The King

by Tiffany Reisz

  Sam exhaled in obvious exasperation.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Will you please stop telling me that you think I’m beautiful?”

  “I have never told you I think you’re beautiful. I told you that you are beautiful. There’s a difference, non?”

  “Non,” she said.

  “Does it bother you?” He stepped back and sat on the bed. She placed the large box on the f loor and stood in front of him.

  “Sort of,” she said. “Mainly because I’m not used to it. You know, from men.”

  “I can’t believe that. All the lovers you have—”

  “It’s different coming from women than it is coming from you.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” She looked up at him through her thick long eyelashes. Her hair had more wave than usual, and he longed to capture a lock between his fingers and kiss it. “But it is.”

  “Sam?” He put both hands on her shoulders and forced her to face him. “You know I want you, right?”

  She said nothing at first and then slowly nodded her head.

  “It won’t go away anytime soon,” he said. “So if it truly bothers you that I feel this way about you, then it might be we can’t work together. I don’t…” He squeezed her shoulders before pulling his hands away. “I don’t want to hurt you or make you uncomfortable.”

  “It doesn’t upset me,” Sam said. “Except the thought that I’m hurting you hurts me.”

  “Trust me, hurting me is not anything you have to worry about.”

  “But I’ve never loved a job more than this. I love working with you. I love the work we’re doing. Especially the part of the work where we make Reverend Fuller’s life a nightmare.” “Still working on that part. But we’ll get him. Eventually.”

  “I know we will. I have nothing but faith in you.” Her words made his heart soar.

  “You’ll have to forgive me. I’m a man who loves both men and women. You give me a woman who dresses like a man, and it’s…” Kingsley paused. “What was the thing that crippled Superman?”

  “Lois Lane’s pussy?”

  “Kryptonite,” Kingsley said. “A woman in a suit is my Kryptonite.”

  Sam grinned, and that smile of hers turned the night back into day.

  “If it makes you feel any better,” she said, “I’ll tell you this. If I were going to be with any man on earth, it would be you. No one but you. Feel better?”

  “Much.” He didn’t know why, but those were the words he most needed to hear from Sam. He adored her, loved her humor, her playfulness, the way she took care of his home as if it were her own, taking care of him as if he were her own. That’s all he needed to hear—if she was ever going to go to bed with a man, it would be him. He needed to be special to her, as special as she was to him.

  “Good. But you really do have to stop telling me I’m beautiful all the time. I’m vain enough as it is.”

  “I’ll stop saying it, then,” he promised. “But I won’t stop thinking it.”

  “You’re the beautiful one.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You put anyone in a room to shame—man or woman.”

  “You won’t think that when you meet le prêtre. He puts all men to shame.”

  “Who? Oh, the priest? He’s that hot?”

  “Even you’ll be tempted.”

  Sam gave him a searching look, and he feared she was about to ask a question he didn’t want to answer.

  “What’s in the box?” he asked before Sam could ask her question.

  “Present for you,” she said. “A thank-you gift for this job.”

  “You don’t owe me any gifts. Everything you do for me has been a gift.”

  “Fine, then.” She picked up the box. “I’ll keep them.”

  “I didn’t say you could do that.” He grabbed the box from her. “Mine.”

  He took off the lid, and inside he found a pair of black kneehigh boots, gleaming leather, polished to the highest shine.

  “You can’t dress in a suit like that without boots like these. I ran out and got you the most perfect pair I could find. You have huge feet, by the way.”

  “I have normal feet for a man. If you want to see something huge you should see my—”

  “Ego?”

  “Exactement.”

  “Have you ever worn riding boots before?” she asked, taking the boots out of the box.

  “I don’t ride. Not horses anyway.”

  “Well, these are like Hessians. They’re special, and they take a little getting used to. You don’t zip them or lace them or step into them like cowboy boots. You have to use boot pulls to get them on. Once you wear a pair for a few days, though, they’ll feel like a second skin.”

  Sam dropped to her knees in front of him.

  “What are you doing on the f loor? You’re wearing a tuxedo.”

