Watch Over Me

  Ann Somerville

  This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Watch Over Me © 2016 by Ann Somerville

  Cover images copyright © Roman Bodnarchuk and © opolja with additional manipulation by the author

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For more information please visit my website at http://annsomerville.net

  Smashwords Edition 2, May 2016

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Published by Ann Somerville

  Chapter 1

  Prologue

  Imagine your reaction, as a faithful and brave member of the noblesse d'épée, when your king rewards you for some particularly useful bit of loyal service with an isolated island in the Bay of Biscay, populated solely by several million seabirds and called, with no irony at all, ‘Île de Désespoir’. Your reaction is tempered somewhat by this reward coming with a hereditary title of ‘prince’, but essentially, it’s the geographic equivalent of one of those covers made out of nylon and topped by a female figurine wearing an expression of unutterable joy at having a toilet roll shoved between her legs.

  You and your descendents endure the jokes about being the Prince of No Hope until the island, and the title, pass in obscurity, though your descendents are canny enough to hold onto both, hoping that one day they might be worth something.

  And strangely, finally, they are. Because philately becomes lucrative, and so does being able to claim rights over the rich and diverse waters around your ‘island of no hope’. And when one of your descendants marries a rich American obsessed with conservation in the 1950’s, your family acquires a number of valuable properties in London and Paris and Switzerland, which prove to be attractive to wealthy, secretive individuals looking for diplomatic and taxation immunity. Flogging off citizenship and residency rights at several million dollars a pop for a principality on an island with no actual residents at all, is highly profitable, as is rent on your embassy’s properties in London and Paris and Switzerland. Pay enough, and anyone of sufficient stature can become not only a citizen and resident of what is now known as Cap de l’Espoir, but a diplomatic official with all the perks attendant on that office.

  Unsurprisingly, Cap de l’Espoir becomes amazingly popular with stamp collectors, marine biologists, and some of the richest people you’ve never heard of.

  You are Etiènne Louis Donadieu, and in three hundred or so years, your descendant of the same name will benefit from your stroke of good luck under the Bourbon kings. Unfortunately, the latest heir to the title of Prince de Cap de l’Espoir, may also be the last.

  Chapter 2

  “Maman, do you expect me to simply invite some woman off the street and impregnate her, to provide you and Papa with an heir?”

  “Don’t be so vulgar, Etiènne.”

  “Then how am I supposed to ‘do my duty’ while unmarried and uninterested? Not to mention the fact I don’t even have the time to do everything you expect of me, let alone look for a wife?”

  “I’ve told you before, we would find—”

  My charge, Prince Etiènne Louis Donadieu, turned to me and rolled his eyes before facing his mother again. “We’ve tried this, Maman. With a conspicuous lack of success.”

  “A conspicuous lack of cooperation, you mean. We found you several charming, eligible girls—”

  “‘Charming’?” Etiènne spat. “A gold digger with nothing but her lineage to recommend her. Another who was already pregnant, and in love with the father. And the last one utterly without wit or charm or basic kindness. A fine selection. Anyway, I’m only twenty-nine. What’s the rush. Albert was fifty-three before he married Charlene.”

  Princess Marie shuddered. “‘Charlene’—what a perfectly common name.”

  “He’s not exactly the catch of the century either, Maman.”

  “Well, we are not Grimaldis and we are not waiting until you’re in your dotage for an heir. Do you want to risk everything this family has achieved in marine conservation for the sake of sowing more wild oats?”

  “If it weren’t for the Foundation, Maman, I’d have—” Etiènne remembered his manners. “I’m not sowing anything. I’m busy running your estates and the Foundation. I barely have time to socialise, and when I do, I want to spend it with someone I consider compatible, not some brainless brood mare who can’t spell ‘cetacean’ or tell me what one is. Why don’t you let Claude’s children be your heirs? It’s allowed.”

  “They’re not suitable, as I’ve told you over and over. They’re not Catholic. And their father is....”

  “Not white.”

  “Not European!”

  Etiènne threw up his hands. “Whatever, Maman. I’m sick of this conversation over and over and over, and I have things to do. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Etiènne!”

  But the prince walked out, and I followed him. I hailed a taxi on Knightsbridge which took us out into the London traffic to head to the Cap de L’Espoir Marine Conservation Foundation’s office near Regent’s Park. “I’m seriously considering banking my sperm and faking my own death, Paul,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Might cause more problems than it solves, sir.”

  “Would certainly solve one problem. Claude’s sons would be perfectly fine heirs, and Nasim’s a wonderful man. I’d marry him myself if he wasn’t taken.”

  I coughed. “Wouldn’t solve the problem of an heir though.”

  “No. But it would be worth it for the look on Maman’s face. Here we are, spitting distance from the best evidence ever for not forcing heirs to marry unsuitable partners,” he waved towards the Diana Memorial Fountain in Hyde Park, now behind us as we headed up Park Lane, “and she’s still ignoring reality. If I have to marry a Catholic, then I can’t divorce her, or she me, if the marriage is a failure. Does she expect me or this imaginary bride to live in misery together for the rest of our lives if we’re unsuitable?”

