Chapter 2

Brooks

They say that if you give a person enough rope, they’ll eventually hang themselves. I thought by giving Princess Charlotte the key to my car that we would end up at a place no princess should be seen and I’d get to see a very different, very private side to her.

Instead we’re in a bakery that smells of cinnamon and vanilla, and she’s busy chatting with the owner about the types of chocolate they make. I’m sure her security detail is relieved.

“It would be our honor if you’d accept this,” I hear the owner say, setting a box of baked goods on the counter. “You’re more than welcome to eat here. We’ll close the shop just for you, Princess Charlotte, and your date.”

“Oh my word. I can’t let you give this to me,” she exclaims, her lovely mash of southern and English accent more noticeable than usual. “I insist on paying and you can leave the shop open. My security is here.” Her hands go to her side and I can see the moment her face registers that she didn’t bring a purse. “Oh dear.”

She looks close to tears, her cheeks flaming bright red. Yeah, she doesn’t like being embarrassed, especially in public. But the world doesn’t know that about her. They wouldn’t care anyway. That doesn’t fit the profile of the Sinclairs, even if Charlotte’s stayed under the radar.

However, I could put her in the limelight.

I can see the headline now:

SPOILED PRINCESS DEMANDS FREE GOODS FROM SMALL BUSINESS

No. Too long.

PRINCESS CHARLOTTE’S PUBLIC BREAKDOWN

Fucking perfect.

The hits I’d get on the story would be in the hundreds of millions. All the major outlets would carry it. In a matter of minutes, an innocent woman would be virtually guilty of the skewed truth. And let’s not forget the advertisement revenue my company would receive.

My fingers itch to pull my phone out, take a picture, and send it to my senior editor with some notes and directions.

Yet, I don’t move a muscle.

Son of a bitch. I can’t do it to her.

Charlotte nervously tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “Um, it seems that I—”

“Told you this is my treat,” I say, taking out my wallet and handing over my credit card. “Can we get two bottles of water as well?”

She flashes me a grateful look. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Walker.”

I’m not kind. I’m biding my time until something more controversial happens. “You’re welcome.” I take the box, the waters, and my credit card back. “Let’s go sit at that corner table in the back. We won’t be disturbed.”

“Good idea.” She walks with me. “You’re supposed to allow me to lead.”

“Not in the South,” I say, grinning, as we sit. How tied to traditions and class is she? Will she put me in my place? “A man always leads the woman, in case she needs protecting.”

“That’s very…charming,” she says. “I think my brothers would agree with you. Although, Della is quite bossy. Colin allows it; I think it amuses him.”

“That so?”

“Yes, and I’m perfectly okay with you printing that.”

“They’re old news.” I open the box and slide it to her. “However, a man always goes last when it comes to selecting chocolate.”

She makes a face. “Old news?”

“Meaning, I’ve already reported on them. No one really cares what they do anymore. They’re boring.”

“My family’s not boring,” she insists.

“Maybe not your entire family, but your brother and his wife are. Although, the water gun to the head”—I mime holding a gun to my head and shooting—“that was pretty damn interesting.”

Her eyes widen. “Are you going to share that on your next post?”

“Would you be disappointed if I did?”

Instead of answering me right away, she takes her time selecting a chocolate truffle. “Not really? I think I’d be bored if you did.”

“What should I say about what happened tonight?”

“I don’t think that’s for me to say, Mr. Walker. You’re in charge of your media, not I.”

“Oh, so now I’m in charge of something, with your blessing, and have the right to print whatever I want.” I lean forward, enjoying the sparring that’s commenced. “How benevolent of you.”

“Stop trying to bait me. It won’t work.” She bites into the chocolate, her eyes closing in pure pleasure. “You forget that I know just as much about you as you claim to know about me.”

“Based on my postings on social media.”

She nods. “I know what you want me and everyone else to know, even if that’s not really you.”

I laugh. “You think that what I put up there is fake?”

“Aren’t we all a bit fake on social media, showing only our best angles and sharing the most exciting and fascinating parts of our lives? Come now, do you really want to read about the mundane? The went to the grocery store today and bought apples to bake a pie type of statuses.”

“Wasn’t that your last post on Instagram?”

“Yes, it was, but I was excited to go to an actual store with only one bodyguard and the fact that Della was going to teach me how to bake the pie. You, however, found it boring. Admit it,” she challenges.

What happened to the wallflower? “Would you believe that I find everything you do fascinating?”

“Yes, I would, because you’ve gone to great lengths to keep up with my private accounts that are under a pseudonym,” she says candidly. “I don’t know how you did it, but we both know you do.”

“How does that make you feel, Princess?”

She wrinkles her nose. “That you find me fascinating?”

I nod.

