Wanted Too: A Scorching Valentine Royal Romance (Wanted Trilogy Book 2)

by Dee Palmer

  “Hang on a second, that’s your helicopter?”

  “Yes.” His monosyllabic response is the last straw on this camel’s impatient back.

  “Okay, you know the drip-feeding me information is cute and all, but my head is set to explode. Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

  “Would you at least sit?” He points to the vacant spot opposite and sighing out a frustrated puff of breath, I sit where he has just cleared the dust with a napkin.

  “Well?”

  “Coffee?” He hands me the take-out coffee with my name scribbled on the ridges of the cup, and I shake my head.

  “Jørgen!” My tone is clipped with warning. I want answers, and after taking a slow sip of his own coffee, he begins to explain his busy morning.

  “I called the police first thing. Your mother’s car has been located; it is damaged, though. The thief drove it into a ditch. I have had it taken to a local garage for now. The other men are in custody, awaiting charges, and I requested breakfast and a fresh set of clothes for us both, along with the transport.” He casually indicates the sleeping metal bird dominating my lawn with a wave of his hand like it’s an Uber waiting outside.

  “You got me clothes?” I’m guessing grand displays of wealth are nothing to someone literally rolling in money, but the intimate nature of picking out clothes for someone you barely know has left me a little stunned.

  “I believe they will fit.” His gaze holds with mine, only dropping for a fraction of a second to openly take me in from tip to toe. His smile seems almost shy and is at odds with the self-confidence of his declaration.

  “How? How did you do all that? It’s only just gone eight.” I have to double check my watch is still working, holding it up to my ear, which is silly since it doesn’t exactly tick.

  “I rarely sleep.”

  “So you walked into the village? It must’ve still been dark. How did you know where to go?” Sipping the coffee, my mind is trying to do the math. If person A walks for ten miles at four miles per hour how many eggs do I have in my fridge? Even with my dodgy mathematical mind, something isn’t adding up.

  “I have a confession,” he says just as my eyes widen with a possible conclusion.

  “Thought you might. You said you called the police, hmm?” I tap my lips, scrutinising his implacable expression. The penny is dropping fast.

  “I did.” He tilts his head, straightens his back and seems to brace himself. He needs to.

  “You had your phone the whole time, didn’t you?” The accusation holds all of my confusion and only a fraction of my fury. What the actual fuck! Standing abruptly, I place the cup down and walk away, only to spin on my toes and fire myself right back into his personal space. Standing, he takes my angry little finger pointing in his face and wraps his hand around it. “Why? Why say you didn’t have it?” The anger ebbs the instant he touches me.

  “I needed more time.” He steps flush to me. I tilt my head right back because the intensity in his gaze it too much to break.

  “For what?”

  “To get what I want.” He prevents my chin from lowering with the tip of his thumb, ensuring I keep the eye contact, which roots me to him.

  “Jørgen.” His name whispered from my lips sounds like a plea, and that terrifies me.

  “I do believe we have a deal, Hope. You don’t strike me as the type of person to renege?” The challenge in his tone is wasted. He already knows he’s won.

  “You have no idea what ‘type’ I am.” Resigned in part, all I can do is give the fair and honest warning. We’re both adults.

  “And I have a whole month to find out.”

  “Trust me, it won’t take that long. Just make sure you have gotten me an open ended return ticket, Mr. Charming. I’d hate to see you waste your hard-earned money when you want to be rid of me after the first week. You’ve been warned.” My tone might be joking, but the sentiment is completely serious. Reading a file and living with someone twenty-four/seven are not the same.

  “I’m counting on much more time than that. I’m counting on a lifetime.”

  “Jørgen, I never took you as the ‘dreamer’ type.” Smiling ruefully, I pat his chest, brushing off his crazy comment and filing it in a box I’m labelling ‘Jørgen hasn’t got a clue but I did warn him.’

  He interrupts my internal admin with a definitive, “I’m not.”

  He’s definitely the dreamer, because anything more than one night with the same man is my idea of a nightmare.

