by Teagan Kade
“No, no, no. I’m not letting you drive this thing.”
She starts to get off. “Guess that was a waste of time then.”
I hand over the keys. She’s killing me, this girl. Reluctantly, I hop up behind her, hands snaking around her torso. I never want to take them away. “You do know how to drive one of these things, don’t you?”
She turns over the ignition and kicks away the stand, shouting over the exhaust. “Guess we’ll find out!”
She fires us out of the garage so fast I almost come off the back. I tighten my grip around her waist and pull in tighter. She dips her knee and effortlessly hooks around a cab, hand pulling the throttle and sling-shotting the bike for the intersection ahead. She wasn’t kidding. She can fucking drive.
I look back, SUV lost. Marcus won’t be happy about that.
Wedged against her back, the vibrations of the engine running through the seat, I’m hard, forced to shift away and to the side lest I stab her to death with my erection. I put my mouth next to her ear. “Do you know the way?”
“I’m not a fucking idiot,” comes the cutting reply. She squeezes the throttle again, the bike swinging down a hill, weaving between cars. And I thought William was a scary driver.
I’m surprised she does, in fact, know the way. It’s a serious hike back to London from Cambridge, midday traffic on the M11 far from good. We stop once for fuel, Grace refusing to budge from driving duties. A trip that should take us an hour-and-a-half takes forty-five minutes.
She pulls into the Savoy. Marcus and Richard arrive five minutes later.
Marcus looks like he’s just driven the Dakar Rally. “Sorry, sir. You were… difficult, to keep up with.”
Grace shoves her helmet into my chest. “We’re here, if you didn’t notice.” If she keeps this whole bad girl thing going my cock’s going to explode.
I usher us inside. “This way.”
“If you think we’re going to my suite, you can think again,” she tells me, her sexiness increasing with every step, creamy calves hinting at the wonders above.
“Left here,” I turn us, “to the American Bar.” I come up beside her. “Where did you learn to ride a motorcycle?”
“An ex.”
“He had a Harley, I presume?”
She stops. “He had a rusty Yamaha he traded for a six pack of beer, but you know how it is: Motorbikes are a bit like men—not exactly complicated machines.” She walks on.
The bar’s empty this time of day, bartender in white waiting.
Hands on her hips, Grace looks around. “Alcohol won’t do it either, I’m afraid. Besides, I’ve been here before.”
I motion to a door over on the side of the room. “Yes, but have you been to the museum?”
I can see this piques her curiosity. She studied modern history in addition to journalism at Harvard. I even had the PI send over her transcripts.
She fires off into the museum and starts to examine the collected artifacts.
I narrate behind her. “It’s small, but a fascinating look into the history of the hotel.” I point to a card in a cabinet. “See there. That’s Marlene Dietrich’s guest card with her request for twelve pink roses and a bottle of Dom Perignon.
She nods, but that’s it.
I flick my head. “Over there? Vintage cocktails. I’m afraid I don’t have five-thousand pounds on hand to purchase you one, though.”
She spins on me. “No? Judging by your escapades I was sure you kept your coffers well filled.” She realizes what she’s said too late, but I don’t capitalize on it, letting her return to the exhibits.
My hand hovers over her back. “What I really want to show you, however, is in the lobby.”
“Lead the way.”
We stop in the lobby beside a chair home to a statue of a cat. Marcus and Richard exchange a curious look with one another. Clearly, they think I have gone mad.
I place my hand on the cat’s head. “This is Kaspar. To this day he is used as an extra guest at the hotel when there are thirteen at dinner.”
Grace steps forward smiling. “I had to leave my cat behind.”
I know. “Really? What was her name?”
“What makes you think it’s a she?”
Shit. I shrug. “I can’t imagine you’d let a boy cat boss you around.”
She runs her fingers up Kaspar’s neck. “You’re right. This is all very interesting and entertaining, Spencer, but I’m here to get to know you, not the other way around.”
“Let’s go to lunch then. You can get to know me there. How do you feel about pie and mash?”
The look on her face says it all.
*
We sit at the Old Bank of London, two steaming plates before us. Thankfully, Marcus and Richard have found a table on the other side of the pub. I pick up the pie with my hands. “Do you know this establishment was once flanked by Sweeny Todd’s barber shop and the house of his mistress, Mrs. Lovett?”
“So you know I like musicals, well done, but as for this,” she pokes at the pie, “concoction…”
“It’s delicious, really.”
She sinks her fork in and takes a bite. I can see she’s enjoying it, but she’s not about to let that on.
She places her phone on the table. “Talk.”
“About?”
“Why don’t you start with your childhood? What was that like?”
I put down the pie, licking gravy off my fingers. “It was exactly as you would imagine. I was to sit still and not to speak, more an ornament than a child, really, a continuous string of parties and engagements stuffed to the brim with old bats who’d arrive in hire cars and leave in hearses.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Living in a giant palace straight out of a storybook? Yes, that was fun—well, not fun for the staff. My brother and I had a ball tearing the place apart.”
