Royal Affair

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Royal Affair Page 3

by Marquita Valentine


  It’s a game—a game that I always win due to the fact that the same people who publically swear that they won’t give me the time of day and reject everything I stand for are the same people begging to have lunch or dinner with me.

  Or to dangle an invitation to a private party.

  As if I need one of those.

  The problem with elites is that the amount of ire they have with someone is directly related to how much money that someone has. More money, more forgiven.

  More connections plus more money, they fall over themselves.

  There’s a reason we see pictures of a former Republican president’s daughter breaking bread with his former Democratic competition (and later president as well).

  My own family isn’t immune to it and I can’t count how many parties I attended with my parents that were nothing more than hobnobbing while securing future political dynasties through marriages and favors.

  Need little Jimmy to get into Ivy League school A?

  Vote for my bill to study cow fart emissions and he’s in!

  The second problem they have with me is that I’m not loyal to the two-party system or any of the minor parties. I could give a fuck about Democrats, Libertarians, or Republicans. They’re all the same when it comes to scandals, affairs, and power grabs.

  Yes, I will concede that there are few, a very small minority, who truly want to help those who elected them, but they are outnumbered by the perpetually in office. Men and women who couldn’t hold a real, working job if they tried.

  Not that they would—lifetime benefits and perks keep them happy.

  I sound bitter, but I’m honestly not.

  I’m disgusted and have been ever since I hacked into a private server in order to help my brother and sister-in-law out. Before then, I was a true believer in the red, white, and blue.

  My father, the senator, was for the workingman and -woman, for the farmer and union member alike. He scorned corporate welfare and thought that equal rights needed to be equally given to everyone.

  Unfortunately, I discovered that my father was unique, a holdout from the time when politicians actually meant what they said and their constituents held them accountable when they didn’t. Back before corporations—liberal and conservative alike—grabbed hold of our republic by the balls and squeezed.

  Hell, who knows if men and women like that ever existed. Maybe even my dad had to compromise when he didn’t want to. Maybe he was tempted a time or two to pocket money funneled to his campaign through mostly legal ways.

  Then, again, our family didn’t need to run to make money. Never has.

  We own Royal Bee Honey. Every Walker is required to work at the factory in Wilmington. It’s sort of a rite of passage and I guess you could say that’s where I got my work ethic.

  Except I forgot it during college and decided to party my way through school instead.

  I blame that on my age, but now I’m almost thirty-four, wealthy and successful in my own right. I can go anywhere, do anything, and be with anyone.

  Only I agreed to be exclusive with Charlotte. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been exclusive. Hell, I haven’t had time to seriously date in the past three years. I’m not opposed to the idea at all. Exclusivity will make Charlotte trust me more, which in turn will make her open up more when we’re not in the heat of the moment.

  A grin kicks up the corners of my mouth. She’s adorable, right down to her very prim ways. Do her very prim ways extend to the bedroom? On one hand, I love for a woman to be confident in the bedroom…on the other hand, I want to be the one to coax Charlotte out of her clothes, coax her mouth and thighs open to take me any way I want.

  My car comes to a stop in front of my office building and I have to adjust my growing erection.

  A doorman races over to open the door. His face is obscured by the umbrella he’s holding in anticipation of rain.

  “Mr. Walker, so good to see you.”

  I smile as soon as I recognize the voice. “You, too, Dennis. How’s business?”

  “Good. Good.”

  “Did Charla enjoy the tickets to Hamilton? Dinner good at Fresman’s?” I ask.

  “Yes, sir. Best anniversary present she’s ever gotten.”

  I stop at the revolving doors. “You didn’t say they were from me?”

  Dennis laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Didn’t have to. She knew.”

  “As long as you got the reward, I’ll take the credit.”

  “Best anniversary ever. Thank you again, Mr. Walker.”

