The Royals Series

by Bay, Louise

  Angie dipped her spoon into her ice-cream sundae. “Doctors said we need to keep trying, and if it still hasn’t happened in six months, we might have to think about IVF.”

  “That sounds . . . like a big step.”

  “It is. And I’m not sure I’d do it. I mean, I hate needles and it just seems a bit against nature, you know?”

  Angie wasn’t one to worry about what was natural. “Will Chas’s health plan cover IVF?” I asked. From what I’d heard, shit like that was expensive and wasn’t the sort of thing to be covered by health insurance.

  Angie shrugged, which indicated she knew damn well it wasn’t covered, which meant she might not have IVF because she and Chas wouldn’t be able to afford it.

  “You know we’re going to have to have a conversation about this, so just give into it now, rather than after three months of arguments about it,” I said.

  “What are you talking about, you crazy-man?” she asked, her eyes fixating on the hazelnut balancing on her spoon.

  “You know what I’m talking about. You hate discussing money, but I’m going to pay for the IVF.” It was an old argument—I even lost the battle over the check for cheeseburgers at the diner once in a while. The only reason Angie’d let me buy their house was because I’d told her all I wanted for Christmas was to be allowed to buy them the wedding gift I thought they deserved.

  “Fuck off. Chas would never go for it. You’re not paying for our baby.”

  “Of course I’m not paying for your baby. I’m not a human trafficker, for Christ’s sake. I just want to pick up the medical expenses.” I sighed as Angie ignored me, looking around the small room at the other couples.

  “Maybe it’s just not meant to be. God only knows what kind of mother I’d be. I sure as hell didn’t have much of a role model.”

  “You’re not going to be your mother, Angie. You know that.”

  She shrugged. “Who’s to say? They say we turn into our parents. And if that’s true, any baby I have doesn’t stand a chance.”

  I rolled up a napkin and threw it at her. “Don’t you dare let your mother steal this part of your life from you. You’re not her. Look at the way you are with Chas—was she ever a loving wife in the way you are?” I slapped my palms on the table. Didn’t she see she deserved happiness? “You can’t let her rob you of your future—she’s done enough damage.”

  She smiled at me and tilted her head. “Thank you, Sam. You always know what to say.”

  I nodded. “And I’m paying for the IVF. I don’t want to hear about it again. In return, I’ll buy a new couch.”

  She looked back, her eyes narrowed. “Did you buy a couch already?”

  Busted. But worth a shot.

  “I will if you say yes to letting me cover your medical expenses.”

  “I think you already bought a couch,” she said. “What brought that on?”

  “Angie, listen, I want—”

  “I’ll talk to Chas. No promises.” Part of the reason I liked Chas so much was that he was a proud man who would do anything for his wife. Taking money from me was difficult, and I respected that.

  “Okay,” I replied.

  “Okay. Tell me about the couch.”

  I leaned back, stretching my arms across the back of the red leatherette seat. “What is there to say? I bought a couch.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Angie’s spoon clattered against the glass of the sundae dish. “Where?”

  “Saks.”

  She tilted her head to one side. “Riiight. You just happened to decide to go to Saks and buy a couch.”

  I grinned. “Okay, if you must know, my art consultant took me.”

  “A woman?”

  “Yes, a woman. We were looking at some paintings and . . .” How was I supposed to explain what went down? “I asked her where to shop and one thing led to another.” Yeah, that wasn’t even close to how it had happened, but I didn’t want Angie jumping to any conclusions. “She offered to help.”

  “Offered to suck your dick, more like,” Angie said and I threw a napkin at her. I could dream. Me on that big black couch, her kneeling on the floor, my hands gripping her hair. The pleather squeaked as I shifted and sat forward in an effort to disguise my growing erection.

  “You can’t assume that everyone who’s polite and helpful wants to get in my pants,” I said.

  “Why not?” She shrugged. “They probably do. Who is this chick anyway? Is she hot?”

