“What’ll you have, Miss?” Macalister asks.
“Whatever Prince Henry is having,” she replies with a smile, dropping enough bills on the bar to pay for both our drinks.
I like women. No, I love women. The way they move, how they think, the sound of their voices, the scent of their skin—their warmth and softness. But there’s nothing soft about this woman. She’s all angles—prominent cheekbones, taut limbs, a pointy chin and dark hair cut in a severe bob just below her ears. Not unattractive—but slim and sharp like an arrow. She sounds American and looks near my age, but there’s an aggressive air about her that I’ve only encountered in middle-aged women. Cougars. I adore cougars—women who are experienced enough to know exactly what they want and confident enough to say it out loud.
I’m intrigued. And horny. I haven’t had a good, thorough shag since . . . Nicholas’s wedding. Christ—it’s been months. No wonder I’m a basket case.
Macalister fills a mug with Guinness and sets a shot in front of her. Then he refills my shot glass and makes himself busy down at the other end of the bar.
I turn in my seat, lifting my glass. “Cheers.”
Her eyes are ice blue. “Bottoms up.”
I wink. “One of my favorite positions.”
She gives a snort, then downs her shot like a pro. Licking her lips, she eyes my left forearm. “Nice tattoo.”
It’s two tattoos, actually. The Royal Coat of Arms begins below my wrist and under it, the military crest of Wessco. I had the first done when I was sixteen, when I slipped my security detail after curfew at boarding school and went into town with a few friends. I thought I could wear long sleeves and my grandmother would never know. That illusion lasted exactly one day—that’s how long it took for photos of me at the tattoo parlor to be splashed across all the papers. I had the second added a few years ago—just after basic training—with the lads from my unit.
“Thanks.”
She holds out her hand. “I’m Vanessa Steele.”
Definitely American. If she were from Wessco, she would bow. I shake her hand; it’s dry and smooth. “Henry. But you already know that.”
“I do. You’re a difficult man to get in touch with.”
I sip my pint. “Then how about I finish my drink and you can touch me till your heart’s content, love.”
She laughs, eyes gleaming. “You’re even better than I imagined.” She taps a red fingernail on the wood bar. “I have a proposition for you.”
“And I do so enjoy being propositioned. Your place or mine?” Then I snap my fingers, remembering. “We will have to stop by the Palace. There’s an NDA you’re supposed to sign—a technicality. Then we can get right to the good part.”
Vanessa braces her elbow on the bar. “Not that kind of proposition. I don’t want to sleep with you, Henry.”
“Who said anything about sleeping? I’m talking about sex. Good sex. Lots of it.”
That puts a flush on her pretty cheeks and she laughs. “I don’t want to have sex with you.”
I pat her hand. “Now you’re just being silly. The cat-and-mouse game can be tantalizing, but it’s not necessary.” My voice drops to a whisper. “I’m a sure thing.”
Her smile is sly and confident. “So I hear. But this is a business opportunity, and I never mix business with pleasure.”
And as quick as that, my interest drops. These days, “business” is the most effective cold shower. “Pity.”
“It doesn’t have to be. I’m a television producer. Matched—have you heard of it?”
I squint, recalling. “One of those reality dating shows, isn’t it? Survivor, but with cat fights and string bikinis?”
“That’s right.”
Out of the corner of my eye I notice Macalister motion to one of his bouncers—a strapping, thick-necked bloke. Vanessa must notice as well, because she speaks more quickly.
“I’m putting together a special edition—a royal edition—and I want you to be the star. We’ll take care of everything, make all the arrangements—twenty beautiful blue bloods in one castle and all you have to do is let them fall all over themselves for you. It’ll be a month-long, nonstop party. And in the end, you can check off your most important royal duty: choosing your queen.”
As far as pitches go, hers isn’t half bad. The slumbering, neglected part of me that remembers easy, simple, laid-back days stirs and stretches. It’s that feeling you get in the coldest nights of winter—a yearning for sweet, summer sun.
The bouncer stands behind her. “Time to go, Miss.”
Vanessa rises from her stool. “Think of me as the female Billy the Kid.” She winks. “I’ll make you famous.”
“I’m already famous.”
“But you’re not enjoying it anymore, are you, Henry? I can do something for you that no one else can—I will make famous fun again.” She slides her card across the bar. “Think about it, then call me.”
I watch her back as she struts across the bar and out the door. And though I have no intention of taking her up on the interesting offer, I slip her card into my wallet. Just in case.
The eighties are a sorely underrated decade in terms of musical composition. They don’t get nearly the respect they deserve. I try to use my platform in the world to bring attention to this travesty by singing eighties ballads whenever I get the chance. Like right now, as I sing “What About Me” by Moving Pictures on the karaoke stage. It was their one-hit wonder and a soul-stirring exercise in self-pity. My eyes are closed as I belt out the lyrics and sway behind he microphone.