Hard Liquor: Runaway Billionaires: Arthur Duet #2 Read online

  Arthur held out his hand to her. “Let me know when you’re dressed so I can send in Fothergill or members of the army of staff who are doubtlessly waiting outside.”

  She took his hand. He helped her up, but he kept pulling until she was tight up against him with his arm cinched around her waist.

  Arthur whispered, “We should talk, but we have to make this flight. Refiling the flight plan paperwork will delay us for hours.”

  Gen snuggled against his chest. “I thought you could hop into your earldom plane and fly anywhere you wanted at the drop of a hat, like to cavort with strippers in Paris?”

  “Oh, that. Friends helped with the paperwork that time.”

  “Can’t ‘friends’ help with the paperwork this time?”

  “Afraid not. Different circumstances. I’ll have breakfast delivered to your room soon. Are you all right from last night?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Good.” One of his hands drifted down to her ass. “You have to take care of yourself. You’re mine, now.”

  “Yeah, about that—” she said.

  “Second thoughts?” His voice was cheerful, but his fingers clutched her ass cheek.

  She asked, “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “None.”

  “Really?”

  His fingers firmed on her butt. “Absolutely none. Stay with me. Be my submissive.”

  That was his terminology from last night. He hadn’t said training or anything like that then, either. “For how long?”

  “Until you leave me.” His hand released her butt and settled around her waist with his other one.

  “What if I don’t want to leave you? What if I stayed for a year or more?”

  “Brilliant,” Arthur said.

  “Two years?”

  “By that time, you’ll be a formidable opponent in the courtroom who will make other barristers quail before you, and you’ll be my submissive little fucktoy at home.”

  “Three years?” she asked.

  His voice dropped. “That thought makes me want to bend you over this chaise and fuck you right now, but we have a reservation for dinner in Paris tonight.”

  “What will you do when you’re done with me?”

  “I’ll never be done with you.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  He chuckled, but his arms were still locked around her waist.

  “Why would you want me to be a submissive little fucktoy,” hey, his words, “for three long years? Or more? Wouldn’t you get tired of it?”

  Of me?

  “No.”

  “Why the hell not?” she demanded.

  “Because when you are utterly under my control, when I have all of you right here with me, I know you’re safe. I know I can protect you for as long as I can hold onto you. But someday, you’ll leave.”

  The World Is A Cruel, Cruel Place

  GEN held Arthur’s warm hand as Pippa sped through the dense London traffic. They arrived at London Luton Airport, navigated the people checking passports and paperwork, and jogged up the stairs in the morning sunlight to board the plane.

  Gen had flown commercial often but had never flown on a private plane before. The Gulfstream jet was a slim, silver dart. The tail fin was painted with the same design as Arthur’s tattoo on his forearm, a blue shield with three crowns on it, and Gen was positive that was no accident.

  Inside, white leather recliners were arranged around tables in groups of four instead of the usual tiny seats crammed together like pencils in a box. In a commercial plane of this size, Gen figured that about sixty seats could have been stuffed in four shoulder-bumping seats across and fifteen knee-bruising rows.

  Arthur showed her in. “Sit anywhere.”

  “Are we the only ones on the plane?” she asked, thinking what a waste it was to fly a whole jet just for themselves.

  “A friend should be along in a few minutes,” Arthur said, “and we’ll be taking a few staff with us.”

  Mr. Royston Fothergill boarded the plane as Arthur said this. He half-bowed and said, “Sir.”

  “Fothergill,” Arthur said, smiling.

  The butler strode to the back of the plane and took a seat. He had his reader out in seconds.

  Pippa was the next one who boarded the plane. She grinned at Gen and wandered to the back, cracking a paperback as she sat beside Mr. Fothergill.

  Gen sat in a large, wide chair at a table. She dropped her purse where the table abutted the wall right beneath the window, which was about ten times the size of the normal portholes on an airplane. The white leather of the armrest felt like pressed silk fibers under her fingertips.

