Savage Prince

by Meghan March

  When Keira hangs up, she smiles at me again. “So, what do we need to tackle first?”

  “Donors will begin dropping off auction pieces today. If it’s okay with you, I’ll just keep them all in my office so there’s no chance of them getting misplaced or damaged.” To myself, I add, especially because my brother won’t be popping in for any more visits for a bit. The same feeling of unease creeps through me, but I push it away.

  “Good idea. Keep a log of them as we receive them, and we’ll move everything upstairs once the final preparations for the room are in place.”

  “Got it.” I move down to the next item on my list. “Odile has asked me to confirm for the third time that we have the correct estimated number of attendees.”

  Keira winces. “I got an email over the weekend from the president that they have some heavy hitters who RSVP’d late, and they’re too big of potential donors to turn down.”

  “Okay, so we need to increase by a few?”

  “Try fifteen or twenty.”

  I can already imagine the head chef of Seven Sinners chasing me out of the kitchen with a butcher knife when I relay that information. “So, you want to talk to Odile about that this afternoon?”

  Keira laughs. “If you’re scared of her . . .”

  “It’s not her, it’s her close proximity to sharp objects that I’m afraid of.” I pause, reminding myself it’s my job, so I need to handle it. “But it’s not a problem. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to accommodate the changes.”

  The snort-laugh that follows is pretty much the only appropriate reaction. “Right. Totally. She’ll be thrilled. I’ll let Mary’s House know the extra attendees won’t be a problem, but they will see an increase in the final bill.”

  “Damn right they will,” I mumble, thinking of the gauntlet I’m going to run on their behalf as I make another note on my pad.

  “Oh, and I totally forgot to ask if you wanted to bring a date,” Keira says. “You know you can, even though it’s a work event.” My face must freeze in some unflattering expression, because she laughs. “Or not.”

  I force my lips into some semblance of a smile, and my brain stutters as I try to come up with something to say in response besides hell no. “I’m . . . uh . . . that’s really not necessary.”

  “You’re going to make me think I’m working you so hard you don’t have any time left for fun at all. What about Jeff Doon? He asked me if you were seeing anyone after that interview for the local network about the distillery tours.”

  “Jeff Doon? The guy from the chamber of commerce?” I ask like I don’t know who he is, mostly to buy myself some time to overcome my shock. I never would have expected him to show any interest in me, considering he was Keira’s high school boyfriend.

  “It’s not weird, I promise. He was so impressed with how you’ve spearheaded the tour project and wondered if you might want to grab a drink with him sometime, but apparently he felt the need to ask for my blessing first.”

  “I’m not sure what to say. I . . . I don’t really date, I guess.” It’s a true statement, especially because what happened Friday night was definitely not a date. But that’s not something I can ever tell my boss about. “Besides, I’m still fending off advances from the meat supplier because of the promises I made him to get the Voodoo Kings the cuts they wanted at the price we had to quote.”

  Keira giggles at that one. “If you ever go out with him, I promise I’ll award you hazard pay for it. That’s above and beyond the call of duty.”

  “I’ve held him off for this long with excuses, but for some reason, that hasn’t discouraged him nearly enough.”

  Keira’s head tilts to the left. “In the sage words of the wise Magnolia Maison, have you looked in the mirror lately, girl? Because you’re shit hot.”

  I choke out a laugh. “I think you’re talking about yourself.”

  She shrugs. “You need to get out. Do something. It’ll appease my guilt about you working too many hours as it stands . . . and I’m going to be asking you to take the reins again because my husband has decided we’re taking a vacation.”

  I sit up in the chair. “When?”

  “He wants to leave next week. I told him I’ll see how it goes with the event and—”

  “It’s fine. I can handle things. You know I can.” It’s a matter of pride for me to know that Keira can leave her company in my hands and disappear for a few days without worrying about it burning to the ground.