  “Princess Caroline was divorced, sir.”

  “And look at the mess that made. Anyway, ‘we are not Grimaldis’,” he quoted, mimicking his mother’s tone. “Sorry, boring you again.”

  “No problem, sir.”

  “You have the patience of a saint, Paul. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  How little he knew.

  Hello, I’m Paul Villeneuve, and I’ve been Prince Etiènne’s bodyguard for one year, three months, and four days. Which, coincidentally, is exactly the same length of time I’ve been in love with him.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~

  Etiènne’s business at the Foundation office took more time than expected, and so it was something of a rush to get to St Pancras for the six-thirty Eurostar to Paris. Business class was packed with it being Friday night, but since Etiènne was absorbed in reading on his laptop, he probably didn’t even notice. He ate while reading, barely looking at the food, while I could take my time over the meal. The Channel Tunnel, Tom Cruise-fuelled fantasies aside, was the safest possible place for my charge to be, so while I took note of our surroundings and anyone coming into the carriage, I could relax somewhat. My laptop was in my suitcase, but I could keep up with the news on my phone. I’d done that in London, and so once the meal was done, I closed my eyes to rest. Not to sleep. Never to sleep while with the client. That had been drilled into me by Titan House before they filled the Donadieu vacancy in-house.

  I also closed my eyes because being this close to Etiènne ran the risk of me sitting there and staring at him like a lovelorn twit. I spent all my waking hours, six (and sometimes seven) days a week, sixty-two weeks out of the last year and a quarter, and I had yet to be tired of looking at him. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, lean of build and sharp of brain, he was a pint-sized male model—the Donadieu clan being built more like whippets than Great Danes. The planes of his cheekbones and the lines of his long, capable fingers were more familiar and sweet to me than my mother’s. Beside him, I was a slab of beef, and almost as smart.

  Unfortunately for the Donadieus, as for many wealthy families, the ever-present risk of kidnap meant exchanging privacy for safety. Doubly so for Etiènne, since his conservation work and outspoken remarks about climate change and illegal fishing made him the target of those for whom climate change denial and overfishing were extremely profitable. The death threats were not confined to screeds in the post or online. Two years ago he nearly died in a knife attack the French police were quite sure had been motivated by his political views, though whether the attack had been politically or commercially motivated, hadn’t been determined. The moment he was released from hospital, Prince Jean-Claude and Princess Marie had insisted on him having a personal bodyguard, and after a year I’d replaced that man when he de
cided he’d had enough of spending his life dashing around Europe and guarding one clever but somewhat determined prince.

  To be perfectly honest, my predecessor had grown sick of watching Etiènne’s messy love life and being browbeaten by his parents, particularly his mother, on the subject. I hadn’t reached that point, but I had sympathy with anyone who had.

  It was nine before we reached Paris, and nearly ten by the time I carried our luggage into his apartment in Saint Germain-des-Prés. I was tired, but for Etiènne, the night had just started. He went to his bedroom to change into his clubbing gear. I, of course, would wear what a bodyguard always wore—a well cut suit, and, since we were in Paris, a Glock in its holster.

  I didn’t need to ask where we were going. It would be somewhere in Le Marais, perhaps several somewheres. If I hadn’t been on duty, I’d have been happy to mingle with the Friday night club-goers and enjoy the dancing as much as Etiènne, but it was my lot and my job to stand anonymously on the sides, keeping an eye on him and making sure no one tried to kill, assassinate or punch him. His brain was far too valuable to addle with the fist of a drunken Frenchman unhappy with Etiènne’s sharp tongue. Etiènne was fluent in four languages and could be an absolute prick in another three. I’d stepped in quite a few times to stop fights.

  Etiènne emerged in leather pants and a mesh shirt, perfect for the heat in the clubs. I was already sweating at the thought of it, but my jacket had to stay on to cover the holster. He was also wearing eyeliner and lipstick, some glittery bangles, and a gold chain around his neck. “How do I look?” he asked, turning around.

  “Very nice, sir,” I said, wishing he wouldn’t torment me like this.

  “Then let’s go.”

  He told the taxi to go to Le Club 18, where he usually started. It would not be where he finished if he followed past habit, and tonight he did, moving from Le Club 18 to another to dance, flirt and snog appreciative men and eager women. I stood at the side, or above on a walkway, watching and waiting alongside other bodyguards doing the same. The better clubs kept us supplied with water and discreet places to relieve ourselves, because their clients needed protection and it took the pressure off the managers.

  No matter what the weather, I was always too hot in the clubs, but no matter how much I sweated, the jacket stayed on. Etiènne wouldn’t mind if I went casual, but his mother would go ballistic, and the club managers would have discreet words with my prince should his guard reveal his weaponry. It was always a relief, however brief, to go outside while we walked to another club.

  Around two, my prince chose a companion, this time male. As usual, club wear left little room to hide a weapon, but I would quickly run a scanner over the man at the apartment, and ask for ID ostensibly for their convenience and protection. If the companion complained, they’d be escorted out of the building. Etiènne was no fool.

