Desire Love and Passion

chapter 2



James could not get the image of her legs out of his mind. He dreamed about her that night and he woke up feeling lonely and empty. It was the loneliest he’d felt in a really long time.

There was no news of the accident which he took as a good sign. It would be horrible to start the week on the front page with a wrecked Volkswagen. Now he stood over the stove stirring eggs in the frying pan. He should have made a day of the invitation. She had grudgingly given him her number, promising that five o'clock was not too early for dinner.

Impulsively, he reached for the phone and dialed her number. She picked up on the first ring.

"Hello." She really had a bedroom voice, the sound of which sent images of his dreams racing through his mind.

"Good morning," he said. "It's James."

"Oh," she sounded disappointed.

"Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"If you have a few extra fuses hanging around no, otherwise, yes."

"I'll see what I can do. Have you had breakfast?"

"What is that?"

"I'll see you in a bit."

He turned off the stove and emptied the overcooked eggs into a garbage bin. He packed a few items in a paper sack and went to find the fuses he knew were stashed in a utility room. James had dressed in torn blue jeans and a well-worn tee shirt for the excursion to Willow’s house. He took the Land Rover from the garage with an earful of protest from Larry and Simon, the head of his security services. James was not, as a matter of security and his safety, allowed to drive unaccompanied. His status and position required round the clock security.

Willow opened the door after the third ring of the doorbell. Her dark hair was hanging loosely around her face. He realized looking at her face that she hadn't been wearing makeup yesterday. His initial thought was that the smoothness of her face was a product of great skin and good makeup but no, it was all her. She truly was a stunning beauty.

She wore an over-sized man's shirt that stopped at her mid thighs. The shirt had what looked like the letter M or a badly embroidered W in Old English. He felt a bit silly standing in her doorway appraising her like this. He looked at her hand and came to the conclusion that she was single. A beautiful young woman like her most likely was not single, though. The good ones were never single.

James felt he was jumping ahead of himself only because she was the first beautiful woman who had not flinched at the sight of his scar up close and personal. Even as he scolded himself, it dawned on him today more than yesterday that she was all legs: miles of them. A pair of glasses, absent from their previous meeting was perched precariously at the end of her nose.

"You," she said.

"Were you expecting someone else?" he asked. "I said I'll see you in a bit."

"No, I wasn't expecting anyone. I thought when you said see you in a bit you meant later."

She stepped away from the door as a means of invitation. He walked into the house.

James had never seen the house before yesterday. It was a rather large house for a single person. It was a wood and stone structure with a carriage house garage tucked away in the back. It blended in nicely with the wooded area that surrounded it. The inside was a marvel of Italian tiles, rough lumber and stones.

It was the only other house on this dead-end street in Hampstead. When the markets went belly-up five years ago, James bought every acre he could get his hands on. John was the only hold out, refusing offers of three times property value. The decision to purchase this particular street took careful thought. It was one of the few suburban streets buffeted by National parks on three sides. It provided above all else, privacy.

"What's in the bag?" She asked.

"Breakfast and fuses."

"I don't cook," she said.

"Lucky for you, I make a mean omelet."

She led him to the breaker panel in the garage. In a few minutes the whole house was powered up. He followed her into a large kitchen. It featured a large island in the center with a pan-rack overhead. All the counter tops were of solid red onyx; unique to say the least. A four foot wide refrigerator was recessed into a wall and on the opposite side, a similar sized range that boasted double ovens.

"Deliveries don't get way out here, so how do you eat if you don’t cook?"

He placed the shopping bag on the island.

"There's always frozen," she replied. "Besides, I can live on coffee and salads."

"I see. That's the secret to that body."

She made a deep throaty laugh. She threw her head back when she did it. He immediately thought about kissing her neck. He wanted to hear that voice purring his name as he kissed her.

"Flattery will not get you out of fixing my car. Neither will breakfast."

He removed eggs, frozen croissant dough, and more from the bag.

"You'll sing a different tune when you taste my vegetarian omelet."

"I thought a man of your stature would have better things to do with his time than make breakfast for a stranger. And if not better things, at least more interesting things that make tabloid news."

"Every dog has a day off."

"So, where were you in a hurry to get to?"

"Anywhere but me."

"Oh," she said. "That’s kind of difficult, I’d imagine."

"Tell me about it. Some days you feel like a slab of beef in a den of carnivores."

"That difficult, huh?" she asked.

"More like frustrating."

