by Susan Stoker
My heart sinks a little. He really is a man-whore.
I push my glasses up my nose. “Mr. Kensington,” I start in my sternest voice. “You’ve cultivated quite the reputation. If you’re not careful—”
Theo interrupts. “Where’d you dig this one up, Evans?”
The music cuts off as Evans turns the key in the Maserati. “She comes highly recommended, Mr. Kensington.”
“Great. Do you want me to call the ladies back?” He jerks a thumb and I realize he’s talking about the three women who just got out of the car. “We can do a photo shoot here. Something for you to put on Instagram.”
He thinks I’m going to manage his Instagram account. “Actually, we have more pressing matters at hand. We need to prepare a statement, tell our side of the story. Pepper Spice already has a media tour—” I stop when he waves a hand in my face.
“Boring. You’re hot, but you talk like my father’s friends.”
“That’s who hired her,” Evans said. “They’re concerned that when the board next convenes, the vote won’t be in your favor.”
Theo shrugs.
I frown. “You’re going to lose your seat on the board of a billion-dollar company and you’re not even going to—”
“I need to get to the pool,” Theo interrupts. “Got some friends waiting for me.” He looks me up and down, and once again I feel that force field pulling me forward, clouding my mind, making me want to take off my clothes and make poor choices. “You’re welcome to join me… if you wear a bikini.” With a wink, he strides off.
I whirl on my heel to face Evans. “Show me the sex tape. Then I’ll go down to the pool. Mr. Kensington and I are going to have a little chat.”
***
Evans leads me down the mansion’s wide halls, past giant paintings of landscapes and shipwrecks and Bacchus leading a party of nymphs and satyrs out to have a drunken orgy in a pasture. There’s also a few statues, including a pink marble representation of Venus De Milo.
“Who decorated this place?” I ask.
“The late Mr. Kensington hired a collector who chose these pieces.”
I tiptoe past the naked form. “Theodore Kensington’s father was Turkish, right? An immigrant?” I had to dig for that information. Mr. Kensington the elder didn’t want his immigrant status well known.
“Immigrant turned billionaire tycoon,” Evans confirms. “Who fell in love with a princess.”
“Kensington doesn’t sound very Turkish.”
“He changed his last name when he received his citizenship.”
“Like Donald Trump’s grandfather, changing the family name from Drumpf to something more marketable.”
“Exactly.” I don’t miss Evans’ dry tone as he turns into a small dark room. Empty coffee cups litter the desk under the many mounted screens. A pair of security guards nod as Evans introduces me.
“So you’re the fixer,” one says. “You gonna fix him?” The guard points to the screen where Theo stretches and poses on a diving board in front of an audience of bikini clad woman. One is already topless. The second security guard has the camera zoomed in on her.
“I’ll do my best,” I say as Evans hands me a laptop. He guides me to a private corner and gives me headphones. I pull off my suit jacket and press play. Theo’s muscled chest and bikini wearing babes cavort on the big screen as I focus on the similar shadowy figures on the small screen on my lap. I feel like I’ve got my own private peepshow.
Business as usual.
I don’t know how I ended up the world expert on fixing sex scandals, but after five consecutive cases—three sports stars accused of sexual harassment, one philandering senator, and one startup CEO who dropped trou at a wild party a week before his company went public—I have a reputation. Vesper Smith makes the bad boys good again. That headline was on HuffPost last month.
Yes, I read my own press.
I have to say, of all the sex tapes I’ve seen, Theo Kensington’s is the best. He’s got a beautiful, muscled back that flexes with his buttocks in time with his thrusts. His jaw clenches and his eyes bore into the mirror over the bed. It’s almost as if he’s looking at me.
Then he pulls out and I get a good look at him. All ten inches.
The tape ends. I watch it again, feeling each thrust deep in my womb.
“So what do we do?” Evans asks when the grunting and squealing on screen has stopped for the second time.
