“You monster.” Kingsley grinned at her. “I like you already.”
“You’re nice,” she said. “And you’re handsome. And you make me laugh. But I’m going to prison. I’ll be deported. My husband has friends. He’ll see to it.”
“I have better friends than he does. I can help you out of this.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I told you—I need you. If you agree to come work for me, I promise that, from now on, you will be doing all the beating. Do you like the sound of that?”
Kingsley stood up and looked down at her. She gazed up at him without smiling.
“I love the sound of that.”
He held out his hand to shake. Instead of shaking it, Irina lifted up her foot and put it in his palm. Flexible. Also a good sign.
Kingsley bent and kissed her boot at the ankle.
“Don’t speak to anyone,” he whispered. Detective Cooper waited for him at the door. “I’ll take care of this.”
He left her alone in the cell, and Cooper locked it behind them.
“Well?” Cooper asked.
“You were right,” Kingsley said.
“Told you so.”
“How do you know Russian?” Cooper asked, clearly impressed.
“I used to hunt there.”
“No shit. You’re a hunter? What’s there to hunt in Russia? Bears?”
Kingsley smiled. “KGB.”
Upon leaving the police station, Kingsley headed back to the town house to change clothes. He found Sam in his office.
“You have your checklist?” he asked her.
“Always,” she said, picking up a pen.
“Check off one dominatrix.”
“Check,” she said. “Is she good?”
“She’ll be perfect when I’m done with her.”
“Mistress Felicia?”
“Not yet. I’m still working on her.”
“She won’t return your calls?”
“Not a one.” Kingsley sighed. “But I’ll keep trying. You keep digging on Reverend Fuller. I have to leave again.”
“Again? Where to this time? More secret sex missions?”
Kingsley sighed heavily. “If only.”
Kingsley changed clothes and made it to the North Meadow of Central Park by 3:05 p.m.
He stood there by the grass feeling foolish. Here he was, notorious club owner and underground figure, standing in Central Park in a white T-shirt and black-and-red running pants. He had work to do, professionals to hire, bigoted televangelists to blackmail, a Russian husband-poisoner to get out of jail. He was building a kingdom. He didn’t have time for—
Balls.
A soccer ball sailed toward Kingsley’s head. He grabbed it out of the air before it made impact.
“Keeps your balls out of my face,” Kingsley said as Søren jogged over to him. He wore black track pants, a black T-shirt and sunglasses. Even in casual attire he still looked like a fucking priest.
“You almost ended up with a black eye,” Søren said. “Pay more attention.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” Kingsley looked down at the ball in his hand.
“I thought you’d want some retribution for the day I scored on you in school.”
“I don’t have time for this,” Kingsley said.
“You can’t have sex for two weeks. That has to give you at least a spare ten minutes a day,” Søren said.
“Ten minutes? Ten? You know I can last longer than ten minutes.”
“Do I? I seem to recall having to punish you a few times—”
“I was sixteen. And I’m leaving. Sam needs me to help her with the files.”
Kingsley turned around, intending to head back to the street.
“Coward,” Søren said.
“What did you call me?” Kingsley turned back around.
“You heard me. Are you intimidated because I’m taller than you are? Or is it because I’ve been living in Italy where the best football players in the world live?”
“France. The best football players in the world are in France.”
“I heard Denmark had a better team this year.” Søren dropped the ball and juggled it with a few deft kicks on his foot.
“My high school team could have beat Denmark this year.”
Søren kicked the ball three feet in the air. Kingsley caught it.
“You’re trying to get me to play with you. It won’t work,” he said.
“Why not? Scared I’ll beat you?”
“You forget, I like it when you beat me. But you’re very arrogant and proud of yourself,” Kingsley said. “And I’m fully capable of destroying you right now, and I’m not sure you’ll ever recover from the blow to your massive blond ego.”
“We seem to have acquired an audience,” Søren said, glancing around. Kingsley noticed at least a dozen young women in shorts and barely-there T-shirts had gathered round, trying to look inconspicuous and failing miserably.
