Where was he?
After half an hour at Club Tango, Mac began to think she was on a wild goose chase and regretted the streak of innate curiosity which made her come to the club in search of the prince.
You’re an idiot, Mac, she told herself. You could be back at the palace, tucked up in bed. Instead she was being jostled as she made her way through the packed nightclub. She’d already been groped by a man simply because she’d been pushed against him in the crush. Clubs were definitely not her scene.
For the third time, she asked herself just what she’d come here to prove. It was a stupid question, because if she knew the answer, she wouldn’t need to be here. All she knew was that her instincts told her Prince Devereaux was hiding something, and she needed to know what it was. If there was a scandal looming, she might be better off packing her bags and going home now. There was only so much she could do for any of her clients, but trying to work with Devereaux when he didn’t want to work with her was extra difficult.
After they’d kissed it’d been even more complicated because she’d never known such toe-curling pleasure. When he’d claimed her lips, it’d been as though he’d staked a claim on her soul.
Rubbish! Don’t ever let him claim you. Don’t ever let any man have so much hold over you again—especially one who has such a womanising reputation.
Trying to put all X-rated thoughts from her mind, she thought about the little things which kept coming to light—things that were at odds with his public image, and the negative traits he’d made out he possessed. He’d offered to take Eliza to the kitchen for ice-cream, for goodness sake. And, when she’d tucked Eliza into bed that night, her daughter had raved to her about how Dev was a hero.
‘Yes, he was very brave climbing up the tree to save you,’ Mac had agreed.
‘But, Mum, Dev didn’t just save me. He saved Jemma too.’
‘The lady who was supposed to be looking after you?’ It hadn’t been Jemma who’d come to get Eliza from the kitchen about half an hour after her rescue from the tree. Instead, an older lady had introduced herself as Miriam and said she was to replace Jemma in looking after Eliza.
Mac hadn’t asked questions but had concluded Jemma had been relieved from the position for having left Eliza for too long unsupervised.
‘Jemma would’ve only been gone to the toilet for a few minutes, Mum, but Miriam said Jemma’s a diatetic.’
‘You mean a diabetic?’
‘Yes. A diabetic. Sometimes she gets busy and she forgets to eat. It’s happened before and she’s passed out. That’s what happened today. Lucky for her, Dev guessed what’d happened. He found her and she went to the hospital in an ambulance.’
Mac couldn’t stop thinking about what Eliza had told her. The next day she’d asked Devereaux whether it was true. He’d dismissed it as nothing, yet his actions proved he knew his staff and cared about them—one more thing about him she wouldn’t have expected from a superficial playboy.
They’d met every day this week to plan the yacht racing series and the details of the documentary she wanted filmed. Ahead of schedule, everything was in place for the press conference next Wednesday to announce the event. They’d already met with a director for the documentary which was to be released ahead of the first race, but next week they’d concentrate on the details, and possibly even commence some preliminary filming.
Although Devereaux had largely given the idea he was bored and disengaged with the planning, Mac was beginning to believe he was far more enthusiastic than he wanted her to know. Another red herring.
Frequently, he stared out the window of his office as though he wasn’t listening. Yet, the second she deliberately said something wrong to test his concentration, he corrected her, revealing he’d been focusing all along. So, why the Academy Award winning performance to the contrary?
At one point he’d been explaining something about sailing to the film director they’d hired to make the documentary and his energy and enthusiasm had been impossible to miss. When Mackenzie praised his involvement, it abated.
Someone bumped against her and brought her thoughts back to her current surroundings. Her arm was wet and sticky with the creamy liquid from a cocktail that had been spilt on her. The person who spilt it kept moving through the crowd without a hint of apology. Gritting her teeth, Mac made her way to the bar to get a paper napkin to wipe the cocktail off her skin. As she did so, she continued to look around for Devereaux.
The media claimed this club scene was his natural habitat. Just what would she learn about him if he had come here tonight?
She checked her watch. Fifteen minutes before midnight.
If she hadn’t misunderstood, and if the meeting was tonight, she didn’t have long to locate him.