She even looks cute with a spot of gravy on her lip. “And your brother? How’s your relationship?”
I stiffen, force myself to relax. “Alexander? He’s, well, the golden child, if you will.”
“Do you spend much time together?”
“I like to see the kids.”
“Oh? What do they call you?”
“Uncle Spenny.”
She explodes in laughter, bits of mince and pastry splattering all over the table—and me, not that I care less. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she splutters, “but Uncle Spenny? Sounds like a cross-dresser with a speech impediment.”
“I’ll have you know Uncle Spenny is very well liked. I’m visiting them all tomorrow. Come, if you like.”
“I’d love to.”
“It’s a date.”
She’s watching me closely, waiting for a response, but I’ve been at this table before. I don’t have a tell.
“Your parents,” she continues. “How is your relationship with them?”
“My father, the Colonel, the Duke, he’s a,” I hunt for the right way to phrase it, “serious man. I confess I don’t see him terribly often, or my mother. Official duties keep them perpetually engaged.”
“You’ve never thought about stepping up your duties instead of sleeping around and boozing the day away?”
“I do plenty, as alluded to before, but it’s all behind the scenes.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like the publicity. I’m not Alexander and definitely not my father.”
Her almond eyes see right through me. “Why did you show me that playbook then?”
“I want you to trust me.”
She shifts in her chair. “Trust has to be earned, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would.”
She digs into the pie again, a little too forcefully perhaps, poor pastry bastard. “I don’t have trust issues, by the way. I just know better.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I have rules. Three, to be precise.”
“And they are?”
She takes a napkin, dabbing her mouth. “One, never date an
asshole. Two, don’t trust a liar. Three, don’t sleep with a guy on the first date.”
“But the second date is perfectly fine?”
“Why don’t we get back to you?”
I see Marcus and Richard watching carefully from the corner. This is probably amusing them as much as it’s amusing me. “Like I said, ask me whatever you want.”
“You’re a womanizer. You admit it?”
“Yes.”
“You play woman to get them into bed?”
“Yes.”
“But you’ve never been love.”
“No.”
“You drink.”
“Yes.”
“You do drugs?”
“No.”
She pops the last bit of pie into her mouth, lips closing around it. “Okay. That’s progress. What now? What’s on your agenda?”
I smile. She’s right where I want her. “Head back to the Savoy, get some rest. I’ll pick you up at eleven.”
“At night?”
“Yes, I thought we might visit a friend of mine.”
*
It’s another dick-bitingly cold night in London. Grace is rugged up in the Rolls beside me.
I look at her out the corner of my eye. She’s staring out the window. God, what I’d give to know her thoughts, what’s going on inside that delightful little head of hers. I take in the way her hair sits on her shoulders, her elfish ears, the soft nape of her neck waiting for my lips.
All in good time.
She turns. “Where does this friend of yours live?”
“Oh, he’s quite centrally located. Prime real estate.”
It’s a weekday. The streets of London are quiet. Drizzle has turned the entire city into a Turner painting, lights and color melding together.
We drive alongside the Palace of Westminster, taking the next street, the car pulling over.
I clap my hands together. “We’re here.”
Grace looks around. “Wow, you weren’t kidding. What, he lives in the Tower of London?”
“Not quite. Follow me.”
I help her out of the car, my fingers red-hot on the underside of her arm, the contact between us electric. She won’t be able to deny it for much longer.
I walk her over to a non-descript door reading ‘Clock Tower’.
She clues in. “Is your friend named Ben, by chance?”
“The clock tower or my cock?”
She looks away, but I can see the way her lips are curling up.
She composes herself. “I thought Big Ben was the bell?”
I take out a key and slide it into the lock. “You’re right. Shall we?”
It’s musty inside, the kind of pervasive smell of damp and decay you simply cannot scrub away. We start up the staircase. The ‘jail room’ sign does not go unnoticed.
“You Brits love your prisons, don’t you?”
I stop, hand on the rail. “It was actually for misbehaving MPs.”
“As opposed to curious journalists?”
“I can arrange a short stay, if you like.”
“Christian Grey style? Is this where you bring all the ladies, whips and chains and all that?”
“You’ve heard about my penchant for bondage?”
She’s clearly enjoying this repartee. “Well,” she says, pointing up the stairs, “are we going up or standing here discussing floggers and funnel gags all night?”
“You know your stuff.”
“Just walk.”
“So impatient, you Yanks.”
“How many steps is it, to the top?”
“Three-hundred-and-thirty-four.”
She rolls her eyes. If she does it again I’m going to cream my pants. It’s hands down the most adorable damn thing I’ve seen in my life. “If your game is to exhaust me, Spencer, I daresay it will work.”
I expect her to be puffing and huffing by the halfway point, but she simply powers away, one foot after the other. She’s right on my tail.
“You’re fit,” I note.
“Just because I sit behind a desk all day doesn’t mean the only exercise I get is walking to the vending machine. Pick up the pace already.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Never call me ma’am.”
“My mistake.”
