She doesn’t seem convinced. And if tonight is going to end like I’m hoping, she’ll need to get over the security team. Challenge accepted.

I’m used to the curious stares and whispers of strangers when I go out in public—the way a lion at the zoo is used to annoying children banging on the glass enclosure, just waiting for the day it breaks. I don’t notice them much anymore and, as we’re led to the private room at the back of the restaurant, I don’t notice them now.

Except Olivia does. And she takes exception to it—staring the patrons down for their rudeness, until they’re forced to look away. Like she’s defending me. Sticking up for me. It’s very cute.

The overly friendly hostess leans closer than she should, flashing me an open invitation with her eyes. I’m used to that too.

Olivia notices as well, but, interestingly, seems less confident about how she should respond. So I respond on her behalf—resting my hand on the small of her back, possessively, and guiding her into the plush, cushioned seat. Then, after I’ve taken my own seat, I drape my arm across the back of Olivia’s chair, near enough to stroke her bare shoulder if I want, making it clear that the only woman I’m interested in tonight is the one beside me.

After the sommelier pours our wine—Olivia prefers white because red “knocks her on her ass”—and the chef comes to our table to introduce himself and describe the custom menu he’s created for us, we’re finally left alone.

“So, you run the coffee shop with your parents?” I ask.

Olivia sips her wine, her little pink tongue peeking out to clean her bottom lip.

“It’s just me and my dad, actually. My mom…died nine years ago. She was mugged on the subway…it ended badly.”

There’s an echo of pain in her words—one I’m familiar with.

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

She pauses a moment, seems to be debating something, and then confesses, “I Googled you.”

“Oh?”

“The video of your parents’ funeral came up.”

I nod. “The search engines do seem to favor that one.”

Her smile is small and flutteringly self-conscious. “I didn’t watch it at the time, when it was on live, but I remember it being on TV all day. On every channel.” She raises those stunning, shining eyes to mine. “The day we buried my mom was the worst day of my life. It must’ve been awful for you, to go through the worst day of yours with all those people watching. Filming it. Taking pictures.”

Most people don’t think about that part of things. They focus on the money, the castles, the fame, the privilege. Not the hard parts. The human parts.

“It was awful,” I say quietly. Then I take a breath and shake off the sadness that’s seeped into the conversation. “But…in the immortal words of Kanye, that which don’t kill me only makes me stronger.”

She laughs, and like everything about her, it’s delightful.

“I didn’t think a guy like you listened to Kanye.”

I wink. “I’m full of surprises.”

Before our meal arrives, visitors stop by our table. I introduce Olivia and speak with them briefly about upcoming business. After they walk away, Olivia gives me an owl-eyed look.

“That was the mayor.”

“Yes.”

“And Cardinal O’Brien, the Archbishop of New York.”

“That’s right.”

“They’re two of the most powerful men in the state—in the country.”

My lips slide into a grin because she’s impressed. Again. At times like this, being me isn’t so awful.

“The Palace works with both men on various initiatives.”

She fidgets with the roll on her bread plate, tearing it up into tiny pieces.

“You can ask me anything, Olivia—no need to be shy.”

Shyness has no place in my plans for this girl. I want her bold, wild, and reckless.

She munches on a piece of bread, head slightly tilted, watching—thinking it over. And I’m struck by the charming way she chews. Christ, what a strange thing to notice.

After she swallows and the pale, smooth skin of her throat ripples in an erotic way—well, a way I find erotic—she asks, “Why didn’t you kiss his ring?”

I take a sip of wine. “I outrank him.”

That makes her grin. “You outrank the Archbishop? What about the Pope? Have you ever met him?”

“Not the current one, but I was introduced to the former when he came to visit Wessco when I was eight. Seemed like a decent bloke—he smelled like butterscotch. He carried sweets in the pockets of his vestments. He gave me one after he blessed me.”

“Did you kiss his ring?”

She’s more relaxed now, the questions coming easier.

“I didn’t, no.”

“Why not?”

I lean forward, closer to her, elbows on the table—Grandmother would be appalled. But etiquette doesn’t stand a snowball’s chance against Olivia’s sweet scent. It’s roses tonight, with the slightest hint of jasmine—like a new garden on the first day of spring. I inhale deeply, trying to be discreet. Two points for me, because all I really want to do is rest my nose in the fragrant groove of her cleavage before sliding down, lifting her dress, and sinking my face between her smooth, creamy thighs. And that’s where I’d stay, all fucking night.

And now my cock strains against my pants like a prisoner in a cage.

What was the question again?

I take another drink and run my palm over the bulge—adjusting—trying to get some relief. And failing.