  Arthur had his phone out and was talking into it. “Max? Where the hell are you? You said that you could get yourself to the plane.”

  Max? The Max? The maybe-unmarried Max that Lee had called dibs on?

  This could be interesting. Gen set her chin in her hands and watched Arthur.

  “Hurry up,” Arthur said into the phone. “If we don’t push back on time, the airport will cancel our flight plan, and we’ll have to file another one. This isn’t Buttfuck, Egypt or wherever in Africa you were this time. How much security do you have with you? Yes, there’s room for all of you. One or two seats left over, I think. Get here, now.”

  Arthur paced in the aisle between the table ends and the couches up against the wall on the other side of the airplane.

  As he passed, Gen asked, “Everything okay?”

  “Sure,” Arthur said and dropped an easy kiss on the top of her head. “Just had to light a fire under Max. He gets involved with things and doesn’t realize he’s causing a problem.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, he was probably feeding and counseling the destitute or attending church or something.”

  “It’s Friday and almost noon,” Gen said.

  “Yeah, well, that wouldn’t stop Maxence from going to church.”

  “Is he very devout?”

  “That’s the one-point-one billion euro question, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t get it,” Gen said.

  Footsteps clomped at the front of the plane like a phalanx of men marching in lockstep.

  Gen turned to look.

  Arthur stepped in front of her.

  “Hey! Dude!” She leaned to the side, trying to see, but Arthur side-stepped and blocked her again.

  More marching footsteps.

  Arthur said quietly, “Gen, stay down.”

  “Why? What’s happening?” She shrank back in her chair. Between Arthur’s trim waist and the side of the plane, she could see men wearing black enter the plane. Their black clothes weren’t the boxy, loose cut of business suits, that much she could see from where she peered at them. They were wearing black military fatigues, close-cut with square pockets and bulky belts. They weren’t carrying guns at the ready, but they wore sidearms in holsters with their hands touching them as they surveyed the plane.

  Gen hadn’t seen that many guns since she had left Texas eight years before.

  She looked up at Arthur and edged her foot out, ready to run or jump on the nearest one. “Arthur, what’s going on?”

  Arthur’s shoulders sagged, and he strode down the aisle toward the front. He said over his shoulder to her, “Never mind. Everything’s fine.”

  The commandoes spread through the plane, evaluating each person already there. One man with piercing blue eyes scanned Gen and evidently found nothing threatening because he moved past her toward the back of the plane, ducking to look under tables as he passed.

  Gen wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or insulted. She could have been a threat if she had wanted to be.

  One man who stayed at the front was wearing all black like the other men, but he wore a slim-cut suit with a black shirt. Two of the commandoes stayed at the front, one to guard the door and one right by the man’s side.

  Arthur called out, “Max, you old devil! You didn’t tell me you were in the damned airport! Your conti
ngent can be startling when they commandeer a plane.”

  The man turned as Arthur approached. One commando stepped in, ready to intervene, but the man waved him off.

  Gen got her first good look at the man in the suit and stopped breathing.

  Okay, Arthur was stunning. She had experienced that firsthand and daily. His silvery eyes were astonishing, and his cheekbones and jawline were hard and perfect. His physique was both powerful and lean with more abs than should be allowed.

  But the man at the front of the plane was devastatingly handsome. He was some ethereal result of God and man, and the universe was contained in his dark eyes. His black hair curled in loose spirals around his head, a dark halo, and his short beard was dark on his tanned skin.

  Arthur spread his arms as he neared Max and wrapped them around the man, hugging him tightly.

  Okay, Gen hadn’t thought of Arthur as a hugger around people other than her, but from the way Max was struggling up there, Arthur could evidently be an aggressive hugger when he felt like it.

  Max may have wiggled for a minute, but he was laughing and clapped Arthur around the shoulders.

  My God, Max was even more everything when he laughed.

  Gen pushed herself back in the plane’s chair, trying to calm her wild mind, and closed her eyes.

