by Misti Murphy
Playing Royal copyright © 2016 by Misti Murphy
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real events, people, or places is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or distributed in any format without the permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review. If you have not purchased this book from Amazon or received a copy from the author, you are reading a pirated book.
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Edited by Tami Lund
Cover Design by Clarissa at boomingcovers
Chapter One
Kaiser
Stalking around the bed, I gather up the used condoms from the hotel room floor and dump them into a sealable bag. The woman in the bed doesn’t wake, and I shove the baggy in my pocket as I cross the room. This game I play for Vice is a bit like a fairy tale, but when the fucking is done and the clock strikes midnight I’m out of there, leaving nothing behind.
I grin as the door shuts soundlessly behind me. There are three rules I never fail to follow, rules that I run my life by, and the third is Be a damn ghost.
With a swagger in my step, I pull out my phone as I enter the elevator that counts for a front door to the penthouse suite. “All done. I’m heading out.”
“Excellent. I’ll see you in the morning?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there. Bright eyed and bushy tailed.”
Saran laughs. “Do you want to include that bush on your face?”
“Nah, man. I’m done with it.” I drag my fingers through the thick beard that got out of control far quicker than I planned for it to as I punch the button for the lobby. “Get the woman a wakeup call.”
Hanging, up I shove my phone back in my pocket and watch the floor numbers as the elevator drops. Then I head to the hotel bar to finish off my night, the same way I always do. Settling on a leather top stool, I raise three fingers to the attendant of the hotel bar. Her smile fills her pretty hazel eyes while she pulls a bottle of Macallan and pours three fingers of whisky into a cut glass tumbler that she sends in my direction with a flick of her wrist. Then she goes back to cleaning up. She doesn’t make small talk. Hasn’t tried to since the first night I made it clear I like to drink my whisky alone.
Actually, I like to drink my whisky with her. But talking to her? Now that’d be breaking rule two. Don’t get involved.
I down two-thirds of it in one hit as I study her, flitting around between jobs, her hair a messy ‘do held up by what appear to be ball point pens. The first time I saw her I’d been drawn to her. I’d tried to decipher what it was that held my attention, why I had a gut reaction to her that left me both fascinated and regarding her as a whole lot of trouble.
When she turns to face the bottles on the shelf and reaches for one at the top I get a glimpse of creamy skin and a sliver of black ink. The scarf she’s using as a belt intrigues me before she rubs the scuffed tip of a black shoe on her pant leg. Even after all the intensive activity of the past few hours, I get a little stiff at the idea of unwinding it from her hips and using it in far more interesting ways.
Maybe she senses me staring, but when she turns around I’m glancing around the quiet room while I nurse the rest of my drink. It’s too late for most of the hotel guests, but a couple of suits sit in one of the booths, loudly discussing something to do with photocopiers over several glasses of amber liquid.
One of them lurches out of the booth, shoving heavily away from the table and wobbles toward the bar. “Hey, darlin’, my friends and I need another round.”
She flutters a hand through her bangs, pushing them out of her face. “This’ll have to be the last one. Bar’s closing soon.”
“Great.” He slurs his word, grinning. “Come and join us then? A pretty girl like you should be able to enjoy a drink every now and then.”
“I don’t drink while I’m working.” She lines up four glasses and pours a skinny shot into each before topping them up with soda. “I told you that last time you were here.”
“Never hurts to ask, sweetheart.” He stares at the glasses for a minute as though he isn’t sure how they’re going to get from the bar to the booth. “Can you bring them over?”
“Sure.” She tosses the towel down and grabs a round tray, plunking the glasses onto it.
The man goes back to his friends as she skirts the bar, smooths her palms on her scrap of an apron. “We’re going to close up in five minutes.” She nods at my drink. “You’re right with one tonight?”
“Yeah.” I glance at the contents of my glass, pretending to be completely disinterested in the way her hair glistens like honeyed whisky under the dimmed lights. Or the slight stale sweat and warm vanilla scent that clouds around her. I pick up the drink and swirl it around. “I’ll go as soon as I’ve finished this.”
“M-kay.” She sighs, picking up the tray. “Have a nice night.”
Her shoulders pulled back makes her tits stand out under the white business shirt she wears as part of her uniform. Yeah, she’s real pretty. So what? As long as I get my drink, I don’t care if it’s served to me by an eight hundred pound gorilla or a woman whose hip sway has me glancing over my shoulder as she makes her way across the room.
Getting up, I down the rest of my drink and drop a hundred on the bar. The drink, of course, is on Saran’s tab, but it doesn’t take a genius to know Miss Bartender doesn’t make enough. Sure, she can probably cover her lifestyle, but those boots of hers need to be replaced. And what’s money to me but a drop in an ocean of more money than I can ever spend in my lifetime? She needs the money more than I do, deserves to be able to buy the things she needs without having to worry about it.
Walking out of the bar, I pull a cigarette from the pack in my pocket. The butt between my lips, I cup one hand around the lighter as the flame flickers to life. A tin can rattles along the street, and I lift my hands to my face and suck back while I light the cigarette. Inhaling, I glance over my shoulder at the glass windows of the bar and watch her shoo the last patrons out the door before she sets about turning off the lights. “Yeah she’s stunningly pretty. So what are you going to do about it?” I mutter to myself. “What the hell do you think your game plan is here?”