  I grab his shoulder. “It’s me who’s thanking you. You’re the heartbeat of the building.” I mean it. Everyone knows and likes Dennis. For years now, I’ve tried to get him to come inside, take a desk job, but he won’t. “Ready to hit the thirtieth floor, yet? There’s a nice desk, comfortable office chair, and all the coffee you can drink.”

  “Not today. Too nice to be inside.”

  Thunder rumbles.

  We both grin.

  “But I’ll take a coffee.”

  “I’ll get that down to you.” Letting go of him, I move inside, my shoes echoing on the marble floor. The Walker Building is slick, modern, and understated.

  Yeah, I like to make a statement, but I don’t need an entire dictionary to do it.

  On my way to the elevator, I stop by the main desk to request coffee for Dennis before I get distracted by work and forget.

  “I’ll be sure to have it out to him as soon as possible,” Mindy, the receptionist says.

  “Thanks.” I nod, then move toward the elevators again.

  My senior editor, Drea Matin, joins me, wearing her usual pencil skirt and square glasses. She pushes back her long, glossy black hair and says, “How was the party?”

  “I came, I crashed…and I went home empty-handed.” Something keeps me from sharing my conversation with Charlotte with her. I chalk it up to nothing happening between us—an offer is only an offer until it becomes more than that.

  “No crown jewels for you, huh?” She tsks.

  “Crown jewels refer to men, not women.”

  She blinks at me, her mouth lifting at the corner.

  “For the last time, Drea, I don’t fuck men.”

  “Not anymore you don’t.”

  I don’t rise to her bait because it’s pointless. I don’t care if anyone speculates on my sexual preferences…and it’s Drea—she likes to bust my balls and play with pussy. I don’t care who she likes to fuck as long as she gets shit done.

  Drea wouldn’t be senior editor if she didn’t get shit done.

  “There’s a picture of the two of you kissing that’s making the rounds.”

  “Had to get her out of there somehow.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you were so empty-handed.” She presses the up button beside the elevator. “What did your princess have to say?”

  “Nothing that I didn’t already know.” That much is true…except the part about her feeling trapped. I should tell Drea this.

  We should speculate and find sources to corroborate Charlotte’s assertions, maybe even get one who will go on record to say that her family makes her stay at home. Locks her up in a tower or something. Except that I had the opportunity and I turned it down.

  Like a chump, I turned it down.

  “You should have tagged the queen-in-waiting. She doesn’t shut up.”

  “She also lies her ass off,” I point out. “Char—Princess Charlotte’s different.”

  We step inside the elevator and the doors close.

  Drea slices her gaze to me, her arms crossing. “Are you sure nothing happened beyond that kiss?”

  “I’m sure.” I change the subject as fast as possible. “Got any leads on the McLaughton case?”

  “No. The couple we did have turned out to be dead ends,” she says, all business. “Any suggestions?”

  “Follow the money trail backward.”

  The elevator dings and the door whooshes open.

  Drea st
eps out. “Got it, boss.”

  I scrub a hand over my face, wishing that the elevator would go faster.

  My personal phone buzzes, lighting up with an unfamiliar number. Instead of answering it, I let the call go to voicemail. That always weeds out the wrong numbers.

  My phone dings a minute later.

  Whoever it was had the right number, had my private number, and not the one I give out at work or events.

  Curious, I punch in my code and listen to the voicemail.

  “Hullo, Brooks. This is Char, um, Charlotte Sinclair.” I can’t help but smile. What kind of princess feels a need to clarify who she is?

  Easy, the one with the sweetest smile. The one who wants me and had to have an excuse in order to propose an affair.

  It hits me then. She didn’t think I’d take her up on it without something extra to sweeten the deal. How could I have been so stupid not to catch that?

  “I’ve had time to think things over and”—my gut shoots to my back. I don’t know why I’m reacting to her rejection like this. She should reject me. I’m not kind or nice, or anything else a woman like her deserves in a man—“I want to see you, at your earliest convenience, if you are amenable. Today, I’m co-hosting a charity fashion event in the Garment District with my sister, but after that I’m…free. I’m staying in the Towers at the Waldorf Astoria. You’ve been cleared by security to visit. Also, you can reach me on this number. Please don’t share it with anyone.”

