Page 50 of The Royal Art of Revenge

I also know there’s someone following me. I’m not an idiot. It’s not the first time that ghastly woman has set someone on my tail, and I doubt it’ll be the last. Unfortunately for her, she’s not going to get anything that she wants.

There’s only so far into the hotel her little private eye can follow me, so as soon as I get into the lift, it’s game over for him.

I hope he’s enjoyed his little train ride, though.

Prick.

I step up beside a taxi in the line outside the train station and he rolls down his window. “Are you free?”

“Yes, love. Do you want me to put that bag in the back for you?”

“No, it’ll be fine with me. Thanks.”

“No problem.” He pushes a button and the back door slides open so I can haul in my case and photography bag. No sooner has my bum touched the seat than the door slides closed and he asks, “Where to?”

“The Crown Hotel, please,” I answer.

“No problem.” He sets the little ticker above the rearview mirror to start and pulls away from the taxi line, allowing the others behind to take their place in the queue.

I settle back into the seat and look out of the window. Thankfully, Greenwood Bay is a huge tourist town, and I’ve been here so many times that a last-minute, sunset engagement shoot wasn’t an unbelievable lie as far as my father was concerned.

And oh, no, I simply have to stay overnight because I don’t have possession of my driving licence anymore.

Not that it means I can’t drive, of course. The lack of my own car is the main obstacle to that, but I also just can’t be bothered. The fit that Rosalyn would throw if she caught me driving isn’t worth the little patience I have when it comes to dealing with her.

It’s a good thing I don’t mind trains.

I catch the taxi driver glancing back at me. He almost looks as if he’s going to make small talk, but I turn my head to signify I don’t want to engage with him. Obviously changing his mind, he puts his full focus back on the road and we continue our drive without a shared word.

Thank God.

About ten minutes pass before we pull up outside the hotel. The large, historical building that was once a part of the Royal Family’s property portfolio looms above, and after I pay the driver, I step out onto the pavement and look up at it.

This is where I stayed last time.

Where Crown Prince Finley barged into my room so I’d save him from photographers who’d managed to book a room to get access to the lift.

Where he is, hopefully, waiting for me.

I wheel my case inside and towards the check-in desk. There’s nobody here, given it’s a couple hours past the first check-in, and I smile at the woman behind it.

“Hi, there’s a booking for Hannah Porter,” I say.

“Let me check that for you.” She turns to her computer screen and taps away for a moment, then pauses. “May I see some identification, please?”

I take my purse from my bag and pull out the false ID card with that name on it. She takes it and looks from the card to me, carefully studying my face in a way that sends a tickle of discomfort up my spine.

“Thank you.” She hands it back and returns to the screen once more. A few more taps later and she inserts a keycard into the machine. It spits it back out a few seconds later, and she tucks it into a small, paper pouch that she holds out to me. “Eighteenth floor.”

I pause. “The eighteenth floor?”

There’s only one room there, and it’s not one I’ve ever been lucky enough to set foot in.

“Yes, Miss Porter. The eighteenth floor.” The ghost of a smile finally crosses her face. “You’ll need to use your card to access the lift. Have you stayed with us before?”

“Yes, but this will be my first time in this room.” I give the little pouch a wiggle.

“Let me show you to the executive lift. Do you need someone to take your bags for you?”