“Like a butterfly trapped in a glass cage.” Her face turns serious, earnest. “I’m not complaining exactly, but I wasn’t given a choice to have this life and there are times that I find it unbearably miserable and lonesome. It’s why I chose a fake name in order to be part of something bigger than I am.”

Her raw confession surprises me, yet it doesn’t at all. Another headline pops in my head: THE WORLD’S LONELIEST PRINCESS. She’d be ridiculed for her feelings.

How is that any different from what you’ve published before?

Because they said one thing while doing another. I wasn’t in their fucking heads.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.

“Because I’d rather have my say than you writing up whatever you think I think or feel about my life.

Damn. She thinks I’m going to publish our conversation. “What if I were to lie?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because liars don’t stay in business this long. They are sued until their resources and revenues are dried up. My government would have sued you and won if they thought they had a case.

“We can’t be the only ones, either,” she adds.

I lift my brows and give her a depreciating smile. “You’re not. I’ve made quite a few enemies by publishing the truth about them. The only reason they haven’t sued me is because they don’t want to bring more attention to themselves or give my site validity.” Something that chafes my ass. A part of me wishes those bastards would take me to court, but I have employees to pay and they have families to support. I can’t let my ego’s need for affirmation from my colleagues and competitors get in the way of that.”

“Validity is important to you,” she says slowly. “You think your contemporaries view you as a rumor rag.”

“Some do.” I have nothing to lose and everything to gain by being honest with her, like her trust.

She smiles gently. “A lot do, I think, or you wouldn’t work so hard to prove them wrong by crashing a charity event for children in order to get information about the Sinclairs. I’m sorry but I can’t give you any information on the companies we currently are bidding on to secure their business.”

I have to stop my jaw from dropping to the floor.

That’s what she thinks I’m here for—business dealings? I could give two shits about their Internet fiber-optic undersea maintenance services. It’s fucking boring because it’s public knowledge whom Sinclair Enterprises is courting. Every country in the world contains businesses that own a portion of the cables that connect us all, and each one is required to maintain their portion in order to maintain ownership.

Which is where Sinclair Enterprises comes in. That’s where they’ve always come in, since the World Wide Web actually became global. Some brilliant mind in their family, in the early nineties, came up with a device that not only protects the lines from sharks, shipwrecks, and tsunamis but also allows for upgrades.

“It’s public information, sweetheart. You’re required by law to release the information,” I reply.

She blinks, her pretty hazel eyes thoroughly confused. “Why did you crash the ball?”

“To meet you in person.”

“But why?”

“To discover your deepest secrets,” I reply dryly, and her face pales. Now I’m more curious than ever. “But I doubt you’d tell me. I get it, though. I am intimidating.”

I wink at her.

A blush suffuses her cheeks and her eyes sparkle with outrage. “I am not intimidated by you.”

Oh, but you are. “Prove it.”

She lifts her chin, then scans the room before turning her attention on me. The weight of her gaze is both lust-inducing and disarming. I don’t think I’ve ever been this attracted to prey before, and that’s exactly what she is.

“Fine. I’ll agree to you having a go at discovering my secrets, but you have to agree to a demand of mine.”

“And that would be?”

“An affair with me.”

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t shocked. I am, not only because this is the last thing I expected her to ask me but because Charlotte doesn’t seem the type to bargain with her body. Examining her offer from every angle, I attempt to find the flaw in what she’s offering, other than sex in exchange for insider information. I must have been a very good boy this year, or very bad considering I’m going to turn her down.

“No deal,” I say flatly, and her face falls. “I don’t fuck my sources, Princess. Either you want me for me and admit it, or I leave now and we can pretend this never happened. I won’t publish anything about our night together, either.”

Her full lips part, and a second later they smash together and her gaze skitters away.

“Tell me what you really want, Charlotte. I won’t judge you,” I say quietly.

For what seems like an eternity, she looks at everything but me. “I want to have an affair with you, Mr. Walker—an exclusive one. We don’t sleep with or date anyone else. That’s my condition.

“And you can’t tell anyone about—”

“About our relationship,” I finish for her, my jaw clenching. Am I wrong about her sweetness? There’s no way. This woman doesn’t strike me as the type to slum it up. I doubt she knows what the phrase means.

“Oh no, you can tell the world about us.” Her pretty hazel eyes fix on me. “I would prefer, however, if you’d not share our most private moments together with your followers on social media.”

“You mean sex.”

She nods. “That and anything I might say in the heat of the moment.”

How she got the upper hand in this conversation, I have no idea, but I can’t help but admire her. A wallflower she might be, but this flower can weather anything, I think.

I choose my next words carefully. “I’ll accept on two conditions of my own.”

She’s already nodding before I even list the first one. “Go on.”

“First, you will make yourself available to me at any time.”

