“I’m just not a dick-for-the-sake-of-dick girl, I don’t think.” I bury my head in the cool pillow and breathe in clean linen. “I trust myself to know when and who.”
I’ve never been ashamed of my virginity; I’ve never avoided discussing it if people asked either. Both my parents taught me to know what I believe, to articulate it first to myself and then to others. If it’s any of their damn business, that is, which in most cases, it’s not. But nothing is off-limits between me and these two girls.
“You’re in no hurry,” Kimba says from down below, “because you haven’t had it. Once you do . . . whew, child. Hard to go without.”
I’ve never liked the idea of my body making decisions my head and my heart don’t cosign. I’ve seen both of my friends crying, depressed, or dejected after some man disappointed them. No dick is worth that.
“Hmm-mm,” Kimba breaks the sound into two syllables and bites her bottom lip. “One taste, one good taste, and you’ll be hooked.”
“God, there’s nothing like really good sex,” Viv groans, closing her eyes and tipping her head back. “Even going a week without Stephen . . . ugh.”
“A week?” Kimba scoffs. “Try months. I’m in a drought, but I’ve read the weather forecast, and it’s raining in Amsterdam, honey!”
The three of us laugh and shift into planning for tomorrow. We have a week in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and we want to take full advantage of it.
“So I know we’re all a little jetlagged,” Viv says, her voice drowsy, “but will you be refreshed enough after a power nap to go out?”
“Sure.” I yawn and tuck my arm under the pillow. “A few winks and we’ll be ready.”
“Good,” Viv mumbles. “Aya says we’ll start off nice and slow tonight. Just hit a brown bar, eat, drink. Maybe you’ll pick up something nice and blond to bring home, Kimba.”
“Fingers crossed,” Kimba says. “Legs open.”
“Oh, my god,” Viv groans. “Hussy. We need to establish mating rules. You better not be fucking some huge Norseman in the bunk below.”
Our drowsy chuckles intermingle and fade.
“We’ll work out a system,” Viv says. “Well for you, Kimba. Ms. I’m Waiting For Mr. Right Dick over there won’t need a system.”
I’m used to the teasing, but is it so wrong to wait until it feels right? To wait until you feel like you’ve met someone you want to share your body with?
My mind wanders back to my Sunrise Dance. The whole ceremony leads to that point when the spirit of Changing Woman supposedly inhabits you, even just briefly. For a slice of time, you take something holy into your body, and it changes you forever. I’m not saying sex will be holy, but the first time I share my body with someone, it will be special.
And I think it might change me forever.
7
Maxim
I need new friends.
The three with me tonight don’t make the best companions.
“Fuck,” Hans mutters into his beer. “I’d do all four of those at the bar.”
“Oh, yeah.” David Barnes, whom I know best of the trio, agrees, assessing the four women in question. “At the same time, if they’d all have me.”
“I think you overestimate your stamina,” I tell him, sipping my beer. “And your appeal.”
David snorts and sends me a sidelong glance tinted with the good-natured humor I’ve appreciated so much over the last four years. We both just successfully defended our dissertations, and for the first time in what seems like forever, I’m not a student.
“You have to admit, those four are lookers,” Oliver says. As British as they come, before starting his master’s at Utrecht University where we all met, he attended Oxford. He was Eton educated before that. Parents of the peerage. There’s a seat in the House of Lords waiting for him one day. Not that he’s interested in politics, but his parents hold the purse strings, and thus, sway over his life.
Not me. I’ve cut all the familial strings. Apron strings. Purse strings. Heart strings. I’ve only seen my mother and brother a handful of times in the last four years, and my father not at all. I took for granted what they meant to me—the place they occupied in my life, even though I saw them infrequently.
“The blonde is hot,” Oliver says. “Wonder if she’s actually Dutch? Can you believe I’ve been in this country four years and have never fucked someone actually from the Netherlands? I have to before we leave next week.”