  “I knew it!” My mother squeals, and too late to avoid the brain piercing sound, I pull the phone away from my ear. My other hand is tearing through my long hair as I wonder what the hell to pack. My apartment looks like a bomb site at the best of times, but give me a time limit to gather everything I need for a month away, and my cleaner is going to need a hazmat suit to sort through the debris. I still can’t believe I’m actually going through with it. My mother, on the other hand, I just knew she’d swoon at the idea of a whole month, which happens to include Valentine’s Day. And her being the eternal romantic, despite having had her heart torn out and left to flatline by my father.

  “Mum, please, he’s just being ridiculous. He’s got blinkers on, for some reason, and if nothing else, this trip will enlighten him. I’m good, I’m just not that good, and I’m definitely not a keeper,” I quip.

  “Not for some reason. Hope, you are so much more than your vagina.”

  “Mum!” My face screws up with the unpleasant hit from my filter-free mother. I’m aware of the double standard since I have the general vocabulary of a hardened sailor, but this is my mum. It’s different.

  “It’s not me speaking, it’s your behaviour. You think that’s all you have to offer, and sex is all you want from a man, when you’ve never explored an alternative.” Her sweet voice tempers the undertone of disappointment. Maybe she wishes I were more like her. Maybe I do, too, sometimes, but I’m not.

  “Because the alternative isn’t worth it, at least my vagina always gets a happy ending… well, almost always.”

  “All I’m saying is, try opening your mind up to the possibility that Mr. Jensen is genuine in his offer. I have seen the way he looks at you, and that is not just lust. Trust me, I know the difference.”

  “And trust me, it’s lust.”

  “Then why didn’t he simply do it last night?”

  “Gah, Mum! I don’t know. Maybe he’s got a really small dick and was embarrassed.” It’s a huge, huge lie, and it’s only because the truth is worse. He doesn’t want to fuck me; he wants to make love. Ew!

  “You two spark off each other like New Year’s fireworks on the Thames. Your chemistry is explosive, I can feel it from here.”

  “Mum, you’re half-way round the world and probably three sheets to the wind on pink gin and champagne. I doubt you could feel your own nose right now.”

  “I don’t drink. And, darling, you have to, at the very least, acknowledge he didn’t have to be at all those meetings. He was there for you.” She powers on, and I don’t know if it’s the poor night’s sleep I had or this exhausting topic that’s starting to fray my edges.

  “He was watching over his investment.” I exhale loud enough to convey my boredom and subtly hail the imminent end to this conversation.

  “Please, men like him have teams of people dealing with his portfolio. He was there for you, and now he’s shown his hand. He wants you. All I’m asking is, please don’t bite it off.”

  “Got to go. I’ll let you know when I land.” So much for subtlety.

  “You’re going now?”

  “Yes, he gave me exactly one hour to pack. Apparently, I don’t need to take anything. Not even my phone.” I curse myself for swinging the conversation door wide open when it was so nearly closed.

  “How romantic.” She sighs, and I can almost picture the hearts fluttering around her as she bats her long eyelashes.

  “Or perverted. He might just want me naked the whole time.”
/>   “Like I say, how romantic. That’s just like me and—”

  “Aaaaand I’m going to stop you right there. Enjoy the rest of your cruise, Mum, and we’ll catch up properly when you’re back. Remember, I won’t have my phone, and I’m not sure about internet. I didn’t ask. Shit, why didn’t I ask? No, I’m sure there’s internet—”

  “It’s fine, Hope, don’t worry about anything. If there’s no internet, the world will keep spinning. Just enjoy yourself. You deserve this. I love you, Hope, and I just want you to be happy.” The catch in her voice strikes a chord, and I feel the warmth inside me glow. She has the biggest heart I know, and as different as we are, I couldn’t want for a better mother.

  “I am happy.”

  “No, baby girl, you’re not.” The call ends, and my heart sinks a little that I didn’t manage to convince her.

  I am happy, very happy.