  “She’s my art consultant.”

  “And couch consultant, apparently. It sounds like she’s consulting you very well.”

  I chuckled and shook my head.

  “Well,” she said breezily. “I think it’s good. You need a little ‘consulting’ in your life. I like the idea of you picking out furniture with a woman.”

  That was not how it had gone down. “We’re not setting up house together, for Christ’s sake.”

  “No, you’re just picking out furniture together. You’ve got nothing to hide.” She raised her eyes. “Like I said, I approve.”

  Angie liked to tease me as much as I liked to tease her, but there was something in what she was saying that cut a little too close to the bone and I wanted to change the subject. “And you’re going to speak to Chas about the IVF?” I asked.

  She grinned. “Better we talk about my womb than your love life, right?”

  “There is no love life, Angie.”

  Her grin dissolved. “Maybe there should be.”

  Chapter Ten

  Grace

  I’d ignored only two calls from Sam since our shopping trip last week. The third one I’d answered because I needed to give him the details of the agenda for today. As I walked into the entrance of the auction house, my stomach somersaulted. I’d never bid at any of these things. I’d seen it done but never raised my hand and spent a lot of money in a matter of seconds.

  I checked the time on my phone. Ten minutes early. We’d agreed to meet at three thirty, but it was raining and I’d worried about not being able to get a cab. I hadn’t wanted to be late. Anyway, at least now I wouldn’t have to wait in line for too long to register and collect our paddle.

  I leaned against the dark wood paneling of the wide hallway, staring at the royal blue carpet under my feet as I waited. Perhaps Sam should bid? It was his money we were spending, after all.

  In the five days since I’d last seen him, I’d thought about him more than I should. I’d also had tattoos on my mind. I’d never understood the appeal of having something permanently etched onto my skin. What if I got bored or changed my mind about whatever I’d chosen to mark myself with?

  Nothing was permanent.

  So why was I thinking about what design I’d choose and where I’d have it done? Why was I thinking about Sam holding my hand and making me laugh to take my mind off the pain?

  “Hey,” Sam whispered, the heat of his breath against my skin.

  I looked up to find him towering over me.

  “You okay?” he asked, frowning, staring at me, analyzing me.

  I pushed myself off the wall to stand next to him. “Yeah, fine. Just thinking while I waited.”

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, his hands in his pockets. How did he manage to have such an imposing presence without even trying? Most powerful men made a point of taking up space in the room. But Sam didn’t announce himself wherever he went. He didn’t walk without deference to other people, even if they might be in his way. He was so very controlled and contained, but when he was anywhere near me, all I could do was look at him, wishing he’d look at me. He demanded my attention in the most subtle way.

  “I like thinking,” I said and grinned at him.

  “What were you thinking about?” he asked as we set off toward the auction room.

  “Just things,” I replied. “You know.” How could I tell him that I’d been thinking about him?

  “I’m not sure I do, Grace Astor. Enlighten
me.”

  “Do you have a tattoo?” I asked.

  His mouth twitched. “You’ve been thinking about whether or not I have a tattoo?”

  As we entered the back of the auction room, a babble of voices interrupted us, thankfully. I’d given too much away.

  “Here,” I said, pointing at two seats at the end of a row about halfway down the columns of chairs facing the stage.

  We sat down, Sam on the outside, nearest the wall, me between him and a woman on my left. “So, we have to stick to our maximum bid on these pieces,” I said quietly, leaning toward him. You never knew who was listening. The room was full of collectors—people devising strategies to get the right art at the right price. “We don’t want to get carried away.”

  “Yes, we wouldn’t want that. Would we?” he whispered back.

  “I’m serious, Sam. The adrenaline will start to flow and a man like you is bound to feel tempted to outbid other people.”

  “A man like me?” he asked. “A guy with tattoos?”

  “Yes. I mean no.” He had me flustered as everything he said seemed so personal. “You don’t get to be as successful as you are without being competitive.”