The music blared, strobe lights flickered and female bodies, wearing the bare minimum, gyrated on the dance floor. Mac began her third round of the club and hated every minute of it. Pregnant at eighteen, she’d barely had time to participate in the club scene. She realised now, she’d missed nothing. It was too loud to talk, too hot to dance, and too damned expensive to drink. It was at a club very much like this one where she’d met Grayson. At the ripe old age of twenty-eight, she now realised being at such a club was pretty much akin to saying, ‘I’m available to get laid tonight’.
Of course she wasn’t. Not tonight, and not any other night.
Once bitten, twice shy, and she would not think about how she’d gone up in flames when Devereaux kissed her.
Bingo! Mac saw him.
It was no damned wonder she’d missed him on the first couple of circuits she’d done of the room. He sat in a dark, corner booth with two other men and three women. But, he was virtually hidden because he had a voluptuous blonde draped over him and she kissed him with the intensity of someone who gave mouth-to-mouth resuscitation—as if her life depended on it.
Bitter contempt stabbed through Mac. On her second morning in Santaliana, she’d been the one Devereaux had kissed—and that was after she’d known how he’d spent his night. Shame coursed through her because she knew his reputation—knew he behaved like this every single night—and yet she’d kissed him back with fervent urgency. Just like the blonde was doing now.
She should’ve learnt her lesson with Grayson. She thought she had. Now, here she was having the same lesson rammed down her throat once again, just as surely as the blonde looked to be ramming her tongue down Devereaux’s throat.
The kiss ended. Devereaux shifted the blonde off his lap, spoke briefly to the people who were with him, and stood up. One hand shot out to steady himself against the table as he stood.
Hell! He looked totally inebriated. Didn’t the man have any self-respect?
As if to confirm her suspicions, he stumbled sideways a little.
Hang on. It was either an incredible coincidence, or quite astonishing that for one as drunk as he seemed, he was well aware of the time and stumbled his way in the direction of the manager’s office.
Mac moved parallel to him. Even if he looked her way, she was confident he wouldn’t recognise her. She was very used to disguising herself when she worked with her clients, often attending functions incognito. She was always present to guide them if necessary, but kept changing her appearance so nobody would realise she was a constant presence with them. Tonight, she’d tucked her hair up and she wore a black wig cut in a bobbed style. A pair of blue contact lenses completed her disguise.
As Devereaux rounded a corner, he looked back casually over his shoulder before opening the door and slipping into the manager’s office. There’d been no sign of excess alcohol in his movements when he’d opened the door, slipped into the room and closed the door behind him. The actions had been very deliberate and controlled, making her believe he wasn’t really drunk at all.
The situation became even more riveting when two burly men in suits took up position close to the door. They definitely weren’t men she recognised as Devereaux’s bodyguards.
What on earth was he up to? A steamy sex romp in the manager’s office, or something more sinister? Something criminal?
For a second she hesitated. The fine hairs on the nape of her neck pricked with the hint of danger and her self-preservation instincts warned her to retreat. Her pulse hammered on the inside of her wrists and up through her neck as adrenaline coursed through her. Swallowing down on her trepidation, she gave in to her curiosity.
Impulsively she decided two could play the drunken game. Leaving her vantage point, she stumbled her way right up to the men. Forming what she hoped was a vacant expression on her face, she looked at the closer one as though she couldn’t quite focus properly. Smiling, she slurred her words just a little. ‘’Scuse me. I’m jush goin’ to the ladies. I need to get through.’ Her attempt to brush past him and access the office door was unsuccessful.
‘This isn’t the bathroom, Miss,’ he told her firmly.
His voice was surprisingly cultured, and apart from being built like a bouncer, he didn’t have a mean face like a stereotypical Hollywood crook, but he was certainly determined to block her entrance to the room.
Feeling less nervous, she continued the act, moving her head in an exaggerated, uncontrolled way and frowning in confusion. ‘You sure?’
‘Positive.’ He took her by the elbow in a firm but certainly not rough hold. ‘The bathroom is back this way. I’ll show you.’
She gave a little drunken giggle and swayed up against him. ‘Why aren’t you dancing?’
‘I have an infected toe,’ he told her.
Yeah. Right.
