Page 24 of Reveal Me
‘You ready for your royal guest tonight?’ Ben teases as he drives me home to Blackstone House. I had no option but to confess what happened on Friday night. If the princess is anywhere near my place, it’s his job to protect her in addition to protecting me. He can’t do that if he’s unaware of her presence.
‘I have a sinking suspicion no one could be ready for Princess Layla Sinclair.’ I thrum my fingers over my chin.
‘You like her.’ He glances in the rearview mirror to squint at me through the moonlight.
‘Don’t be so ridiculous.’ I tut, hitting the button to slide up the partition separating the back of the Bentley from the front. The last thing I hear before it closes completely is the sound of his smug laughter.
He drops me off at the house’s pillared entrance then heads to his own private quarters to check the CCTV and then the estate’s perimeters. Given the princess’s high profile, we need to be vigilant, unlike her own security. She’ll enter and leave my property with the same level of protection she’dreceive at a diplomatic function. No one will touch her under my watch—no one but me, that is.
Bar the security team, no one is here. I gave all my staff the night off, including my elderly housekeeper, Mrs Walsh, with strict instructions not to return until morning. Her raised eyebrow said everything about the unusual nature of my request, but twenty-six years of service to first my mother, then to me, has taught her not to ask questions. She left a lamb marinating as I requested and laid out the vegetables for me to prepare. I asked her to leave scallops in the fridge to serve as a starter. I’m a surprisingly good cook, even if I do say so myself. I actually like cooking. Like the routine of following recipes. It’s oddly therapeutic.
I ditch my coat and make my way to the kitchen. It gleams with the same precision as my office—custom Gaggenau appliances in brushed steel imported directly from Germany, forty-foot Calacatta marble countertops sourced from the same quarries in Carrara the renaissance masters used when crafting the Vatican, and not a single item out of place beneath the handblown Venetian glass pendant lights. It was designed by the same architect who renovated Gordon Ramsay’s flagship restaurant, with floor-to-ceiling windows framing the meticulously landscaped gardens.
I methodically arrange my mise en place on the hand-crafted walnut chopping block, each ingredient precisely measured in small crystal bowls and positioned within arm’s reach. There’s comfort in the familiar ritual— unlike whatever the fuck is about to unfold with Princess Layla Sinclair.
The image of her crawling across the stage with heat and hunger in her eyes has taunted me every hour of every day since. Not helpful, given I’m about to be alone with her.
I check my watch and select a bottle of Beckett’s Black Label from the cellar, the same exceptional vintage champagne from our family’s vineyards that Scarlett broughtthrough earlier. Champagne is my favourite aperitif. I select a bottle of red to accompany the lamb, open it, and leave it to breathe on the counter.
The intercom from the main gate buzzes. I pull up the feed on my mobile phone. The princess is at the main gate in a nondescript black Range Rover with heavily tinted windows. She’s surprisingly punctual. I’d half-expected her to arrive fashionably late, some petty assertion of royal privilege. More surprising still: she’s actually turned up. Few people truly understand what they’re asking for when they seek this life. But then again, fewer people still have the audacity to blackmail their way into it either.
I press the button to grant her access, then ease the scallops into the smoking pan, quietly contemplating how to broach the conversation ahead. Larissa normally does this part for me, but given the princess’ status, and her threat to expose me, it’s imperative I handle this personally. Plus, I can’t deny the part of me that is desperate to see her again—to explore if that raw, primal chemistry between us was as real as it felt in the club. I’ve never felt anything like it in my life.
The doorbell chimes. I lower the heat, wipe my hands on a towel, and straighten my cuffs. I opted for black suit pants and a black shirt. Maybe my outfit will reflect the darkness of what she’s asking for.
I stride through the double height hall and open the door.
Fuck me.
My throat tightens as I fight the urge to gulp her in.
She was stunning on Friday night in a scrap of lace.
Tonight, she’s a knockout in a belted cashmere black coat, which suggests quiet money rather than royal ostentation. She clutches a thick brown envelope in her hand like a lifeline. Her thick lustrous hair is tied back in a poker straight pony tail that my hands are itching to wrap around. Did shedo that on purpose? Did she notice the other subs’ style and copy it?
Flawless makeup dusts her high, prominent cheekbones. She’s wearing that shiny scarlet lipstick again. Thick black lashes frame her deep chocolate eyes. They sweep downward as she takes me all in. When she finally tips her head back to meet my eye, that same lethal electricity pulses in the air between us.
‘I did wonder if you’d come.’ I recover, stepping aside and beckoning her in.
‘I wondered the same thing.’ The small smirk that touches her lips tells me she’s referring to something else entirely.
Will she cry out my name as she shatters on my cock?
My dick jerks in my pants at the prospect. For fuck’s sake. This isn’t what tonight’s supposed to be about.
‘What’s the proper form of address? Your Highness or Princess? Forgive my ignorance, I’ve never had the pleasure of dining with royalty before.’ Though I’ve dined with plenty of women who thought they were princesses.
‘Princess is fine.’ She breezes into my house, eyeing the décor with what looks like appreciation. ‘That way, when we’re in the club, it’ll sound like a form of endearment.’ Her perfume—that same intoxicating, complex scent I’d noticed on Friday night—seeps into my nostrils, crawling its way into my lungs.
‘We haven’t signed anything yet,’ I remind her, closing the door.
‘I have.’ Her eyes gleam boldly back at me as she waves the envelope under my nose.
‘Keen, aren’t you?’ I motion for her to head on through to the kitchen. ‘I’ve prepared dinner. I thought we might discuss terms after we’ve gotten to know each other a bit better.’
She glances around my entrance hall, taking in theportraits lining my walls with interest. ‘You have an impressive art collection, andyou can cook?’
‘Is that so surprising?’
