“Fine choice of evening activities, sir,” Oliver says as he jerks the wheel on the car to the left and we whip around a turn. “I haven’t had this much adventure since . . . oh, never mind, forget I said anything.”
“You didn’t say anything!” Elle exclaims near-hysterically as she looks behind us.
Distantly, I wonder what qualifications Oliver has for this type of driving. Chauffeur duty is one thing. This is quite another.
“What in bloody hell is going on?” I growl as I wipe at my face with my pocket square. Elle and I are a mess, clothing askew, and we barely made it past the shocked security, who luckily were prepared for an external threat, not two people bursting forth from a London Eye pod and trying to escape. We just managed to jump into the back of the Ghost before Oliver pulled away, quickly merging into traffic, using it as a disguise.
That hasn’t stopped the paparazzi from chasing us, though. I haven’t been newsworthy in London for years, but someone seems to have a long memory.
“Today is the young Princess’s birthday,” Oliver explains from up front. “Right turn!”
He yanks the car in a slewing skid to the right, and Elle is thrown against me, where I hold her as Oliver starts to smooth things out.
“What are we going to do?”
“No way to lose them in this heap,” Oliver says as a photog on a motorcycle comes streaking next to us just to prove his point. “Even in London, a Rolls Royce is pretty bloody noticeable.”
He’s right.
“I’ll call ahead to the Rosewood. They are well-versed in celebrity stays, and while I’m not that type of famous, they should be able to handle our coming in hot.”
“Do it.” Oliver’s bark sounds military-esque, an order I follow.
The front desk attendant who answers hears the barely restrained panic in my voice and immediately goes into emergency mode. Admirably, she handles everything with calm efficiency.
“Yes, I understand. Arrival in approximately two minutes.”
I repeat the instructions to Oliver and he nods sharply. I get the feeling I could’ve told him anything from pull over and hide to drive onto a moving airplane, and he would’ve been able to handle it without breaking a sweat.
“Get ready. You get out of the car and get inside the hotel. The final turn is coming.” Oliver pulls in with squealing tires, and hotel security rips the door open, ushering Elle and me into the building. “Oliver?” I ask the hulk who’s pushing us deeper into the hotel.
“We’ll handle it. No worries, Mr. Wolfe.”
I take him at his word and continue following his lead—into the elevator, up to our suite, and inside in one big rush. Once behind the closed door, he pauses. “Safe, sir. Please stay put until we give you the all-clear.”
Elle is pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, but her voice is steady. “How long do you think that will be?”
The hulk shrugs one shoulder, as if lifting both broad ones would take too much effort. “An hour, a day, a week? Hard to know. Depends on who you are and what you did.” He quickly holds up a hand. “No need to explain, sir. Call the front if you need anything.”
With that, he’s gone and we’re alone.
Elle and I lock eyes. Shock, fear, horror mixed with wild abandon, disbelief, and last but not least . . .
Laughter.
It’s not right, but it bursts forth despite being inappropriate.
“Oh, my God! I can’t believe that happened! What the hell did you get us into?” She smacks at my chest, reminding me of her previous stint with swatting at me. “Rule three, Colton! Rule three! Are we going to jail? What are jails here even like? Are there firing squads?”
I grab her hands and quiet her with a kiss, knowing that I still taste like her. “We’re in trouble, for sure. But no jail time. We definitely fucked up, but only a minor break of rule three. Probably . . . maybe?”
She glares, knowing I’m blowing smoke. “Indecent exposure, lewd acts in public, sex in front of royalty.” She ticks them off on her fingers, and when she says it like that, it does sound especially bad.
But for now, we’re safe. And that’s what matters.
The knock on the door is unexpected, Elle and I look to each other questioningly.
“You think a paps got up here?” Elle asks quietly, as though they might hear through the heavy wooden door.
It’s been a solid twenty-four hours of misery. The paparazzi did follow us to the Rosewood, and when they were denied access, they promptly set up shop out front to wait for us. I have no doubt their resolve is stronger than our own.
To make matters worse, as the photos hit the morning papers and social media online, with both mine and Elle’s names boldly listed, an angry mob had joined the reporters.
British sensibilities are rather loose, especially when whatever misdeeds you do are behind closed doors. But apparently, public snogging in front of the royal family is worthy of a near lynching.
They’re calling for Elle’s head, labeling her an ‘American whore’ when there’s room in the headline and a ‘tart’ when there’s not. Both are painful judgements that sent her to tears. And they’re heralding my return to London as the ‘Wolfe in black sheep’s clothing.’ Not nearly as deeply slicing, but a ruination of my family name in a place where it’s always meant something, even with Father and Eddie’s own misbehaviors.
They’ve been smart enough to stay off the front page, at least. Unlike me.
The knock pounds again, and I point to the bedroom. “Go in there so you’re out of sight, just in case.”
Most people would cower, be willing to send me to the front lines to save themselves. But not Elle. Though she’s stepped to the bedroom, she stays in the doorway, ready to pounce and have my back if needed. Her jaw is tight, her fists are clenched, and she looks ready to war.
Fuckin’ badass ball buster. I love her.
I peek through the peephole but see nothing. I slowly crack the door open and a tiny woman pushes her way in, slamming the door behind her. “Nan?” I blurt out. “What are you doing here?”
Elle steps out of her ambush point when she hears me. “Nan?” she repeats.
Nan looks from me to Elle and back again. “Ah, young love.” She cups my cheek as though I’m nowt but a boy before smacking me none too gently. “No time. They’re coming. Just nod and be quiet for once in your life, Colton. Maybe apologize, though I know you’re not sorry.”
She looks around the room as though searching for something, and fresh worry strikes me. “Nan, are you okay? Who’s coming?”
