Royal Rogue: A Sexy Royal Romance (Flings With Kings Book 3) Page 5

  I was glad I wore the blue.

  Jane’s smile turned playful as she approached, her heeled boots thudding softly on the brick drive. She was close enough to kiss. So I did. I leaned in and pressed a kiss onto her cheek, inhaling her perfume as I did. There was something familiar about it. She smelled like summer nights. Green trees. Sweet air.

  My blood got warmer. Redder.

  Behind me, I heard Owen getting out of the car.

  “My tiger? He’s watching from the window,” she said, looking up at me. She had this teasing look in her eyes. This lit-up energy. “You know that tigers have opposable thumbs, right? So if I give him the signal, he can open the door and maul you in less than five seconds.”

  I grinned. Not forced. Not pretend. A real grin.

  “Tigers don’t have opposable thumbs.”

  “And that’s not a magic carpet,” she said, looking past me to the Range Rover.

  “Next best thing. You ready?”

  She held her clutch in front of her with both hands. A barrier between us. Maybe her instincts were good—maybe that explained her guardedness. Or maybe it was something else.

  Made me think of that comment she’d made. The one about not looking for anyone at the moment. Why not? Did she just want to fuck around for a while after her divorce? I got that. But I still didn’t get her blowing off all those billionaires yesterday. She’d married one of them. What the hell had that asshole done to make her run like that?

  I was being the bigger asshole by far. But her ex had had a choice. I didn’t.

  Besides, Jane’s past was none of my business. I had a job to do. Had to be professional.

  But what did being professional entail, exactly, when I was actually enjoying the company of the woman I was being paid to seduce? This had never happened before. I felt like I was entering new territory. Blind and a little boned up.

  Not ideal circumstances.

  I had good reasons for not sleeping with my marks. I may have been a con, but I wasn’t a monster. The fewer emotions—and body parts—involved, the better. The less people got hurt. While keeping it to kissing didn’t necessarily make things simple or neat, it definitely made them simpler. Neater.

  Stealing money was one thing. But manipulating a woman’s emotions by using her body was something else entirely.

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  Owen opened the back door for her. “Madam,” he said with a little bow.

  “Don’t you dare Madam me,” she replied, holding out her hand. “I’m Jane.”

  Owen met my eyes. I just looked at him, too stunned to do anything except stand there.

  I started to get this feeling in the pit of my stomach—a feeling that Jane was more than just a little different from the girl I’d been expecting.

  It wasn’t a good feeling.

  Or maybe it was. I couldn’t really tell.

  Owen took her hand.

  “Hello, Jane. I’m Bastian. Bastian Winks.” I rolled my eyes. Owen and his stupid fucking aliases. “You look beautiful tonight, if I may be so bold.”

  “Thank you.” Jane smiled. “If I may be so bold, Bastian, I like your little hat.”

  “You do? I loathe it.” Owen patted it self-consciously, jutting his chin in my direction. “But he makes me wear it, so…nothing to be done, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s quite enough, Bastian,” I said, putting my hand on the small of Jane’s back. Her skin was warm against my palm. “We should get going. They start at eight.”

  Jane turned her smile on me. “What starts at eight?”

  “You’ll see,” I said, and nodded at the car. “After you.”

  Chapter Seven

  Jane

  The Fox and Hen was on a bustling corner in Soho. From the outside, it looked like any other pub: dark wood paneling, the name written plainly in large gold letters above the door. Looked like any other pub on the inside, too. I liked having a pint at a pub as much as anyone else. My brothers and I had a standing appointment on Thursday nights at The Rose and Thorn, a pub just down the street from Primrose Palace. But I had to admit I was still a bit mystified by Charlie’s pick for our date. The pub was loud and humid. And people had begun to stare. I’d hoped that by keeping my head down no one would recognize me, but no such luck.

  I followed Charlie to a staircase at the back of the pub.

  “You need to go to the loo?” I asked, only half teasing.

  Charlie threw me a look over his shoulder. Blue eyes, dark scruff, darker smirk.