  “I’ll tell him I’m thinking about it. I can’t give in to him right away because then he’ll think he’s got the upper hand. It’s all about methods and tactics with that man.” Keira’s phone rings and she grabs it. “Keira Kilgore.”

  I can’t hear the voice coming through the other end, but it doesn’t take long before I can guess.

  “Don’t you dare. And we agreed I would use the Kilgore name as long as Seven Sinners is around.”

  Lachlan Mount, her husband.

  Does he know my brother was here? It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to assume that he knows exactly who I am and who Rafe is and what he does. Mount knows everything, after all.

  It’s just one more reason I need to watch my step and make sure Rafe’s job doesn’t spill over into mine.

  “Yes, I’m still thinking about the vacation. No, you can’t hurry my decision.”

  I look at the ceiling, not wanting to feel like I’m intruding on Keira’s conversation. Thankfully, there’s a knock at the door, and I pop out of my chair to answer it.

  Breakfast.

  “Breakfast is here, which I’m sure you already know, so let me call you back after this meeting. Yes. I love you too.”

  Keira hangs up as I return to her desk with the bags containing our food.

  “Men. I swear.” She rolls her eyes, but I know she finds comfort in his overprotective nature.

  Either way, I can’t imagine having a man look at me the way Mount looks at her. Like he’d kill anyone who made her frown. And, honestly, he might.

  “You should go on the vacation. I can handle things.”

  With a smile, she digs into her grits. “I know you can, Temperance. That was never in doubt.”

  “Then why the cat-and-mouse game with him?”

  Her smile turns sly. “Because that’s how you have to handle a man like Lachlan Mount. Otherwise, he’d bulldoze right over me. Besides, my spitfire ways keep him on his toes.”

  Her words rattle around in my brain as we eat and discuss the remaining items on the never-ending to-do list, and I keep myself from thinking about my stranger.

  He had that same demeanor that screamed I take what I want. He’d be a bulldozer. And I’d like it.

  Just as quickly, I push the thought out of my brain and bury it six feet under.

  I’m never going to see him again, so it doesn’t matter.

  Chapter 6

  Temperance

  Guests are due to start arriving in thirty minutes and my office looks like it’s been ransacked. Crates and packing material are scattered everywhere, thanks to all the auction pieces that have been unwrapped and transported upstairs.

  Well, not quite all.

  I roll my eyes as I glance at the open crate labeled Extremely Fragile—Break It and You Die. Gregor Standish, the artist who donated it, has been a pain in my ass since the day he decided to get involved with this Mary’s House event. As grateful as I am that we’re going to raise even more money because of his contribution, part of me wishes he would just come pick up the monstrosity. It looks like a cactus made of blobs of yellow wax left out in the sun too long.

  New Orleans Rising, he calls it.

  It looks like New Orleans melting, if you ask me, but then again, what do I know? The kind of art I like isn’t what inspires people to gather in groups and talk about how it makes them question their existential crisis, not that I know what that means either.

  My kind of art is raw and obvious. The kind that lacks subtlety and punches you in the gut wh
en you see it. Maybe that’s because I wasn’t raised sophisticated enough to be the existential-crisis type.

  My gaze shifts to the sculpture in the opposite corner of my office—one that won’t be in the auction because no one would ever ask its artist to donate. The fleur de lis stands five feet tall, made of welded reclaimed metal objects.

  Junk art. At least, that’s what my daddy used to call my creations. I can still hear his voice telling me that we’d be better off getting the scrap money from the metal than letting me play with it.

  Just one more reason it’s hard to be sad he’s gone.

  I turn away from the crate and the sculpture and reach for the dress hanging on the back of my door. It wouldn’t do for the COO of Seven Sinners to arrive in a blouse covered in smudges of dust and dirt from all the manual labor I put in this afternoon ensuring every piece was perfectly arranged upstairs.

  But, of course, I’m not allowed to move New Orleans Rising until the artist, Gregor Standish, arrives tonight, and he’s late.