  JØRGEN’S DRIVER PULLS UP OUTSIDE my flat promptly on the sixty-minute mark. The exact amount of time Jørgen gave me to get ready. I have to wonder, what with London traffic, whether he was parked at the end of the road the whole time. After a final check around my flat, I head downstairs with my case in hand. The slight, short, immaculately dressed middle-aged man takes my suitcase and loads it into the back of the sleek silver town car. He gives a curt nod and a wide warm grin that adds to a face filled with wrinkles. He tips his cap as he opens the door wide. I’m greeted with a dazzling smile and scent of new car, new leather, and a mix of earthy citrus aroma, which my senses recognise all too well. Jørgen offers his hand to help me into the car and as dizzying as his smile is, it’s his touch that sends a current of raw electricity through me.

  “You felt that, too, didn’t you?” he states emphatically

  “I’m not going to deny the attraction, Jørgen, but it will take more than a flutter in my tummy to sway me over to the dark side.” The car pulls away with a roar, the smooth surge of gravity forcing me back into the plush seat and a little too close to Jørgen. I slide myself to face him using the turn of the car to create a little and some much needed distance.

  “You think love is the dark side.” His lips purse with wry amusement, and mine mash into a tight thin line, as I suppress the urge to crush that sexy-ass smirk off his gorgeous face. The way he makes me drool in all the right places…I doubt we’re going to make it to the end of the road, let alone the airport.

  “This isn’t love, Jørgen. This is lust, raw unadulterated ‘I most definitely want to rip your clothes off’ lust, and I personally think the sooner we do the deed, the quicker you will come around to my world view.”

  “Which is?”

  “Sex isn’t love.”

  “I already agree with that. Even phenomenal sex is not the same as making love.” Crossing my legs when he emphasised the word phenomenal, how did he make it sound both like a threat and a promise? I take the bottle of water from my bag, desperately needing to replenish the moisture currently pooling in my panties.

  “So you only ever—I air quote—“’make love’, you never just fuck?” Scepticism justifiably coats my question and makes the air quotes redundant. I know he was married, but his wife died ten years ago, and he’s…well, he’s rich, smart, and sexy AF. He can’t be celibate, can he? That would be a crime against nature.

  “I didn’t say that. I’m just explaining the difference before I show you the difference.” And there he goes again, dropping his voice seductively low and gravelly. Making my thighs clench, my heart pound, and my soul… Well, the jury is still out on whether I actually have one, but something’s stirring deep inside that I’ve never felt before. His eyes search mine, staring and holding contact like my life depends on it. Intense doesn’t come close, and a brief and wistful part of me wishes I could see what he sees, believe what he believes, but I can’t.

  However, I find myself torn between maintaining the façade that clearly has him blinkered into thinking I’m someone I’m not, or stopping the whole charade, by revealing my true slut colours and dropping down and giving him twenty lashes of my tongue right now. On any other occasion, I wouldn’t even be having this internal debate, and that reluctance is tingling my self-preservation alarm bells.

  “Oh, good, so we are actually going to fuck, ‘make love’, or whatever, because, trust me, buddy, you do not want to deal with antsy Hope.” Flipping the sexual tension from scary serious to playful, my tone is sweet and sassy, even if I do have to surreptitiously inch a little further away from his heat, his magnetism, and his light.

  “Antsy?” He strokes the side of my cheek with his long finger, trailing a line of sparks to my neck where they absently entwine with a loose lock of my hair.

  “Sexually frustrated, horny Hope.” My mouth is parched, and I have to take another long sip from my water bottle, wetting my lips as I do. His eyes focus, narrow, and zoom in on my mouth, and now I have a lump in my throat the size of a football I’ve got to deal with. I don’t know what’s happening to me. This doesn’t happen to me. I feel like a virgin on her wedding night, not someone with my history, confidence, and Olympic gold capabilities in the sack. “After last night, just be grateful I had time to sort myself out in the shower, or I’d be dry humping your leg right now.” I snort laugh at my own analogy, only his brows knit together, his affectionate expression vanishes, and he looks unsettled. No, he looks hurt. I fall silent.

  “You didn’t enjoy last night?” He withdraws his hand from my hair, and I catch it before he removes it completely.

