The Prince's Playbook

by Pamela DuMond

  I sucked in my stomach. The glass skimmed past my chest and crashed onto the carpet, splashing thick amber liquor onto my legs and skirt at exactly the same time the hot waiter’s hand landed squarely on my silken bodice, where it remained, large fingers firmly clamped on my boob. The feeling wasn’t all that unpleasant.

  I glared up at the guy ready to kill or dismember him, but his hazel eyes—or were they green—appeared remorseful, as did the set of his jaw, and the pout of his very full lips. “Hand off my boobs!” I whispered. I glanced around, hoping against hope no one had spotted this.

  “Correction. Boob, singular,” he said.

  “Who are you, the grammar police? Hand off my boob.”

  “Awfully sorry about that.” He removed his hand and stared down at my chest. “Lovely, really. Warm. Soft.”

  “What?”

  “Your breast. From the quick time we’ve spent together I can tell they’re real. Shocking in today’s world.”

  “Right.” I glared at the tall man whom I’d just inadvertently gone to second base with. He was handsome as hell, tight, muscular, and I suspected he could have given David Gandy a run for his reign as king of underwear models.

  I felt something warm, moist, and sticky in my nether regions but I didn’t think it was emanating from my lady parts. I peered down at my rental gown. The skirt was soggy and reeked of scotch. Blood rushed to my cheeks. I wouldn’t be getting my deposit back. “Damn it!”

  “You have every right to be furious. I wasn’t looking where I was going,” he said, sliding the tray onto an unoccupied table and snagging a discarded table napkin smeared with remnants of chicken cordon bleu. He dropped to his knees in front of me, dabbing the cloth on my skirt. “I’ll fix this.”

  “No! You’re just going to make it worse.” I stared down at his thick head of black hair and wide muscular shoulders that strained at the confines of his upscale penguin suit. He worked his way up my shins that had suddenly sprouted goosebumps. “I’ll handle it.”

  “No. I’ll handle it.” He graduated to my thighs. Pat. Pat. Pat.

  Several wedding guests were watching me.

  Getting felt up.

  By the persistent hot waiter.

  In the middle of the poshest wedding reception of the year.

  “Really you don’t have to do this,” I said. His mouth was mere inches from my sex, his warm breath penetrating the drenched silk of my gown, heating my skin. My face flushed and I broke into a sweat because in spite of this whole disaster I was tingling down there and this time it wasn’t from the Champagne. “Let’s just call it a night, okay?”

  “That’s awfully forward of you,” he said. “But if you insist. Your place or mine?”

  “That’s not what I meant!”

  He smiled up at me and my heart melted for a moment. His full lips. His twinkling eyes. The way he waggled his eyebrows in a suggestive, naughty fashion. “I know. Just trying to cheer you up. Can you believe someone actually married John ‘Wanker’ Biltenhouse? I heard a matchmaker fixed them up. Who do you think the idiot was?”

  “A very smart idiot.” His grip was firm, large fingers pushing through my dress. It felt like he was working. Attempting to accomplish something, righting a wrong, not trying to cop a feel. That said, if this had happened to me on the “L” train, I’d have clocked him over the head with my purse and kneed him in the balls. “Enough. The attendant in the ladies’ room can help me—”

  “Stop worrying, Cupcake.” He winked. “I got this.”

  “Uh…” He was so earnest, so incredibly fucking gorgeous, that for a second I forgot how to breathe. It dawned on me that waiters weren’t usually this hot unless they were struggling actors. I knew only too well how difficult it was to survive in a big city when you were down on your luck, playing a part that you didn’t quite have down yet, and my anger dissipated.

  Then I wondered if my run in with the hot server was part of my promotion package. Not literally. I didn’t work for a pimp service after all. But cosmically. Like divine intervention. Life had been super tough the last year and a half. Maybe meeting the sinfully delicious server was the gods’ attempts to make up for all the bullshit I’d been through.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Charlotte. What’s yours?”

