The Royals Series

by Bay, Louise

  I shoved my hands in my pockets as she pulled the door closed, leaving me on the sidewalk.

  For the first time in a long time, I’d allowed myself to want more from a person, and here I stood in the taillight of Grace Astor’s cab. Not only had she not agreed to date me, but she’d run off within a few minutes of me asking. I glanced back at the picture that seemed to get her so upset. I wanted to make it better for her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Grace

  Sam was supposed to be all about business. Yet here I was, sitting next to him in a limo, driving into the city on a Saturday night for our date. Was it a dare? A quid pro quo for the furniture buying? I’d lost track.

  “I’m going to furnish your entire apartment. You know that, right?” I asked. “Office furniture, bedroom furniture, bathroom, rugs, light fixtures, the whole kit and caboodle.”

  “Whatever you need to feel better about agreeing to this date,” he replied and grabbed my hand in his.

  “That was our deal,” I said, grinning at him. “You can’t back out now.”

  “I’m not. But you told me you don’t do anything you don’t want to. So, I know you want to be here, just like you wanted to get the tattoo.”

  He was right, but I wasn’t about to tell him he was right. “Whatever you need to keep your ego ticking over, Mr. Shaw.”

  Sam took my teasing in stride, as he seemed to most things. Despite my head telling me I should have said no to something more with Sam—a proper date—when he turned up in Brooklyn with a car and a driver, I’d been pleased rather than put off. He was trying to impress me and it was cute.

  The car slowed and pulled up a couple of blocks away from his apartment. I hoped he wasn’t expecting to get laid—not that I wouldn’t sleep with him, but I was hungry.

  “You’re going to make me walk?” I asked as he opened the door and helped me out onto the sidewalk.

  “We’re just here,” he said, pointing at the building in front of us. “If your feet get tired, I’m sure I can give you a piggyback.”

  This didn’t look like a restaurant. There were no lights, no people. We were on a pretty deserted street. I glanced around. Where exactly were we? I looked up at the huge mansion. Wasn’t that the Frick—one of my favorite places in the world? I wasn’t used to seeing it at night. It had the most beautiful art collection. I’d always liked to imagine arriving for dinner here, ready to swap stories with Teddy Roosevelt and Edith Wharton, as if I wasn’t a visitor but a guest at the grand house.

  “I’m sure you’ve been to this place a million times, but I wondered if you’d share it with me?” Sam asked as he took my hand and led me up the stoop.

  I’d assumed we’d have dinner at some fancy restaurant. A tour of this place was so much better, but the black heels I’d put on with my blue leather skirt and silk shirt weren’t really designed for walking. I might have known Sam would surprise me.

  “Those shoes are something else,” he said.

  I looked up at him, and he was staring at my legs. “Something else?” I asked, grinning.

  Our eyes locked. “Yeah, you should come with a warning sign,” he whispered into my ear.

  I wanted him to kiss me, but knew if he did, neither of us would be able to stop.

  We entered the door to find a man holding a tray with two glasses of champagne. Sam picked up both drinks and handed one to me. “Here’s to a lovely evening.”

  “Sam,” I said and took a sip, “it was really nice of you to bring me here, thoughtful. But I might be a little underdressed. Is it a formal reception or something?” I asked, transferring my weight from one foot to the other.

  “It’s whatever we want it to be,” he said. “I thought maybe you could show me your favorite pieces and then we’ll have dinner in the dining room.”

  “The dining room?” He couldn’t mean the dining room in the Frick. Maybe he meant a restaurant nearby?

  “Yeah, they asked me which room, but since I had no idea what you’d like I went with the obvious choice.”

  “We’re going to eat in the dining room, amongst the Gainsborough and the Hoppner?” He couldn’t be serious. It was one of my favorite parts of the place.

  “I couldn’t tell you what’s in the room, to be honest. Just that there are a lot of paintings in there. I thought you might like it.”