  Check completed, Etiènne and friend retreated to the bedroom. Finally, I was off duty not just for the night, but the following day and night as well. My weekend stand-in was already outside on guard. I gave her the information regarding Etiènne’s bedmate, and my mobile number. She would wait outside the room until ten o’clock, and be replaced by two more guards in turn. Etiènne always thought it amusing that it took three people to cover my days off.

  “I don’t think we pay you enough, Paul,” he’d said once.

  “I’m happy with my remuneration,” I’d said, not needing to lie. I was very well paid, had luxury accommodation for free, all health and travel costs covered on or off duty, a generous clothing allowance, and four weeks’ holiday a year at his expense. The only thing I didn’t have was time for a social life—the job had been specifically for a single man with no attachments, and I fitted the bill perfectly. My marriage had crashed and burned before I left the police force, and I’d neither sought nor met anyone else. Except for Etiènne, who was further out of reach than the man in the moon.

  It wasn’t healthy to fixate on one’s protectee, and the reverse situation could end one’s career, as a former Royal protection officer friend of mine had found. Had Etiènne returned my interest, I’d have resigned the post for ethical reasons. But to my prince, I was simply a requirement of his wealth and position, and I was sure he took no more interest in me as a person than he did in his housekeeper. Less, actually, as she had known him since childhood, while I had only a year’s experience of him. So while he asked after her children and grandchildren, he had never shown any curiosity about my personal life. Maria Costello at Titan House had given Princess Maria all the necessary information to demonstrate my suitability for the job, and Etiènne had never asked for more than that.

  I didn’t hang around the apartment on my day’s off, though I was of course permitted to, as it was my home too. In Paris and London, I headed to the museums and galleries in poor weather as it was today, and to the parks and gardens in the sunshine. Dinner and a movie would take me into the late evening, when I would go back to wherever we were staying. Etiènne would almost always be there when we were in the cities, because it was his downtime too. If we were at one of the research stations, then he and I would spend the time with the other people there, eating and drinking and behaving like undergraduates after exams. It was the closest I ever came to feeling his equal, but I never, ever forgot I was not. I could mingle, but never become part of the group.

  On Sunday Etiènne met scientific colleagues at the Paris Cetacean Institute. These occasions were the times that he wanted me to dress down, and I became simply a personal assistant to Etiènne Donadieu PhD, not guard to Prince Etiènne de Cap de l’Espoir, though I still carried a firearm. The ‘personal assistant’ was not just a convenient fiction. I had no background in marine biology, but I did have a degree in policing, and so knew enough to find my way around scholarly journals and research notes and, naturally, the Internet. In the marine survey planned for the summer, there would be no passengers. Last year, I’d had to pick up enough about the subject, especially on cetaceans which was Etiènne’s particular field, and on other animals such as sharks, to work with him and the other biologists. But I wouldn’t go on the boat this year either. Space on the vessel was restricted to necessary personnel, none of whom would ever be suspected of trying to harm one of their benefactors and fellow scientists.

  Weekends in Paris were when Etiènne was the happiest when he wasn’t out in the field or working on his research. London, though it was where he managed the Marine Conservation Foundation, so close to his heart, also meant seeing his parents, dearly loved but irritatingly inescapable. But Paris on a weekday meant working at the family’s offices, a task he loathed and would have gladly passed onto anyone else trustworthy and competent, if one could be had. Etiènne spent at least a week every fortnight overseeing investments and tenants and making sure the family’s financial present and future were secure.

  I could hardly complain when I benefited from that income, but I hated to see Etiènne’s deteriorating mood as each day at his desk passed. He never treated me with less than courtesy—he took the concept of noblesse oblige quite seriously, and while he wouldn’t hesitate to use his clever brain to come up with the perfect insult for anyone behaving like a fool in the office or in a club, he was unfailingly polite to his servants at home or at work, and those who served him elsewhere. But his smiles became frowns, his forehead creased with annoyance and stress, and all playful remarks disappeared on those days. Etiènne Donadieu, le homme d’affaires, was the most distant and least favourite of his personas. To be fair, it was his least favourite as well.

  We never drove in Paris. We took the Métro to Chateau D’eau, and walked the short distance to his building. Once inside the building and past security, he gave me his plans for the day. “Meetings again all day, Paul. I’ll call you when I’m ready to leave.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Wish I could join you in the gym. Ah, well. See you this evening.”

  Inside the building, with its metal scans and security at Reception, Etiènne was as safe as he could be. I handed over my weapon and holster, and went down to the employees’ gym—another perk of the job, but a necessary one. Police officers often ran to fat, but Titan House-vetted bodyguards did not, so along with my regular visits to a gun range for practice, I worked out as often as I could. I had to. Etiènne’s housekeeper, Danielle, had a heavy hand with the cream and the butter, but her cooking was irresistible and my waistline would have expanded faster than my bank balance if I didn’t watch out.