by Sienna Blake
The man who had been in the back was blonde, his sandy hair tied back neatly at his neck. He has the kind of cheeky grin that could melt the steeliest female heart like butter on a summer’s day, and the kind of cocky saunter that was sure to be followed by a wave of panty-dropping. He must be a rock star or something. Or an actor. The VIP?
The one that had been in the passenger seat is the darkest skinned, a lovely tanned latte colour. Dark hair, dark eyes and chiseled cheekbones completing his exotic look. His eyes are darting all over the place as if he’s expecting an ambush. He’s a bodyguard. I recognise that alertness and stance anywhere from years of dealing with VIPs and their entourage.
Which means the man driving, now with his back to me, must also be a bodyguard. The man in question drops the key into the valet’s hand and turns on his heel towards me.
The instant his eyes land on mine through the glass a shiver travels up my spine. He has dark hair like spilled ink, long enough to look windswept, and a stare intense enough to light kindling on fire. I can’t see his eye colour from here, but I guess it will be just as dark, just as intense.
His lip quirks up at the corner before he licks his lower lip. Heat sears through my body, causing wet heat to pool between my legs.
Holy hell. Do me now, indeed.
Wait… What. In. The. Hell?
I do not have reactions to men like this. I’m not a saint. But I never react like a horny schoolgirl.
Until now, apparently.
The bellhop at the front door stands back to hold the door open for them. They walk in, looking like a delicious wall of muscle wrapped in expensive tailored suits. I swear I hear the entire foyer of women collectively swoon.
The three of them probably have women throwing themselves at them all the time. I stiffen and remind myself of my new position as acting hotel manager.
My eyes ping pong between the three of them before coming back to the driver, always the driver. When they all come to stand before the reception desk, Marie lets out an audible sigh.
Now that the driver is close enough, I can see my initial thoughts about his eyes are wrong. They’re not black. They’re this incredibly dark blue, the same colour as the Mediterranean, rimmed with thick dark lashes that any woman would be envious of.
I’m staring. Shit. I tear my eyes away and force a smile to my face, specifically avoiding the heated gaze of the driver. Looking at him makes me feel like I’m staring at the sun. Too bright. Too glaring. Too much.
“Welcome to the Merrion,” I direct my comment to the three of them but mostly to the blonde one, the VIP, even as I sense the driver’s eyes on me.
The blonde’s grin widens, and I sense him eyeing me up and down behind his shades, making my skin prickle with awareness. Shades inside. He must be famous.
“We’re here to check in,” the passenger says with a hint of an Eastern Europe accent. His voice is rough and hard, adding to the sensations diving around my body like crazy. What are these three men doing to me?
“Of course,” I manage to say without stuttering. “Under what name, please?”
“We’re in the Royal Suite,” the driver says, speaking for the first time. His voice is rich, powerful, his British accent is refined, subtle and sexy as hell.
I can’t help but turn towards him. Everything in me—my feet, my eyes, my focus—is all drawn to him.
The Royal Suite.
The blonde from the backseat might be the VIP, but this man—the driver—holds my attention. He has this raw magnetic intensity. I feel a sharp tug towards him in my lower belly. Thank God the desk is between us, otherwise I might have actually stumbled forward towards him.
“Under the name…James Bond,” the blonde interjects. The “name” is obviously fake.
And obviously a joke between the them, because the driver turns towards the blonde with a raised eyebrow. “Seriously?”
The blonde grins. I feel like I’m missing something. I distract myself by pulling up the official reservation listing. There it is…
James Bond.
I tug a set of keycards and hand them over to the blonde. “Your room keys…Mr Bond,” I say with a smile.
He laughs. “Please,” he says, “just call me James.”
His finger brushes mine as he takes the keycards from me, sending a light thrill up my arm. For some reason the driver tenses beside him.
“Let me get one of the staff to show you to your suite,” I say.
“I’d prefer if you show us up,” the blonde, Mr Bond, says with a wink.
“That won’t be necessary,” the driver interjects with a firm growl, startling me.
I would have loved to have spent more time with them, all of them. Especially the driver. To show them through this resort I’m so proud of, pointing out the best features. A thread of rejection weaves through me. I quickly brush it off and clear my throat, avoiding the heavy stare of the driver, who has obviously taken a sudden dislike to me.
I smile, hoping it doesn’t look forced. “Enjoy your stay, gentlemen.”
Grayson
The second I lock eyes with the woman behind the reception, a crackle of electricity runs through me.
She is stunning.
Absolutely stunning.
Chocolate waves that frame her sweetheart face, large dark eyes, bee-stung lips a natural red colour. Curves for days from what I can see behind the counter.
I’ve seen a lot of beautiful women in my life. Slept with my fair share. I learned very quickly how to judge character. Unfortunately, most beautiful women think that looks are the only thing that matter. They spend most of their time developing it “for the gram”, as opposed to developing their minds or their hearts.
But her…
There’s something more going on behind those eyes. Something intriguing.
My two bodyguards and I make our way to her desk. She takes in the three of us, in what appears to be a careful assessment.
