King:Las Vegas Bad Boys(15)

She's quizzing me, but I want to know everything about her.

"Right," I say, stretching my legs in the back of the sleek town car.  "Fiona, of course, is a bitch. And her sister hates me, so avoid asking  about the family."

"Why does she hate you?" she asks.

"Because I slept with her. But it was a long time ago. And the thing is, Fiona doesn't even know the half of it."

"What's the other half?"

I snort, feeling my cheeks heat up. "I slept with her mother too."

"Landon!" Claire punches me in the arm. "That's terrible."

Wincing playfully, I add, "It was holiday, I'd gotten drunk on eggnog. I  was barely legal. She pounced. She was the original cougar."

Claire rolls her eyes. "What else should I know? Because I know you're a  player in Vegas ... but, Landon, were you really that wild here, too?"

"Honestly? I was probably worse."

"Did you intentionally omit these details when you offered me the job?"

"What, you don't think you can do it?"

"I can do it." She silences her phone and shoves it back in her bag. "I can do anything for a week."

I take her hand in mind, resting them on leather seat of the town car.  The diamond gleams between us like a million bucks. Scratch that-like  two million bucks. Because that was what it bloody cost. However, using a  perk of being the owner's son, I borrowed it from the Vegas branch of  The King's Diamond ... since I don't actually have that sort of cash  yet.

Soon enough I will. Soon it will be my store. My company.

"It's so beautiful," Claire says, sighing as she looks out the window.  It's late-after dinner-and the sky is heavy with the colors of a setting  sun. "Did you go to school here?"

"Primary school, yes. Then I went to boarding school in Edinburgh and uni at Cambridge. Where did you go to school?"

Claire licks her lips. "We should probably make up my whole back story,  don't you think? Falling for a cocktail waitress is not going to win the  family over."

"I suppose. It's kind of bollocks though, isn't it?" I run my hand over  my jaw, confused as to why I feel protective of Claire and her feelings.

I don't want to offend her with the truth of the people I come from.  They would judge the hell out of her if they know she serves rum and  Cokes for a living, while wearing a corset and fishnets. How the fuck do  I know this? Because they have been judging me for the past decade for  doing nothing with my life as well.

Not that Claire isn't doing something with her life-she seems  happy-ish-but she isn't exactly riddled with life-passion or motivation,  is she?

Okay. I've got to stop this. I don't want to become an entirely  different sort of ass the moment I land in the Heathrow airport. An ass  like Geoffrey. I can live with being a womanizing prick, but a  judgmental one? Not at all.

"I know that my job is usually a stepping stone for most people-but,  Landon, I'm not most people. I don't even know what sort of job I'd want  if I weren't a waitress. The money is decent. And the hours are great."

"Are they really?" I can't help but ask. "Because it's actually  something I've always wondered. Why do you work the crappiest shifts at  the Spades? Surely Ace would give you a leg up? Let you work weekend  nights and make more in tips?"

Claire shifts uncomfortably in her seat, her soft wool coat covering so  many inches of her, the inches I want to run my hands over.

"I don't want to talk about it, Landon," she says briskly. "I like my job, and the shifts I have are the ones I want."

"Duly noted."

"But, honestly, we need a backstory. How we met. What I'm doing in  Vegas. Hell, what you're doing in Vegas. We need to know why they should  give the company to you."

"We really should have discussed this before we were fifteen minutes from my parents house."

"Fifteen? Fuck, Landon." She covers her mouth. "Shit. I can't say fuck  around them. They're proper, right? Like rich, and have tea and a maid?  Tell me, is it going to be like an episode of Downton Abbey?"

"First of all, Downton takes place, like, one hundred years ago. You do  realize that? But yes ... they have a staff. And afternoon tea."







"I'm so over my head." She takes deep breaths in and out, closes her eyes. Grips my hand tight in hers.

"Are you going to have another panic attack?" I ask. "Because, really,  this is not at all what I envisioned. I need put-together Claire. Claire  who's always, you know, responsible."