  He nodded but didn’t speak. His eyes scanned the room, taking it all in. There was lots of hushed chatter, almost as if we were in church.

  I followed his line of sight as he watched people trail in. “So did you say you had a tattoo?” I asked. We should be focusing on the art. At least, I should be. But I wanted to know the answer to the question. I wanted to imagine what it looked like.

  “Just one,” he replied. “I wouldn’t ask you to do something I hadn’t done myself.”

  I couldn’t remember seeing a tattoo on his body. I took a sharp intake of breath as I remembered him over me, the scruff of his beard dragging across my cheek as he moved into me, whispering how good it felt.

  “You okay?” he asked, reaching across my legs and pulling my knees toward him.

  “What is it?” I asked as he released his hand. Better question, where was it?

  A couple of people walked onto the stage and the room began to quiet. Sam craned his neck. “You’ll see it soon enough.”

  Excuse me? I would see it soon enough? Did that mean he planned to show me? Where was it? What was it?

  Next time?

  We weren’t getting naked again. Except . . . Except I liked the way he touched me. I liked the way he never had to raise his voice to be heard. I liked the way he moved. Even the way he breathed seemed so . . . deliberate, so purposeful. Like everything for him had a meaning. Next time he was naked with me, I’d scour every inch of his body looking for his tattoo.

  He nudged me, breaking my concentration. “Look,” he whispered, his eyes wide. “He has a little hammer and everything.” He squeezed my leg.

  I stared at him, and a grin spread across my face. He was excited about this. And I liked the way I got to share it with him.

  The lots passed quickly and soon the Lautrec prints were up.

  “I like the colors,” Sam said as he stared at the prints being put on the stands on the stage.

  I really loved these, and I was pleased he did. They were almost cartoon-like—big primary colors and strong lines. They were fun. “Do you want to bid?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “That’s why I’m paying you.”

  I didn’t tell him I’d never done it before, but he was right. It was my job.

  The room fell silent in the seconds before the bidding started. The auctioneer introduced the prints, telling us a little of the provenance and the composition—nothing that wasn’t in the catalog—and then before I had a chance to catch my breath, the bidding began. A bidder on the phone was against someone closer to the front. My plan was to wait until one of the first bidders had dropped out and then raise my paddle. But before we even got a chance to start, and within just a few seconds, our maximum bid had been reached.

  “Sorry,” I whispered as the bidding continued.

  “Don’t be,” he replied. “This is fun. Reminds me of the old days selling stuff in the street, there’s just more money involved. And people are wearing nicer clothes.”

  “The street?” I asked. “When did you ever . . .”

  “And, believe me, the people smell a lot nicer.”

  Had his parents made him work through college or something?

  Our next lot, a Degas lithograph of a nude that would go with the others he’d bought from me, was up next. The bidding started high at forty thousand dollars. We’d agreed to seventy-five for this piece. I’d encouraged Sam to be conservative with our limits, but maybe I’d been too conservative. At sixty the bidding slowed down and I gripped the paddle, ready to jump in. I could feel Sam’s eyes on me, but I couldn’t look at him now. At sixty-five I saw my opportunity and raised the paddle. The auctioneer acknowledged my bid with a pointed finger “Seventy-five?” he asked the bidder in front who’d been in since the start. With a nod, and as if we hadn’t bid at all, we were outbid and it was over. Jesus.

  I sat back in my chair, shaking my head. “It doesn’t matter,” Sam whispered. “Honestly. This is an experience.” There was something about the way he drew out the word experience that made me want to feel his tongue across my skin, his hands resting on my hips. I tightened my grip around the paddle.

  The Brueghel still life was next, and the most expensive of the three lots we’d agreed to bid on. I didn’t think Sam would have picked it out of my shortlist—it didn’t have the instant appeal for people who didn’t know much about art because it seemed so traditional at first glance. But if you took your time to look at it more closely, it came to life and continued to reveal itself at every inspection. Still, it was a great piece and we had a good chance of getting it with our budget of one point two million.