Next week.
It took some finagling, several glowing letters of recommendation, and a ton of personal training to physically prepare, but I’m leaving next week to winter over in Antarctica. I secured a spot on one of the few wintertime research expeditions. Not what most guys my age are clamoring to do when they finally finish school, but Cades have never been most guys. In this, I’m no exception.
“The black girl is gorgeous,” David says, smacking his lips like he’s famished. “She stood up a minute ago, and her ass is like an eighth wonder. Dibs on that one.”
We all chuckle, and Hans clinks his beer glass to David’s.
“What say you, Kingsman?” Hans asks, his Dutch lilt more pronounced with each round of drinks. “Which one are you trying your luck with?”
Sometimes, I still don’t answer right away when someone calls me by “Kingsman.” It’s not a lie. It’s at least my middle name. All the men of my family share that middle name. Somehow, one of my ancestors a few generations ago got it in his head that we descended from Welsh princes. They immigrated to America as miners, and gravitated to the west with the gold rush. They got lucky. Struck gold in California and then lucky again with “black gold” later in Texas. Texas kings, they started calling themselves, and the middle name was born.
“I’m looking for all the king’s men,” my mother would yell, her playful voice carrying across the shiny hardwood floors and up the stairs of our Dallas ranch when she chased Owen and me for hide and seek.
A familiar ache settles in my chest. I haven’t seen my mother in a year. David invited me to spend Christmas with his family, and the summer before I stayed here in Holland for studies. I’m in a strange land, a sojourner with no home and no family. At least, not one that claims me any longer. That house where my brother and I played is no longer mine. Hell, even the name isn’t. No one has called me by Cade in four years. I’ve made a completely separate life for myself in another world, and if the Atlantic didn’t separate me from Warren Cade, our last fight did.
With my back and elbows propped against the lip of the bar, I take a draw of my beer, promising myself Maker’s Mark on the next round.
“For God’s sake, Kingsman.” Oliver laughs. “Stop counting the hairs on your arse and choose your pretty poison. Which girl will it be?”
“I haven’t even looked,” I admit.
“Aw, come on,” Hans says. “We need you to choose the one you want because we all know you’ll have your pick. They all go for you. Surprised that dick of yours hasn’t fallen off.”
Not exactly accurate, but the Dutch women have been good to me. I turn on my stool so I can see to the other side of the bar. The four women seem to be having a great time without us, laughing, clinking glasses and yelling proost every few seconds. I see the blonde, David’s pretty brown-skinned girl, and a cute brunette, but it’s the one with hair so dark it’s black under the lights that snares my attention. A dramatic slant of cheekbone, thick black brows, straight, bold nose. Her face is a collection of features that dare you to look away.
There’s something . . . familiar about her. I don’t know her because I’d never forget a woman who looked like this. But it’s more than how familiar she looks to me—it’s the way I feel when I look at her that is familiar. I scour my memory for anything that would tease it out, and then she laughs at something one of her friends says. She tips her head back so that river of hair falls behind her, and her laughter—warm, rich, throaty—grabs me from across the room.
And I know.
Hell, I’d know her anywhere.
She’s older. Four years older to be exact, but she looks much the same, and her laugh captivates me exactly as it did in that holding cell. For the first time in years, the thrill of the chase rears. The promise of catching drags me on my feet.
“The one with the black hair,” I say, not waiting for my friends, but taking the first step toward an old temptation that is no longer off-limits. “That one’s mine.”
8
Lennix
“Oh, dear Lord.” Kimba slides the words from the corner of her mouth, her stare fixed over my shoulder. “Don’t look now, ladies, but there is a fine pack of wolves headed right for us.”
I don’t even bother looking up from my glass.
“What did you say this drink is called, Aya?” I ask, inspecting the amber liquid.
“It’s jenever,” Vivienne’s friend answers, her blue eyes bright and her skin flushed, pale hair falling around her pretty face. “Like Dutch gin.”
