It had started at the gala earlier that night.
The PR firm that Amy had worked at for the past three years had been hired at the last minute to make sure everything proceeded according to plan for a particularly high-profile charity event. From what she understood, the plan was to rehabilitate Prince Artur’s image. He wasn’t very well-known in the United States, but in his home country, the news outlets watched him like a hawk—especially now that the country was considering abolishing the monarchy. A referendum was approaching that would decide the matter, and the PR people who worked for the king wanted to ensure his controversial younger brother was an asset rather than a problem. He was charming, and wildly popular with some segments of the population, but he was also a consummate playboy, always getting into trouble.
The royal family wanted to tamp things down more than a little.
It was Artur who was spending exorbitant amounts of money on parties and travel and generally…being a prince. This string of arranged appearances at formal, conservative, uncontroversial benefits and galas was meant to show he could and would behave himself with proper royal dignity…at least some of the time.
Amy had been assigned to a high-pressure position for the night of the gala. Her firm wanted someone on the ground to smooth over the conversation-level bumps in the road between participants, and that person was Amy. It was supposed to be a pretty staid affair, with a black-tie dress code and a big band playing the music, but events of that nature also had something else: an open bar.
One minute, things were fine—the hum of the conversation underscored nicely with the music from the jazz band. People were dancing. Not many of them, but enough so that the dance floor looked lively. Amy felt good in her black dress, which was a floor-length, one-shoulder creation that neatly straddled the line between professional and sexy. She had just turned away from the bar when the fight broke out behind her.
It was a single shout that made her turn back. Strangled, angry—not something you wanted to hear at a fancy gala, especially not if you were in charge of making things go off without a hitch. She’d spun around to see one tuxedoed man put another in a headlock.
“You bastard,” he growled through clenched teeth. “Repeat that garbage about my wife one more time. Do it.”
The man in the headlock did not appear to be able to answer, and the people near the bar were turning all around her to watch. If she didn’t get things in hand quickly, this would be the only thing people remembered about the event, and any chance of netting positive media attention for the prince would be ruined. It wouldn’t matter that he wasn’t involved in the fight—the anti-royalist press in his country would be sure to use it as an example of how he caused chaos wherever he went.
What was she going to do?
Both of the men looked strong, and much larger than she was. Still, it was her responsibility to intervene. Should she offer them more drinks? No. Clearly, they didn’t need any more alcohol. She took one decisive step forward. She could figure out what to say when she got closer to them.
Then another figure in black appeared at her shoulder, rushing in the same direction. She didn’t pay him any attention at first, and then—
“Gentlemen!” The voice that boomed out beside her turned her head. It was none other than Prince Artur. He was tall, lean, muscled in his tuxedo, with auburn hair and a wide smile that betrayed no anxiety at the scene in front of him. “There’s plenty to drink for everyone.”
He came up to the two men, clapping the one in the headlock on the back and offering him a hand up as if he’d tripped on the floor. The angrier man, still sputtering, tightened his grip on his enemy.
Prince Artur leaned in closer. “You’re making a fool of yourself, and there are going to be more cameras here in a minute. Settle the dispute the civilized way, hmm? Place a bet. A round of cards. Something other than what you’re doing.”
The man hesitated, but after a long moment released his enemy.
Amy caught sight of a uniformed waiter holding a silver tray high above the fray. Thank god—he was carrying a full tray of cream puffs. She grabbed two of them, and just as the media photographers caught up to the incident, stepped over to where the three men stood and offered up cream puffs to the man who was still red-faced and furious, eyes narrowed at his counterpart, who was rubbing at his throat and clearly looking for a way to escape.
“They’re delicious,” she said with a big, encouraging smile. “Come on. Have a bite.” She handed one to the formerly headlocked man, then turned back to the people surrounding them. “Everyone, cream puffs! Over here. If you haven’t had one already, you’re missing out.” Heads turned, and several ladies stepped up to the waiter as if they had never noticed the cream puffs before. The attacked man took that moment to slip away.
Prince Artur tried his best to get the angry man’s attention, but he was staring in the direction the other man had gone. Amy could see him trying to decide whether or not to follow. “See? All’s right with the world. Your next round is on me.” Amy grimaced, worried that more alcohol would make things worse, but the prince winked at her. “Some coffee, perhaps? There’s a station set up right over there. Nothing like coffee to clear the head, right?” Then he’d pointed a finger at Amy. “But none for you, you gorgeous creature. You didn’t bring me a cream puff.”
She knew the prince was, technically, a client, but that hadn’t stopped the heat from rising to her face. He was hot. Okay? She could admit it. The proportions of his body were…perfect.
What had happened after that? The man’s anger still boiled under the surface, so Amy found him a new venue: the bar. She had turned up the charm to several hundred megawatts, put a drink in his hand, and gently reminded the man that it was a benefit gala, after all, with a prize auction at the end. Soon, she had him convinced that everyone would remember him if he donated more, and a bit more, until by the end of the evening he was the most boisterous participant.
The press had loved it. Loved. It.