  Putting Mr. Standish’s problem with punctuality out of my mind for two minutes, I kick off my shoes, adjust my thigh-highs, and pull the little black dress, flattering yet completely professional, off the hanger.

  I step into it and reach around for the zipper. It’s about three inches above my ass when my arm cramps and someone knocks on my office door, the door I didn’t remember to lock before stripping to change.

  “Shit,” I whisper, hopping on one foot and attempting to contort my arm so I can reach the zipper I’ve lost my grip on. “Hold on, please.”

  The door opens and a man sticks his head inside.

  “Oh. So sorry. I didn’t mean to catch you in a state of undress.”

  It’s Ronnie Lyle, another donor for the fundraiser’s auction, who gave me the creeps earlier this week when he dropped off his nude painting. Not that I have anything against nudes, just this guy.

  “If you could please step out for a moment, Mr. Lyle, I’ll be right with you.”

  His half smile widens, and my creep-o-meter climbs. “Or I could give you a hand with that zipper you seem not to be able to reach. After all, that’s what a gentleman would do.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  “I’m sure you do, but everyone could use an extra hand now and again.” He steps inside my office and closes the door.

  Gritting my teeth to keep my placid expression in place, I have to force myself not to tell him to open the door right this second. If he tries to make a move, I’ll break his fingers.

  “I appreciate your gentlemanly offer.” I almost choke on the words, but he doesn’t seem to hear anything after I give him my back. Probably hasn’t seen a woman in a state of undress in the last decade. Then again, he flaunts his money and power, so I’m probably wrong. Blech.

  His shoes scuff on the concrete floor as he strides closer, and I tense with every scrape.

  “You’re a very beautiful woman, Ms. Ransom,” he says, and I do my best not to cringe.

  His breath on my ear gives me the urge to bolt, but I keep my stocking-covered feet firmly in place. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that he creeps me out so much. That would give him too much power, and I refuse to allow it.

  The zipper begins to inch its way upward, but he stops around the area where the band of my bra would be.

  “You know, I have a limo coming to pick me up after the event, and I’d be happy to take you—”

  I whip around, yanking the zipper out of his hold and reaching behind my back to tug it up the last couple of inches.

  “I got it from here. Thanks so much. Feel free to show yourself upstairs. The bar should be serving shortly.”

  My office door opens again.

  “Temperance, did you need help . . .” Keira’s voice trails off when she realizes I’m not alone—and not wearing any shoes. “Mr. Lyle, I didn’t realize you had business with Ms. Ransom. Is there something I can help you with?”

  Lyle steps back and clears his throat. “No. Not at all. I was just telling Ms. Ransom what a wonderful job y’all have done so far, and how excited I am to see what kind of money Mary’s House is able to raise to help those poor women.”

  The lies roll off his tongue so easily, making my creep-o-meter ding again like someone hit the jackpot.

  “I’m sure it will be absolutely fabulous,” Keira says, and I can’t help but wonder if she senses my unease. “Would you like to accompany me up to the restaurant so you can personally taste the Phoenix label I know you’ve been wanting to purchase? I think Ms. Ransom would like some privacy so she can finish getting ready.”

  Lyle turns back to me and his gaze traces my body. “Of course. I’ll see you soon, Ms. Ransom.”

  Chapter 7

  Temperance

  I’m working the crowd with a smile as guests partake in Seven Sinners’ best whiskey, but inside I’m having a minor meltdown. Ronnie Lyle keeps trying to corner me, Gregor Standish hasn’t shown up yet, and the auction starts in ten minutes.

  Leaving the crowded restaurant, I slip into the alcove near the bathroom where the noise of conversations is muted to a dull roar and pull out my cell phone to call him again.

  It goes straight to voice mail.

  “Where the hell is he?”

  Spinning around, I search the room for Keira. I need to update her on the situation so we can make a decision.