Mac let him lead her away from the office. Once he’d pointed out the bathroom, she thanked him with a little giggle and let him return to his post. She may not have succeeded in getting into the office, but she’d at least checked out the guards. They didn’t seem dangerous.
Making sure she concealed herself in the shifting crowd, she made her way as quickly as she could to the upper balcony and took up position where she could see down to the office. Less than five minutes later, Prince Devereaux left the office and within a few metres, he gave the impression once again of being unsteady on his feet.
One of the guards left his post.
Minutes ticked by.
‘Hey there, beautiful. Are you on your own?’
Groan. Mac only half turned to the guy who spoke to her, because she didn’t want to miss seeing anyone coming from the manager’s office. ‘I’m with someone,’ she said dismissively. ‘He’s just gone to get me a drink.’
She didn’t really hear what the guy said next, because the door of the office swung open. It wasn’t a woman who emerged, but a man. His head was hung, not enabling her to get a good look at his features. He walked out without speaking to the guard, yet the second he moved down the corridor, the guard fell in behind him.
Holy hell! Mac began to wonder whether she really wanted to know what the prince was involved in. Was it criminal or was he somehow tied up with the Ploutos Corporation?
There’d been a lot of interest on the internet about the corporation which took its name from the Greek god of wealth. But, there was one huge, gaping hole in the information. The multi-billionaire owner was anonymous.
Ploutos Corporation was a parent shell company, the owner operating from the shadows with no website and a short paper trail. There was a complex web of other shell companies like a series of Russian Babushka dolls—one inside another, inside another. One article in a financial newspaper had said the company lists of “nominee” shareholders and board members of Ploutos, and the other shell companies it owned, had been paid to allow their names to fill blanks on forms for the creation of the company. Investigation had revealed no common link between the people and they had no idea who’d paid them. The person or persons behind Ploutos remained a mystery.
Ploutos was registered in the tax haven of St. Kitts and had other companies through similar tax havens in the British Virgin Islands, Cayman Islands and Lichtenstein.
Financial reporters had written articles which stated that the corporation had fingers in all sorts of pies. Yet, while shell companies were often established to launder money from criminal activities, the articles Mac had pored through indicated there was nothing mildly suggestive of illegal activity. Rather, the media was full of high praise for the philanthropy of the owner or owners of the corporation.
Had Devereaux just met with the man behind the Ploutos Corporation? Is that why there’d been so much secrecy? Did Devereaux work for him in some capacity without King Gabriel’s knowledge?
Casting her eyes back towards the booth where Devereaux had been sitting, she registered he and the blonde were nowhere to be seen.
‘I said your drink seems to be taking a long time.’
Oh God, that guy was still there trying to get her attention. She scanned the dance floor and the rest of the crowd, looking for the prince and the blonde. She spotted them just as they made their way out through the exit.
‘I’ve just spotted my guy,’ she told the man who’d tried to engage her in conversation. ‘Have a good night!’ Not giving him any more time, she darted past him, down the stairs and had to push and squeeze her way through the crowd towards the exit. She wasn’t out of the club in time to see the prince get into his limousine, but she saw a guy with a camera.
Assuming he was a member of the paparazzi, she asked him, ‘Was that Prince Devereaux I saw leaving the club?’
‘Yeah, he just drove off in the back of the royal limousine. Lucky bugger’s got himself another blonde hottie for the night.’
He probably was a lucky bugger. Lucky he hadn’t caught some STD that had made his penis drop off, she thought with disgust.
‘Hey, I’m free now he’s gone,’ the photographer said. ‘How about going someplace quieter for a drink?’
‘No, thanks.’ Frustrated she was no closer to an answer about the prince, Mac signalled for a taxi.
After telling the driver she needed to go to the palace, she slumped back into the seat. The adrenaline rush she’d had in the club was over. Deflation took its place. Deflation, defeat and exhaustion. It’d been an extremely tiring week—both with work and with the turmoil of her emotions and her attraction to Devereaux. She should be tucked up in bed asleep. That’s where a sensible woman would be.
A sensible woman would never have gone to Club Tango in the first place.
Clearly, she was not a sensible woman.
