King and Kingdom (Royals Book 2) Page 3

  The door closed with a decisive click.

  “But the stewardess will know--” Chey didn't get far with her surprised protest.

  Sander stepped close and cupped her jaw in his hands. “Of course she'll know. It's hard to hide on a plane. So let me tell you what you were thinking, and then I'll open the door.”

  Chey wasn't sure she wanted him to open the door. She all but melted in his hands, face tipped up to his. Another one of those surreal moments hit her broadside; she couldn't believe she was on a plane, in a Prince's arms, on the way to some exotic locale. “Okay. Tell me.”

  “You were thinking about those times in bed when you almost left marks on my neck. And you weren't just thinking about leaving the marks, but the rest of it, too.” He cut her a knowing grin.

  Chey rested her hands on his hips and basked in his attention. “I won't lie. That's exactly what I was thinking about. Good thing we didn't bet for real.”

  Without warning, he kissed her. Hard and full, tongue searching out all the secret places of her mouth. Arching into him, she slid her hands around his back under the coat, following the shape of the muscle along his spine. He was built solid and sturdy, shoulders temporarily blocking out the room. The kiss changed angles and depth and became something more serious when she slipped a groan past his lips. Then it was a matter of shedding clothes along with her modesty; there would be no hiding what they'd done when they returned to their seats.

  He laid her down on the bed less like she was fragile and more like he meant to claim her. It was the way he loved her, too, relentless and confident and primal. He whispered her name twice, once to drive her toward the edge, and again in the aftermath of ecstasy. The intensity of it left Chey dizzy and disoriented. In these most private moments, she opened her heart to him, let him hear and see and feel just how much he moved her.

  In return he engulfed her in his arms, shielding her with his body, as if he meant to never let anything hurt her again.

  Chapter Three

  The city of Monte Carlo sparkled in the waning hours of the night. Chey stared at the glittery buildings out the window of a limousine that ferried them along an avenue next to the harbor. Even this late, people were everywhere. On the docks, partying on yachts, crossing from one lavish hotel casino to another. The playground for the ultra rich teemed with life and the promise of a good time.

  Tucked against Sander's side, one hand resting on his chest, she watched as the avenue cut away for a drive leading into an expansive, beautiful hotel right on the water. A simple yet elegant sign identified the structure as The Trident. Tall and majestic, the hotel sprawled over the ground with its stunning mediterranean architecture on prominent display. Ivory columns supported an arched overhang that protected doors leading in.

  It wasn't this more obvious front entrance that the limousine navigated to, but a private VIP area replete with a breezeway for easy unloading and loading. Security was thicker here, with uniformed men guarding all three sides of the breezeway as well as the drive. Sander's personal security, in two separate SUVs, parked ahead and behind and kept watch while they disembarked.

  Still reeling from their tryst on the plane, Chey got her feet on the ground and accepted the elbow Sander elegantly offered her.

  “Thanks. This place is amazing,” she said, trying not to gawk. Chey, distantly aware of the difference between Sander's regal authority and her childlike wonder, attempted to act more like she'd done this before. It wasn't easy. She'd never moved in the circles of people who expected this kind of treatment.

  “It's the nicest hotel in Monte Carlo,” he whispered near her ear. He winked on the sly, then headed toward the double smoked glass doors. One was held open by a doorman.

  “Your Highness, it's good to have you stay with us again,” another man said, obviously a manager by the cut and cloth of his suit. He smiled and inclined his head. “Would you like anything sent up to your room straight away?”

  “Robert, nice to see you,” Sander replied. There was a briskness to the edges of his accent that hadn't been there before. “Only the things I asked for when I made the reservation.”

  “Everything is accounted for.” The manager escorted them inside and into a hallway immediately to the left. It ran along the the back of the hotel and had adequate security guarding the entrance.

  Sander's men swarmed by and cleared the way. Others lingered behind, bringing up the rear.

  “Excellent.” Sander said no more.

  Chey had the sensation of watching this from a distant perspective, as if she wasn't the woman on Sander's arm. The edges of the picture were fuzzy, distorted. Ferried along toward a waiting elevator, Chey tried to clear her head, tried to get a grip on the here and now. It was all so foreign, the way people treated Sander—and herself. From the discreet glances, to the reverence in their actions, to the way people anticipated what Sander wanted before he asked.

  Escorted into a lavish elevator, Chey stood next to Sander with her fingers clutching his arm harder than she meant to. As if he understood, he reached across with his other hand and laid his fingers over her own. His skin was warm, the weight firm and sturdy.

  Pushing a button, the manager, who rode in the carriage with them along with several security members, watched the numbers light up and did not make small talk. When a ding announced their arrival on the correct floor, the manager stepped aside so the security could proceed him out into the hallway.

  Once the all clear came, Sander led Chey into an area that resembled a foyer, the décor luxurious and expensive. A divan, small table, and one wingback chair sat against the far wall. To the right, a short hall was the only access to a pair of elaborate doors that the manager set a brisk pace for.