I take a cautious sip and grimace. Never a fan of gin, I wonder if I should have just ordered one of the tap beers.
“It’s good, no?” Aya asks, her smile hopeful.
No.
I don’t say it because I don’t want to insult her or any aspect of her country, which really is beautiful, within an hour of meeting each other.
“I could get used to it,” I settle on saying aloud.
“Seriously,” Kimba squeals and turns to face me, her eyes wide with excitement. “These hot guys are coming over.”
“No one’s that hot. Geez.” I laugh and take another sip of my drink, which tastes better the second time around. I lift my glass for another sip, but a dark rumble of a voice freezes my glass halfway to my mouth.
“Lennix Moon Hunter.”
I glance up and literally almost drop my glass. Like, I have to catch it with my other hand.
If you’d asked who was the very last person I’d expect to see in Amsterdam, or ever again, my answer would have been . . .
“Maxim?” My voice squeaks like it needs WD-40.
“So you do remember,” he says, his smile so wide and white I’m dazzled.
“Of-of course. How could I forget?”
To my seventeen-year-old eyes, he was handsome. The most handsome guy I’d ever seen, but now? Oh, my damn.
Now, he’s devastating. Bigger. Like everything was carefully tended over the last four years—watered and given the perfect amount of sunlight. His dark hair is slightly longer. Dark, but with those russet strands woven throughout. His face is leaner, the bones and angles modeled into something even more bold than before. Those precious metal eyes gleam green in the dim light of the bar. And his body? Before he was lean and almost rangy, but no more. His biceps stretch a little at the sleeves, and his shirt pulls taut over the muscles of his chest. He’s filled out considerably in the last four years.
Beyond his physical appearance, there’s something else different about him. Something beneath the skin. A deeper confidence? Self-assurance? I can’t put my finger on it, but several women around us are watching him like they want to put their fingers all over it.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend, Lennix?” Vivienne asks, pointed and curious.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. Vivienne, Aya, and Kimba, this is Maxim . . .” I falter and laugh up at him. “I just realized I never knew your last name.”
“Oh, Kingsman,” he says, spreading his smile to my friends. “Maxim Kingsman. Nice to meet you, ladies. And these guys are David, Oliver, and Hans.”
We all exchange smiles and pleasantries and move our newly formed party to a large booth at the back. The brown bar lives up to its name. The paneling, the floors, the bar—all brown. The walls are studded with stained glass, and kitschy signs introduce lightheartedness into the somber décor. It’s warm and perfect for hanging out and laughing with a group of friends. Or in our case, a horny group of people who barely know each other. I’m too focused on the man I’ve dreamed about since I was seventeen sitting at a table with me in Amsterdam, of all places, to pay the others much mind.
“What are the odds, huh?” Maxim asks after we’re all settled and have fresh drinks and bar food.
“I know, right? I can’t believe you’re here.” That sounds so wistful, like I’ve been some damsel waiting for her prince. “I mean, that we’d run into each other like this.”
“Yeah, crazy. We have a lot of catching up to do.”
“Well,” I say, lowering my eyes to the drink in front of me, “I wish I could say our efforts that day paid off. Not sure if you heard—Cade Energy won and built that pipeline.”
“I’m sorry, Lennix.” When I glance up, the sad resignation in his eyes feels so sincere, it makes me smile despite the pang in my chest every time I remember those bulldozers scraping up and destroying our land.
“It’s okay. Not your fault. It would have taken a miracle, and they’re hard to come by with the government, corrupt politicians, and that bastard Warren Cade against you.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” He clears his throat and shifts in his seat, a frown bending his thick brows.
“Hey, sorry. I don’t mean to sound cynical, but it was just tough. We’ve been lied to and tricked so much. I shouldn’t be surprised, but it still hurts.”