  Max was just a fantastically attractive man. That was all. Nothing more. He was just a man.

  She opened her eyes, and Arthur and Max were leaning across the table, looking at her.

  Any red-blooded woman would have handed them her panties, but Gen wasn’t wearing any.

  Arthur said, “Gen, may I present my old school chum from the time we were six-year-olds adrift and alone in the world, Maxence Grimaldi. Max, this is my very dear friend, Ms. Genevieve Ward.”

  Very dear, huh?

  Gen extended her hand and hoped that Max wouldn’t notice that she was trembling like a nervous little dog. “How do you do, Mr. Grimaldi.”

  Max shook her hand, and his large hand was warm and hard with deep calluses ridging his fingers and palm, not what she had expected from one of Arthur’s nobleman friends. He said, with a soft accent, “How do you do, Ms. Ward. Please call me Maxence.”

  His eyes were so dark and large that Gen thought she was falling into the void of space, but he had thick, black eyelashes that blinked over his eyes just when she had forgotten how to breathe.

  Arthur was suddenly beside her, with his hand on her shoulder.

  She must have gotten lost in Max’s eyes and not noticed him move.

  Arthur cleared his throat and said, “A very dear friend.”

  “Right.” Max slid his hand from hers. “Nice to meet you.”

  When he stood, Gen noticed the odd collar on Max’s shirt. He wasn’t wearing a white square in the middle, but his shirt definitely had a square, ecclesiastical collar.

  My God. That man was a priest?

  The world was a cruel, cruel place.

  Feeding Maxence

  DURING the short flight to Paris, Arthur played host with far more dedication than Gen had ever seen before. Usually, he was thoughtful and pleasant with his guests, but evidently Maxence Grimaldi rated higher than Arthur’s usual company.

  While they flew through the morning sunlight sparkling on the Atlantic ocean, every few minutes, Arthur would call for his butler.

  “Fothergill, could we offer Maxence some lunch? Maybe a proper meal?”

  Plates heaped with roast beef and mashed potatoes, gravy, corn, salad, and bread were on the table in under five minutes, almost as if they had been prepared ahead of time.

  Maxence ate every bite of his, and Arthur pushed his half-finished plate toward him. “Eyes bigger than my stomach, old chum. Finish that for me like we were Cadets at Le Rosey, would you? Otherwise, dear old Granny will roll in her grave. The War, you know. We must all finish everything on our plates.” To Gen, Arthur said, “Emperor Maximum here started growing six months before the rest of us. His appetite was legendary.”

  Maxence smirked at Arthur, but he kept eating.

  Arthur kept them entertained by telling them about the dinner party at Spencer House and Lord Asshole who kept spouting nonsense. “I thought Lady Hart was going to throttle him or Lord Butterfield would flip the table. I think he could have done it, too. He was a tough old chap. Fought in the Royal Navy. First time I’ve had to throw someone out of Spencer House since, well, you know about that.”

  A few minutes later, he called out, “Fothergill, do we have a spot of dessert on board? I might like a sweet.”

  Gen clenched her jaw to keep it from dropping on the table. Arthur ate thin slices of fruit and cheese for dessert, sometimes.

  More plates with selections of cakes and mousses appeared, though Arthur’s serving held apple, melon, and cheddar, too.

  She watched him.

  Arthur ate the fruit and one slice of cheese and then slid the plate across the table to Maxence, who scowled at him but finished Arthur’s dessert, too.

  Twenty minutes later, Arthur called Fothergill over to prepare them a snack of nuts, crackers and cheese, vegetables and hummus, and fruit.

  A huge platter was brought to the center of the table.

  Why would anyone stock so much food for a two-hour flight?

  Charles de Gaulle Airport

  ALL the terminals at Charles de Gaulle Airport were busy, even the VIP Terminal that was reserved for private planes. The crowd milled through walkways, among the leather couches in the lounge areas, and near the gates.