“As long as I’m in the country, I’m at your pleasure.”

“Fair enough.”

“And the second?” she asks.

“You have to be completely honest with me at all times.”

“That won’t be a problem,” she says so quickly that I know she’s already thinking of all the things she won’t say to me.

“You have a deal.”

Suddenly, she beams at me, like I’ve just given her the world. She stands, pushing her chair back. “Such a pleasure having dessert with you. I’ll ring you up then when I have a moment, shall I?”

I almost ask her why we can’t start right now, but I don’t and not because I’m not interested in getting her in bed. My fucking conscience won’t allow it. All because of her impassioned speech about feeling trapped and needing to be free.

I’d be the worst kind of guy to take advantage of her tonight.

Or any night, for that matter.

Son of a bitch.

She starts to walk away, her hips swaying.

“Don’t you need my number, Princess?”

Charlotte glances over her shoulder, her hazel eyes bright. “You’re not the only one with resources, Mr. Walker.”

The next day, I fly out of Charlotte Douglas International Airport to LaGuardia, where a private car awaits me on the tarmac. As soon as I cross the Triborough Bridge, my phone starts buzzing and I begin the tedious process of deciding who I will and will not meet with while at Walker Media’s Manhattan offices.

It’s a game—a game that I always win due to the fact that the same people who publically swear that they won’t give me the time of day and reject everything I stand for are the same people begging to have lunch or dinner with me.

Or to dangle an invitation to a private party.

As if I need one of those.

The problem with elites is that the amount of ire they have with someone is directly related to how much money that someone has. More money, more forgiven.

More connections plus more money, they fall over themselves.

There’s a reason we see pictures of a former Republican president’s daughter breaking bread with his former Democratic competition (and later president as well).

My own family isn’t immune to it and I can’t count how many parties I attended with my parents that were nothing more than hobnobbing while securing future political dynasties through marriages and favors.

Need little Jimmy to get into Ivy League school A?

Vote for my bill to study cow fart emissions and he’s in!

The second problem they have with me is that I’m not loyal to the two-party system or any of the minor parties. I could give a fuck about Democrats, Libertarians, or Republicans. They’re all the same when it comes to scandals, affairs, and power grabs.

Yes, I will concede that there are few, a very small minority, who truly want to help those who elected them, but they are outnumbered by the perpetually in office. Men and women who couldn’t hold a real, working job if they tried.

Not that they would—lifetime benefits and perks keep them happy.

I sound bitter, but I’m honestly not.

I’m disgusted and have been ever since I hacked into a private server in order to help my brother and sister-in-law out. Before then, I was a true believer in the red, white, and blue.

My father, the senator, was for the workingman and -woman, for the farmer and union member alike. He scorned corporate welfare and thought that equal rights needed to be equally given to everyone.

Unfortunately, I discovered that my father was unique, a holdout from the time when politicians actually meant what they said and their constituents held them accountable when they didn’t. Back before corporations—liberal and conservative alike—grabbed hold of our republic by the balls and squeezed.

Hell, who knows if men and women like that ever existed. Maybe even my dad had to compromise when he didn’t want to. Maybe he was tempted a time or two to pocket money funneled to his campaign through mostly legal ways.

Then, again, our family didn’t need to run to make money. Never has.

We own Royal Bee Honey. Every Walker is required to work at the factory in Wilmington. It’s sort of a rite of passage and I guess you could say that’s where I got my work ethic.

Except I forgot it during college and decided to party my way through school instead.

I blame that on my age, but now I’m almost thirty-four, wealthy and successful in my own right. I can go anywhere, do anything, and be with anyone.

Only I agreed to be exclusive with Charlotte. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been exclusive. Hell, I haven’t had time to seriously date in the past three years. I’m not opposed to the idea at all. Exclusivity will make Charlotte trust me more, which in turn will make her open up more when we’re not in the heat of the moment.

A grin kicks up the corners of my mouth. She’s adorable, right down to her very prim ways. Do her very prim ways extend to the bedroom? On one hand, I love for a woman to be confident in the bedroom…on the other hand, I want to be the one to coax Charlotte out of her clothes, coax her mouth and thighs open to take me any way I want.

My car comes to a stop in front of my office building and I have to adjust my growing erection.

A doorman races over to open the door. His face is obscured by the umbrella he’s holding in anticipation of rain.

“Mr. Walker, so good to see you.”

I smile as soon as I recognize the voice. “You, too, Dennis. How’s business?”

“Good. Good.”

“Did Charla enjoy the tickets to Hamilton? Dinner good at Fresman’s?” I ask.

“Yes, sir. Best anniversary present she’s ever gotten.”

I stop at the revolving doors. “You didn’t say they were from me?”

Dennis laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Didn’t have to. She knew.”