Absolutely nothing. Rule number one. Stick to the plan.
“Shit.” I grind out the butt with the heel of my shoe and take off toward parking. These games I play with women for money, this life I live doesn’t involve real people.
No, it’s a façade. A lie wrapped inside a lie.
I’m the fucking king of pretense.
The fighter, the fucker, the any man, dressed up as a millionaire, wining, dining, and screwing women left, right, and center.
Even the everyday part of my life is a carefully propagated disguise, a shroud built over years. For I may be the king of pretense, but I’m also the crown fucking prince of Karovka.
And my days of freedom are numbered.
***
I slump down in the office chair behind my desk at Vice headquarters. Kicking my boots up next to the keyboard, I take a swig of my coffee. Straight, black, no sugar. Just the way I like it. Across the room, Dare is on the phone. He rolls his eyes at me, and makes a chatter
sign with his hand, opening and closing his fingers.
“Where the hell is Laura?” Saran pops his head out his office door. “Why is Dare answering the fucking phone? We’re supposed to be in a meeting with my contact at the FBI.”
I give a half-shrug as he steps into the room, scrubbing a hand through his dark hair before loosening the thin gray tie at his neck. His dark eyes are almost as crinkled at the edges as his suit. “Been here all night?”
“Something like that.” His gaze flicks to my boots on the desk. “Get your feet off the furniture.”
“Sorry, boss.” I roll the chair back and let each boot thump on the wooden floor. Getting told what to do by just anyone is something that I’m still not used to after five years, but for Saran I try to make the exception. Especially since I’m perfectly content with this lie I’ve chosen to live. There’s no temptation with women like these, no expectations. And I don’t have to worry about them wanting more than the lies I’m feeding them. They not only know I’m lying, but want me to. It’s actually kind of perfect, since I would never consider anyone who wasn’t my title equal as anything more than a bit of fun. This way keeps things from getting complicated. Besides there’s so much more to this job that I would never get to experience as prince.
“You’ve got a client tonight.” Dare’s chair squeaks as he leans back in it and threads his fingers through the blond hair at the back of his head. His blue eyes dance with humor. “Genevieve Lacroix.”
“Oh hell no.” I shove up straight in my chair, dumping my coffee on the desk so hard the hot liquid spills over the lip and down my fingers, dripping on the keyboard. “Ah, damn it.”
Saran nods in the direction of the computer. “How many times is that since you started working here? I have half a mind to take it out of your wages.”
“Fine.” I mop at the mess with a couple tissues from the box Dare tosses at me. “Just tell Lacroix I’m not available.”
“Can’t.” Dare grins, obvious enjoyment of the situation on his face. “The woman loves you. She’d be heartbroken.”
“Yeah, so fucking heartbroken. Last time I had to deal with her she tried to steal the used condoms for her turkey baster. What kind of person does that?”
“Going soft on us, Kaiser? Can’t handle a difficult woman anymore?” Braff’s guttural grunt has me glancing over to where he busies himself with the coffeemaker. His upper lip tugs a little, but he doesn’t smile. In fact, he never does. Not once in the time I’ve known him.
“At least I have the opportunity. When was the last time you got close to a woman, in game or for real?”
I probably shouldn’t have said that. The scars on Braff’s face deepen as his eyes go stormy. And the scowl that crosses his features doesn’t stop on his face. It’s as though every muscle in his body shifts to pure fury as he stalks across the room to Saran. “Let’s get this meeting over with. I have places to be.”
“All right.” Saran nods, and Dare gets up too. “Kaiser email me your plan for Lacroix.”
“Fine,” I grumble at his back as he follows the other two into his office and shuts the door. I’d rather be on that side of the door this time, and let anyone else have the joy of being Genevieve’s prince charming. I would have thought she’d have gotten enough of the rags to riches fantasy when she married her second husband, but apparently the old bastard doesn’t live up to her expectations. And I sure as hell can’t have a repeat of the condom incident. I might pretend to be no one of importance, but the last thing I want is an heir, illegitimate or otherwise, with a woman I don’t care for.
“Sorry I’m late.” Laura bustles in, a box of donuts under one arm, the other smoothing flyaway blonde strands back into the fancy bun thingy she does on the top of her head. She dumps them on her desk and gets busy clicking things on her computer.
“Donuts, Loz? You know you’re my favorite, right?” Jumping out of my chair I snatch up a jelly donut before she can even lift her gaze to me.
“You say that to whoever brings the sugary snacks. How you can pack away the crap you do and still look like that I haven’t got a clue.” She pushes the box out of my reach. “Now shoo. I have work to do.”
Perching on the edge of her desk, I grin at her. “I’m going to need the Ferrari tonight. Can you make sure it’s ready and parked in my usual place?”
“The Ferrari?” She raises one eyebrow. “Saran okayed that?”
“Sure did.” I stand up. We both know there’s no way he’d agree to me taking that car after what I did to the last one, but if I’m going to have to deal with Genevieve Lacroix then he’s going to suck it up and let me have the Ferrari.