  Chey took it all in with growing excitement. That strange sense of distance evaporated the second the manager opened one of the doors and gestured inside. The penthouse Sander accompanied her into after his security swept through was a study in cream walls, white crown molding, glittery chandeliers and ritzy furniture fanned out over a shockingly large area. Doors to several bedrooms led off the main room, which was equipped with a kitchen, dining room, and floor to ceiling windows with a view of the ocean. A long balcony could be seen thanks to small lights set every few feet along a waist high wall. Flowers of all colors, sizes and shapes had been set about in vases that accentuated the rich setting.

  She wasn't sure where to look first. Sander led her further in while one of the security passed the manager a healthy tip.

  “Will everything suit, Your Highness?” the manager asked, discreetly thanking the security for the envelope before he tucked it inside his coat pocket.

  “For now, yes. Thank you, Robert.” Sander smiled with cordial finality.

  “Very good. Ring for anything you need,” Robert said, before departing the room.

  After the following security members brought in the luggage and closed the door on their way out, Sander glanced at Chey. “What do you think?”

  “It's staggering. So much space for two people.” Releasing his elbow, she headed to a table where a Welcome basket had been left by the hotel staff. Fruit, cheeses and two unopened bottles of wine sat ready for consumption. Two more bottles of wine in silver buckets flanked one of the vases of flowers. Real flowers, Chey noted, not fake ones.

  “With a fantastic view, too, which you'll be able to see a lot better by morning. Do you want something to drink and open a few presents, or do you want to go straight down to the casino?” Sander strolled to the balcony doors and opened one. The lights from the harbor framed his masculine silhouette, outlining his broad shoulders and narrow hips.

  Chey explored the living room, then glanced at Sander. She spent a few moments just appreciating how regal he looked in his suit and how different he seemed from the khaki wearing canoe guide who had heckled her over a game of Scrabble. He distracted her from all that with one particular word: “Presents?”

  “Look in the master suite,” he said with an a
mused glance over his shoulder.

  Chey found the double doors leading into the main suite and paused just past the threshold. The room, as luxurious as the rest of the penthouse, sported an enormous bed situated against the far wall. Spread out over the pale blue and gold accented covers, several elegant gift boxes waited to be opened. Always a sucker for surprises, she forced herself to forgo the pleasure of opening them in favor of sight seeing.

  “I think I'll wait. It can wait, right?” Backtracking, Chey advanced on Sander until she stood right behind him. Helping herself to his person, she wrapped her arms around his middle. He was tall enough that when she pressed her cheek against his back, her head only reached the spot between his shoulder blades.

  “Yes, it can wait. But I'm changing before we go down.” Arching an arm back, he half hugged her, then turned in her grasp until he was facing her. “Give me a few minutes. I'll be quick.”

  She got on her tiptoes to kiss his mouth. “Are you crazy? I'm coming to watch.”

  He kissed her around a laugh. “All right then.”

  After a squeeze, she released him.

  He brought some of their luggage into the bedroom and unpacked jeans, a steel gray sweater and boots. As promised, it only took him a few minutes to do the deed. Chey watched from her lean against the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. Without shame, she admired his chest, the ripple of muscle in his stomach, and the thickness of his thighs. Catching his gaze when he glanced up once or twice, she smiled.

  The smile he gave her in return was rife with deviant intent.

  “Now that's the Sander I met in the woods,” she said.

  “Is that an invitation to tackle you to the ground?” He surged up off the edge of the bed.

  Chey laughed and held out a palm. “No!”

  “Are you sure? I think you want to be tackled. You're just too shy to ask.” He stalked her, resplendent even in simple clothes.

  Chey backed out of the doorway, stricken by a bout of laughter. “Sander, I will hurt you if you tackle me.”

  “That's not really a threat.” He bent suddenly when he was within range and scooped her up by the hips. Over his shoulder she went. The sound of an obnoxious crack against her backside wrought a startled yelp out of her.

  “Sander!” She pinched his back to no avail. “This is so not Royal-like.”

  “Exactly. Now, the only thing I have to decide is whether or not to carry you all the way to the casino like this.”

  . . .

  Rows upon rows of slot machines, poker tables, craps, keno—none of it kept her attention like watching Sander in a crowd. With his security forming a loose circle around them, they made their way through the expansive gambling area, discussing what to play. As if people knew (and perhaps some of them did) that he was someone of note, men and women both whispered behind their hands, staring until he was out of sight. Even a few of the hotel employees loitered nearby, though Chey suspected it was more out of a desire to serve him and receive a hefty tip than to get his autograph or have their picture taken with Royalty.

  Sander, exuding supreme confidence and sexy nonchalance, escorted her with a hand either at her back or with his elbow. He paused once or twice to point something out, yet Chey had trouble following his gestures. Drawn to his power, his masculine grace, she murmured incoherent replies until finally, he glanced down straight into her eyes. A flicker of amusement moved through his own.

  “I'm not a rockstar. Quit looking at me like that.”

  “But that's what you seem like. So many people know who you are.” She whispered so that no one would accidentally overhear.

  “Not all of them. It's the security detail, too. Kind of gives it away.” He winked. “What do you want to play?”