  “You tell me. What name springs to mind when you look at me?” He stared at me with a hint of a smile on his handsome face, the beginning of twinkle wrinkles crinkling around the corners of his eyes. He was so…

  “Hot Waiter,” I blurted. “Oops! I meant to say… Matt Baiter. You look like a Matt Baiter to me.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Seriously? Matt Baiter? It’s that obvious what I’ll be doing tonight if you don’t go home with me?

  “No!” I bit my lip. “I really did mean to say Hot Waiter. I’m sorry!”

  “I’ve been called worse,” he said. “I could swear I’ve seen you before, Charlotte. You’re so pretty. And boobs that majestic make you impossible to forget.”

  “Thanks—I think.” I reversed my decision and was suddenly tempted to let the excitement of the night take me. Enjoy your night, Charlotte. Let your guard down and savor an evening of beauty and decadence, fine Champagne, and a gorgeous man who looks like he’d be more than happy to service your every need. “You work at the hotel, right?”

  “You could say that.”

  “I stopped by the catering department with the bride a few months ago when she was sampling entrees for the reception. Maybe you spotted me then.” I gazed at his lower lip, full and fleshy, wondering what it would feel like if he kissed me. Long and hot. Insistent and passionate, as he wrapped his big, muscular arm around my shoulders and pulled me to him…

  “Charlotte!” An earnest female voice called, snapping me out of my reverie. I glanced up and spotted my pal, the immaculately coiffed Hailey Frankle, waving her hand high in the air as she hustled through the well-appointed crowd toward me.

  My heart sank because I realized this stunning man on his knees before me with the big muscular arms, a cleft in his chin, and dark brown hair with a hint of curl at the ends, might have been the handsomest waiter in Chicago, let alone the entire Midwest—but I had to shut this down. “Thank you,” I said and popped open the clasp on my pearl-encrusted evening bag, pulled out a twenty bill, and tapped it on his hand that was still attending to my thigh. “I hope this covers the damages.”

  He stopped and stared up at me. “For what?”

  “The drink I spilled.”

  Hailey waved her hands in the air. “Charlotte! The bride needs you—STAT!”

  “I ran into you.” He pushed back the bill.

  “Clearly, it was the other way around.” I extended the twenty.

  “It doesn’t matter who made first contact, Cupcake. You’re doused in Glenfiddich 1962 Private Reserve. You might smell like a trust fund baby after a wild night, but that’s an expense you don’t want to cover. Besides, I owe you for the dry cleaning.”

  “You owe me nothing,” I said.

  He stood up and I was reminded of why I ran into him in the first place. Hot waiter was as big and tall as a Green Bay Packer linebacker but far prettier. Like a long-lost heir to the Kennedy dynasty. For or a second I wished I was the Charlotte Louise Bauer from a year ago—a simpler girl living in more innocent times in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. But innocence had passed me by.

  “Charlotte!” Hailey raised her voice, a worried look consuming her face. “I need you!”

  “Thanks for the clean-up,” I said. “You’re sweet. But I’ve got to go.”

  “You have no idea how sweet I can be,” he said. “Stay and find out.”

  “I wish I could. I really do. But I can’t.” I turned, my heart bumping around in my chest, and walked away from what could have been my wedding reception fling as the band played You’re Just Too Good to be True. I stopped in my tracks, and regret nagged at me, practically poking me in the ribs. I couldn’t help but wonder what time he go
t off work.

  I turned to look for him. “Hey, I don’t even know your real name. What’s your name?” But he had vanished into the thick of the wedding crowd. He was so big, a force of nature. How was that even possible?

  * * *

  The Client: A Playing Dirty Rom-Com Copyright © 2017 Pamela DuMond ~ All rights reserved. On sale now.

  Sneak Peek of The Matchmaker

  THE MATCHMAKER

  * * *

  (A Playing Dirty Romantic Comedy)

  Description

  A sexy, standalone Rom-Com from USA Today bestselling author Pamela DuMond.

  * * *

  Aiden Black thought he’d left his past behind when he abandoned the church. He channeled his desire to help others by creating WGA -- Chicago’s premiere matchmaking agency. Aiden’s the expert at finding true love for his clients but he’s put his own needs on hold for a Very. Long. Time.

