“That good?”
She nodded. “It was more than amazing. I wish I could relive it. Or that I had a picture. Something to remember it. Anything.”
I saw the way she looked at my clothes. I hadn’t thought of them as a souvenir, but in her eyes, they were. Proof that I had spent the night at the palace.
“I’m sorry. But you had a good time? That’s what counts, right? You checked it off your Galona bucket list.”
I wished I had something to give her. A coin from The Titan. A cocktail napkin. Something that said we had been there.
“I did. More than once.” She giggled. The curiosity was killing me. I wanted to know who it was, but unless she volunteered I couldn’t ask. I also realized that would open me up to more sharing, and I didn’t want to trade stories. “Now that you’re home safely, I think I’m going to take a nap. I’m kind of exhausted.” She smiled sweetly.
I paused in her doorway. “Brooklyn?”
“Hmm?”
“Thanks for talking me into it.” I closed the door behind me and left her to her nap.
13
Damon
It was dark. My tie draped around my neck. We had been at it for hours.
I motioned for the server to walk over.
“Your majesty?”
“Please bring dinner. Whatever the chef recommends,” I instructed.
“Yes, sir.” He bowed and disappeared through one of the service doors that led to a tunnel system. It wound throughout the palace, connecting rooms where no one would have imagined a link.
“Paul.” I exhaled. “We are down to three points. Let’s have a drink while we wait for dinner to arrive. We can cut one of these things during that time.”
My patience had run out. I was fucking tired of his stalling. I removed my cufflinks, shoved them in my pocket, and rolled my sleeves to my forearms. My muscles strained against the starched shirt.
I rose and walked to the standing bar, waving off one of the servants.
“Bourbon?” I offered, holding up my favorite decanter.
Paul leaned in his chair. “I remember you were a bourbon man. I seemed to remember it’s American bourbons you prefer?”
“Yes.” I lifted the crystal lid. “I consider them steeped in something a little darker than our Scottish friends can provide.”
Maybe a few drinks would loosen his hold on the trade negotiations. He refused wine at lunch. Ignored cocktail hour. Now we were into dinner. Something had to give.
I placed it in front of the prime minister.
His mustache lifted when he smiled. “This is a good bourbon.”
I held the growl in. Of course it was. I didn’t serve cheap piss, and I never drank it. These were the moments when it was hard to be diplomatic. The bastard wanted to be courted and seduced. His chain of islands was dependent on my ports. The problem was, Galona was just as dependent on the revenue from the island cargo.
We were at a fucking impasse.
“Paul, our taxes are lower than anything the French or Spanish will give you. You know that.”
He nodded, drinking my bourbon. “Portugal has made an offer,” he stated.
“What? Since when have they been a player in this?” I felt the anger breaking through my calm exterior. I was ready to crush the glass in my hand. He had been fucking with me all day.