Mentally, she cursed Devereaux. It was his fault she was acting so out-of-character. If he didn’t have secrets that might jeopardise her assignment, she wouldn’t need to be out at a nightclub having her arse squeezed and warding off unwelcome advances.
‘You’ll be wanting the servants’ entrance, right, luv?’ the driver asked.
‘Yes, please,’ she replied as she reefed off her wig and stuffed it into her handbag. ‘The faster the better.’ Then, she lifted her fingers to her eyes, removed the contact lenses and put them in a case in her handbag.
‘Did you have a good night?’ the driver asked as he sent her a curious look.
‘It was okay,’ she said noncommittally.
She wanted to get back to her suite of rooms in the palace and take a hot shower. Seeing the prince in action tonight and knowing he’d kissed her earlier in the week had left her feeling like she needed a good wash.
While he had another night of steamy sex, she would check on Eliza and fall into her own bed—alone. Furious with herself for even thinking about the prince spending the night with his latest blonde, Mac closed her eyes for a second and tried to calm herself by taking a few deep breaths. It was a few minutes before she opened them again.
Outside the taxi, the capital city of Santaliana was a blur. Mac found it difficult to focus through eyes that were gritty. Inside the taxi, as hard as she tried, it was difficult to escape from her thoughts of Devereaux.
It doesn’t matter how he spends his nights or with whom he spends his nights, she tried to convince herself. The only important thing is changing public perception. That’s my job. Otherwise, what he does means nothing to me.
As much as she told herself his behaviour meant nothing to her, she grew increasingly agitated and upset every time her mind’s eye conjured up the image of the blonde woman he’d been with. Upset to the point where she wished she’d blown her cover, marched right over to the booth and dragged the woman off his lap.
Shit! She pulled herself up as the emotion behind that thought punched her in the solar plexus.
Mac was jealous!
No! She couldn’t be.
Yet, as much as she tried to deny it, she couldn’t hide from the truth.
Devereaux’s kisses and his whole commanding presence had impacted far too much on her. Even knowing his reputation, she’d softened towards him when he’d been so unhesitatingly kind to Eliza. She also admired the way he’d cared about Jemma.
Mac shook her head.
How could she be jealous? She’d been burnt by Grayson. She knew damned well that when Devereaux had kissed her it was all just a game to him. Yet, even knowing it, she recognised how easily the Prince of Santaliana could sweep her off her feet and into his bed.
No. No! She had to stay strong. His behaviour at the club tonight with his latest blonde reinforced that he was most definitely a player in a game which held no appeal to her.
The taxi turned around the corner and drove into the quiet backstreet where the servants’ entrance was located. Mackenzie sat straighter, prepared to pay the driver quickly and hot-foot it to bed.
What the hell?
She jerked forward and her eyes widened.
‘Don’t stop!’ she said urgently as the driver slowed down. ‘Go once around the block, please!’
‘What?’
‘You heard me. Keep going!’
‘The meter will still be running,’ the driver warned.
‘Of course.’ The meter could run all it liked. Another car had just pulled up outside the servants’ entrance, and the prince had been dropped off—quite alone.
Mac ducked down in the back of her taxi as the driver went past Devereaux.
The photographer told her Devereaux had driven off from the club in the royal limousine with the blonde. That had only been moments before Mac had left the club. Yet, the playboy prince arrived at the servants’ entrance alone and in a different car.
She covered her face with the palm of her hands as she searched for an explanation. Good grief! Could it be Prince Devereaux wasn’t a playboy at all—that he lied about that aspect of his personality the way he’d lied about being allergic to kids?
Why?
No man who exuded so much carnal interest in women and kissed with such mind-blowing thoroughness could be a gay man protecting his privacy. Why would Devereaux let his playboy image stick if it weren’t true? He knew how much angst it caused King Gabriel, and despite some surface tension she’d witnessed, she sensed a deep and abiding fraternal love between the men.
Was this whole mysterious behaviour something to do with his link to the man he’d met with tonight? A man who was possibly involved in the Ploutos Corporation?
Mac groaned out loud.
‘Are you alright, luv?’ the driver asked.
No. She was far from alright. This assignment was going to do her head in and she wouldn’t rest until her questions were answered.