  * * *

  Violet Accardi doesn’t want to settle down and be a Mafia princess – she’s busy building her own sportswear company. Problem is her family’s a bit controlling: mom wants grand babies. Dad wants mom to be happy. Uncle Vincent’s trying to kidnap her because he promised Violet’s hand in marriage to the son of a rival mafia family.

  Aiden shuts down the first kidnapping attempt at the WGA holiday part by pretending to be Violet’s fiancé. He’s smoking hot, such a gentleman, their chemistry is through the roof, and Violet wonders –-

  * * *

  -- What could it hurt to pretend to be in love with a gorgeous, classy, romantic guy -- for just one night?

  * * *

  A man who respects her mind, her ambition, and treats her like a queen? But 'one' night’s going to grow a lot longer, and life for Violet and Aiden is going to become more complicated…

  Chapter 1

  * * *

  Aiden

  * * *

  “Bless me Father for I have sinned…”

  I swirled my bourbon in the short crystal glass, took a long sip, and glanced around the room. Platters of colorful food were lined up on two banquet tables, the aromas of sauces, freshly baked breads and spices wafting through the air. A ten-foot-tall Christmas tree sparkled in the corner. White Glove Matchmaking Agency’s holiday party at Positano Trattoria was in full swing. Clients, friends, and employees laughed, flirted, and enjoyed themselves. Everything looked perfect. And yet I could feel in my bones that something wasn’t right.

  This was the agency’s night to shine. With the exception of Valentine’s Day—this was our Super Bowl. I co-owned this business with my sister and her wife, but they were silent partners. Therefore, I chose the venue, the menu, and selected who was on the guest list. This year, at the urging of my therapist, I ceded some control, delegating the selection of the Christmas tree and the music to my assistant.

  If the stars aligned tonight—guests’ eyes would meet and linger, sparks would flicker, and a match would be made. Within a year I’d be attending an upscale wedding, paying the Agency’s bills with a bonus check from the client who had found true love due to our agency’s expertise or at the very least, because of our exclusive roster of brilliant, beautiful, and moneyed members.

  Which is why it jarred me when I spotted the petite, raven-haired beauty throwing a punch at a beefy red-faced guy who was twice her size. Her fist connected with his jaw but he barely flinched. He just stood there and blinked, appearing as dense as an over-cooked meatloaf.

  “Not very lady-like,” the muscle head said to the young woman. “Come with me.”

  She jammed her fists into the small of her waist. “No.” She strode away from him, her cocktail dress swirling. He followed, breathing meatloaf fumes down her neck.

  Damn.

  Physical fights were a thing of my past. I’d had my share of back alley scuffles when I was a kid before I’d entered the church. But fist fights didn’t happen at White Glove events. I slammed my crystal glass on the bar and pushed my way through the crowd toward the young woman.

  “Awesome party, Mr. Snack.” A guy slurred and raised his glass toward me.

  “Name’s Black.” I edged through the sea of partygoers.

  The bruiser clamped one beefy hand on the petite woman’s shoulder. Shivers raced up my arms. Should I call the cops?

  “Vaffanculo!” She cursed the bully, swiveled, and kneed him in the balls. His face turned green. He groaned and keeled over clutching his groin.

  Perhaps she was used to taking care of herself.

  A few well-coiffed heads swiveled in their direction. Who was in charge of this party?

  Right.

  That would be me.

  I reached for my phone to alert security when a woman whose boobs threatened to explode out of her low-cut dress seized my arm and slurred, “The appetizers are divine, Aiden.”

  “You’re welcome.” I shrugged out of her grasp and pushed through the crowd toward the fireball in the cocktail dress with the mean right hook. I racked my brain, trying to remember who she was. The guests attending tonight’s bash included employees, friends, clients, and their spouses and dates. The gorgeous girl looked familiar. Client? Friend of a client? Fuck. I needed to update details and photos in my phone. Have this information just one Siri question away.

  Beauty backed away from the beast, her velvet skirt swishing around her shapely calves. She shook her finger at him. “Don’t you ever, Salvatore—and I mean ever—try and kidnap me at a Christmas party again.”

