Page 20 of Rim Job

“Well, yes. I suppose I am, but there are about thirty-plus people in line for the throne in front of me. So, I will never be king.”

“But you are a Lord, yes?”

“Yes, yes I am.”

“That’s just,” she pauses, watching the neon lights as we roll down the strip, “that’s crazy. This,” she motions her hands between us, “you, it’s a lot to take in.”

“I have no doubt about that, love. I'm sure the last few hours have been overwhelming for you. Plus, you've had very little time to absorb all that's happened.”

She glances at me just briefly before she turns her head again to look out at the scenery. I sit quietly, patiently awaiting her next question.

“Um, Rimmington, are you in a relationship with someone?”

Here it is. The moment I've waited on. My opening.

“Yes, yes I am.”

She visibly cringes, shrinking down in her seat.

“I just married the loveliest American.”

She looks at me and offers a tentative smile. I smile back extra big to get a laugh. It works.

“Shut up,” she says, swatting my hand that now rests on the gear shift.

We pull up in front of my hotel, and the valet shuffles out to take my keys. I wave the other valet away from opening Christina’s door. That’s my job and pleasure. I walk around the front of my car, looking through the wind screen at Christina sitting nervously inside. She seems unsure as I open her door and extend my hand to help her out.

“Lord and Lady Banks,” the young attendant greets us. If she's caught off-guard by this, she doesn't show it. Neither of us say anything. I just nod in his direction as we pass. I sweep her through the front doors and usher her behind the check-in desk.

“Where are we going, Rim? We can't just walk back here.”

“When you own the hotel, you can.” I give her a wink.

“You own the hotel? This hotel? The Krissinger?”

“Yes, but technically speaking, you do too.”

She doesn't say anything as I lead her back to my office. I decided on the way over it was more appropriate to have this conversation in a room that doesn't hold memories of her naked beneath me—or a bed. The desire to get her there again can wait, for now.

11

CHRISTINA

Rimmington leads me down the corridor, his hand laced in mine. It should feel awkward holding his hand, but, somehow, it doesn't. It feels natural, comfortable, like we've done it for years. His broad, warm fingers squeeze mine, and he pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks an ornate door at the end of the hall.

He flips on the lights and ushers me inside before him. The office is massive with dark wood-paneled walls, an ornate desk taking up residence in the center of the room, and a carved stone fireplace off to the side flanked by plush-looking leather club chairs that rest on a regal red rug. The space is manly, old world, and reeks of money. Lots and lots and lots of money.

It suits him, though. There’s an easiness to it, casual but upscale.

He passes me, gripping my hand in his, and leads me toward the club chairs. I take a seat, and he makes his way to a bar tucked in beside the fireplace.

“Would you fancy a drink, Christina?”

“Yes, please. Scotch, if you have it.”

I clear my throat. This man unnerves me. He is power, control, and sex wrapped up in a three-piece suit.

He unbuttons his jacket and lays it on the bar, then tugs off his tie next.

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