“He’s a Catholic priest,” Kingsley yelled at them. The girls booed.
“He’s not.” Søren called out to them.
The girls cheered.
“I can’t have sex for two weeks,” Kingsley reminded him.
“You know you can spend time with someone you’re attracted to without having sex with them.”
“You really have lost your mind.”
“Try it. I dare you.”
“Drop the fucking ball,” Kingsley said.
“That’s our goal.” Søren pointed at two trees that stood three feet apart forty meters away.
“That might be your goal,” Kingsley said. “But my goal is to do something I’ve wanted to do all my life.”
“And that is?” Søren dropped the ball between them. Before Søren moved an inch, Kingsley turned and, with all his strength and the muscle memory formed from playing thousands of hours of soccer as a teenager, kicked the ball in a high perfect arc toward the two trees. The ball passed down the middle of them with the precision of a whip tip through the center of a business card.
Goal.
He turned to Søren and smiled.
“Beat the shit out of you.”
17
NOT THAT ANYONE HAD EVER ASKED, BUT IF THEY had, Kingsley would have told them he bought the town house because he fell in love with the bathtub. Grand in size, porcelain with gold accents and claw-foot, it was a bathtub built for a king. He could live in it. If he kept playing football with Søren he would have to live in it. He needed the heat and the water to loosen up his chest where the scar tissue was healing too tightly. He arched his back to the point of pain and let the water seep into his scars. He tried to take a deep breath, but the scar restricted his movements.
Yet for all the agony, it couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. He’d done it. He’d scored on Søren ten times to his six today. Not quite the rout he was hoping for, but defeating Søren, even in a game of Central Park soccer, was exactly what the doctor ordered. Unfortunately, the exertion had resulted in tonight’s renewed aches and pains. But it was worth it. For the bragging rights alone, it was worth it.
While soaking his sore muscles, he put on his glasses, picked up a book he’d bought yesterday and opened to page one. A few minutes later he heard a knock on the bathroom door.
“Come in,” Kingsley said.
Sam opened the door with a hand over her eyes. “Number one or number two?” she asked from the doorway.
“Number…I don’t know. I’m taking a bath.”
“Bubble bath?”
“I’m not a girl,” Kingsley said.
“Okay, I’m keeping my eyes covered, then,” she said. “Which is not going to work, because I have messages to read to you.”
“Turn your back and read them to me,” Kingsley said. “Or look. I don’t care.”
Sam peeked over the top of her hand.
“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded. “You’re wearing glasses.”
“I’m farsighted. I can hit a target a
t five hundred yards, but words six inches in front of my face are blurry.”
“You’re reading in the bathtub. Are you sure you’re not a girl?”
Kingsley glanced down into the water.
“Fairly sure,” he said.
“What are you reading?”
Kingsley closed the book and showed Sam the cover.
Designed to Serve: A Guide to Becoming The Wife God Wants You To Be by Lucy Fuller.
“You’re reading a Christian marriage guide?” Sam asked, wide-eyed with horror. Real horror, not amused horror. “Why?”
“I want to save my marriage,” Kingsley said, turning a page.
“You’re not married.”
“Someday my prince will come.” He turned a page. “Preferably on my back.”
“Do you really think you’re going to find any dirt on the Fullers in a Christian marriage guide? I mean, in our world being vanilla is a sin, but not to them.”
“I want to know more about Fuller’s family life. Lucy Fuller has written five of these fucking Christian self-help books. Christian dating, Christian marriage, Christian sex, Christian parenthood, Christian cooking. Do fundamentalist Christians eat different food than we heathens do?”
“I’m surprised you didn’t get the book on Christian sex.”
“It didn’t have any pictures,” he said. “She’s cute, no?”
He f lipped the book over to show Sam the author photo on the back. Lucy Fuller was ten years younger then her reverend husband. She was thirty-five years old, had fake blond hair, a bright smile, gleaming teeth and dead eyes, which was exactly how he expected a televangelist’s wife to look.
“She’s a helluva lot better-looking than her husband.”
