Hard Liquor: Runaway Billionaires: Arthur Duet #2

by Blair Babylon

  Because of course, if you’re going to have an impromptu Las Vegas wedding, Elvis must officiate and croon “Love Me Tender” as you walk down the aisle, which was exactly the situation that Gen found herself in.

  At least Gen looked halfway decent, which was shocking.

  Arthur had called someone in Los Angeles, who had called someone in Vegas, and she’d had hair and makeup appointments set for right when they walked off the plane.

  Her dress was nice, especially considering the spur-of-the-moment wedding ceremony. She wore a white, lacy sundress that fell past her knees.

  In the wardrobe room behind the women’s spa area at The Devilhouse, costume racks had been lined up and stuffed with clothes that had been sorted by size. Oddly, there had been an amazing selection of exceedingly nice clothes in Gen’s size and with long enough hems. Some other tall, curvy woman must work at The Devilhouse.

  Whoever that chica was, she must like black leather.

  Gen carried a bouquet of daisies and bluebonnets, a most Texan bunch of flowers.

  Really, this wedding was very close to what she had pictured when she was growing up in Texas.

  Maybe she had pictured a respectable minister instead of Elvis, but the rest worked.

  And maybe she had pictured her parents being there, but that couldn’t be helped.

  Up at the front, beside Arthur and Casimir, Maxence discreetly held Gen’s phone at shoulder-height, live-streaming the ceremony to Lee and Rose. A tiny scream escaped from the phone, and he hurried to pinch the side to silence it.

  Gen walked toward Arthur, who held out his hand to steady her as she climbed the steps to the altar.

  Stays in Vegas

  ARTHUR held Gen’s hand in his and stared at the minister. The man was saying something, surely, but Arthur heard only gibberish and his own heart thudding in his ears. The spangles on the guy’s white track suit dazzled Arthur’s eyes.

  He’d managed to find a man who was ordained in the American Episcopal Church, even if the priest was dressed like old Elvis Presley, and he’d agreed to do the important parts of the rite.

  They would be legally married in the eyes of the Church of England. Gen would indeed inherit at least that bit from his mother.

  As Arthur slid the ring onto her strong finger, nestled next to the enamel and ruby ring from the Duchess of Somerset jewels, he could feel his history stretch behind him. Every earl and duke in his lineage, and the occasional king, had stood before a priest and married a woman to become his countess and continue the lineage.

  Nineteen generations of noblemen in his family had taken their countesses back to Spencer House after their wedding to procreate their heirs.

  Arthur couldn’t. He had seen Spencer House for the last time.

  But he could have this marriage registered, proof that he had done his duty by the earldom, and thus he could make sure that Gen was a little better off than when he had met her.

  His name might be a black mark in the history of the Earldom of Severn, the Earl of Givesnofucks, but this one bit of evidence would exist that he had not been a drunken degenerate.

  This Vegas marriage certificate and a few, handwritten pages of confession that he had written and placed with Duchess Margaret Spencer’s papers, along with a flash drive with snippets of evidence.

  Someday, in a century or so, some great-grand-niece or -nephew would read the Duchess Margaret’s papers and find his few pages, and they would realize that the twenty-fifth Earl of Severn wasn’t a legendary lecher but Her Majesty’s spy who had never broken his cover, even when it had cost him everything.

  He had never thought it would cost him love.

  He’d never been in love. Why would he? He was never in one place for long, never with the same woman, and always there under false pretenses.

  It had been apparent that he would have given his life at some point in the clandestine service. Elizabeth had recruited him as a lonely, nihilistic teenager who had been grasping for something dark enough to draw him under the current.

  In Her Majesty’s service, he’d found friends, all-consuming work, and a feeling of heritage and purpose that he had been lacking.

  Twelve years before, at the tender age of seventeen, it hadn’t been hard to throw himself away, to give everything he believed and everything he was in his very English soul to the Empire and the Crown.