I blow out my breath, and hope no one notices my nipples are hard under my blouse.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Evans says.
“It’s bad, but not impossible. We need to give the media a new story: ‘The Playboy Prince Reformed.’ ” I hold up my hands and sketch air quotes. “ ‘He sowed his wild oats but he’s ready to move on.’ ‘Boys will be boys,’ the whole bit. It’s sexist, but the media buys it. A year of him acting like a monk, doing charity work, and most importantly, staying out of the scandal papers will do wonders for him. He’ll need to keep his shirt on.” I straighten my glasses and look up at Evans. He’s got his arms folded across his beefy chest, and looks skeptical. “It’ll work. I know what I’m doing.”
“I know,” Evans said. “That’s why we hired you.”
“Okay, so we start scheduling events. First a public apology. Then some donations to charity, a few popups at society dinners.” I nod. It all unfolds in my head: Theo suave and clean, the tattoos hidden safely away under a suit. I know this playbook—redeeming the bad boy. I got this.
“Sounds great,” Evans says. “It’s just what he needs. But it’s not going to work.”
“What’s the problem?”
“We don’t have a year.”
“Hmmm.” I tap a pen against my lips. “We can work with a shorter timeline.”
“We have a week.”
“A week!”
“That’s when he goes before the board. That’s when they decide. And that’s not all.” He hesitates. “There’s the matter of the queen. Rumor is, she’s finally asking about her grandson, and she’s not liking what she hears.”
“The queen? As in, the queen of Sweden.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t even know Sweden still had a queen.”
“Their Parliament holds all the power, much like in England. But the queen is still an important figure. And her daughter was Mr. Kensington’s mother.”
“Estranged daughter,” I correct. On this, at least, I’ve done my homework. “She left home at twenty, went to university in New York and dropped out. Fell in love with an up and coming businessman. From what I understand, Mr. Kensington only had five hotels back then.”
Evans nods.
“The princess gets pregnant, they marry, the queen finds out and cuts her off,” I tick off the rest of the story.
“Only to regret it when her daughter dies of complications in childbirth.”
“Leaving an infant son and a mogul with a broken heart.” I shake my head. “That has to hurt.”
Evans scoffs. “If it did, the queen didn’t show it. She hasn’t even met her grandson.”
“I didn’t mean her. I meant Theo—Mr. Kensington the younger.” I fall back slowly in my chair. Only child, now orphaned, shunned by his royal family. Kept from his rightful… throne? Did they still have thrones? “All right. I can work with this.” Mentally I flip through my contacts. I can do this. Pull favors. Plan photo ops. “I can do a week.”
“There’s still a problem,” Evans says. “He won’t do it.”
My head is still spinning from thinking about turning a tattooed, filthy-rich bad boy into a suave socialite with the innocence of a choirboy overnight. “Won’t do what?”
“Any of it. The apology, the charity gigs.” Evans shakes his head. “Mr. Kensington doesn’t want to clean up his act. A few of the board members were friends of his father. They hired you to save his reputation, so they can give him one last chance. But he doesn’t care.”
“Then he needs a therapist, not a fixer,”
I say sharply.
Evans shrugs. “For the money we’re paying you, you can be both.”
Chapter Three
On my way to the pool, I school my face into a stern expression, one I’d often seen employed by Ms. Mavery, the librarian at my high school. I found it works on handsy boys and misbehaving clients alike. Combined with my business suit and unflappable poise, I will be unstoppable.
I hope.
I follow the sound of classic rock to the pool. My polished approach is spoiled somewhat when my heel catches in a crack of the pavement. By the time I free myself, the whole party is staring—a handful of men and twice as many women. And Theo, who is still not wearing a shirt.
“You’re fired,” he shouts as I come close. The ladies around him erupt into laughter.