  “I really did; I really did.” Pulling his hand to my lap and clasping it in both of mine, I can’t quite believe I need to reassure him on this. Last night was…I have no comparison, which is both new and scary as all hell. I need to keep this light. I need to keep on track. I’m here for a good time, not a lifetime. “I just feel that delaying the inevitable is frustratingly unnecessary.”

  “Ah, so you do see that we are inevitable?”

  “There is no we, Jørgen. I’m saying sex is inevitable. Whatever illusion you are under about what is going to happen between us is plain fantasy.” My tone is soft and sincere. I don’t want to shatter the poor man, but I have to tell it like it is. I may be a slut, but I’m an honest slut. “Still, I’m all for kicking back on a beach for a month and having some fun.”

  He seems unaffected by my fantasy comment and even lets out a throaty chuckle when he replies.

  “Oh, it will be fun.” The playful wink is a little out of character and makes me laugh; it suits him. Don’t get me wrong, the serious, intense, brooding, dark, and dangerous thing he’s got going on is smoking hot. Still, as rare as it is, I kind of like it when he smiles, laughs, and generally looks like he’s enjoying life. I decide to make that my other goal this month, to make him laugh more, and maybe find out why the weight of the world hangs like a permanent grey cloud on his sexy, broad shoulders.

  “Great, can’t wait.” Placing his hand back on his own thigh, I clasp both of my hands together in my lap, white-knuckled, as if trying to anchor myself. I can’t get a fix on what the hell I’m thinking, feeling, or even doing in this car. Honestly, I’m feeling more than a little battered. Jørgen is a tornado, and the storm raging inside of me has left me uncharacteristically adrift. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this confused or flustered. It’s only when the car dips to enter the underpass at the entrance to Heathrow Airport that I suddenly remember, I fucking hate flying.

  I haven’t said a word. I’ve given a tight smile, nodded, and shook my head at the appropriate check-in questions. I may have said thank you when Jørgen offered me a glass of champagne in the Sky Lounge, but I’m not a hundred percent on that. I downed the glass, and one doesn’t have to be a mind reader to know the colour draining from my face has nothing to do with a sudden illness.

  “Are you ready?” Jørgen offers his hand as the last of the passengers disappears through the doors to the plane. We are the only two remaining at the gate, despite being offered the chance to board first.


  “As I’ll ever be. I hate flying.” He pulls me to my feet and wraps his arm around my shoulders. His grip is firm, and I’m not sure if that’s for comfort or to stop me bolting, either way, he steers me through the doors and down the gangway. My stomach rolls, and sweat coats every inch of my skin, the thunder of the engine is deafening, or is that the blood rushing in my ears?

  “I did get that impression.” Whispering close to my ear, he brushes his lips in a light kiss on my cheek. He guides me through to our seats, even going so far as to clip my seat belt and wipe my brow with his handkerchief. He says something to the flight attendant and sits beside me. A second later, and he hands me a bottle of water and a flat palm with two tablets.

  “These will help.”

  “Roofies?”

  He raises his brows high, and a sardonic smile pulls his mouth to one side. “Hardly my style. These are herbal sleeping tablets.”

  “Thank you, but I prefer to be sentient, just in case.” I curl his fingers and he pockets the tablets.

  “We can talk the whole way if you like?”

  “What will we have to say for the rest of the month if we do that?”

  “I’m getting the impression conversations are not normally a requisite with the opposite sex.”

  “Oh, I like my men like my coffee, mute.” I take a long sip from the water bottle. My nerves are getting the better of me, and I can’t sit still or keep my mouth shut. He laughs, and any offence washes off him.

  “And that works well for you?”

  “You’d be surprised how well, actually.”

  “I doubt that, most men couldn’t comprehend someone like you if you gave them a guide book, let alone appreciate they had a rare find before them.”

  “You know flattery is a little wasted at this point. I’m here. We’re going to your island for a whole month. We will definitely be getting jiggy.”

  “Which is obviously my reason for bringing you. Did I not make myself clear last night? I want to be with you.”