So when the prince offered her a celebratory round of champagne at the end of the night, she said yes. It had been such a success, right?
But it didn’t end with one glass of champagne. There was another, and some laughing, and he teased her again about that cream puff in a voice that was somehow sultry and smooth even when it was talking about cream puffs…
There had been a car, a driver, a trip through the New York City streets. A grand staircase leading to a bank of private elevators. And—
“I’ve decided the celebration can’t be over.”
Amy turned away from the window to find Artur coming back into the living room, skirting the overstuffed sofa with a silver tray in his hands. Balanced on the tray was another bottle of champagne and an arrangement of little chocolates and delicate strawberry slices.
He put the tray down on a side table and Amy opened her mouth to make her excuses. It had gotten this far—to his private room—but she should congratulate him on a night well managed and get out of here.
Oh, but the moment he popped the champagne his eyes were on her again, a hazel that caught the light from the fire crackling in the grate and reflected it back to her a thousandfold.
“It’s not a party if it’s just me, Amy darling.”
Amy darling. He’d called her that the first time when he’d brought the first round of champagne, but it didn’t sound so much like a joke anymore. It sounded like what it was—a proposition.
And she had to admit that it felt good to have those eyes on her. Good to have the invitation to party. Something about him made her feel like the only woman on earth.
He poured a single glass of champagne and offered it to her.
“It’s not a party if it’s just me,” she repeated, keeping her voice low and teasing.
“It’s rude not to offer a lady a drink.” Artur’s voice was haughty, and it made her laugh. “But I want my full faculties about me for the rest of the evening. The chocolate and the fruit, however
…” He lifted the glass from the tray in one hand and one of the chocolates in the other and came toward her. “Those should serve as a delicious appetizer.”
He was so close that Amy found herself tilting her head back to look up at him.
“Open those pretty lips, Amy darling.”
It felt absolutely naughty to be doing this kind of thing with a client, and the warning bells rang in her head. But they were silenced by the sheer physicality of him. He made her mouth water. She wanted him, but she’d settle for a bite of the chocolate. She opened her mouth.
Artur stepped forward, narrowing the gap even further, and placed the chocolate in her mouth.
It was smooth, sweet, rich, melting on her tongue, and she closed her eyes and tipped her head back. “Mmmm. That’s…that’s so good.”
She was deliberately baiting him with her throat exposed like that, and the next thing she knew, Artur was saying “How about this?” and she felt his lips pressed to the side of her neck, a brushing kiss that set her skin on fire and left her aching for more. “Or this?” he breathed out against the delicate skin covering her pulse and she heard the glass connect with the surface of a table. “Or this?” Then his mouth closed over hers, and Amy was lost.
He was a tease, tempting her, licking at her bottom lip and then drawing back so she was the one who lunged forward, kissing him so fiercely it was almost a bite.
“Yes,” she said on the next breath. “Yes, I like that…I like…” The last word turned into a moan as he ran his hands over the neckline of her dress, dipping below for a torturous moment before she was swept up in his arms.
Artur stretched her out on the sofa and Amy had never felt more like royalty in her life. Filthy, reckless royalty. She lay there like a queen, helping only a little as he peeled off her dress, then her bra, leaving her in panties and stockings.
“I think you’ll need to take those off, too.”
He gave her a wicked grin. “Not quite yet. I want dessert first.”
“Dessert?”
Artur stepped away, retrieving the plate of chocolates and strawberries and putting it precariously on the arm of the sofa. She didn’t care, because the next thing he did was take one of those little chocolates and place it between the hollow of her breasts.
“Now keep still,” he said seriously, then bent his head over her and licked it off her skin. He closed his eyes, swallowing. “That is wonderful chocolate. I wonder what fruit would taste like on your skin?”
The strawberry he ate off of her next was eaten from just above her belly button.
The next chocolate was even lower…right on her panties.
She squirmed underneath Artur as he lingered over the chocolate, letting his breath melt the surface.
When he took it between his teeth, Amy couldn’t take it anymore. “I hope you’re done with dessert.”
“Not quite yet.”
Her groan was cut off in a gasp of surprise as he pulled off her panties and stockings in one smooth movement and spread her legs. Then he was devouring her, tasting her, taking his sweet time. The pleasure built between her legs until he put his lips over her clit like it was a fine piece of chocolate and sucked her to a climax that left Amy shuddering and slightly worried that they’d done irreparable damage to the sofa.
But Prince Artur didn’t seem to notice. He stood up and stripped, displaying a body that took Amy’s breath away. He’d looked unbelievable in a tuxedo. Now? There weren’t words.
From one of his pockets he produced the silver foil packet of a condom, and she could hardly inhale for the anticipation.
“Put your hands on the back of the sofa.”
“What?”
“Trust me.”
His big hands on her waist guided her into the position he wanted, bent over the sofa, and Amy pushed back toward him, wanting, needing—
He thrust into her from behind, his hand playing at her shoulder, at her throat. “I saw you looking at the skyline.” His voice was heavy, and she heard each thrust mirrored in his words. “The view’s better this way. Don’t you think?”