I continue down the marble steps, passing topiaries and statues of cavorting nymphs. I’m sensing a theme here. Maybe living among all this lascivious art made Theodore Kensington subconsciously decide to be a modern-day Bacchus. I smile to myself. ‘Art and the Playboy Psyche’ would make a great thesis paper. Miss Mavery would love it.
“I said you’re fired,” he repeats, and there’s a serious edge to his voice. This isn’t just Theo, the bad boy idiot, playing to the crowd. This is Theodore Kensington, testing me to see what I will do. Whether I can stand up for myself.
“You can’t fire me.” I come to a stop before his pool lounger. “I don’t represent you. I represent your dick.” I point to his swim shorts. Fortunately, he’s wearing shorts. Otherwise it’d be halfway to an orgy around here. I don’t think Mr. Evans would like that.
“My dick can speak for itself,” Theo says, and sets off another round of giggles.
“It certainly can. That’s your problem. Your dick is getting rave reviews on entertainment news shows. Apparently, it just delivered the performance of a lifetime. You’re a grown man,” I’m full on channeling Ms. Mavery here, “who got caught with his pants down and more than just your hand in the cookie jar.”
Theo wears a half-smile. There’s a gleam of intelligence behind his model looks. Thank God. Give me something I can work with. “So I’ve got a PR problem.”
“Mr. Kensington, you are the PR problem.” You and your harem. Besides the three women I saw climb out of the car this morning, there are four more, all in the tiniest bikinis ever invented. They might as well be wearing thick pieces of string. And high heels. Who wears high heels with a bikini?
Theo cocks his head to his side. “What’s your name, again?”
“Vesper Smith. Friends of your father hired me to clean up your image.”
“I like my image just fine. You know what they call me?”
I cross my arms, making it clear I’m not going to say it.
“The god of fuck,” he says. The ladies titter, but he’s not playing to his audience again. I’ve riled him. This show is for me. “You know why?”
“It’s a play on your name. ‘Theo,’ is the Greek root for ‘deity.’ ” Thank you, Ms. Mavery.
Theo blinks.
The guy next to him bursts out laughing. “Theo, your new PR lady is a nerd.”
“I’m drinking a martini,” one of the ladies holds up her glass, “can you tell me the Greek root for that?”
I shake my head. Theo’s groupies laugh and laugh, but he just studies me silently.
“Just how much Greek do you know?” a surfer looking dude asks me.
“Why the fuck do you care?” a woman with fire engine red nails, hair, and a bikini to match snaps at him.
“You know what Greek sex is, right?” He whispers in Red’s ear, and she cackles.
I shake my head in disgust.
“No fucking way,” Red points at me. “She’s blushing like a virgin.”
“Fuck,” the first guy says. “A nerd and a virgin. I know someone who can help you with your V-card.” He smacks Theo on the back.
“Lay off it, guys,” he orders, before stepping close to me. Way, way up in my space.
My head tilts up to look him in the eye. I force myself not to back away.
“Your friends are jerks,” I tell him.
“Don’t listen to them. They’ve just never seen a media consultant as beautiful as you.”
“I’m not going to sleep with you,” I tell him. “Don’t try to flatter me.”
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” he says, and it’s my turn to blink. “I think you like it. I think you want me to flatter you.”
I push my glasses up my nose, more to insert space between me and him than to adjust my glasses. My hand almost brushes his tattooed pec. I wonder if he hears my heart pounding.
“You’re a little uptight, Vesper Smith. Maybe my friend’s right. You need a little Theo-therapy. Tell you what.” He leans close, his lips brushing my ear. “You fix my image; I’ll punch your V-card.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I snap. He bursts out laughing.
“I’m kidding. I don’t fuck virgins.”
Screaming ‘I’m not a virgin’ won’t gain me anything, so I spin on my heel and leave.
My cheeks are hot. Never mind the teasing. There’s so much sexual attraction between Theo and me, the eye fucking alone is enough to get me pregnant.