  My stomach set off on a rollercoaster ride. Part of me wanted to ask him if he’d be cool with scrapping this date thing so we could get right down to the naked part of the evening. But another part was curious. Where was this bloke—this billionaire in a sharply cut blue blazer—taking me?

  “Hang in there, princess,” he said. “I know what you’re thinking. I promised I’d show you a good time, and this”—he gestured to the pub—“isn’t it.”

  We went down the stairs, keeping to the right to let another guy pass. The air was crisper down here. It smelled less like beer and more like…cigars?

  I drew up short when Charlie pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen.

  “Charlie, are you sure we’re allowed in here?”

  His eyes were playful when they met mine. “You’re with me, Jane. Of course you’re allowed. C’mon, we’re almost there.”

  I glanced back toward the stairs. My security detail looked just as confused as I was. One of the officers signaled to me—are you okay?

  I’m okay, I signaled back.

  We moved through the kitchen, careful to avoid the cooks as they went about their business. Pots clanked. Onions sizzled. Somewhere a timer went off. A few of the cooks looked up from their sauté pans as we passed. No one said a word, though—they just followed us with their eyes. A little curious.

  Huh.

  I wondered if Charlie was taking me to an underground sex dungeon or something. I sort of hoped he was. He looked so damn good in his plaid collared shirt and jeans. There was something about his neck and the thick, careless tousle of his hair—

  He knocked twice on a red door in the far corner, two quick, short raps. The door itself was nondescript save for the elegant brass knocker Charlie didn’t use. By now my heart was pounding, hard.

  Where the hell were we? And would I be cool with assless leather chaps and ball gags if they were on the menu?

  The door opened. My heart leapt to my mouth.

  “Fuck you, Charlie,” a female voice said. Her accent was also American. “Good thing I’ve got extra cash on hand tonight. You gonna rob me blind again or what?”

  Charlie turned his head to smile at me. I just looked at him blankly, more confused than ever.

  “I always get a warm welcome here,” he said, holding out his arm. “After you.”

  I moved through the door to see a gorgeous forty-something woman in a power suit and heels standing inside. She wrapped Charlie into a friendly hug before they both turned to me. A spark of recognition lit in her eyes before it died out. Clearly I wasn’t the first celebrity to visit her establishment.

  “Jane, this is Monica,” Charlie explained. “She runs the club.”

  Monica eyed me as she shook my hand. “Hm…not roulette. Too simple for you. No poker face…craps, maybe, with the right crowd…no! You’re a blackjack girl, aren’t you?”

  “Blackjack?” I said, blinking. “Uh. Well. I’m not sure, to be honest. I’ve never played.”

  Monica grinned, tilting her head toward Charlie. “Good thing you’ve got an expert to teach you. You kids have fun. And for fuck’s sake, leave some money on the table, would you, Charlie? You nearly bankrupted me last time you were here.”

  I blinked again. And noticed Charlie didn’t blink, not at all, at being talked to like this. In fact, he was still smiling.

  “I’ll do my best to lose,” Charlie replied easily, like he’d had this conversation with Monica a hundred times
.

  Other guys I’d been with—they treated hostesses and waiters and staff with either bland politeness or barely concealed disdain. But Charlie talked to Monica like an equal. Like a friend.

  I liked that about him. Made me curious about what his story was. Was he self-made? Had he worked at a place like this?

  He was looking at me now. Gauging my reaction. I smiled. At his attention. His kind rapport with Monica. So far, Charlie was a complete one-eighty from guys I’d been with in the past. And I liked it. A lot.

  Wishing Monica a good evening, Charlie put his hand on the small of my back and led me down a dark hall. His touch was gentle but firm, too. Confident. My body thrummed with awareness, a small heaviness gathering between my legs. I was getting more attracted to this man by the minute. The kind of attraction that made it hard to focus on anything else.

  “So this is a casino,” I said. “And you’re some kind of blackjack whiz kid.”