  “Roulette.”

  “Oh? Is that your favorite?” He arched a brow.

  “Yes, actually. My parents and I visited Vegas a few times, and I went with some of my friends.” She broke eye contact and brought a hand up to whisk a strand of hair from her cheek. Chey wondered if things would always feel this surreal. Any second, she expected to wake up back in Seattle, with all of this nothing more than a very pleasant dream.

  “Then Roulette it is.” He changed direction, guiding her past several banks of five dollar slots, until they came to the roulette tables. The floor manager gestured to another table cordoned off by red rope. Sander declined with a cordial smile.

  “What was that about? Do they have separate tables for people like you?” Chey asked, glancing between the floor manager and Sander.

  “Yes, and even more in rooms off this one. Strictly catering to high rollers. I thought it might be more fun, for now anyway, to just blend in.” He gestured to an empty seat at a general roulette table with two other people filling the chairs.

  Chey slid onto the leather cushion and realized belatedly that she'd left her purse up in the hotel room. It was in her luggage, of all things, still unpacked.

  Sander sat next to her, returning a nod with the dealer and the other occupants at the table who quickly realized they were in the presence of a high profile guest.

  “This is good for me,” Chey said, relaxing her spine into an arch over the lip of the table. She was about to admit that she'd left her purse in the room, and that they had to go back for it, when she caught sight of the Buy-In placard just past Sander's arm. $5,000. The minimum bet was fifty dollars, the maximum five hundred. Chey almost fell off her chair. She knew roulette well enough to understand bets placed outside the inner grid of numbers could be higher than the five hundred dollar 'inside' bet.

  She wouldn't have been able to afford this table even if she did have her purse. It made her stomach roll and clench to think of betting five hundred at a time on one spin of the wheel. How much were the Buy-Ins at the tables she couldn't see? Fifty thousand, a hundred? Glancing aside, she tried to assess whether this was a step down for Sander, gambling wise. He'd sought this table in a more 'normal' area, and though it was high stakes in Chey's world, he was probably used to the back rooms with much higher minimums.

  Just when she thought she had her first real taste of the difference between the ultra rich and herself, Sander signed off a marker for the floor manager and the dealer pushed stacks of one hundred and five hundred dollar chips her direction. There wasn't one fifty dollar chip in sight. There were a lot of stacks, high stacks, and though she wasn't a math wizard, she knew there was at least twenty thousand dollars sitting in front of her.

  The dealer pushed a similar stack in front of Sander.

  Chey stared at the chips with guilt flushing hot under her cheeks. Just a little more than a week and a half ago, she'd been fretting over paying the rent on a moderate apartment in Seattle. Her bank account balance at that time had been laughingly low, and now here she was, about ready to place hundred dollar bets on the whim of a roulette wheel.

  She felt...conspicuous. Like someone might march up behind her and start ranting about starving children in foreign countries.

  “You want something to drink?” Sander asked, voice quiet between them. Then he glanced at her face. “What's wrong?”

  Chey met his eyes. She couldn't very well explain herself, because even if she spoke quietly, the dealer, if not the other gamblers, would hear. But trust Sander to guess her thoughts. He smiled without warning and jutted his chin toward the chips.

  “Come on, Slinky. I know you must have favorite numbers.” He picked up a few chips and began placing them over the board. All red, no black.

  “Slinky? When and where did I pick up that nickname?

  “When you sidled up onto your chair a few minutes ago. Slinky.” He wagged his brows with ridiculous exaggeration.

  That's when Chey understood he was attempting to distract her, make her think about something else than the high number staring back at her on the chips. She laughed, nudged him with an elbow, and passed him a drink order.

  Then she got down to the business of trying to at least break even on her bets,
so she wouldn't lie awake later, fretting about how many thousands she'd lost.

  . . .

  Roulette was a smashing hit. Chey got lucky several times, winding up with fifteen thousand dollars more than she started. Which was a good thing, since Sander couldn't buy his luck. When she tried to give him the winnings, he stoutly refused and escorted her to the slot machines next.

  Between a few drinks, Sander's easy going manner and laughter, Chey's misgivings about the money disappeared. They played slots, blackjack, and craps. Sander drew a bigger and bigger crowd as the evening wore on, forced several times to stop for pictures with people from all around the world. He was amiable about it and good natured, always keeping Chey at his side.

  It startled Chey to realize how many strangers knew who he was, when she'd never heard his family name before the initial contact for pictures. She really needed to read more about foreign goings-on. This gave her a glimpse of his world outside Latvala, as well, and he impressed her with his knowledge of several other languages when addressing admirers.

  Even later in the evening, he took her to one of the hotel's bars and danced slow and close, towering above her with his intense eyes and natural charisma. His raspy, intimate laughter did strange things to her heart.

  Well beyond midnight, back in the hotel room, after she'd opened her gifts of beautiful dresses, matching shoes and other, more casual articles fit for Monte Carlo, he took her to bed and reminded her what it felt like to be claimed as well as cherished. He left bruises on her hips and she left furrows down his back.