Another knock on the door. This one hard and commanding.
Nan looks me in the eye, and with a harsh hand, mimes zipping her lip and throwing away the key before pointing at me. In a blink, she shoves Elle into the bedroom and closes the door, the lock clicking an instant later.
What the fuck?
This time when I look out the peephole, I see three men. I can’t avoid this, no matter how much I’d like to, so I open the door. “Father, Eddie, Mr. Hamish, please come in.”
Dad pushes through the door as though I didn’t just invite him in, making himself at home on the couch. Eddie helps himself to a top-shelf whiskey and then perches on the arm at Father’s side, and Mr. Hamish finds an armchair that puts him out of the line of fire between my father and me. Smart man, Mr. Hamish.
“Bloody right bastard you are, Colton. Couldn’t even keep your wanker in your pants until you got to the car like a normal bloke?”
The vein in Father’s forehead is already pulsing dangerously, but Eddie smirks behind his glass, thoroughly enjoying seeing me raked over the coals. For the first time, perhaps, I actually deserve it.
“For fuck’s sake, you’ve dragged my good name through the mud and your mother won’t be able to show her face at the club ever again.”
“Oh, yeah, Mum’s been a sobbing mess over the news all day. Don’t fancy she ever thought she’d see her baby boy on his knees in the Eye, huh, Coltie? Those American tarts are just so scrummy, though, aren’t they? Couldn’t wait for taste of that biscuit.” He winks at me like we’re chummy blokes.
Father growls. “Shut up, Eddie.”
Eddie looks as though he’s been shocked with a cattle prod. Guess Father’s never said that to him before? Well, welcome to the club, brother.
“Father, I’m certainly embarrassed this has gotten so blown out of proportion, but it will blow over. Mum will be fine, accepted back into the fold of her bitchy biddies, not that I care in the slightest. And your name will stand for what it’s always stood for.” I don’t elaborate, knowing that I can’t and won’t say a single pleasant thing about my father’s blowhard reputation.
“Out of proportion, you say? Well, perhaps you’ll care about this. I spoke with Baron Berkman this morning. It seems that the council is rather apprehensive at rezoning the Estate for someone like you to lead an American company to our shores.” His cocky smile is razor sharp.
“What have you done?” I demand.
He examines the well-manicured nails of his right hand. “Well, you were correct that the property was yours all along. As it sits now. But you need permits, and they’ll be denied. You need rezoning to bring your Americans here, and it’ll be denied.’
His shark eyes meet mine, victory in their dark depths. ‘Mark my words, boy. That land will not see a single blade of grass changed until long after I’m dead and gone. You may own it, but you will never be able to use it. Unless you’d like to live in the drafty house as it sits? Though I do believe I could get it condemned if you tried that.”
I’m about to explode, beat my own father’s arse with my bare hands. Or at the least, verbally fillet him.
He can’t do this. But he has.
He shouldn’t be able to, not after all the hard work I’ve put in and the bright future I envisioned here. But he’s all too willing to swipe that away like bothersome crumbs of toast from the breakfast table.
I hear something in the bedroom, a thud as if something fell to the floor, and I’m reminded of Nan’s crazed ramblings as she came in.
I don’t know what she was talking about. Hell, I don’t know if she knows what she’s talking about half the time.
But of anyone in my family, I can trust her.
So I grit my teeth so fuckin’ hard I think they might crack. “You’ve had your victory lap. Well played. Now, please leave.”
He blinks, disappointment showing in the lines around his lips as they press together. But he stands, pulling on the lapels of his jacket. “Very well. I won’t say it’s good to have you home. In fact, please go back to the States as quickly as possible. Let us true Wolfes pretend this never happened.”
He says this as though he means me.
I swallow thickly, only my love for Nan holding my tongue. Father brushes past me, walking out the door with a straight back, showing only satisfaction in his belief that he was right about me all along.
Eddie swallows the three fingers of whiskey in one gulp, slamming the tumbler to the table with a loud, “Ahh.” He purposefully bumps me as he walks by. “Bye, Coltie!”
Schoolyard taunts of years past paint his tone, as if not a single day has gone by. For him, perhaps they haven’t. He’s still the juvenile bully he’s always been. Last but not least, Mr. Hamish walks by. He has the manners to look chagrined . . . at my behavior? At my father’s? At Eddie’s? It matters not.
Once they’re gone, I close the door and call out, “They’re gone.”
Nan and Elle open the bedroom door slowly. Nan comes over to me straight away, patting my cheek a bit too hard. “Well done, Coltie. Now, I’m off. But remember, I was never here.”
She opens the door before I can ask any questions, looking left and then right. She sneaks out to the left, opposite of the way Dad’s entourage went, on her tiptoes with her shoulders scrunched down. As if that would do anything to hide her. She’s wearing a crisp black pantsuit, black hat, and sunglasses, for fuck’s sake. She’s like a picture-perfect version of a rich old lady other than the cat burglar posturing.
Elle shrugs when I turn back to her. “She didn’t say anything, was leaned up to listen at the door with a glass. Which she dropped, on the rug, thankfully. Did you know that Nan curses like a sailor? At least, I think she was. It was a lot of mumbling, but I’m pretty sure I caught the gist.”
I smile, but there’s no happiness to it. Not even Nan’s antics can cheer me up now.
“What are we going to do?” Elle asks. “We have tickets to fly out tomorrow, but I can move them up if you want to get out of here? Do you think we can get out of the country?”
I roll my eyes, an approximation of Lizzie’s habit, which makes me miss her already. “They won’t hold us here. We’re not captives. But yes, let’s go back to the States.”
I don’t say home, though I suppose that’s true. But in just the short time of this extended week, London had truly started to feel like home again. And I’m running away from home . . . again.