"But, Landon, you're the one who needs to be cool, calm, put together.  You're the one who needs to win them over, not me. I'm an accessory."

"Fuck." I match her breathing pattern, realizing she's absolutely right.  I brought her along to prove how reliable I am. To show my parents that  I'm able to commit.

The truth is, their eyes will still be on me. I have Claire here, hoping  she'll solve my problems. But she can't. She can only hold my hand and  smile. I'm the one who needs the fake identity.

"It's okay, Landon. We can do this. Together. One thing at a time."

Claire leans over and kisses my cheek. I know it's an effort to be as  natural a couple as possible, but her kiss genuinely does cause my  shoulders to drop, my eyes to open. I feel grounded with her next to me.

"What kind of woman would they like you to marry?" she asks. "A girl like Fiona?"

"Absolutely. They love Fiona. She goes to bridge with my mum. And they  play tennis at the country club together. Also, they like to shop. On  vacations, they seem to talk about books. I don't know. It's all boring  stuff."

"I got this. I can do boring." She smiles, nodding her head, assuring  me. "And you, Landon? What would your father want from you? To be like  Geoffrey?"

"They would want me to be like Geoffrey, only more friendly. Outgoing.  Not so stick-up-my-ass. My father is always riding my brother about  being rigid, no fun, a bore. My father likes to have a good time-not too  good, but he certainly doesn't want to sit stoically and discuss  finance."

"So, you're your father's son, only you have a tendency to be more wild  than you should." Claire cocks her head, looking me up and down. Her  eyes land on the bulge in my pants. I can't wait to get her in the  house, in a bedroom, and tear off her clothes. Which will be soon. We've  just pulled up to the estate.

"Let's not talk about my father right now. Let's talk about all the things I plan on doing to you."

"Um. I'd love to hear all about it ... but, Landon, this cannot be your  house. This is a freaking castle." Claire's gorgeous eyes are wide in  surprise.

"Technically, yes."

The driveway leading to the estate is filled with autumn foliage and the  house itself looks as regal as ever. Towering spires and stonewalls,  barred windows and sweeping views of the property.

"Everything will be fine," I tell her. "Remember, you told me we've got  this." I kiss her again, because I can't fucking help myself. Everything  about her makes me insane. Her vulnerability, her innocence. Her  absolute naiveté of the world around us. The way she holds herself  together, not thinking she's less than, or inadequate. She is enough.

"I like it when you kiss me," she says, her lips lingering on mine, her  words soft breaths that I want to inhale. When the driver stops the car  at the front of the estate, and opens her door, I squeeze her hand.

"They're going to be so shocked that I've actually come."

She half-laughs in disbelief. "You didn't tell them you were coming? That I was coming?"

"Everyone likes a surprise, don't they?"

As we exit the car, I hear Claire mutter under her breath, not thinking I can hear, "Surprises aren't always a good thing."

I watch as she straightens her coat, flicks back her platinum hair,  reaches for my hand. She seems completely in control ... the panic  attacks are gone. She's the Claire I met at the Spades Royalle. The  Claire I needed to bring home to my family.

I wonder if she's everything she's telling me.

If she is ... this engagement could become more real than I imagined it could be.





Chapter Thirteen





Claire



So the house is actually a castle. And the family has no clue I'm  coming. And Landon is making my heart flutter in completely  inappropriate ways. And all I can do is look down at his crotch when I  really need to be keeping my eyes on the prize: winning over the family  and getting my paycheck.

But all I want right now is more of him pressed against me.

A butler in a white starched blazer opens the door. Yes, that is  correct. A butler. Because that joke about Downton Abbey is no joke.  This is real. Really real. I am really in England, at a Jane  Austen-esque property, wearing gorgeous clothing and a gorgeous ring,  holding the hand of a beyond-gorgeous man.







Landon is all sorts of things. He's insecure. He's hot as hell. He's gentle with me.

And he is nervous. Like really, really nervous. As we enter the grand  foyer, where a chandelier larger than a poker table hangs above us, and a  staircase sweeps across the room, I am struck by how tightly Landon is  holding my hand.