  Motherfucker.

  Charlotte is serious.

  Charlotte is in the city.

  Once more the elevator dings, the door slides open, but this time I step out and make myself take measured, controlled steps the entire way to my office.

  Images of Charlotte flood my mind, both fantasy and memories. Of what her breasts will look like, taste like. How tight she’ll be…how sweet she tasted when her tongue tangled with mine.

  My cock stirs and my body hardens in full agreement.

  She’s made her decision.

  Who am I to deny a princess?

  Chapter 3

  Charlotte

  “I swear, Char, if you don’t stop looking about, I will sit on you,” Gen hisses at me. “It’s distracting.”

  “That’s because I won’t tell you who I’m looking for,” I reply with a serene smile.

  Gen snorts delicately. “You are so transparent, it’s positively frightening.”

  “Do go on.” I glance at her, wanting to stick out my tongue like when we were little and she’d tease me.

  She pretends to think about it—I know her well enough to recognize that look…and it’s identical to the one I make.

  “Mr. Walker aka forbidden man candy that you can’t wait to sample.”

  “Is he forbidden because my queen decrees it?” I ask lightly.

  “The queen wholeheartedly approves.” Gen holds up her mobile in front of us to snap a picture. “Smile, else everyone will think we’re cross or bored, or whatever else can be made up about us.”

  I lean in to her, doing as she commands. Gen is right. We’re in a fishbowl at the moment, a lovely, glittery bowl filled with tropical fish of every color. I imagine everyone staring at us, pressing their faces against the glass as they point and talk.

  My skin pricks and not in a way that makes me think Brooks has magically appeared. “Oh dear.”

  Gen grabs my hand, putting away her phone. “Are you feeling unwell?”

  Sweat breaks out along my lower back. I know it’s working its way up my body. My heart begins to race and air suddenly becomes more important than ever.

  “I need some fresh air.”

  “Only a few minutes more,” she says encouragingly. “Can you give me a few more minutes, darling?”

  “I’ll try.” I swallow. “I’m so sorry, Gen.”

  She squeezes my hand. “Never apologize to me, not over this.”

  I can’t help it. It’s such a weakness of mine, this unreasonable anxiety that happens when I least expect it. The therapist I used to see blamed it on my childhood, specifically on my parents’ murders, but I’m no longer a child. And I’d experienced this sort of anxiety even before they died.

  Nanny Brownstone used to say that my constitution was weak, that I was weak. She also used to say some other very awful things. Things that made my anxiety worse.

  I refuse to allow the eleven years she terrorized me to dominate my thoughts.

  I focus on breathing, on the beautiful models, women with scars, missing limbs, and survivors of cancer strutting down the runway, their smiles brilliant. Women who have an actual right to complain, unlike some silly princess, who was occasionally locked in a dark tower when she was naughty.

  The last model makes her way down, then pivots. Everyone, including me, rises to their feet. I slip my hand from Gen’s and clap, feeling her stare on me.

  “I’m fine now,” I assure her as the applause dies down. “Let’s make our donation, thank the models and designers again, and make our pitch to the press. Then we can be on our way.”

  “You don’t have to stay for any of that, Char.” She tips up her chin and gives a coy smile to the press on the other side of the room. Their zoom lenses are focused on us, so I smile as well. “It only requires one of us.”

  I know she doesn’t mean anything by it, but this fashion walk was my idea—one she took to our publicist, who made it happen. “Right, then. Peter can escort me to the hotel.”

  Gen sighs. “Why does it feel like I’ve said exactly the wrong thing?”

  “The queen is never wrong.” Yes, it’s a bit bitchy of me, but I’m wounded. Wounded by the one person in the world who knows me better than anyone else.