  “I’m definitely a blackjack whiz kid,” he replied, looking down as he spoke, his other hand in his pocket. “As for the casino part—yes and no. Technically Monica doesn’t have a license to operate one, so technically The Jackie O. Club is a members-only lounge. But if someone should happen to have a few decks of cards, and a table should happen to appear, and a few people gather around that table to play games of chance…well. You know how good we Americans are at stirring up mischief.”

  I laughed. “Can’t help yourselves, can you? So The Jackie O. Club is technically a not-casino for American expats.”

  “Exactly.”

  We turned a corner, and suddenly we were inside the club. I smiled harder, and then harder again still, as I took it in. It was big and dimly lit with exposed brick walls that contrasted with the sparkling chandeliers that hung from the low ceiling. A faint smog of cigar smoke lingered in the air. Cushy furniture, tastefully appointed, dotted the space, and there was an art deco style bar at the far end of the room. It was intimate, a little crowded, a little retro. Cozy and unpretentious. No one looked twice at us. I couldn’t help but think that Jackie O. would fit right in. I imagined her standing at the bar in her pillbox hat, cigarette in one hand, martini in the other.

  Nirvana was playing. A song from their acoustic album.

  I’d never been any place like it.

  I loved it at first sight.

  “Tables—where the gambling happens—they’re in there,” Charlie said, nodding at a nearby doorway. “But first, whiskey?”

  “Absolutely,” I replied, starting to hope—starting to worry—that this was the perfect start to what could be a perfect night.

  Chapter Eight

  Jane

  We bellied up to the bar. The bartender greeted Charlie by name, shaking his hand before waving away his money.

  Clearly Charlie knew everyone who worked here. And clearly he was good to them.

  That made me feel good, too. Which probably meant I should’ve been running for the hills right about then. But that would’ve meant taking my eyes off Charlie. And I couldn’t, for the life of me, seem to do that.

  “You know your money’s no good here,” the bartender said. “What can I get you?”

  “If you say so, Hank.” Charlie pointed to me. “Jane?”

  I glanced at the well-stocked bar. “I’ll take an Old Fashioned, please. Bulleit Rye.”

  “Not Jameson?” Charlie asked, cocking a brow.

  I shook my head. “Not when I’m at an American bar.”

  He looked at me, brow furrowed, a grin working at his lips. Charlie was looking at me funny. He’d looked at me like this before, at the Ascot, and then again when he’d come to pick me up tonight.

  He looked at me like I’d surprised him.

  Like he was intrigued. Not curious—not the way most people gawked at me. He looked at me like he was taken off guard in a good way.

  More, his blue eyes seemed to say. I want to know more.

  Back when I’d been married, I would’ve never been at a place like this, with a bloke like this, drinking whiskey like this. Michael wouldn’t have been caught dead here. I wouldn’t have been caught dead here, because I would’ve been too busy trying to be the perfect princess he’d wanted. In some strange way, I’d felt like I’d owed him that person. The high born woman who appreciated expensive things. The pomp. The palaces. I guessed part of me had always wished I were that kind of pure, uncomplicated royal. Just like my grandmother the Queen had been when she was younger.

  But Charlie—I got the feeling Charlie couldn’t have cared less whether I was a princess or not, much less a pure or perfect one. I mean, hadn’t he taken me to an illegal nightclub in the basement of a pub? I sort of adored him for it.

  He pushed off the bar. “All right. I’ll have the same.”

  After some pretty fancy acrobatics with an orange peel and a match, Hank slid two heavy crystal tumblers across the bar.

  Charlie held his up. Met my eyes.

  “I’m glad you called, Jane.”

  I held up my glass, too. “I’m glad I didn’t have to sic my tiger on you.”

  “I’ll cheers to that,” he said, laughing, and tapped his glass to mine.

  His eyes stayed on me as we drank. I looked away. I had to. Charlie was making me feel all blush-y and tingly.

  I was sixteen again.

  The Old Fashioned was perfect. The sugar and bitters softened the bite of the rye just enough—just enough so I could still taste it without getting burned. Not too sweet, not too strong.

  “Just right,” I breathed.