Finally, we come to the top and the narrow corridor of the clock tower. The white glass that makes up the face of the clock is on one side, countless lightbulbs on the other for illumination.
Grace runs her hand over the glass, genuinely curious. “It’s so bright in here.”
I lean back against the wall. “It used to be lit by gas lamps. Some poor sucker would have to climb up here and light them one by one, every night, back in the day.”
“Won’t everyone be able to see our silhouettes outside?”
“I imagine so, yes, though it wouldn’t be the first time there’s been a bit of hanky-panky up here.”
“Is that why you brought me up here, to get into my pants?”
“It’s not working?”
She brushes past me on her way out. “Maybe a little.”
She’s flirting. It’s a good sign.
We enter the clock room. It’s always fascinated me this place, ever since Dad brought my brother and me up here as children. I point to the pendulum, just as he did all those years ago. “Do you see those pennies on the pendulum there?”
“I do.”
“The clock master removes and adds them to correct the time.”
“Seems awfully archaic.”
“Everything about us is archaic… In the very best way, of course. The Royal Family is archaic. Isn’t that why you’re here? To inspire a new generation?”
She runs her fingers over the machinery, careful not to interfere. “That’s your job. I’m simply the messenger. Jesus, it’s so quiet in here.”
It is. “That’s the first thing that struck me, too—the silence. Who would have thought? Come on, there’s one more thing I want to show you.”
We make our way to the top of the tower, to the belfry.
I stand in the corner as she takes it in, pulling her arms around herself against the sudden gust of cold. She makes her way over to a grille, admiring the view outside. It’s a damn good one.
“How many girls have you brought up here?” she queries.
“Truthfully?”
“No, I want you to lie. Yes, truthfully.”
“You’re the first.”
She snaps around. “What did I say about being honest?”
I place my hand over my heart. “It’s the truth.”
She paces, hands behind her back. “I’ll bite. Why? Why me?”
“Your father was a watchmaker. You yourself are wearing a very rare Cartier 18K Vermeil. I thought you might find it interesting.”
She looks away. Clearly talk of her father has hit some kind of nerve. I make a mental note to dig deeper into it later.
“It’s spectacular, really. He would have loved it.”
Tread carefully, Spencer. “He passed away?”
She steps over to Big Ben, her hand on the tortoise-shell surface of the bell. “When I was younger.”
“It can’t have been easy.”
“No.”
“Your mother raised you?”
“She did. Took on three jobs to make sure I had a good education, a roof over our heads. She’s the most amazing woman in the world.”
“I’d like to meet her one day.”
“She’s not a cougar, sorry.”
I take a step closer. “Like I said, you have me wrong, Grace Everett.”
“Do I? You deny it, that you’re a playboy?”
“Do you think the world would still be interested if I was an everyday guy, a car salesman? A plumber?”
She laughs, no doubt at the thought of Prince Spencer of Westshire lying under a sink covered in dirty dishwater. “It’s not only the prince thing.” Her hand gestures to my body. “You’re…”
I take another step. “What?
”
“Very attractive, and you damn well know it.”
“By the same token, I find you attractive. Extremely attractive, I’m afraid. Does that make you a manizer, maneater, whatever you use over there in the US?”
“Definitely not. I seem to repel most men, actually.”
“You’re intelligent. Guys don’t do so well with that.”
She takes the compliment quietly. “Flatter me all you want.”
“I will.”
We’re close now, right beside the bell. I want desperately to reach out and take her in my arms, run them down the back of her jeans, but I can’t work out where she’s at, can’t get a lock on her. I can’t the read the damn signals. I’m blind and it could all blow up in my face. I won’t let it. I have to play the long game, whatever it takes.
She turns her eyes up towards me. They’re pearlescent in the moonlight. “Have you ever been in love? Truthfully now.”
“Are you still recording?”
She pats her pocket. “I’m always recording.”
“Like I said, no.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“That’s sad, wouldn’t you say?”
“No.”
“Why?”
I speak the truth, the bet forgotten, the game nothing. “Because you never know what’s around the corner.”
I hold eye contact. She laughs, shaking her head at the line, but I’ve gotten through. She stops and stares, the space between us closing, our bodies drawn together through the void.
I check my watch. “Bollocks.”
She pulls back just a little. “What is it?”
“It’s almost midnight.”
I look around, but I can’t see any ear muffs.
“Close your eyes,” I tell her, placing my hands tightly over her ears.
With her face in my hands, she is angelic, more than perfect. She is everything I need now, maybe ever.
The bell strikes and she jumps, her eyes popping wide.
We watch each other, the old floorboards alive below us, the hollow ringing of the bell unbearably loud without protection.
She watches me, as lost in my eyes as I am in hers. Before I know it there is only an inch between us, and then nothing at all.
Our lips come together softly, warm. It’s so different to anything I have experienced, so timid and tender. Her hands don’t move but remain glued to her sides as the secondary bells chime, the kiss deepening. I let the tip of my tongue slide between her lips, seek her own out.