  Everything had fallen apart when he had met Genevieve.

  He should have spent his life waiting for her instead of ensuring that it would end just as she had walked through his door.

  At least he had this moment, a bit of comfort while Elvis read the ancient words over him and he married his countess who should have been the key to his future and the future of his noble family.

  Ah, Gen. Arthur longed for a future with her that he couldn’t have.

  Hannoverian Empire Wealth Management

  ARTHUR led Gen through the boring, office-like back hallways of the Devilhouse. They’d flown Casimir’s jet back from Las Vegas for the all-important meeting with Wulfram von Hannover to discuss Arthur’s finances.

  The whole flight, Gen’s fingers had remained curled into a fist around her wedding ring, which was just the slightest bit loose on her finger. He would have his jeweler in London size it when they got back.

  No, he wouldn’t. He had to stop thinking about the future like that. Every time he considered what his future with her should have been, a knife stuck in his ribs, and he couldn’t breathe.

  In the hallway of The Devilhouse, fluorescent lighting fixtures sprayed blue-white light everywhere. They almost didn’t have shadows on the white tile under their feet.

  The Dom’s office was at the end of a hallway, an imposing door with windows on both sides.

  Once Arthur had found the main corridors, he knew his way around The Devilhouse a little too well, though not as well as Maxence, evidently. He rapped his knuckles against the door, holding Gen’s hand with his other one.

  From within the office, a man’s deep, bass voice called, “Come in.”

  Arthur paused with his hand on the doorknob, working through some quick calculations, trying to figure out what to call his old school friend. The man had some quirks, to say the least, and kept parts of his life very separate from others, even to the point of insisting that people refer to him by different names in differing circumstances.

  Gen had already met Wulfram at the wedding, and they were going over Arthur’s finances in a friendly capacity, so probably just his name, not anything else.

  He glanced at Gen, her glorious hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her dark eyes were large and innocently curious, which was a terrifying expression on a lawyer.

  Arthur had better figure this out.

  Calling Wulfram anything but his given name would invite more questions from Gen, and more questions from the litigating attorney might lead the conversation in dangerous directions. No one questioned or attacked Wulfram, not without consequences. Arthur knew how to handle him because Arthur was a skilled intelligence professional. He’d handled psychopaths as dangerous as Wulfram since he was seventeen, though very few were more dangerous than the man in this room, a man who would be moved to cold anger if Arthur chose the wrong name to call him.

  Arthur shoved open the door and breezed in. Late afternoon sunlight filled the room, and a long window along the far wall overlooked the riotous greenery of the garden area. “Wulfram! So nice to see you again. You remember Genevieve Ward from Flicka’s wedding?”

  The blond man at the desk turned his dark blue eyes toward them, a cold gaze. Arthur was reminded once again that though this man might seem normal, he was anything but.

  Wulfram stood and held his hand over his glass desk. “Arthur, Genevieve, so nice to see you again.”

  Arthur shook Wulfram’s hand and stood aside for Gen to do the same.

  She looked up at Wulfram, and her eyes widened as she took him in.

  Arthur didn’t like the way Wulfram was loo
king at Gen one bit, though that predatory expression looked quite normal on him. The white dress that she had worn for their wedding clung to her curves in all the right ways.

  Arthur took Gen’s other hand and guided her backward, away from Wulfram.

  Gen looked terrified of Wulfram, or something. Her eyes were wide, and her cheeks had a pink glow of fright. Her slow smile must be concealing her revulsion and fear for propriety’s sake. She was becoming quite British.

  Wulfram said, “I hear congratulations are in order.”

  Ah, yes. Maybe now Wulfram would back the hell off. Arthur told him, “Indeed. We just married.”

  “Then my best wishes for both of you.”

  “Th-thank you,” Gen said, still blinking her wide-open eyes too rapidly. The poor thing.

  Arthur stepped forward slightly to show her that he was protecting her.

  She frowned at him and sat in the chair.

