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Chelsea

I shoved my earplugs in deeper to block out the sound of my roommate puking and reread the lead paragraph of the long interview I’d written about an American who called herself DJ Sunshine. My feature on the rise and popularity of female DJs in
Ibiza would hopefully prove to my editor at Rolling Stone that I wasn’t just partying in Spain for the summer, but covering cutting edge music news.

And prove to myself that following Derek, aka, DJ Deadbeat—my boyfriend at the time—to the hip Spanish island hadn’t been a total loss.

My roommate, Allegra, stopped heaving and groaned.
I sighed and pulled out the earplugs. I should see if she needed anything. I hardly knew the tall, leggy model from Italy. Basically, we had nothing in common, other than both needing a place to stay for
the month that didn’t cost an arm and a leg.

I’d moved in last week after I’d finally admitted to myself that Derek’s immersion in ecstasy and the party lifestyle was more than recreational.

I headed out to the bathroom, but a knock at the door interrupted my planned check-in. Damn. I hoped it wasn’t Derek.

A tall blonde with a miniscule waist and fake boobs stood at the door, her face tight. “Where’s Allegra?” she demanded in a thick Slavic accent—probably Russian.

“She’s sick. She’s been throwing up since midnight last night.”

“No,” the blonde groaned, slapping her pretty forehead through a thick layer of makeup. She pushed her way through the door on her
red fuck-me stilettos.

The sound of retching from the bathroom made her stop and wrinkle her nose.

She turned and looked speculatively at me—a full up and down sweep. “You’re pretty enough. You look a little like her. Can you take her place?”

“On a model shoot?”

“No.” She tapped one manicured nail against the screen of her phone in a rapid nervous gesture. “Escort.”

Escort. And I’d thought Allegra was a model.

She glanced at the screen of her cell phone. “The Prince of Halsburg has a yacht leaving in thirty minutes. I needed six girls. Already one canceled. I can’t show up with four, he will never contract with
me again.”
The Prince of Halsburg? As in the future ruler of Austrinia?
“Five thousand Euros for three days; confidentiality is assured. Required, actually. I’ll give you a bonus of one thousand Euros for stepping in at the last minute. But don’t tell the other girls.”
Whoa, whoa, what?
An escort to the hot young royal whose face had adorned every tabloid for the last two years? The Prince of Halsburg was in Ibiza, and I’d missed it? What kind of reporter was I, anyway? The young twentytwo- year-old royal was fast following his older cousin, Darius, in developing a reputation for partying, showing up in places like Ibiza, London,
Paris and New York with an entourage of his sexy and wealthy friends from Cambridge. And I was being offered three days on his private yacht.

Yeah, I’d probably have to put out. Either for him or one of his buddies. But from the photos I’d seen—and believe me, I’ve stalked the prince and his posse a fair bit—none of them were hard on the
eyes. Would sex with a hot young royal really be a hardship? Couldn’t I consider it my rebound after Derek? I’d come here hoping for adventure, hadn’t I? And in exchange, not only would I get paid more
than I made all summer, but I’d probably have enough material to write my first book. The book that would solidify my career as a journalist. A book that would sell millions of copies. The book that would make up for my mistake in trusting a man.

I drew in a deep breath, knowing I was crazy. “Okay.”
“Good.” The blonde stuck out her hand. “I’m Marina. You’re Allegra.” She gave me a hard look. “I already have paperwork and photos approved for Allegra. It’s too late to change. Understand?”

Perfect for me—I’d officially be undercover. I nodded.
“Let’s go,” Marina urged.
“I just need to pack a bag.” I spun around in the tiny Spanish flat, trying to get my brain on straight.
“You need nothing.” Marina’s thick accent made it sound more like nothingk. “A bikini, nothing more.”
A bikini. Right. Because I was going as a call-girl.
Whatever. Reporters make sacrifices for the good stories.
I dashed to my room and threw a few bikinis in a bag, along with my toiletries, and what really mattered for this job—my laptop and phone.
New York Times bestseller list, here I come.