chapter 4

THERE’S A WALL IN ANTHORP CASTLE that displays weapons of war used by the royal family through the centuries. Swords, sabers, daggers—

some still have blood on the blades. One of those weapons is a flail,

commonly known as a ball and chain—a two-foot baton attached with a

chain to a heavy, spiked ball. It’s an unwieldy mace that was actually rarely used in battle because of the danger to the wielder, and the long recovery time before one could strike again. However, when it was used, the damage it inflicted was deadly—the spikes pierced armor and embedded themselves in chests and skulls.

That flail is the first thing I think of when I pry open my eyes—because I feel like one has been planted in my brain. The bright sliver of white light seeping through the shades, in the otherwise dark room, makes agony

explode behind my eyes. I moan, and a moment later the door opens, Simon’s shadowed silhouette spilling in from the hall.

“You’re alive then? For a time I wasn’t sure.” “Thanks for your concern,” I grate out.

Too loudly. Even the hushed words bounce around my skull like

shrapnel. I try again, even softer this time. “What the hell did you let me

drink last night?”

Simon laughs without sympathy. “Let you? You guzzled what you’ve been drinking since The Goat. Vodka—straight up. Barbarian.”

Never again. I swear to my liver that if he just pulls through for me this one last time, I’ll be kinder, smarter, from now on.

With sickening realization, I remember the black-tie fundraiser we

attended last night to support a royal charity. “Did I make an idiot of myself at the gala?”

“No, you were very restrained. Quiet and aloof. I was the only one who could tell that you were lucky to still be standing.”

Good. At least I don’t have to worry about that.

I rub my temples. “I had the oddest dream last night.”

“Was it flying pink elephants and Fergus in a ballerina tutu? That one always disturbs me.”

I laugh—not the smartest thing, as pain reverberates through my bones. “No,” I tell him quietly. “I dreamed about my mother.”

“Oh?”

“She was…scolding me. All sorts of riled up. She even yanked on the

short hairs at the back of my neck. Remember how she used to do that when we’d misbehave in public?”

“I remember.” Simon’s voice is laced with nostalgia. “Until Henry ruined it for her in front of the press when he yelled, ‘Ow, what’d you pull my hair for, Mum?’”

I chuckle again, despite the discomfort.

“What was she railing at you for? Did you know?”

“She said…she said I made the angel cry.” I move my arm over my face to block out the light.

“Well, she did look like an angel and her pie was heavenly. I didn’t see any tears, but you definitely hurt her feelings.”

I drag my arm away and struggle to sit up. “What are you going on about?”

“The waitress,” Simon explains. “At the coffee shop we stopped in after you dragged me through the city because you could walk around without being mobbed by cameras and fangirls. Don’t you recall?”

Images flicker through my head. I stop on one—the sound of a

wounded gasp, and navy-blue eyes, the color of the sky at dusk, fighting back tears.

“That…that was real?”

“Yes, you bloody arse, it was real. You offered her twenty thousand for some rumpy-pumpy. She turned you down. Smart girl.”

I run my palm along my jaw, feeling dry crumbs and leftover granules of sugar. The sweet taste of apples lingers on my tongue. And it all comes rushing back—every word.

“Fucking Christ—is the story online yet?” I can see the headline now:

PIMPING PRINCE HITS NEW YORK

“No. Not a word.” Simon checks his watch. “It’s half past two in the afternoon, so you’re probably safe. If the little bird was going to sing, I think it would’ve leaked by now.”

“That’s a relief, I guess.”

But still…whether it’s because of the dream or my own behavior, regret rises around me like steam. It seeps inside with every breath, clinging to my lungs.

“It’s still coming down outside. Hell of a storm. You may as well finish sleeping it off; we won’t be traveling today.”

“Good idea,” I murmur, already drifting off, with visions of delicious ripe lips and swirling dark hair dancing in my head.

Early the next morning I’m feeling almost human again—though still achy and fog-headed. I have a meeting upstate with the heads of a military

charity organization, and we’re scheduled to leave just before sunrise. The earlier we arrive at our destination, the less likely a crowd will be there to greet us. Thankfully, the damnable snow has finally stopped and if there’s one thing I appreciate about this city, it’s its ability to get up and running through any catastrophe. Although the roads appear passable, Logan trades out the limousine for an SUV. In the backseat, I straighten my tie and adjust my cuff links, while Simon mentions a craving for breakfast tea and a slice

—or two—of pie to go with it.

I’ve been looking for a reason to return, not that I need an excuse.

Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the pretty waitress—and the way I treated her. After I nod, Simon gives Logan the directions, and we pull up in front of Amelia’s a few minutes later. The streetlamps are still on and the sidewalk is empty, but the door is unlocked, so we walk inside, an

annoying bell chiming above our heads.

It’s quiet. I don’t take a seat, but stand in the middle of the room amongst the tables.

“We’re closed,” she says, coming through the swinging door. And then her head jerks up as she comes to a halt. “Oh, it’s you.”

She’s even lovelier than I remembered, than I dreamed. Delicate midnight tendrils frame a face that belongs in a museum—with stunning dark sapphire eyes that should be commemorated in vibrant oils and soft watercolors. If Helen launched a thousand ships, this girl could raise a thousand hard-ons.

She’s prettily made, the top of her head coming only to my chin, but fantastically curvy. Great full tits that strain the buttons of a wrinkled white blouse, shapely hips in a black skirt tapering to a tiny waist I could wrap my hands around and toned legs encased in sheer black tights finish off the

whole package very nicely.

An unfamiliar anxiousness fizzes like soda in my gut. “The door was open,” I explain.

“It’s broken.”

Logan flicks at the lock. Security is his life, so a broken lock would annoy him like a puzzle with the final piece missing.

“What do you want?”