  Kidnap? Maybe I should call the cops. Yeah, that never worked out all that well for me in the past. Bing Crosby crooned “White Christmas” from invisible speakers and I ran smack dab into a bottleneck of partiers. My assistant shoved a squat glass into my hand. “Merry Christmas Mr. Black!” Hailey knocked back her shot. “Your turn!”

  “Merry Christmas, Hailey!” I slugged it back, handed her the glass, and continued to elbow my way through the crush until I had a clear view of the beauty and the thug.

  “Signorina Accardi,” the man said, running his fingers over his front teeth, I assumed to make sure they were all there.

  I squinted. They weren’t.

  “Ms. Accardi,” she said, backing away from him.

  “Miss Accardi.” He stood and towered over her once again.

  He was huge, looked threatening, and I felt the blood pounding in my ears. Beat. Beat. Beat. Something primal and masculine surged inside me and my throat tightened with the need to save this girl. I was torn between throwing myself between them or just going old school and tackling this asshole.

  “Ms. Violet Accardi,” she said. “Not Signorina. Definitely not Miss.”

  “Your uncle instructed me to bring you to him.” The ogre snapped his fingers.

  She shook her head. “Uncle Vincent does not get to decide what I do or don’t do.”

  “You are to meet your betrothed. Don’t make problems.”

  She stamped her stiletto heel. “I am not meeting some random guy Uncle Vincent wants me to marry. Besides, do you even know where we are? Hello? White Glove Agency holiday party? I signed up for a matchmaking service. How do you know I haven’t met the right man already?”

  “I would know.” He smirked. “Everyone in your family would know if you’d met the man you were supposed to marry. Your mother would stand on top of her roof, bang the soup pot with a spoon and announce it to the entire neighborhood.”

  “Wrong. Mom stopped doing that when Raffi got engaged to Cheryl.”

  “So, fiery,” he said, fanning his face.

  “So, stupid,” the young woman said. “It rained the night before. Mom slipped, lost her footing, and slid down the fucking roof. Thank God she caught herself on the overhang before she fell off or I would have been attending her funeral instead of holding her hand after meniscus surgery.”

  He crossed himself.

  “She promised me, ‘Violet, if I don’t die on this stupid, cold, hard table with an ugly cap on my head that’s totally not my color, never again will I
climb onto the roof and bang a pot. I’ll just post the news on Facebook.”

  “‘That sounds like a plan, mama,’ I told her.”

  “Still fiery,” the thug said.

  I squirmed through the last of the people who had been sneaking glances at the pair, but for whatever reason hadn’t intervened. I caught my breath and stared at her.

  Violet was mid to late twenties, petite, and in great shape. My eyes ran up her body. She wore black high heels, her calves lithe, defined. She was short, a little curvy, her thick brunette hair twisted into a soft updo secured with a rhinestone pin, her lips ruby red.

  I strode to her side. “Violet. Sorry I’m late.” I took her hand, raised it to my mouth, and brushed my lips against the inside of her wrist. Her skin was soft, like the velvet on her dress, her perfume, sexy, intoxicating.

  “Right…” She squinted up at me.

  “Always your Aiden, my darling.”

  “You’re not just ‘late,’ Aiden.” One eyebrow arched toward her hairline suggestively. “You’re horribly late. Where have you been?”

  “Busy putting out fires. Making sure the drinks were flowing, the food was on track, and the party was perfect.”

  “Is it?” She stared at me, a hint of a smile tugging up the corners of her lips.

  Beauty was a risk-taker and frankly that was a turn on.

  “Now it is.” I stared down at her, my dick waking up, throbbing against the confines of my dress pants. Beat. Beat. Beat. “Now that I’m with you.”

  Salvatore glared at me. “Who are you?”

  “You’ve never met?” Violet asked. “Might I introduce you to my favorite man in all of Chicago.” She swiveled and leaned in toward me. She stood on her tiptoes, her skirt brushing against my legs, causing a chill to zip down my spine before it detoured into my cock and then my balls.