“Seven?”
“Perfect.” I saunter across the room on the way to the door. “Can you book the same room as usual?”
“On it.” She picks up the telephone, punching numbers.
“Thanks, sweetheart.” I blow her a kiss as I open the office door and step into the hallway. “I’ll be out scouting locations.”
Chapter Two
Allie
I don’t mean to wait for him. The man who comes to my bar three or four times a week and sits in the second stool on the right while he drinks three fingers of Macallan’s finest. It’s just that he’s like clockwork. Or almost. I can never be sure what nights he’ll come in, or which he won’t. But my whole body goes on alert when the clock ticks over to midnight. I find myself darting anticipatory glances at the door of The Den. Waiting for the minute I catch an eyeful of him in his dark suit, his ginger hair and beard styled to perfection.
My mouth waters, my toes curl and I die a little with the need to hear his voice. The smooth smoky tones he uses as he orders his drink, the slight burr of a sexy accent that, try as I might, I can’t place, rolls around in my head for hours after he leaves. He barely talks, yet I find myself clinging to every word he utters.
On the nights he doesn’t come in, the rest of my shift, the midnight to one am part, drags on forever.
I restack the wine glasses in their overhead racks, my gaze once again diverted to the little numbers at the bottom of my register screen. Quarter past twelve. He isn’t coming tonight. I sink down onto my heels and scrape my bangs out of my face. How pathetic am I that I get excited over the idea of seeing a complete stranger? I dart another glance at the doors and blow out a breath. Stupid, Allie, that’s what you are to be hung up on a guy who doesn’t know you exist.
“I’m not hung up on him. Not interested in him,” I mumble under my breath. “Allie, you don’t even know the guy. He could be a serial killer for all you know.”
He probably is if I’m interested in him. “I am so not interested.”
“Talk to yourself a lot, girly?” The elderly gent that’s been in to sit near the fireplace the last few nights taps his fingers on the bar, his bushy white eyebrows waggling as he chuckles.
My cheeks heat as I stop what I’m doing to serve him. “What can I get you?”
“I want to settle my bill.” He pulls out a battered leather wallet and pulls cash out of it. Then as though it’s a side thought, he adds, “Don’t worry, I talk to myself all day long. The only way I get to have a conversation with someone who understands me these days.”
I smile as I fix up his tab and hand him a receipt. “I’m pretty sure you can’t have that much trouble finding someone to tell your stories to. You had Nick’s full attention earlier.”
“Only because he didn’t want to do his job.” He laughs quietly as he shuffles away, and I go back to staring at the clock.
No, I’m not interested in Mr. Mysterious. It’s just that he leaves such awesome tips.
Before he started coming into The Den I’d been worried about money, living pay check to pay check. It’d taken so long to get back on my feet after moving back to the city I grew up in that not having anything to fall back on had me constantly stressed. Then he walked into my bar with his sexy voice and his bedroom eyes and left me a hundred-dollar tip. I almost chased after him
to give it back. Instead, I told myself that I’d give it back to him if he came into my bar again. And he did. When he left another hundred dollars I figured it wasn’t a mistake. I take home more in tips from him than I do from the rest of my job, but I have to wonder why he does it.
I tidy up the bottles into neat rows on the shelves, their labels facing the bar while I try to ignore how slowly time moves.
“Three fingers, Macallan, caroniee.”
My hand hesitates on a bottle, the Macallan. Despite the fact I have no idea what he called me, his voice rushes through me in a way that feels intimate even with my back to him. I dart a glance at him in the glass behind the shelving. His focus planted on my ass, before he lifts his face. My cheeks heat under his steady gaze, my mouth watering. He jumps the bar, his hands landing on my hips, pulling me hard to him. The heat of him, his hardness pushing against me as he slides a hand inside the waist of my pants. “What I wouldn’t give to pull your pants down right here and thrust into you.”
I swallow, choke as I inhale at the same time. A question in his eyes, he taps his fingers on the bar as I try to cover up how flustered I am and remember to breathe all while coughing through the catch in my throat. Yep, if all I can do is imagine him getting into me then I’m not interested in him at all.
Bottle in hand, I fetch a glass and pour his drink right in front of him, unable to rip my gaze away. His big hand engulfs the glass as he lifts it to his lips. He has calluses across his knuckles and a light spray of scars that intrigue me each time I see him. His nose is crooked too, not much, but enough to suggest it’s been broken at least one.
He smiles. His face —my heart feels like it’s forgotten how to beat— is so beautiful, and those eyes heat my insides until my entire body flushes, and I blurt out the first thing that pops into my head. “You’re the committed type.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The Macallan.” I’ve never thought of myself as into redheads, but he wears it like it’s fire. As though the ginger scruff along his jaw and top of his head is somehow directly correlated to his personality. Oh God, I bet he’s fiery in bed. I press my thighs together, forgetting for a moment that I’m supposed to be professional, that I’m working, that I’ve somehow managed to see this man three or four times a week for months on end and never given away how he affects me. “It’s always the same whisky, the same amount. Only thing that changes is how many glasses.”