“You are a harsh critic,” Kingsley said, tsk-tsking at her. “You should read this. It’s full of good advice. She says if I want to make my husband happy, I have to dress modestly.”
“You were wearing a very modest corset and heels the night we met.”
“Chapter three tells me I have to be attuned to my husband’s needs and anticipate them before he has to ask. Do you think she’s talking about blow jobs? I hope she’s talking about blow jobs.”
“I doubt James Fuller has ever gotten a blow job in his life.”
“Chapter Seven,” Kingsley said, f lipping through the book. “The importance of waiting until marriage for sex. You’re right. This book is bullshit.” He closed the book and tossed it on the f loor.
“Total bullshit,” Sam said.
Kingsley narrowed his eyes at her.
“You know this church well, don’t you?” Kingsley asked.
“We have history,” she said. “Nothing exciting. Just unpleasant.”
“Tell me,” he said, looking at her expectantly. “Please?”
Sam crossed her arms over her chest and looked away into the corner of the room.
“I grew up in a fundamentalist church. My parents called me their ‘tomboy.’ That’s the way fundies make lesbians disappear. ‘Just a tomboy…she’ll grow out of it.’ Mom made it her personal mission to make a lady out of me. Makeup. Pretty long hair. Dresses. Girl stuff. Her lessons didn’t take. It was humiliating,” she said, and he heard the anguish in her voice. “I don’t like talking about it. Sorry.”
“I understand. There are things I don’t like to talk about, either. But sometimes I have to.”
“I know,” Sam said, and she gave him a forced smile. “I told you they run reorienting camps. My parents sent me to one of those camps.”
“I see,” Kingsley said, fighting a wave of rage that someone had done that to his Sam. “I assume it didn’t take?”
“No. It didn’t take. And it was the worst month of my life. And I’ve had some bad months.”
“Did you hear anything about the Fullers that we can use?”
“Not that I know of. Some of the kids there hated him. Some didn’t know him from Adam. Some thought he was their personal Jesus. I wish I knew more. I want to see that church go down in f lames as much as you do.”
“I’ll find something on him. There’s always something. Towel?”
Sam grabbed a towel and tossed it to him.
“Turn around,” he said. “I’m getting out.”
“Oh, now you’re getting modest?” Sam asked, glaring at him.
“Chapter two,” Kingsley said. “Only my husband is allowed to see me naked.”
“Fine. I’m not looking at you,” she said. “I’m looking at my clipboard.”
“Why aren’t you looking at me?”
“You’re a dude and you’re my boss. I don’t want to see you naked.”
“I’m very pretty,” he said as he pulled himself out of the water and wrapped the towel around his waist.
“Will it make you happy if I check you out?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it actually.” Kingsley took off his glasses and set them aside. “Since you’re a worrier.”
But it was too late. Sam had looked.
“Oh, shit.”
Kingsley sighed.
“I was afraid of that,” he said. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
Sam dropped her clipboard on the f loor and walked over to him.
“I’m looking,” she said, and whistled to herself. “God damn, that must have hurt. What did that?”
“Bullet plus the surgery to dig it out.”
“Can I touch it?”
“I’m wet and wearing a towel, and you want to touch me?”
“Yup.”
“Look, Little Lord Fauntleroy, the reason I hired you to be my assistant was so that we could have some…” He paused and searched for the right word. “Distance between us.”
“I’m not giving you a blow job. I’m touching your scars.”
“Blaise gives me blow jobs. She doesn’t touch my scars.”
Sam looked into his eyes. Kingsley was acutely aware of the closeness of her body. Without his clothes on, he could feel the heat emanating from her. She’d shed her jacket and vest after he’d ordered her to “tone it down.” Suspenders held up her pin-striped trousers, and her white shirt was unbuttoned to the center of her chest. She might be dressed in men’s clothing, but he couldn’t deny how alluring and feminine he found her. At the V in her shirt he could see the slightest curve of her small but pert breasts. The last thing he needed was to get an erection and scare away the best assistant he’d found yet.
The King Page 20