“I understand.” He nods, looking down into his glass, too. “Well, I guess I can’t ever really understand, but I sympathize and I hate that it has been what it has and that it keeps being that so much.”
It was said perfectly, his sincere wish that things had been and could be different. It wasn’t condescending or defensive or any of the things people say when they aren’t sure what to do about pain they didn’t cause, but feel connected to.
“Yeah, it all sucks, but what are you gonna do, right?”
“What are you going to do?” he asks. “What have you been doing?”
We grin at each other like we’ve won the lottery and are splitting the ticket right down the middle. What fortune. What luck to have found each other again. This time, there’s no cell full of protestors. No watchful Mr. Paul. No prostitute.
“Oh my God, remember the lady who offered to blow you with Pop Rocks?” I ask, suddenly transported back to that strange night. Every second burned itself in my memory.
“Jesus.” His low-rumbled laughter coats my shoulders and arms with goosebumps. “That was awkward. I was hoping you’d forgotten that part.”
“I never forgot any part,” I say before I can stop myself.
Like we’re tied together, our smiles dissolve simultaneously, and something intense swallows the humor in his eyes. The air turns humid, heavy with possibility. There was energy between us years ago, but it was all potential energy. My age, the circumstances—things could only go so far. This energy, though—it’s kinetic. Already in motion. Now things between us can go as far as we want.
“What are you two crazy kids up to in a corner by yourselves?” Vivienne asks.
“We’re just catching up,” I offer with a small smile.
“Now how did you say you know each other?” Oliver asks.
“I was part of a protest Lennix’s tribe organized when a company planned to lay a gas pipeline,” Maxim answers.
“What?” Kimba interjects, tearing her attention away from David, who is obviously into her. “When was this?”
“My senior year in high school.”
Maxim and I share a loaded look at my words. I’m not in high school anymore. The knowledge sits between us unspoken, but I know for sure he feels it, too. The tight space brims with it.
“Lennix was incredible,” Maxim says for everyone to hear, but his eyes are for only me. “I couldn’t believe she was just seventeen. She had that crowd eating from her hand.”
“You spoke?” Aya asks, her voice laced with disbelief. “I hate public speaking.”
“She was brilliant.” Maxim chuckles and takes a quick sip of the whiskey he ordered. “And then we got arrested.”
“Arrested?” Hans asks, delighted incredulity all over his distinctly Dutch features.
“Yup.” I nod and laugh. “We got tossed in the slammer, and you got bitten by a dog.”
“You got sprayed with tear gas.”
“You got propositioned.”
“By the wrong girl,” Maxim say softly, his eyes resting on me like a flame set to low. “But you were too young for me anyway. Then.”
All the banked heat and want that we couldn’t acknowledge before is unabashed in the look he gives me now. A silence falls on the table, punctuated with a few cleared throats and a giggle or two. We don’t care. We don’t look away. I have no frame of reference for the fluttering in my belly. For the tightening of my nipples. For the way I’m wet between my legs just because his thigh keeps brushing mine under the table. Just because he smells clean and masculine and fresh. Just because this close, I see the dark starburst at the center of his clear green eyes.
“Yes, well,” Vivienne says, tossing back her drink and gulping it all down at once, “it’s getting late, and we’re all tuckered out from jet lag. What do you say we call it a night, ladies?”
David and Kimba exchange numbers while everyone settles their tab and prepares to leave.
“Are you tired?” Maxim asks.
“No,” I answer quickly. “Not at all.”
“Where are you staying?”
I give him the name of the hostel, and he nods.
“I know where that is. I could walk you back if you want to stay and talk some more?”
“Hey, I’m gonna stay for a bit,” I tell my friends.
“What?” Vivienne and Kimba ask in unison, the same cautious look on both their faces.
“We just want to catch up some more,” Maxim offers, his voice pitched to I promise I’m harmless and won’t hurt your friend. “I’ll walk her home as soon as we’re done.”
The Kingmaker Page 6