Gods did that, right? Poof! Pregnant. Now that would be a story to spin. Mr. Evans wouldn’t buy it, but every woman who’d been reeled in by that attraction beam would understand.
I glare at the naked statues of Greek gods as I march past. Evans meets me at the mansion door.
“We have a problem,” he says. “I just got off the phone with Sweden.”
“Did the queen see the news?”
“Yeah. She’s finally ready to recognize her grandson.”
“It’s been almost thirty years. Why now?”
“I think she finally wants to make amends. She lifted the ban on her deceased daughter.”
“A little late for that.” Poor Theo, losing his mother at birth, and bearing the brunt of her sins.
“It’s more a formality, to change the line of succession.”
“What?”
“Her son is ill. He and his wife have no children. When he dies…”
“Theo is next in line.” My head spins. “That’s the real reason she’s made contact.”
“She’s called him to an audience at her private residence. Friday.”
“This Friday?”
“That’s right. The queen wants to see him in four days.”
***
“So how’s it going?” My friend chirps. I wince, and prop my cell phone on my other ear.
I should be scouring my media contacts and calling in favors, and Googling what to wear to an audience with the queen of Sweden, but between Evans shouting about suing every woman his boss has ever slept with and Theo’s heavy metal rock fest in his backyard, I have a headache.
I scowl at my suitcase. There is a bottle of aspirin in here somewhere.
“Hello? V?”
“One sec, Mina.”
“You call me and then put me on hold?” She laughs.
“No, sorry. I just needed to find something.” I pull the bottle of pain relievers from a secret pocket, and claw it open. Gulp down two, chase with water. Wish it was vodka and Valium. “Okay, ready. What was the question?”
“First day on the job? How’s it going?”
Mina is my best friend, and the only person I don’t lie to. “I want to quit.”
“He’s your client, right? Just fire him.”
“I was hired to do a job. I’m going to do it,” I say, and try not to grind my teeth. “I don’t quit.”
“Good for you. So, who is this guy again? What’d he do?”
“You’ve heard of the Imperial hotel chain?”
“The fancy hotels? Like the Four Seasons?”
“Exactly. My client’s father started with one hotel, and built it up from there. Kensington, Inc. does a lot more now, they own other hotel chains, and an airline—”
“Bottom line, Daddy’s boy has some serious cabbage.”
“And some serious issues.”
“What’s his name?”
I sigh. “Theodore Kensington.”
“Really? I just saw something about him…” I hear her tapping on her computer. “Oh, man. Oh, man.” Laughter in her voice. I picture her scrolling through the pictures of Theo. A few photos of him with celebrity girlfriends, some on the red carpet, others taken by paparazzi stalkers. The camera loves Theo. Dazzling white smile amid the tan skin, the acres of muscles on his bare chest at the beach…
“Yeah.”
“He’s very photogenic.”
“Mmmhmmm.” Wait for it.
“Oh wow. Oh wow. Holy—”
“Yep. That’s his dick.”
“Looks like you have a big problem here. A really, really big… problem.” She giggles.
“I know.” I rub my forehead, wishing the pain meds would kick in. “I’ve never had a client’s sex tape go live the day I start working for him.”
“Aww, Vesper, you can pick ‘em. So what are you going to do?”
“First I have to convince him to clean up his act. He’s not interested in being anything but a bad boy.”
“So? You like ‘em bad.”
“Not this bad.” I tell her about his asshole behavior at the pool.
“Whew.” She whistles. “He’s like a boy in grade school, throwing rocks at the girl he likes.”
“What? No.”
“I’m serious! Sounds like the playboy prince has the hots for you.”
I don’t tell her the feeling is mutual.
“Listen, Mina, I was calling to see if you could look into something for me.” Mina is a whiz on that computer of hers. Scary good. She pulls secrets for me all the time, and has helped me bury just as many.
I tell her what I need.
“I can do that. No problem. Just tell me this—”