Her name badge reads Sophia. A beautiful name. Sophisticated. Classy. It suits her.
There’s a girl next to Sophia who is quietly losing her mind, but I ignore her. All three of us are focused on the beautiful Sophia.
Sophia’s not wearing much makeup, just a touch around her eyes making them even darker, two dark pools I could drown in. Tousle her hair a little more and she could have rolled right out of my bed.
I flinch at that thought. My cock stiffening.
“Let me get one of the staff to show you to your suite,” she says. Her voice is like warm honey, trickling down my back.
“I’d prefer if you show us up.” I catch Chase winking at her.
Winking at her.
He’s flirting with her.
“That won’t be necessary,” I growl, a wave of something hot stabbing through me. I recognise it a split second later as…jealousy.
Me, jealous? Of Chase? That’s fucking impossible.
My words, or perhaps my tone, startles Sophia. She turns her wide dark eyes towards me. Our gazes lock. That strange electrical current passes through me again. I know I’m glaring at her but I can’t stop myself. What happened to the usually diplomatic, charming me?
I want her.
I’m angry that I want her.
Because I don’t just want her, I’m feeling almost…possessive over her. A mere stranger. I don’t get possessive.
I remind myself that this is supposed to be…a business trip of sorts. A trip with a purpose.
The small dossier outlining the eligibility of the princess of Monaco is burning a hole in the bottom of my suitcase. Along with official correspondence between myself and her father.
My marriage to the proper, sophisticated princess will restore order to my floundering royal family. It’ll take the spotlight off the lines of scandals my younger brother has left in his wake, restore respect for us among the other European royalty. And I will be able to produce a royal heir.
I don’t want to go through with the marriage but it’ll smooth
over the latest blow to the royal family’s reputation. I wince internally at the reminder of my younger brother’s latest international scandal involving hookers and a bag of cocaine large enough to kill a horse.
If it had been any other trip, I’d be tempted to sample a little…local pleasure. But not this time. Not anymore.
And not with Sophia.
After we’re escorted—not by the temptress—to the Royal Suite, I decide that the first thing in order is a hard, sweaty gym session.
Alone.
Sophia
“That won’t be necessary.”
The dark-haired bodyguard’s words echo in my mind, the glare he gave me burned into my brain, rejection looping a knot in my belly. Why do I even care? It’s not like I wanted to spend my time around him, showing him (and the VIP) the suite. It was my job.
Liar.
He made it seem like I was toxic, or I smelled or something. I do not smell.
I brush the rejection aside, letting out a sigh. It was probably a good idea I hadn’t been forced to spend any more time around him. Or the two others of their little group. They were too damn good-looking, all of them, for their own good.
The elevator doors open, and I stiffen. That very bodyguard in question is standing there. I’m standing alone in the centre of the elevator.
His eyes widen when they lock on mine.
Dear. Lord.
If I thought he was attractive before, he is devastating now in a fitted workout shirt, sleeveless, showing off a set of huge muscular arms and round, defined shoulders. The dark shirt strains across his firm pecs. Sweat beads on his lightly tanned skin making him glow, obviously having just done a gym workout.
I want to lick him.
All over.
From head to toe. And then back.
I fight to keep this dirty thought from showing on my face. I lift my chin and force a smile. “Are you getting in, sir?”
As if he remembers himself, he flinches before stepping into the lift. I gulp back a breath as I make room for him. The air in the elevator feels like it’s been sucked out, the feeling intensifying as the doors close.
For a moment, we just stand there. He hasn’t pressed any buttons. I assume he’s headed back to the Royal Suite, though. I reach for the button just as he does.
His arm brushes mine, our fingers tangling. A spark shoots up my arm. He snatches his hand back and glares at me as if that zap was my fault. It was probably a build-up of electricity in him from his workout. Nothing to do with me. Why is he glaring at me as if I’ve hurt him on purpose?
Neither of us says anything. I tear my eyes away and stare forward as the lift moves towards his level. I can sense he’s still staring at me, though. Dear God, can this elevator go any slower?
Level 3…
4…
5…
I just have to survive 3 more levels.
The lift stops with a jolt and the lights dim to emergency level.
Oh, shit.
“What was that?” he asks, his deep voice managing to find cracks in my armor, trickling down like lava through fissures.
Before I can speak a crackle comes on over the elevator speaker. “Hello? Is anyone in there?”
It’s the elevator security company. They’ve already been alerted through the system that there’s a fault.
I step forward and press the intercom button. “Yes, hello. This is Sophia Lauren, Acting Hotel Manager. I’m in here with one other guest.”
“It looks to be some kind of power fault. Sit tight. We’ll be there soon to get you both out.” The speaker crackles and cuts out, telling me I’ve been left alone.
With him.
“Soon” cannot come soon enough.
I become acutely aware that the bodyguard’s stare is on me. Again. It’s heavy and makes the air around me feel hot and sticky.
I turn towards him and force a smile. “So…I guess we’re stuck here together.”
He says nothing. He has his arms crossed over his chest, which makes his biceps look so damn biteable.
