Keeping her wrists pinned above her, I lean back a little to enjoy the view. “Bullshit. Best decision you ever made. Now listen up, buttercup . . .”
And I start to tell her all the things I should’ve said weeks ago. No, years ago . . .
? ? ?
4 weeks earlier
I slide my arms into the custom-tailored navy suit jacket Harrison selected for me today. The guy’s got good taste, and he’s an expert at which cut of an Italian three-piece suit is stylish and which is just vulgar. I wasn’t aware that a lapel could be “vulgar,” but apparently it’s possible.
After adjusting my burgundy silk tie, I step out of the dressing room into the bedroom just as Harrison enters from the hallway carrying a tray with freshly pressed coffee and all the trimmings. He places the tray on the desk, without rattling the delicate china, and pours me a cup.
“Your coffee,” he whispers so as not to disturb my guests, who are still asleep in my bed.
“Thank you, Harrison,” I whisper back.
Tatianna—the one with the long, black hair and even longer legs—is an honest-to-goodness princess. She’s a couple dozen relatives away from the throne, but her blood is as blue as it gets. Which, as I see it, is the best of both worlds—all the perks, only a few of the responsibilities.
And if there’s one thing royals know how to do, it’s party.
As demonstrated by the equally tall and lithe blonde asleep beside her. Marie is her lady-in-waiting. Her assistant. And her very close friend, going by last night’s festivities.
I’m not an asshole. I’ve had girlfriends, and when I do, I’m faithful. I’ve also had lovers, one-night stands, and mutually satisfying arrangements with beautiful female acquaintances. Tatianna falls into the last category; we get together whenever she’s in town.
Despite Harrison and my quietest efforts, Tatianna rolls over with a groan. “It’s too early. Why are you up?”
I sip my coffee. “I have to go to work.”
She sits up, putting her full, bronzed breasts on display. Not a single tan line to be found. Europeans are a lot better with nudity than Americans, praise the Lord.
She pouts. “I know your family, and the only work you have to do is paying someone to manage your assets.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Why do you do this? Nine to five is not for people like us, Brent.”
Coming into more money than one could spend in three lifetimes, at eighteen years old like I did, has its own set of dangers. Go ahead—roll your eyeballs—but I’m serious. See, most people work because they have to, for things like food, a house, clothes, a car. The result of having to work for those necessities is ambition. Drive.
Work gives purpose to your life.
Boredom has killed more in my social class than cancer and heart disease combined. Because when your necessities are covered, what the hell do you do with yourself?
I’ll tell you what: you search for ways to stay occupied. To not be bored out of your fucking mind. You can buy your own plane? How about learning to fly one. You were taught to ski at four years old by an Olympian? How about playing football on the ski slopes. Got too much free time on your hands? How about going on safari to pit yourself against a man-eating tiger, or seek out an isolated tribe that still practices cannibalism.
Boredom is a disease, and the cure is a career that gives you a reason to drag your ass out of bed in the morning.
But I have a meeting in forty-five minutes, so I just tell her, “I do it because they need me. The firm would fall apart without me.”
She gazes up at me and her smile turns devilish. She runs her hand up Marie’s smooth calf, pushing the sheet away as she gets to her shapely thigh and the delectable swell of her ass. “I return home tonight. I was hoping we could enjoy my last day here together. I guess Marie and I will have to play without you.”
I give serious consideration to blowing off the meeting. “You’re diabolical.”
And she looks like such a sweet girl.
“Or maybe your young man can join us?” Her eyes alight on Harrison. “Do you want to play, houseboy?”
I catch Harrison’s eye and rapidly reddening face, and tilt my head Tatianna’s way with a go-for-it grin.
“Is that the telephone?” he squeaks. “If you’ll excuse me.” He gives a short bow, and practically runs out the door.
Tatianna removes her hand from the sleeping beauty and giggles. “He’s too young to be so serious.”
“Yeah, I’m working on that.” I shrug. “And you’re welcome to spend the day here. Enjoy the hot tub, enjoy . . . Harrison. Playing’s probably not in the cards, but he makes a killer omelet.” I step closer and gently run my fingers through the endless strands of her dark hair. “When’s your next trip back to the States?”