  I catch a glimpse of a face in the crowd that freezes my feet to the floor while it sends a pulse of heat through my body.

  I know that mouth. That jawline. Those broad-set shoulders.

  No. Impossible. My mind is playing tricks.

  There’s no way the guy from the club can be here.

  I blink twice, staring at him—until he turns and his icy blue eyes lock with mine. Shock and recognition flit across his face.

  No. This can’t be happening. Goose bumps pebble along my skin as he surveys me, his gaze traveling down my body before returning to my face. One corner of his mouth lifts, and an expression that looks a lot like satisfaction settles on his features.

  Is this a setup? Is he going to approach me? What the hell am I going to say?

  My phone buzzes, and I’m torn out of the staring contest I’ve been unwittingly dragged into by the stranger who I let fuck me within the first fifteen minutes of meeting him.

  Classy, Temperance.

  I look down at the phone and breathe a sigh of relief when I read Gregor’s number. “Mr. Standish?”

  The response is garbled and impossible to decipher.

  “Sir?”

  Something that sounds like office comes through my phone, and I hope like hell he’s telling me he’s down in my office. I step forward, my gaze automatically cutting back to where the stranger was standing, but he’s gone.

  Was he really here? Or have I moved on to full-blown hallucinations as a result of the orgasms he gave me?

  I move through the crowd toward the stairwell, trying to speak with Mr. Standish, but his phone is cutting out in the middle of every other word. Cell service is crap in the basement where my office is, so I hope that means he’s down there.

  The call drops as soon as I reach the middle of the crowd.

  Hell.

  I excuse myself at least a dozen times as I make my way to the stairway. I push open the door and grab the rail to race down the first flight of stairs. When I reach the landing, the stairwell door behind me slams shut.

  “Running off again?” There’s no mistaking that deep, rasping voice.

  “You,” I whisper.

  His mobile mouth quirks into something that would barely qualify as a smile, and I absorb the impact of his face without a mask. Not classically handsome, but rugged and raw in the same way that I like my art. His masculine features lack subtlety, and they’re a punch to the gut.

  “Me, indeed.” He takes the stairs almost lazily, stopping when he’s standing before me on the landing.

  My nipples approve of his tall form and perf
ectly tailored suit, but my brain still can’t comprehend what’s happening. “What are you doing here?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I have no idea, but I’m—”

  “Running again, like I said. Seems to be a talent of yours.”

  “No. I have business to take care of.”

  “Maybe I do too.”

  Those blue eyes heat, and the expression on his face says he’d just as soon fuck me up against the concrete stairwell as do anything businesslike.

  “You can’t be here. You have to leave.”

  “Says who? Maybe I was invited, Ms. Smith.”

  I’ve been over the guest list dozens of times, but not since Keira added the late RSVPs. Can he be one of them? What are the odds?

  But hearing the name he called me that night stops me short. “I tried to tell you I wasn’t her.”

  He steps closer, crowding me as he presses a palm to the wall beside my head. “I didn’t give a damn who you were after watching you watch them.”

  “I wasn’t—” I say quickly, trying to deny it.

  “Don’t waste your breath lying about it. It was sexy as fuck. Just like you.”

  Heat zings from my nipples to my clit at the hunger in his gaze. I’ve convinced myself it was just the club itself and watching the couple that made our encounter so explosive, but now I know I’m wrong.

  It’s him. This man wears raw power and confidence easier than he does his suit jacket.

  “I can’t do this here. Not now.”

  “Do what? We’re just talking.”

  “I’m at work.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “What about later?”

  It’s a struggle to fight my body’s reaction. To fight the urge to reach out and press my palm to his hard chest. To remember why I have to hurry the rest of the way down these stairs.

  “I can’t. That night . . . it was a mistake.”

  He presses his other palm to the wall, caging me between his strong arms. But instead of feeling trapped, my body is staging a mutiny and urging me to wrap myself around him.