare.

She appeared taken aback by my anger, and I wondered if she’d ever heard the word no. Then she shook it off and again tried to pull off a seductive pout.

I huffed an irritated breath and grunted, “Is there something you need, Ms. Cabot?”

“Call me Aymzlee,” she purred.

“Ça me soûle.” I muttered the expression of frustration in French—the official language of my country. I was going to need a shower after this encounter to wash away any lingering filth from her distasteful attempts at seduction, and—I coughed when she leaned forward—the cloying stench of her perfume.

I was no stranger to this bullshit, but that didn’t make it any less annoying to deal with. Growing up as a prince meant having a lot of experience with false personas, suckups, gold diggers, and haters. When we were in high school, my brother, Philippe—who was only a year older than me—and I were considered teen heartthrobs with our blond hair, piercing green eyes, and athletic prowess.

Eventually, we lost the boyish qualities of our appearances. My face became angular with a chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, and a straight nose. I still had an athletic build, strong and muscular but lean from running and playing football—or soccer, as it was called here. I moved from teen magazines to the world’s sexiest lists. Royalty, entrepreneurs, billionaires, etc. That bullshit was an even bigger pain in the ass.

Shallow, money-hungry women came out of the fucking woodwork when you’re on those damn lists. And it didn’t matter one bit that I would never be king. Not when, in addition to my family money, I’d also become a billionaire on my own.

It was one of the reasons I’d stopped dating years ago. I was tired of it all and just wanted to focus on my work, school, and teaching. No one expected me to provide an heir, and I was a kick-ass uncle to my sister’s kids, and would be for my brother’s, when he had them. So I was content to be a bachelor.

Moments like this just firmed my resolve.

“You’re so sexy when you speak Italian, Tristan,” Aymzlee cooed with a sickeningly sweet smile.

I heard a muffled sound and glanced over at my shadow, Michel. He’d been my bodyguard since I was a teenager. However, there was only a five-year age gap between us, so eventually, he’d also become—after my brother—my closest friend. Right at that moment, though, I was contemplating amicicide. He was clearly holding back his laughter, and I scowled at him, making it clear that he was going to pay for not stepping in and saving me from this revolting encounter.

“I was speaking French, and that comment was completely inappropriate, Ms. Cabot. Now, if you will excuse me—”

“Wait! I was hoping we could get together this weekend. I’m struggling with the reading, and I would be so appreciative if you would tutor me.”

Bordel de merde, I cursed quietly. For fuck’s sake, this girl will not give up.

“Elle sait lire?” Michel murmured, expressing surprise that she could read in a mocking tone. I almost snorted in amusement, but I managed to control it. This girl was toxic, but I was still her instructor.

“That’s what the student help center is for, Ms. Cabot. If you still have questions afterward, you can email me, and I promise to answer them promptly.”

I didn’t give her a chance to respond before spinning on my heel and stalking down the stairs. Michel was chuckling when he fell into step beside me.

“Two blondes fell down a hole,” he quipped in French. “One said, ‘It's dark in here isn't it?’ The other replied, ‘I don't know; I can't see.’”