  “Like it?” I stared at him as he frowned at me. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.” The faint hint of a blush bloomed across his cheeks as I slid my hand into his. “Where should we start?”

  He led me into the Garden Court. The place was surprisingly empty. The curved glass roof that normally let in the sun was dark but the fountain in the middle of the courtyard was still babbling to the surrounding palms despite the time of night. Were we the only members of the public here? “Sam Shaw, do we have this place all to ourselves?” I whispered as our footsteps on the stone walkway echoed around us.

  “They don’t normally open on a Saturday night. I thought it would be nice to be here, just the two of us.”

  When had any man in my life ever done anything so thoughtful for me? Okay, so to be fair, no one I’d dated since high school had money, but that wasn’t what made tonight special. Sam had organized things because he’d thought about me, and what would make me happy. Just the thought and attention he’d given to the evening to make it feel special, make me feel special. I shivered.

  “Is this what you do? Extravagance, blow women away with your thoughtfulness in order to get into their panties?”

  He scraped his hand through his hair. “I’ve blown you away?”

  I hadn’t meant to say that, hadn’t meant to make it so obvious I wasn’t used to men treating me as if I were special, because if I did he might stop, and I didn’t want him to. “Yeah. A little bit.”

  The corners of his mouth began to curl upward and he nodded.

  “A lot actually,” I confessed.

  “Good.”

  “I’m going to kick off my shoes and make myself comfortable, if you don’t mind,” I said as we walked into the small, windowless Oval Room at the end of the Garden Court.

  “I want you to be comfortable. If you wanted to slip the skirt off and walk around naked, that would be just fine with me, too.”

  I laughed. “Naked at the Frick? Not with all these eyes on us,” I said, sweeping my arm around at the portraits that lined the room. “We can save that for when we go to the Guggenheim.”

  Sam laughed. Why hadn’t I noticed the smile lines around his eyes before? Perhaps because I didn’t see him laugh that often. But a smile suited him. I could imagine Sam as a kid, tumbling about with his friends in the backyard, young and carefree. When had he become so serious?

  We wandered from room to room, stopping at various paintings. Sometimes, I talked about what I liked about the works. Sam seemed content just to listen, squeezing my hand at various intervals.

  “Is that Degas?” he asked, nodding toward a picture of ballerinas. “You said he liked to paint dancers.”

  A rush of pride surged within me. He’d been listening, interested in what I was saying. “Yes. Degas. This is very typical of him.

  Sam leaned forward to read the title of the picture on the plaque. “The Rehearsal.”

  “Degas liked to paint what he saw as real life, rather than posed models, so it follows that theme.” Sam stayed silent, studying the painting. “Almost half his work depicts dancers as they sold so well.”

  He straightened up and turned to me. “Ahhh, he was a businessman about his art. How do you feel about that, Grace Astor? You don’t like people who just want to make money from art.”

  I laughed. It was a fair challenge. “I think it was a combination of head and heart for Degas. At least I like to think so.”

  We wandered into the West Gallery.

  “I think this one is my favorite,” I said as we stood in front of Turner’s Harbor of Dieppe. “The way he can make the surface of the water look like glass like h
e does.” I shook my head. “It gets me every time.”

  “Where do you mean?” he asked, his brow furrowing as he scanned the canvas.

  “Look where the sun hits the water. You have to concentrate without looking too hard at the components of the painting. Look at the scene as a whole—”

  “Oh wow, yes,” he said. “I see it. And the light. It’s beautiful.”

  His enjoyment seemed real and as much as I loved these paintings, seeing him love them gave me an additional level of pleasure.

  “Some people criticized it as being too unrealistic because the light in his pictures is so beautiful,” I said.

  “People always find a reason to complain.”

  The man who had served us champagne interrupted us. “Sir, dinner is ready whenever you are.”

  “Are you hungry?” Sam asked.

  “Sure,” I said, though honestly, I wasn’t. I felt full up with life, happiness. With the evening. With Sam.