  That was odd.

  Arthur was a protective guy. It was just part of his constitution. He had protected the whole of Britain all his adult life.

  Wulfram sat in his chair behind his wide glass desk and crossed his legs. Arthur could see right through the desk, an unsettling view. He preferred traditional furniture, pieces with history and gravitas, not props that allowed the computer to float in the center of the air.

  Wulfram picked up several pieces of paper. “Here’s a summary of your accounts with me. We’ve been doing quite well this quarter, up seventeen percent over this time last quarter.”

  Arthur took the page. “You’ve always managed accounts so well.”

  Gen leaned over, trying to see what was written on the paper. He handed it to her without glancing at it.

  Wulfram chuckled. “The information you pass on has made it easier to keep abreast of changes in the world.”

  “Just so you know,” Arthur said, leaning in, “I may not be able to continue to do that. I may not have access to some of that material anymore.”

  Gen touched his hand, still staring at the paper. “Arthur?”

  “Retiring, are you?” Wulfram asked him, his mouth curving in a cold smile that didn’t exactly reflect in his eyes. He glanced down at his copy of Arthur’s accounts on his transparent desk.

  “Being retired,” Arthur said.

  Wulfram looked up at him, his deep blue eyes sharpening. “Are you safe?”

  No use lying. “I don’t think so.”

  Wulfram leaned forward, clasping his hands on his glass desk. “What can I do to help?”

  “I don’t know that anyone can improve the situation.”

  Gen wrapped her fingers around Arthur’s arm. “You should see this.”

  Wulfram said to Arthur, “I’ve been living quietly for a long time. If anyone can find a place for you to live quietly, perhaps I can.”

  Arthur shook his head. “It’s not paparazzi and lone jackals that are the problem. It’s a different level of involvement.”

  He wasn’t sure why they were couching the problem in such obscure language, except for propriety’s sake. One didn’t speak of one’s imminent demise in florid language. They were both keeping it British.

  “So what are you going to do?” Wulfram asked.

  “I have no choice.”

  Wulfram blinked and couldn’t seem to find words.

  Arthur shrugged.

  Gen grabbed Arthur’s hand. “You really should look at this.”

  “Yes, my love?” he said, glancing over at the paper.

  She stabbed a number at the bottom with her finger. “You said that it was a couple of thousand dollars or something.”

  The letterhead on the paper read Hannover Empire Wealth Management, and Arthur almost chuckled.

  He counted the zeros.

  The sum of his holdings with Wulfram read well north of six hundred million dollars.

  Arthur raised his eyebrows. “It has been a good quarter.”

  Wulfram said, “It would have been substantially more if you hadn’t been supporting that derelict house of yours all these years.”

  Gen accused Arthur, “You said it was a couple of thousand dollars. I can’t take this. I absolutely can’t accept this.”

  Arthur had been trained to keep his composure in all sorts of situations, first as an English nobleman and then as a spy for MI6. He hadn’t known the sum within even four orders of magnitude.

  He said to Gen, as calm as could be, “Actually, you don’t have a choice. My attorney has assured me that my will is airtight.”

  He smiled and raised an eyebrow at Wulfram, who only sighed. His one blond eyebrow was still lowered in dismay. “Since you are Countess Severn now, Genevieve, we should add your name to these accounts. In the event of a transference, it will ease the process.”

  Gen said, “I’m going to need copies of all of this. None of this has been entered into evidence for the lawsuit.”

  “Of course,” Wulfram said. He tapped a few buttons, and a printer somewhere started grinding out paper.

  She gripped Arthur’s hand and hung on, and her voice shook as she gave Wulfram her official information to type into his computer.

  As he finished up, Gen’s phone buzzed.

  She glanced at it and vaulted out of her chair. “Arthur, we need to get to Casimir and the plane right now. The House of Lords has called for closing arguments tomorrow morning.”

  “I thought they were going to deliberate and come to decision without further ado.”