  “By your leave, my lord,” she said, smiling up at him. “Consider me your valet.”

  “How many romance novels did you read as a girl?”

  “Hundreds,” she said. “That’s the only type of book my mom had in the house. She hid them from my father much better than she hid them from me.”

  “That’s the first time you’ve ever mentioned your family without wincing.”

  “We’re not close anymore,” she said, smiling at Kingsley. “They didn’t want a daughter like me.”

  “If I have a daughter someday, I hope she’ll be like you.”

  Sam blinked hard, like an invisible hand had slapped her.

  “What?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her.

  “Nothing.” She took his ankle in her hand. “Nobody’s ever said anything that nice to me before.”

  “I’ll never do it again,” he promised.

  “Good. Now, shove it in as far as it’ll go.”

  Kingsley looked down at her.

  “Your foot,” she said. “Shove your foot in.”

  “You’re kinkier than I thought.”

  Kingsley shoved. Sam took two thin curved sticks and slipped them in the small eyelets inside the top of the boot.

  “Stand up and push your foot down while I pull up.” He stood. She pulled. The boot was on. “Okay, one more time.”

  It took thirty seconds of pushing, pulling and trouser rearranging, but then it was done, and Sam, still on the f loor, sat back and looked him up and down.

  “God damn,” she said.

  “Good God damn?” he asked.

  “The best God damn.”

  He reached down and helped her off the f loor. With her hand in his, she dragged him over to the cheval mirror.

  “Now that’s a sight to behold.” Sam leaned against him, and they stood shoulder to shoulder—his shoulder a mere four inches higher than hers.

  Kingsley pulled her in front of him, his arm across her chest like a shield over her heart. She rested her chin on his forearm, and the small gesture of feminine surrender sent a surge of possessiveness through him.

  “That’s an even better sight to behold.”

  “I do look damn good in a tux.”

  Kingsley smiled but didn’t speak. He’d meant the image of Sam in his arms was the better sight to behold. She must not have understood. Or perhaps she did understand and didn’t agree.

  “I like the boots,” he said, letting her go before he got too used to holding her.

  “I don’t.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I love the boots. I want you to wear them every single day until they’re a part of you.”

  “I will,” he said. Easy enough to do since they were a gift from her. They were already a part of him.

  “I’ll help you put them on every morning. It’ll be our routine. I’ll help you put on your boots, and you can give me my orders for the day. Then we’ll drink coffee and figure out who to blackmail next.”

  “Sounds like paradise.” Sam’s face being the first one he saw every morning? He could get used to that.

  From outside h
is bedroom came the sound of laughter. Someone from somewhere in the house—Blaise from the sound of it—called his name.

  “Party time,” Sam said. “Have fun fucking half your guests.”

  “What are you going to do?” he asked as they headed to his bedroom door.

  “Fuck the other half.”

  The house was almost full by the time he and Sam made it to the main f loor. Thirty minutes later, they had a full house and then some. Sam had done a masterful job with the food and wine, especially given what short notice she’d had. Apparently working as a bartender for six years had put her in contact with the best people in the business. They ate. They drank. They laughed.

  And of course, they fucked.

  Not Kingsley. He walked from room to room with a glass of wine in his hand. For two weeks he’d been fasting from sex. He wanted his first meal to be a feast, not a snack. He needed someone delectable, succulent, mouth-watering…

  Søren walked in.

  Kingsley rolled his eyes.

  “Not you,” Kingsley said to him.

  “Hello to you, too,” Søren said, glaring at him. “I’m here for five seconds, and you’re already upset with me.”

  “Yes,” Kingsley said. “I’m trying to pick out someone to fuck, and you’re blocking my view.”

  “Forgive me. I had no idea you were prowling.”

  “When am I not prowling?” He handed Søren a glass of Syrah off a passing tray. Søren often wore his clerics when he stopped by the house, but tonight he’d come incognito—black pants and black jacket, but a white shirt. “I can’t believe you actually came tonight.”

  “I hadn’t planned to.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  Søren reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope.

  “This.”