  “That’s not fair,” she begins and then shakes her head. “I refuse to have this conversation with you in public.”

  “You never have this conversation with me in private.” I take a deep breath, regretting my foul mood. My twin has done nothing wrong. “Forget I said anything. I’m not myself. I promise to make it up to you over dinner.”

  “Will you be around for that?”

  I shrug. “I left him a message, so…”

  “Please tell me you’re joking.” Gen turns to me, grabbing my shoulders. “Please tell me that you didn’t call him.”

  “How else was I supposed to meet him here?” I blurt, frustrated. “I didn’t give him my number.”

  “Good Lord, Char.” Her blue-green eyes fix on my face, concern glowing in them. “He should chase you, not the other way around. You deserve to be chased, courted…he needs to fall at your feet and worship the ground you walk on.”

  “He’s agreed to have an affair with me.”

  Her eyes widen and her mouth forms an O. “I’m not sure if I approve or not.”

  “Please say you’ll support me in this.”

  “Colin’s not happy, I suppose.”

  I shake my head. “When he finds out, he will hit the roof.”

  “And find a real gun?” She smiles widely. “Your Mr. Walker didn’t flinch.”

  “Rather strange, if you ask me. Perhaps he’s accustomed to death threats and laughs in the face of danger?”

  She laughs. “Only you would come to that conclusion, but I think you’re right.” Leaning forward, she kisses my cheeks. “Let me know if you are available for dinner. I don’t want to dine alone tonight, if I can help it.

  “No pressure, or anything,” she adds cheekily.

  “You’ll be the first to know my plans.” I nod at Peter and he’s at my side in an instant. “I’m ready to leave.”

  “Right this way, Princess.”

  —

  I arrive at my hotel forty minutes later and head straightaway to my bedroom to change into something more comfortable. I’ve must have checked my phone a thousand times, but I’ve not heard a peep from Brooks.

  Perhaps he’s changed his mind.

  Perhaps—perhaps nothing.

  With a frown, I sit down on the edge of the bed and remo
ve my heels first, then stand to finish undressing.

  I shouldn’t have called him first. I should have asked Gen or Della for advice. They know how to handle men better than I do.

  Padding to the bathroom in nothing but my bra and panties, I wash my face and brush my teeth, mentally scolding myself for being so gauche.

  Honestly, my entire proposal sounded contrived. Sex in exchange for insider secrets? I’m surprised he didn’t laugh me out of the bakery.

  As if he needs sex from me.

  Hasn’t he been running his organization for years without my offer? He simply wanted me to admit that I wanted him because if he were keen on my offer, then we would have gotten started that night.

  What. An. Idiot.

  There’s a commotion from the main part of my suite. Curious, I throw on my robe and stick my head out the door.

  “Everything okay?” I call out.

  Peter walks my way. “Mr. Walker to see you, but Prince Colin gave me instructions not to let him within a mile of you.”

  He’s here!

  My heart pounds against my chest in triple time. I attempt to look for Brooks over my bodyguard’s shoulder, but he’s too tall.

  “Mr. Walker is my guest for the evening,” I finally say, wincing slightly over the quasi-lie. “We have…dinner plans.”

  Peter hesitates and I almost remind him that I outrank my brother, something I hate to do because I don’t think it’s very sisterly of me.

  “Very well, Princess.” He steps to one side, and finally I see him. Dressed in a gray suit with a white shirt and red tie and his light-colored hair disheveled, he is a sight to behold.

  Slowly, he takes off his sunglasses and puts them in a pocket inside his suit jacket while his brilliant blue eyes roam over me. “You look ready for bed.”

  My face heats. “Yes, well, I’d planned on dining with my sister this evening. She adores room service, so we always get it when we’re in the city together.”

  He crosses the distance between us and comes to stand right in front of me. He’s so close that I can smell the scent of his cologne—woodsy and rich spices with a hint of smoke.

  Bloody perfect.

  “What do you adore?” he asks.

 

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