  “These paintings are just so romantic,” I said as we entered the dining room. “Can you imagine what it must have been like to wear these outfits in eighteenth century Britain?”

  Sam glanced around at the portraits of wealthy British land owners and their wives. “Don’t you all dress like that in England now?” he asked, waiting for me to take a seat at the dining table set just for two in the middle of the room. “It must be part of your DNA.”

  I laughed. “Whenever we go back to visit family, I make sure I pack my silk gowns and powdered wigs.”

  “When did you move to the US?” he asked as two waiters filled our water and wine glasses.

  “We came to New York when I was five. I don’t remember much about England—I just swear in British, but that’s because my dad’s great at it. Where did you grow up?”

  Sam’s smile disappeared and his face went blank. “Jersey.”

  “Are your parents still there?” I asked.

  There was a beat of silence between us, as if he were thinking about an answer to an almost impossible question.

  “No. They died when I was twelve. I don’t have any family.”

  It was as if he’d punched me in the stomach. A million words whooshed through my brain and then left before I could cling to any of them. I wanted to say the right thing so badly. In the end, I said, “God, I’m so sorry,” and reached across the table. He moved his hand before I could touch him.

  “It was a long time ago,” he said as he put his napkin in his lap.

  “You grew up in my apartment building?” he asked, changing the subject. I wanted him to know how sorry I was for his loss, to find a way to make it better. Despite his prickly exterior, Sam was a kind and generous man who deserved good things in his life.

  “Sam, your parents . . .”

  He cleared his throat. “I don’t talk about it. Let’s enjoy dinner. I thought if I got to look at you all evening, you should have something beautiful to look at, too.” His words brought me back to our date.

  “You’re very sweet. But my view isn’t so bad, even without all this art.”

  Sam smiled, a big boyish grin. “You totally want me.”

  I giggled. “You totally want me.”

  He shrugged. “Of course.”

  Dinner arrived and we didn’t speak until we were alone again. We were content just to watch each other, our eyes joined as if we worried if either of us looked away, the other would disappear.

  I didn’t want to ruin tonight by pushing him to talk to me about his past. It seemed every encounter with him told me something more compelling, more heartbreaking, more loveable about him. I wasn’t having dinner with another spoiled rich guy—Sam Shaw had known loss and overcome it. Nothing had been handed to him.

  I wanted to know every last thought in his head.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sam

  We pulled up outside Grace’s apartment building and I felt the loss of her warmth the instant I let go of her hand so she could get out of the car. “Let me get your door,” I said. I quickly exited my side of the car, rounded the trunk and opened her door to find her again. She grinned up at me. God damn that smile of hers.

  “You didn’t need to,” she said, but something in that smile told me she liked me opening the door for her.

  We took small steps to the door of her apartment, prolonging every moment of our perfect evening.

  I couldn’t believe I almost hadn’t asked her on a date. I’d been three seconds away from missing out on the best night of my life.

  Grace put the key into the lock with her left hand, even though I knew she was right-handed. She didn’t want to let go either. But we’d have to go our separate ways eventually.

  She stepped inside and snapped her head around when I didn’t follow.

  “I think I should go.” There were a lot of reasons I shouldn’t cross the threshold. For one, I didn’t want her to think tonight had all been about sex for me. I liked this girl—to talk to and spend time with, not just sleep with. I’d begun to want more from her. I’d wanted to blow her away—for her to be impressed. For her to like me, too.

  And that terrified me.

  I was in new territory without a plan.

  “Oh.” The smile in her eyes dissolved. “I get it,” she said, her voice flat. She didn’t get it at all. I wanted to stay. I wasn’t rejecting her.

  “I think maybe it’s best.” How did I explain that I didn’t want to spoil anything by coming inside because I wasn’t sure what happened after this? I had no experience, no way of navigating what came next.

  Her gaze hit the floor. I’d created her disappointment and I hated that I had. “You want me to come in?” I asked. Was she sure? Did she know any better than me?