  He gave it to Kingsley who opened the envelope.

  He found a minicassette tape inside.

  “Fuck,” Kingsley said.

  “It was delivered to the church two hours ago. I listened to it.” Søren spoke in French now, a wise move considering they were surrounded. “You seem to be confessing to sleeping with my Eleanor. Which is an impressive feat since you’ve never met her.”

  “I lied because—”

  “I know why you lied, and I appreciate it. But someone clearly does not appreciate it.”

  “I’ll handle it,” Kingsley said, and took the tape from him.

  “Is this something I need to be concerned about?”

  “Non,” Kingsley said. “It’s mine to deal with, not you.”

  “Do you know who sent it?”

  Kingsley shook his head. “I talked to the man on the tape— Robert Dixon. He swears it wasn’t him. I believe him, but he’s not telling me everything. He admits to taping us, but he tapes everything out of paranoia.”

  “You’ll let me know if this situation gets out of hand?”

  “It won’t get out of hand,” Kingsley said. “But just in case…”

  “What?”

  “Pack a bag for Denmark.”

  Søren started to say something, but Sam picked that inopportune moment to interrupt.

  “Is this him?” Sam asked. Even without the Roman collar, Søren had a priestly air to him. It was no wonder Sam had known who he was without an introduction. “I’m Sam. You must be Our Father Who Art in Connecticut.”

  “A pleasure,” Søren said, and kissed her hand.

  “No. Stop.” Kingsley took Søren’s hand away from Sam’s. “Take two steps back right now. She’s my secretary. You aren’t allowed to f lirt with her.”

  “I wasn’t f lirting,” Søren said. “Merely being polite.”

  “He’s worried because he thinks you’re prettier than he is,” Sam said to Søren.

  “He is prettier than I am,” Kingsley said. “It’s the eyelashes.”

  “You do have unusually dark eyelashes for a blond,” Sam said, studying Søren. “How do you do it?”

  Søren answered, “Mascara.”

  “No offense, Padre, but between the two of you, Kingsley would win the pretty boy competition.”

  “I’m not the least offended,” Søren said.

  “It’s the long hair. All boys should have long hair.” She pulled his hair, and he slapped her hand away. She slapped back.

  “Children,” Søren scolded. “Behave.”

  “Sorry. I love the hair,” Sam said.

  “He certainly wears it to his advantage. I approve of the wardrobe change, as well. Your doing?” Søren asked Sam.

  “All my idea. He wants to be a king. He should look like a king.”

  “You’ve succeeded,” Søren said. “He looks positively majestic.”

  “See?” Sam said. “I win. You lose. You have to dress like this forever.”

  “I surrender,” Kingsley said.

  “So, let me ask you two a question.” With her glass of wine, Sam pointed first at him and then at Søren. “How are you going to get away with the fact that he’s him and you’re a priest? I mean, is it safe for a priest to be in the house of a strip club-owning, S and M club-creating, blackmailing blackmailer, Kingsley the Edge?”

  “Of course I can be in Kingsley’s home without any fear of censure,” Søren said. “I have a very good excuse.”

  “What’s the excuse?” Sam asked.

  Søren answered before Kingsley could stop him.

  “We’re related.”

  Sam’s eyes went laughably wide.

  She eyed Kingsley. Then Søren. Then Kingsley again.

  “You’re both white boys. You’re both good-looking. You know, for men. Other than that, I don’t see the resemblance.”

  “Related by marriage,” Søren said. “I was very brief ly married to Kingsley’s sister before she passed away.”

  “Oh,” Sam said, nodding. “But Kingsley, you said your sister married—”

  Kingsley glared at her. He’d told Sam his sister had married the man he was in love with. Tonight was not the night to dredge all that up.

  “Married who?” Søren asked, looking from Sam to Kingsley and then back at Sam.

  “I told Sam my sister married a pompous arrogant selfimportant overeducated pretentious bastard.”

  “That would be me,” Søren said, raising his glass.

  “Gotcha. Well, I’ll leave you two bros-in-law to catch up. There are women in this room who have never had a multiple orgasm.