  “Hank makes the best cocktails in town,” Charlie said. “Part of the reason why I brought you here.”

  My stomach flipped. I really wished it would stop doing that.

  I held the glass to my lips. “And the other part?”

  Charlie shrugged, leaning an elbow on the bar. Leaning into me just the tiniest bit. For a second my gaze flicked to his mouth. “I imagine a lot of douchebags have tried to wine and dine you at fancy restaurants. But this douchebag wanted to do something different. I wanted to take you somewhere I like to hang out. Somewhere you’ve never been. Not an easy proposition, considering you’ve lived in London your whole life. And—oh yeah—your family owns half the world, so there’s not much you haven’t seen already.”

  My pulse skipped a beat.

  A voice inside my head shouted run.

  Stay and screw this bloke’s brains out, another countered. Louder than the first voice.

  “So naturally you chose an illegal underground gambling den,” I said. I was grinning now. So hard it made my cheeks hurt.

  He tipped his drink. “You’re welcome.”

  Cocky wanker.

  I felt the first stirrings of the whiskey in my blood. A bloom of warmth inside my skin and behind my knees.

  “So why the whiskey?” Charlie asked, smacking his lips after sipping his cocktail. His eyes met mine. “Bulleit Rye—that’s deep cut. You know your brown liquor.”

  Rolling the rye around my mouth, I considered my answer. I didn’t talk about my divorce with many people. For obvious reasons. For not-so obvious ones, too. But Charlie was asking the question. And I wanted to give him the answer. Maybe because I was tired of the sanitized one-liners my press office insisted I use. Or maybe because Charlie was treating me like a human, not a Highness. He didn’t bullshit me, and I appreciated that. More than he knew.

  “After my marriage ended, I realized I had no idea who the hell I was,” I said. “I used to drink what my ex wanted me to drink. Eat what he wanted me to eat. So I’ve taken the past two years to figure myself out. When he left, I started trying other things. New things. And I discovered I had a taste for this stuff.” I held up my glass.

  His eyes were still on me. They looked a little…conflicted, almost? Concerned? Or maybe just serious.

  “So that’s why you’re not looking for anyone,” he said after a beat. “Men can’t compare to rye whiskey.”

  I smiled. Looked down at my
drink. “One is definitely more delicious than the other to me right now.”

  “Ouch,” he said.

  “Sorry,” I replied, laughing. “I don’t mean to insult you. You do look very handsome tonight.”

  I looked up to see his lips—dear God those lips—moving into a grin. “Thank you. And you look beautiful.” His gaze flicked over my body. “Bastian’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw you.”

  I took a sip of whiskey. “What about your eyes?”

  “They’re very much appreciating the view,” he said, his grin moving into a flirty little smirk.

  I felt hot. Happy.

  I kept sipping on my cocktail.

  Charlie set his drink on the bar. “But really. Rebuilding after losing yourself like that can’t be easy. I think it’s cool that you took some time to figure out who you really are. Probably would’ve been easier for you to dive right back in and try to find someone else to tell you. But you decided to sit with yourself for a while. See what you were about. See if you could heal on your own.” His eyes, intelligent, searched mine. “That’s a really hard fucking thing to do, Jane.”

  “Thanks,” I breathed.

  He got it. Got what I was saying. What I’d gone through.

  The blue in his eyes was searing now. I looked down at my drink again. My heart had twisted itself into knots in my chest and was beating weirdly. Wildly.

  “And yeah, the temptation was always there to just fill that voice with someone else,” I continued. “For a hot minute I thought that’s what moving on meant. That’s what building a new life meant—being with someone new. I hated being single. So I flew all over the world, looking for that someone. Someone who was going to fix me. Figure me out. But after some soul searching and a hell of a lot of therapy, I actually started to enjoy being on my own. Still do.” I sipped my drink. Looked back up. “Are you divorced? You seem to know about this stuff.”

  “I’m not.” Charlie lifted his glass and took a sip, looking away. He sucked a breath through his teeth. I got the feeling he was doing the same math I’d just done. Deciding whether or not to share.