  “You don’t ask them what they do. We just do what they say. We need to be in the air now.”

  “Casimir’s jet can’t turn around that fast. We just flew it from Vegas an hour ago. It has to be inspected and refueled and whatnot.”

  Gen was staring at her phone, her eyes wide. Her voice rose in panic. “We have to go now. We’ll have to just go to the airport and see if we can buy tickets or something. I don’t even know if they’ll have any. I don’t know which airlines have flights to London from here, and they’re usually overnight, anyway. I don’t think we can get there. Oh, man, Arthur. We shouldn’t have come.”

  Arthur said, “We’ll find a way. Let’s get Casimir and Maxence and prepare to leave.”

  Wulfram picked up his phone. “I have a plane at my disposal. Take it to England.”

  Arthur sighed with relief. “I appreciate that.”

  Wulfram held his phone to his ear, watching Arthur. He said, “Take care.”

  That kind of sentiment was odd, coming from the sapphire-eyed cobra.

  Arthur said and meant very deeply, “Thank you.”

  Wedding Night

  GEN held her laptop in front of her face with one hand, working while she trotted through the airport terminal and keeping up with Arthur, Casimir, and Maxence as they strode around her.

  A document filled the glowing screen on Gen’s computer, a collection of bullet points and short paragraphs. Octavia’s comments were stuffed in callout bubbles. Red squiggly lines highlighted esoteric law vocabulary.

  Security guys wearing black suits flanked Arthur and his friends, and they moved en masse through the seating areas.

  Concierges saw their crowd sweeping in and ran to intercept them, pointing to their clipboards and chattering.

  Customs officials descended next, rattling forms.

  Gen had handed her passport to Arthur and told him to handle it.

  Arthur slapped her navy blue American passport and his burgundy-covered UK one in the woman’s hand and answered the questions while they walked.

  Gen worked frantically as they moved toward the plane.

  The electrons flaring on her computer screen held Arthur’s hopes to keep his earldom and Gen’s dreams of becoming a tenant at Serle’s Court Barristers.

  She had one chance to nail this closing argument, even though her client had instructed her not to speak at all.

  Both their futures depended on it.

  She could always say that the solicitors had told her to defend it to the hilt, if i
t came to that. After all, barristers take trial instructions from the solicitors, not the client.

  If he didn’t stop her again.

  If he tried, Gen would just have to argue him down.

  She prayed that he wouldn’t stop her.

  She glanced over the top of her laptop screen to make sure she didn’t run into a pole or fall down stairs.

  Outside the wall of windows that stretched the length of the terminal, a sleek jet waited, wavering in the heat mirages.

  The plane was a little bigger than Arthur’s silver dart but a lot smaller than Casimir’s converted jumbo jet. The tail was just plain silver, not painted with an insignia. How refreshing.

  Arthur said, “It’s time. Let’s go.”

  He took her arm and led her outside toward the plane.

  The heat in the air settled over her. Even though it was only April, the late afternoon was nearing a hundred, Fahrenheit. The asphalt under her shoes radiated warmth from the desert sunshine and fumed the sharp scent of tar, and heat crawled up her trouser legs.

  Her computer bobbled in her hand.

  Arthur’s hand on her back steadied her.

  She snapped her computer shut to climb the steps into the airplane.

  Inside, white leather recliners clustered around conference tables, and a wall ran across the back of the plane.

  Gen dumped her court bag and a satchel containing a few items she had “liberated” from The Devilhouse on a table.

  In her defense, Arthur’s friend Wulfram had given her the bag and instructed her to fill it up with toiletries and anything suitable from the costume area.

  The racks of clothes in the costume closet room had yielded a pearl gray sheath dress with a matching long jacket that fit her freakishly perfectly, a little too feminine for a proper court but spot-on for an appearance before the House of Lords.

  The label listed a couture Parisian designer that Octavia had bought a scarf from once and had shown off around the office like a trophy stag she’d mounted on the wall.