  A football team of men juggling soccer balls was shoving each other and laughing while boarding a jumbo jet.

  Politicians flanked by their security teams bustled through the private terminal, straight to their gates for liftoff.

  Most of the doors opened to the ground because most private jets still used stairs to the tarmac, but a few of the gates had jetways for the larger jets.

  In the Paris airport, Arthur saw four black-suited men marching toward his group.

  Arthur stepped forward, gathering Gen and Maxence behind himself, even though they were chatting and didn’t notice he had moved.

  The four men had homed in on Arthur and strode right toward him.

  Arthur turned his head without taking his eyes off the encroaching men. “Guys, take a look at this.”

  Maxence’s security detail didn’t notice until the four men in black suits were almost to them.

  Then, too damn late, they fanned out with their hands in their jacket pockets.

  The four men marched right up to Arthur and stopped in front of him.

  The lead guy was almost as tall as Arthur himself. He said, “Lord Severn, Dieter Schwarz sent us. Mr. Schwarz apologizes for not meeting you in person, but he is coordinating another security operation.”

  Arthur relaxed. “Of course. The Grimaldi wedding, right?”

  “We do not comment on our other operations. I’m Magnus Jensen. These are my associates, Eirik Vang, Mael Chevalier, and Aiden Grier.”

  “Pleased to meet you all.” Arthur shook hands all around.

  Aiden Grier looked familiar. When he said, “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” with a Scottish accent, his wary eye contact lingered a little too long, too.

  Interesting.

  Arthur rounded up Gen and Maxence to go to the cars.

  I Love the Smell of Testosterone in the Morning

  AFTER the flight-slash-smorgasbord, Gen was surprised that no food was served during the short car ride into Paris.

  The security caravan of black limousines and SUVs meandered through the winding streets between sunrise-colored buildings. Window boxes overflowed with flowers that scented the air with their perfume, overpowering even the savory scents of French bread and croissants from the shops and cafes on the ground floors that lined the sidewalks.

  Gen was sandwiched between Arthur and Maxence in the back seat of a limo. She swore that she could smell the testosterone in the car, a heady mix of caramel, wild fo
rest fields, and dark musk. Just sniffing made Gen’s skin tingle, and she was buffeted by the air they displaced when either of them moved. Chilly streams from the air conditioner fluttered around her.

  Seriously, for the first time in Gen’s life, if both those men had wanted to go to bed, she would have taken both of them by their hands and figured out the logistics later.

  Yet she kept staring at Maxence’s collar. She was pretty sure that those square tabs weren’t a fashion thing.

  The guys talked about friends over Gen’s head, catching up on people they knew and laughing. Maxence leaned toward her a couple of times and caught her eye. Every time, a small smile softened his mouth.

  Gen inched closer to Arthur.

  Arthur laid his arm along the back of the car seat, and his hand drooped. He touched Gen’s shoulder with his fingers, effectively fencing her off. It was a straight-up possessive move.

  She wiggled closer to Arthur and leaned against his chest.

  His warmth and the firm muscles of his chest soothed her, and Gen melted against him. Arthur’s arm curled around her. He stroked her arm with his thumb.

  They talked, and Gen dozed in Arthur’s arms. It had been a short night.

  When they went their separate ways at the hotel, Maxence offered his hand again to shake hers. When Gen took his hand this time, she wasn’t quite as mesmerized by Maxence’s dark, luminous eyes.

  His hand in hers was too light under his hard calluses.

  When she looked more closely at him, Maxence’s beard was hiding his hollow cheeks under his sharp cheekbones.

  Maxence was so thin that he looked gaunt.

  Either Maxence was sick with something serious like cancer, or there must be another reason for how underweight he was.

  No wonder Arthur was taking care of him and pushing food.

  Beside her, Arthur turned to briefly confer with the man in the black suit about the accommodations in Paris.

  Maxence tugged her hand to pull Gen closer to him and whispered, “I need to talk to you about Arthur.”