“As long as you got the reward, I’ll take the credit.”

“Best anniversary ever. Thank you again, Mr. Walker.”

I grab his shoulder. “It’s me who’s thanking you. You’re the heartbeat of the building.” I mean it. Everyone knows and likes Dennis. For years now, I’ve tried to get him to come inside, take a desk job, but he won’t. “Ready to hit the thirtieth floor, yet? There’s a nice desk, comfortable office chair, and all the coffee you can drink.”

“Not today. Too nice to be inside.”

Thunder rumbles.

We both grin.

“But I’ll take a coffee.”

“I’ll get that down to you.” Letting go of him, I move inside, my shoes echoing on the marble floor. The Walker Building is slick, modern, and understated.

Yeah, I like to make a statement, but I don’t need an entire dictionary to do it.

On my way to the elevator, I stop by the main desk to request coffee for Dennis before I get distracted by work and forget.

“I’ll be sure to have it out to him as soon as possible,” Mindy, the receptionist says.

“Thanks.” I nod, then move toward the elevators again.

My senior editor, Drea Matin, joins me, wearing her usual pencil skirt and square glasses. She pushes back her long, glossy black hair and says, “How was the party?”

“I came, I crashed…and I went home empty-handed.” Something keeps me from sharing my conversation with Charlotte with her. I chalk it up to nothing happening between us—an offer is only an offer until it becomes more than that.

“No crown jewels for you, huh?” She tsks.

“Crown jewels refer to men, not women.”

She blinks at me, her mouth lifting at the corner.

“For the last time, Drea, I don’t fuck men.”

“Not anymore you don’t.”

I don’t rise to her bait because it’s pointless. I don’t care if anyone speculates on my sexual preferences…and it’s Drea—she likes to bust my balls and play with pussy. I don’t care who she likes to fuck as long as she gets shit done.

Drea wouldn’t be senior editor if she didn’t get shit done.

“There’s a picture of the two of you kissing that’s making the rounds.”

“Had to get her out of there somehow.”

“Doesn’t sound like you were so empty-handed.” She presses the up button beside the elevator. “What did your princess have to say?”

“Nothing that I didn’t already know.” That much is true…except the part about her feeling trapped. I should tell Drea this.

We should speculate and find sources to corroborate Charlotte’s assertions, maybe even get one who will go on record to say that her family makes her stay at home. Locks her up in a tower or something. Except that I had the opportunity and I turned it down.

Like a chump, I turned it down.

“You should have tagged the queen-in-waiting. She doesn’t shut up.”

“She also lies her ass off,” I point out. “Char—Princess Charlotte’s different.”

We step inside the elevator and the doors close.

Drea slices her gaze to me, her arms crossing. “Are you sure nothing happened beyond that kiss?”

“I’m sure.” I change the subject as fast as possible. “Got any leads on the McLaughton case?”

“No. The couple we did have turned out to be dead ends,” she says, all business. “Any suggestions?”

“Follow the money trail backward.”

The elevator dings and the door whooshes open.

Drea steps out. “Got it, boss.”

I scrub a hand over my face, wishing that the elevator would go faster.

My personal phone buzzes, lighting up with an unfamiliar number. Instead of answering it, I let the call go to voicemail. That always weeds out the wrong numbers.

My phone dings a minute later.

Whoever it was had the right number, had my private number, and not the one I give out at work or events.

Curious, I punch in my code and listen to the voicemail.

“Hullo, Brooks. This is Char, um, Charlotte Sinclair.” I can’t help but smile. What kind of princess feels a need to clarify who she is?

Easy, the one with the sweetest smile. The one who wants me and had to have an excuse in order to propose an affair.

It hits me then. She didn’t think I’d take her up on it without something extra to sweeten the deal. How could I have been so stupid not to catch that?

“I’ve had time to think things over and”—my gut shoots to my back. I don’t know why I’m reacting to her rejection like this. She should reject me. I’m not kind or nice, or anything else a woman like her deserves in a man—“I want to see you, at your earliest convenience, if you are amenable. Today, I’m co-hosting a charity fashion event in the Garment District with my sister, but after that I’m…free. I’m staying in the Towers at the Waldorf Astoria. You’ve been cleared by security to visit. Also, you can reach me on this number. Please don’t share it with anyone.”

Motherfucker.

Charlotte is serious.

Charlotte is in the city.

Once more the elevator dings, the door slides open, but this time I step out and make myself take measured, controlled steps the entire way to my office.

Images of Charlotte flood my mind, both fantasy and memories. Of what her breasts will look like, taste like. How tight she’ll be…how sweet she tasted when her tongue tangled with mine.

My cock stirs and my body hardens in full agreement.

She’s made her decision.

Who am I to deny a princess?