  My palms grew clammy as I passed the paddle from one hand to another. I didn’t want Sam to walk away empty-handed from today, and I didn’t want him to think I was totally incompetent and had set our limits way too low. Sam placed his hand around my wrist. “It’ll be fine. Whatever happens it won’t be the best or the worst day of my life.”

  It was an odd thing to say, but he was right. We weren’t about to cure cancer. His words slowed my heart. Whatever happened, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.

  I forced by eyes back to the stage as the action began. I should be concentrating on what was going on in front of me, but I wanted to know what the best and worst days of Sam Shaw’s life had been.

  Several phoned-in bids drove the price up, but by eight hundred thousand, all but one had dropped out, leaving a single bidder in the room and the one on the phone to compete with. At a million, only the phone bidder was left. I raised my paddle with a deep breath. Shit. I was about to spend a lot of someone else’s money. I hoped I’d picked right and I wasn’t about to buy a turkey. My bid was acknowledged, and I turned to Sam who calmly nodded at me.

  We kept bidding, the price nudging higher and higher in increments of twenty thousand until at one million eighty thousand the hammer came down on our bid.

  Shit.

  We’d done it. My stomach tightened and my body went hot. I hoped Sam was good for the money. I held my paddle in the air as the auctioneer took down my number and Sam grabbed my hand, squeezing his palm against mine.

  There were a few mutterings in the crowd and people turned to take a look at the person who’d just dropped seven figures in a matter of seconds. Sam and I sat there as if we shopped like this every afternoon. I pressed my lips together, trying not to show my excitement, trying to stop the adrenaline from pouring out of me.

  “You did it,” he whispered into my ear and my nipples tightened against my bra as his breath hit my skin. “Let’s go.” I understood his need to get out of the auction house. There was something so intimate about what had just happened—from the way we’d been sitting so close, whispering to each other, to the fact we’d both been reaching for the same goal and he’d been silently cheering me on. Y
et, here we were surrounded by all these people. I wanted us to be on our own.

  He pulled me out of my seat and away from the staring faces.

  As we headed toward the door, I tried to stop him. “Sam, no. We have to pay.” He grimaced but turned and strode in the other direction. I handed over my paddle and the paperwork I’d been given when we arrived to the woman behind a wooden desk.

  “Congratulations,” she said without looking up at us. “You have twenty-four hours to arrange collection. Should I use the card details we have here?”

  With one hand Sam reached into his pocket and flipped open his brown leather wallet. I tried to pull away to make it easier, but he squeezed my fingers. Awkwardly, he fumbled and then finally presented his American Express.

  I glanced up, and found him staring back at me. He released my hand, and I thought for a second he could see what I was thinking—that I wanted him. My body sagged with relief as he snaked his arm around my waist and pulled me toward him. Did he want me too?

  “Come with me,” he said, turning us and walking so quickly I found myself having to run every couple of steps to keep up with him.

  A cab idled at the curb. “Seven forty Park Avenue,” Sam told the driver.

  “That was a rush,” he said, his fingers tickling over my knee.

  I nodded. We both had excess energy. Maybe we should down some shots, dance a little, though I didn’t see Sam as much of a dancer. “We’re going to your place?” I asked. “To decide where the painting will hang best?” I hoped that wouldn’t be the only thing that happened at his place.

  He frowned. “If you like, but then I’m going to fuck you on my new couch.”

  I tried to keep my expression steady despite the throbbing between my legs. I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to such a blunt declaration. “The couch has arrived already?”

  “I tell you I’m going to fuck you and you focus on the couch?”

  Only so I didn’t have to think about whether going home with him was a mistake. This wasn’t my normal MO. Sam Shaw wasn’t my normal MO, but I wanted him. Every time I was near him, I wanted him.