She has no idea who I am. It’s in the defensive way she holds herself

and the accusatory note in her voice. Some women try to pretend they don’t recognize me, but I can always tell. Her ignorance is rather…thrilling.

There are no expectations, no hidden agendas, no reasons to pretend—what she sees is what she gets. And all she sees is me.

My throat is suddenly a barren wasteland. I swallow, but it’s difficult. “Well, he’s desperate for some pie.” I hook my thumb at Simon. “And

I…wanted to apologize for the other evening. I don’t normally act that way. I was on a bit of bender…”

“In my experience, people don’t do things when they’re drunk that they wouldn’t do normally.”

“No, you’re right. I would’ve thought all those things, but I never would’ve said them out loud.” I move closer, slowly. “And if I’d been sober…my opening bid would’ve been much higher.”

She crosses her arms. “Are you trying to be cute?” “No. I don’t have to try…it just sort of happens.”

Her brow furrows just slightly, like she can’t decide if she should be

angry or amused. I feel myself smiling. “What’s your name? I don’t know if I asked before.”

“You didn’t. And it’s Liv.”

“That’s an odd name. Were you ill as a baby? I mean, is live what your parents were hoping you’d do or did they just not like you?”

Her lips fold like she’s fighting a grin. Amused is in the lead. “Liv, Livvy—short for Olivia. Olivia Hammond.”

“Ah.” I nod slowly. “That’s a beautiful name. Much more fitting.” I can’t take my eyes off her. Don’t want to in the slightest. “Well, Olivia, I regret my behavior when we first met and I hope you’ll accept my

apology.”

There’s the tiniest flinch of her features—a split second—but I see it.

Then she moves to a table and fidgets with a clear-wrapped pie. “Whatever. I’m over it. It’s not like you said anything that wasn’t true. It is pretty obvious that I do need the money.”

The self-deprecation in her voice—and knowing it’s there because of me—makes my voice sharp. “Olivia.”

She looks up, into my face. And my tone gentles. “I’m sorry. Truly.”

That dark blue gaze holds onto mine for a few seconds before she says softly, “Okay.”

“Okay,” I return, just as soft.

Then she blinks and hands the pie to Simon. “You can have this—it’s two days old, so I won’t sell it. It might be a little dry, but it’s on the house.”

He smiles like a wolf that’s just been handed a wounded sheep. “You really are an angel, lass.”

“Can he take a fork with him?” I ask. “So I don’t have to listen to his stomach grumble the entire way.”

Smirking, she hands over a fork. And I go for the gold.

“Would you like to have coffee sometime, Olivia? With me?”

It’s been years since I’ve asked a woman out on a real date. It’s strange

—exhilarating and nerve-racking at the same time. “I don’t like coffee. Never touch the stuff.”

My eyes roll over the room. “You work in a coffee house.” “Exactly.”

I nod. “Hmm, I see your point. It’ll have to be dinner, then. Are you available this evening? I could pick you up on our way back.”

She gives a jumpy laugh.

“I thought you didn’t have time for” —she makes air quotes with her fingers— “‘wooing’?”

“Some things are worth making time for.”

That catches her off guard, making her words stumble. “Well I… don’t…date.”

“Good God, why not?” I ask, horrified. “That’s a bloody sin.” “A sin?”

“You’re stunning, obviously clever—you should date often, and preferably with a man who knows how it’s done.” I rest my palm on my chest. “Coincidentally, I happen to be fantastic at it. What are the odds?”

She laughs again, quick and light. And it feels like when I pull myself up the last peak of a rock formation. Satisfying. More than a bit victorious. Before she can answer, a furry headache on four legs appears beside her, making a yapping, snarling sound.

“Ellie!” she yells over her shoulder. “Bosco can’t be down here!” “What is that?” I ask.

“It’s my dog.”

“No. No, I have dogs. Dogs are descended from wolves. That’s descended from a rat.” I look again. “An ugly rat.”

She lifts the little monster into her arms. “Don’t insult my dog.” “Not trying to—just telling the truth.”

For once. And it feels fucking grand.

But the barking has to go. I make contact with its beady little eyes and snap my fingers, ordering, “Shh!”

And blessed silence fills the air.

Olivia looks from me to the animal. “How—how did you do that?” “Dogs are pack animals; they defer to the leader. This one is smart

enough to recognize that that’s me.” I step closer to her, detecting a clean,

lovely scent—like fresh honey. “Let’s see if it works with you.” I snap my fingers. “Dinner.”

She cocks her hip, annoyed and yet entertained against her will. “I’m not a dog.”

My eyes—filthy, deviant things that they are—slide over every beautiful inch of her. “No…you definitely aren’t.”

Her cheeks go pink, making her eyes appear almost violet. It’s lovely.

But then another ball comes bouncing into the room—a small blond one, wrapped in a fuzzy teal robe with SpongeBob SquarePants slippers on its feet.

“Awwww, yeah…school’s closed again.” She does The Whip. “Ooh- ooh…”

Until she sees us—then she freezes. And she definitely knows who I am.

“Hiiii. Wow.” She points to Logan and says in a thin, mortified voice. “I like your tie.”

He glances down at the tie in question, then nods his thanks.

And she seems to want to dissolve into the floor. But she takes the

“dog” from Olivia instead, and confesses in a hushed voice, “I’m gonna go hang myself in my closet now.”

After she’s gone, I ask, “Is she joking?”

“She’s seventeen. It depends on the day.” Then she wipes her small hands down the front of her skirt. “Well, this has been fun. Thanks for stopping by.” She waves to Simon. “Enjoy the pie.”

He already is. He smiles, mouth full of peach crumble. “See you around…I guess,” she says to me.

I step forward and take her warm hand in mine, before brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “Count on it, love.”