There was only one word she could say, because Amy was on her way to another release that would definitely ruin the couch. “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, yes, yes.”
2
“The strategy has not been successful.”
Artur’s eldest living brother, Rafael, the reigning king of Stolvenia, spread out his hands in front of him on the table as everyone else at the meeting nodded their agreement. It stung—of course it did. Artur had given up most of his favorite pastimes in service of “repairing his image,” and here they were, saying he’d failed.
They was a rather large group of people who had decided as a unit that Artur’s image needed reformation. He’d gone along with it in the beginning because it was what his family needed from him. The world might think he didn’t take anything seriously, but those who were close to him knew he loved his family, would do anything for them. And it hadn’t seemed like too much to ask, for him to tone down his partying and behave himself at a few boring events. If it would help Stolvenia and his king—who was also his brother—he’d do it.
But as much as he wanted to argue he’d done his best, he knew it hadn’t been quite enough. Not when the opposition was working overtime trying to prove that it was all smoke and mirrors. They called the galas “more of the same from the party prince” and spread rumors that he was siphoning charitable donations to his personal bank account. It was an absolute lie, and one for which they’d provided not a single scrap of evidence, but there were some people willing to be convinced.
It wasn’t good.
The murmurs of agreement settled. Artur sat at one end of the table, and Rafael sat at the other. Arrayed between them was their middle brother, Armin, who had come to the capital city just for this occasion. He normally made his home at the smaller palace in Valbourg, where he held his official dukedom. His wife, Katie, sat next to him. They’d brought their girls, Seraphine and Lily, along for the trip, though the six-year-old twins weren’t stuck in here right now. Artur would rather be joining in whatever misadventures they were getting into than sitting at this meeting, but for the time being, it was his lot in life.
Then there were the people in charge of the palace’s public relations team, who had been put in charge of the extensive project of rehabilitating Artur’s “party animal” reputation, as they called it. Kostya and Zia both took the project seriously enough to decide that the palace’s own resources wouldn’t be enough to handle it, which is why they had hired a PR firm to handle all the logistics.
It was Kostya’s turn to jump in. “The original firm simply didn’t meet expectations. That’s not due at all to your hard work, Prince Artur.”
Artur managed a tight smile. He couldn’t blame Kostya entirely, but the original firm had been a disaster—an endless stream of deathly dull events that had accomplished absolutely nothing. They barely ever gave him an opportunity to entertain, which was what he was good for.
“How bad is it?” asked Armin. “Not your work, Artur, of course. The numbers.”
The numbers. Kostya flipped a page in the folder in front of him on the desk. “Your approval ratings haven’t budged. In fact, in recent months, they have dipped.”
“Well, I’m not surprised. I’m not playing the part people expect—of course they don’t like it,” Artur said, leaning back in his seat. “They want fun from me. Entertainment. That’s what they’re used to seeing.”
Everyone else at the table exchanged meaningful glances. “That’s something to consider,” Rafael said. “And it’s why I’ve called this meeting. I know Kostya and Zia have some ideas for how to pivot.”
“One in particular,” Zia said, shooting a razor-sharp glance at Artur. “We need to pivot to a new PR firm.”
He nodded as if the prospect of this ordeal didn’t bother him in the slightest. “Are you opening the call to everyone in Stolvenia?”
“No.” A smile
curved the corner of Zia’s mouth. “The one gala that was successful—by any measure—was the last one in New York City. And that was planned and executed by Holliday Public Relations out of New York.”
“An unconventional choice,” commented Armin.
“Unconventional, but it’s clear we need an unconventional approach. The quick thinking of the prince, in coordination with their person on the ground, turned a brewing fiasco into a public relations win for both of you.” Zia glanced at Kostya. “We’re impressed. And glad that you brought Amy Branch’s name to our attention.”
Artur felt pride rise in his chest. He had broken up a fight, after all, and then he and that angel who’d waded into the fray along with him had tag-teamed to produce massive auction bids which had led to another sizable donation for the foundation the gala was supporting. He’d even waited until the checkbooks had come out to learn her name. Amy. She was the staff person on the ground, and he’d looked her up after she slipped out of his suite early the next morning. She’d had a lot of good PR experience, but when he thought of her, he was more likely to linger on her experience in bed.
Or on the sofa.
“Artur?” Rafael’s voice broke into thoughts that were descending into a full-color replay of every moment of that night. He hadn’t planned on seeing Amy again, since she’d made her home in New York and he was a prince of Stolvenia, but now they’d actually listened to him and were bringing her in? This was an opportunity not to be missed.
Artur cleared his throat. “Obviously, I agree with your assessment. Will you be bringing Ms. Branch to Stolvenia or consulting with her and the Holliday Firm remotely?”
Kostya pursed his lips. “Oh, I think we’d better have her here.” His tone was deadly serious.
“Wonderful.” Artur stood up, his fingertips resting on the surface of the table. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “Then I think we’re done here. Agreed?”
European Billionaire Beaus: The Complete Series Page 12