He found that it was easy to talk to her.

"Does speeding really help?"

"It’s less complicated than giving the staff an earful. Well, unless you manage to run a beautiful woman off the road and then try to bribe her with dinner."

"The famed temper of James Monroe," Willow said.

His infamy had started with a scandal. The once third in line for the throne of England had gone on holidays to Miami. On the final night of Spring Break he went partying. Perhaps he had too much to drink, no one knew and he’d never given an explanation for his behavior. The front page news the next day was of a butt naked prince clearly in the throngs of passion as he received oral sex from a female at the party.

Buckingham Palace had condemned the photographs, the photographers, the publishers, and James was given quite the public scolding. He was kept from the public for almost two months. His handlers were swiftly and efficiently replaced. All perhaps would have been okay, except someone, no one really knew who, had hinted that he’d made an apology for his behavior.

Willow remembered remnants of the speech. It was part of her political science discord at Cambridge. There was no apology. There was no rewriting of events. In five short minutes, James had gone from third in line to the throne, to out of contention. He followed up his speech by changing his surname to that of his father; Monroe.

The story should have ended there, but, James was singularly brilliant. After three years on his own he amassed considerable wealth by investing in well over forty startups. Thirty-six of which went on to be multimillion dollar, even billion dollar companies. It seemed to everyone he had truly inherited his father's penchant for finding a winner. George Monroe the First was head of Lehmann's London division before he married the princess.

James cemented his place in history however, when he volunteered to fight front and center in the Middle Eastern War. His squad was attacked during what should have been routine patrol. He was not among the dead. He was missing. The military kept a gag order on his disappearance, hoping his captors wouldn’t recognize him. After the terror attacks on Windsor during a jubilee celebration, James was officially declared dead. Two years later, he showed up at the British Consulate in Turkey, scarred and if he had wanted the title, Britain’s true king.

The temper that made him the black sheep of the family had not disappeared. His first public appearance took place three months are returning to England. The whole world watched and waited anxiously to see what his next move would be. He was back in the forefront at a time when soldiers were seen as true heroes. His miraculous appearance was seen as a sign by some, but nothing had changed.

James pledged to be the servant of the people, but vowed never to be their king. He called leadership by birth an antiquated philosophy. He took back the reigns of his company and within two years, claimed the title of World's Wealthiest Man. It didn’t matter what he said, the people loved him and he loved them.

"I don't have a temper," he said.

"It is none of my business,” she replied. “I'll brew fresh coffee."

He couldn’t help the defensiveness in his voice as he watched her pad around the kitchen barefooted. Her casual dressing that probably would have made other women self-conscious in his presence didn't seem to bother her. He wished the shirt was just an inch shorter as she stood on tip-toes to remove a large canister of coffee from a top shelf.

"So was John like an uncle or…?" James was trying to get to the bottom of their relationship. He knew from Larry's brief John was childless.

"My god-father," she volunteered. "I lived with John for a while after my parents died."

"Oh. I'm surprised I never ran into you."

"Not out here," she said. "We lived in Cambridge. And before that I went to school in Paris."

"Paris?" James asked.

"Yes. John was not exactly the single parent type. By the way, do I need to be more careful driving around here?"

"No. Yesterday was a rare occasion. There is nothing like the wind through your hair for a little clarity."

"So the media is right," she turned to look at him. She leaned against the countertop. Her shirt automatically rode up two inches higher. "You are procrastinating on the aid package."

"No," he said as he placed croissants in the oven. "I'm giving it careful thought."

"You don't have to get defensive," she said. "I understand. Everyone understands. We have your back, whatever you decide."

James was recently appointed as British Envoy to the United Nations. As if someone was playing a cruel joke, his first duty was to broker an aid package to the same countries that had been enemies of the Crown during the war. He was quite candid in his opinions and carrying the title of diplomat did little to temper his candor.

"What would you decide?" he asked.

“Sorry, I’m not in your shoes. I don’t have all the facts and therefore have no clue what I would do.”

"Okay then, what do you think I should do?"

"I’m not a politician. And I’m certain you know both the humane and politically correct thing to do."

"That's a cop out," he said. "I think you do have an opinion on the matter."

"My opinion is unimportant. In fact, even the opinions of your peers are irrelevant and that is why everyone has quietly and respectfully shoved the ball in your court."

"Now that is an interesting observation." He whipped a batch of eggs to which he added mushroom, spices she could not identify and a whole host of other vegetables.