  “Not if you don’t want to.”

  Jesus. Of course I wanted to.

  “I get it. It’s fine.”

  “I really want to come in,” I said, stroking my finger down her jaw and under her chin, lifting it so I could see those beautiful blue eyes. She looked up at me, her brows drawn together. “I just don’t know how this goes.” Could I not know what happened next and be okay with that? Could I want more from her?

  I knew that wanting led to disappointment.

  “You don’t know how this goes?” she asked.

  I shrugged and took my hand away from her face. Unwittingly, I’d shown her parts of myself no one ever got to see. I wasn’t sure I was capable of giving her anything more. I was midway through a marathon I hadn’t trained for. My muscles were weak and my lungs were empty.

  Because it was what we did, she could have made a joke, given me shit. But she didn’t. She seemed to understand where my boundaries were better than I did.

  “Me either. Let’s find out together,” she said.

  She turned and went inside and, as if she were my oxygen, I followed her. I couldn’t do anything else.

  “Grace,” I called out.

  “In here.” I followed the sound of her voice, my feet sinking into the thick pile of the rug in her hallway. Her home was as sophisticated as she was. Modern chandeliers hung from the ceilings. The grays and silvers on the walls, floors and furniture blended together without matching in a way that expensively decorated places managed. It wasn’t the apartment of any ordinary twentysomething living in Brooklyn. You could take the princess off Park Avenue, but you couldn’t take Park Avenue out of the girl.

  “In a bed this time.” She stood facing me from the corner of her bedroom and kicked her shoes off.

  “You’re impatient,” I said. She wanted me and that felt good. Perhaps it didn’t matter what came next. We’d managed so far.

  “I’ve waited all evening.” She fiddled with the fastening of her skirt, but I stepped forward and batted her hand away.

  “If we’re going to do this, then I want to take my time.” I slid one hand around her waist and cupped her face with my other.

  “There’s an if?”

  There wasn’t an if. Not now that we were here. I’d have her
tonight, but it wasn’t just about getting off, scratching an itch, and I wanted her to get that. “There’s no rush, Grace Astor.” I smoothed my hand down her neck, mesmerized by her milky-white skin.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, I pulled her between my knees. I could see her better like this. I unbuttoned her blouse, raising an eyebrow when she tried to help. She dropped her hands and let me work the small blue buttons through their holes. I parted the sides of her shirt to reveal a lacey white bra. “This, I like.” I ran my forefinger under the edges of the cup opening, relishing the feel of the rough lace on one side of my finger and her smooth skin on the other. Her nipples pebbled and I resisted the urge I had to pinch, bite, suck. My dick pressed against the seam in my pants.

  Fuck she was so sweet.

  I tugged her shirt from her and reached under her skirt. “This room is so perfect. The carpet, the cushions, the comforter. We’re going to mess it up a little bit. You know that, right?”

  She pulled the corner of her bottom lip into her mouth, her body swaying slightly as I slid my hand up her thigh. “We’re going to fuck every which way.” I stroked the juncture of her leg with my thumb. My thumb slicked easily across her skin—she was so wet—teasing the edges of her panties. “Your juices are going to be everywhere, staining everything. Can you handle that?”

  She nodded, her movement a little slow, her eyes a little hazy.

  “And I’m going to come all over you. I’m going to stain your beautiful skin so I own you.” I slipped my thumb beneath the lace and into her folds. She gasped, grabbed my forearms for balance.

  “Yes,” she said, her eyes fixed to mine.

  I began to shift my thumb in small circles. The movements were wet and easy as slowly I edged up toward her clit. Her grip on my arms got tighter and tighter.

  I was casting a spell over her, and the deeper under she fell, the more intoxicating I found her. The way she worshipped my fingers and what they could do was almost as good as if I were thrusting my dick inside her. I’d never experienced the euphoria that making someone else feel good could bring until Grace.