“Probably not how you thought you’d spend your first day in Monaco.” I wince internally at how naff I sound. Ugh, it’s all his fault. Him with his heavy eyes and muscular body that seems to exude sex.
My gaze drifts to his arms, following a drop of sweat as it rolls over those shoulders and down the bulges of his bicep like I want my fingers to do. He runs his hand through his hair, causing his shirt to lift up. I catch a glimpse of his tanned flat stomach and a trail of dark hair that disappears into his shorts like I want my tongue to—
Before I know it, I’m leaning into the far wall away from him, pressing against it as if I could push my body through the steel and get away. Fuck me. I should not be having these kinds of thoughts about a hotel guest.
“Do I smell?” he asks.
“What? No.”
“Then why are you shying away from me as if I do?”
Because being near you does something to me.
“I’m not.” I straighten, brushing down my suit jacket.
He eyes me for the longest moment, probably wondering whether to call me out on my lie. His eyes flick to the intercom near my head. “Do you know how long they’ll be?”
I shake my head. “Hopefully no longer than an hour or two.”
He lets out a sigh. A silence falls over us again. I don’t like it. My body is in this state of heightened awareness and I’m conscious of his breathing, of the bead of sweat trailing down his neck and into the front of his shirt, how his mouth purses when he studies me. At least when we’re talking, it’s a distraction from all these strange sensations.
“So…” I say, clearing my throat, “how long have you worked for…Mr Bond?”
He frowns for a moment, then a lightness comes over his face. He seems amused. “You do know that James Bond isn’t his real name, right?”
“I know that,” I say, flustered that he would think I was that silly.
“For the record, his name is Chase.” He pauses. “He thinks you’re very beautiful.”
“Oh.” I blink as the compliment settles on me. It’s flattering that a good-looking VIP such as Chase would think I’m beautiful, but… Do you think I’m beautiful? I want to ask.
“And he’s single,” the stranger continues.
I feel my cheeks going beet red. “W-why would it matter to me if he’s single?”
“I don’t know, Sophia. Why would it matter?”
Sophia.
My name coming off his beautiful mouth in that beautiful voice is like music. I almost forget for a second what he asked.
I shake my head. “I’m not a fame chaser. In fact, I’d steer clear of Chase because he’s famous.”
His face darkens. “What do you have against fame?”
I have too many secrets. It’d be too easy for someone to expose them. “Nothing. I don’t want to be in the spotlight. In fact, I can’t think of anything I’d hate more.”
He flinches as if my words have offended him.
“Most women would sell their firstborns for a taste of the spotlight,” he says, taking a step towards me. “But…you’re not most women, are you, Sophia?”
His voice and his nearness send a wave of tingles through my body.
“You know my name,” I say weakly, “but I don’t know yours.”
He considers this for a second, as if giving me his name might hand some of his power over to me. Right now, I’ll take anything I can get.
“Grayson,” he says finally.
Grayson.
It’s strong yet sophisticated and so very British. It fits him perfectly. The name sounds almost…royal. I frown as the vague memory of a recent British scandal tickles my mind.
“Isn’t that also the name of one of your princes? Were you named after him?”
This seems to annoy him, a frown appearing between his thick dark brows. He probably gets asked this all the time.
“You follow the British royal family?” he
asks.
“No. I just hear people talk. I wouldn’t recognise them if they walked right up to me and said hello. Nor would I care.”
He’s watching me, studying me carefully, making me feel warm and very uncomfortable in my own skin. Before I can ask what his problem is, he speaks. “You’re not lying, are you?”
I frown. “Why would I lie?”
“Most women would love to meet Prince Grayson.”
“I’d prefer to meet Nelson Mandela or Margaret Thatcher. Someone relevant.”
His eyes bulge out of his head. “Someone relevant?”
“Well, yeah. The British royal family are antiquated and superfluous.” God help me, I’m not always so blunt, especially around hotel guests. But this man just brings it out in me.
“The royal family are the backbone of the British people.”
I let out a snort. “They are a waste of ink. Look at this rubbish in the papers recently about the younger brother. It isn’t even proper news. We have so many people around the world starving, barely surviving in war-torn countries, and here we all are focused on some stuck-up, all-important, royal brat.”
“You’re tarnishing the whole family by the actions of a wayward younger brother?” He takes another step towards me, closing the distance between us.
I tense. We’re toe to toe, and I can smell the delicious mix of sweat and his rich, earthy cologne. He’s much taller than I am so I must lift my chin to stare him in the face.
“Give me one example of where the royal family have actually done anything with their power and money to make this world a better place,” I counter.
“What about what Prince Grayson is doing with the bees?”
I raise an eyebrow. I know he’s referring to the bee repopulation project that the British crown prince threw his weight behind. “A decent start. But it’s not enough.”
“Not enough?”
“The royal family has endless money and power behind them and all they can do is show up to a few bee project fundraisers. What about actually getting their hands dirty? What about actually using some of their power and money for good? Unfortunately, the ones that are born into privilege waste it.”