“But you knew that’s why the assignment fell to you."

“I suppose. It doesn’t make the decision any easier.”

She turned away and started the coffee. Willow was thinking of what to say. She was good at making light of a bad moment. Somehow her senses were failing her in this moment. Maybe some of it had to do with him standing across her kitchen looking all male in his tight-fitted tee-shirt and everyday jeans. She noted that he hadn’t bothered to comb his hair before showing up at her door, and that rugged unkempt look was very sexy on him.

"Are you going to be living here alone?" James asked breaking the silence.

"Mostly," she said.

"Mostly?"

"A girl has to get out once in a while," she said. "You don't live out here by yourself. You have Larry and your bodyguards."

"So are you in a relationship?"

"Occasionally."

"You mean like an on again off again thing?" James asked.

"No, I mean occasionally, sort of like you. You may be single but you get out every now and then. If the media is to be believed," she said the last part as if it was a secret.

"Oh."

"Come on," she said with a bit of annoyance in her voice. "You cannot be a prude at thirty seven. The whole world has changed. Homosexuals have legally recognized unions with the same benefits as heterosexual married couples and the richest man in the world is making breakfast in my kitchen."

"I didn’t mean to upset you," he said.

"I’m not upset, and I know you’re not prudish. Your trysts have made Murdoch a lot of money."

“Don’t believe everything you read,” he said stiffly.

“Why do you hide it?” She pointed to his face and he knew she meant his scar.

“Why do you think I hide it?”

“I’m asking you.”

“It makes everyone more comfortable?”

"Does it make you more comfortable?"

He shrugged.

She removed a clean dish towel from the drawer and ran it under the sink. She walked over to where he stood, waiting on the timer that would tell him precisely when to start his omelets.

"Do you mind?" She pointed to the scar.

He realized that he did what he always did when going out in public. He put a dash of make-up to conceal it as much as possible.

"No," he said.

Her right palm was on one side of his head, soft slender fingers fanning out for support. She gently dabbed away at his deception.

For a moment, he had a feeling of déjà vu. It was a long time since anyone had touched him so tenderly and he closed his eyes against the sudden surge of emotions. He breathed in the soft scent of lilacs that came from her. They had done this before.

"I hope I'm not hurting you," she said in a soft voice as if she was watching him.

"No," he opened his eyes.

"That's better," she said looking at him and not his scar.

"Thank you."

She moved the hand on the side of his face and he reached for it, caught it. He held her hand for a moment. They were only a few inches apart. He wondered if she would run if he kissed her. Oh, how he wanted to kiss her. It wasn't the first time he'd thought of it since opening the door. The beep from the oven sounded, shattering the moment.

"Sounds like breakfast is almost ready," she said.

Her voice sounded lower, throatier. He wondered if she’d thought about kissing him, too. Her eyes held no answer to his silent inquiry. Her hand slipped out of his. She walked back to the counter where the coffee pot gurgled its dark brew.

Willow set a table on the deck just outside the kitchen. There was a picturesque view of the backwoods just beyond the house. Her house was backed up to one side of the national park. There was a man-made waterfall on the large deck. The sound of the water weaving its way through the rocks was musically soothing. He heard birds and was mildly surprise. This wooded respite may feel like the country but it was not entirely so.

"I never hear that many birds from my house," he said taking a seat.

"John built an aviary a while ago. I think he was having a mid-life crisis."

Willow bit into her omelet. He was right, it was good.

"Uh hum, uh hum, hum," she said taking a swallow. "You're almost forgiven for wrecking my car. This is one of the best omelets I have ever tasted."

"Thank you. Now tell me more about this occasionally thing."

Willow almost choked on her last bite.

"I’m starting to think dinner is not such a good idea," she said after a minute.

"Does occasionally mean you have someone you are interested in but don't know where that relationship is going? Or you are not interested in a relationship but like having a companion?"

"The latter."

"I thought all girls wanted to grow up, meet Prince Charming and get married," James said.

"That’s purely the stuff of bedtime stories," Willow said. "I thought all boys wanted to be Prince Charming. You were Prince Charming before you gave it up. I mean the Prince part at least. Relationships are complicated and I like things simple."

"Do your dates think that way?"

"I don't know how my dates think," she said honestly. "As John used to say, that calls for the operation of someone else’s mind. How about you Mr. Monroe? Do your dates know they won't be coming back the morning after?"

"Yes."

James found her honesty surprisingly refreshing.