“What are you doing here?”
“Just making some tea.” I locate a box of exactly what I’m looking for—chamomile tea—and grab it from the shelf before going in search of a mug and kettle.
“You could have had some sent up to you,” he grumbles.
“I’m perfectly capable of making my own tea.” I decide not to point out he could have had some oatmeal sent up to him. What is the king doing skulking about the kitchen in the middle of the night, anyway?
He merely grunts and returns to concentrating on his tablet. I decide to ignore him as I locate a mug and concentrate on making my tea. I’m sure I’m screwing up some kind of royal protocol, but it’s the middle of the night and the guy’s not wearing a shirt. It’s a miracle I’m even able to carry out this simple task.
4
LUKAS
“I encountered Mr. Winters in the kitchen last night,” I tell Veronika after she’s done running me through my agenda for the day.
“Oh?” One of her perfectly manicured brows arches up in question.
“Should he be roaming about at night like that?”
“He’s not a prisoner, Your Majesty.”
“I know. I’m just not sure I like him living in such close proximity to the children.”
I can tell it takes great effort for Veronika not to roll her eyes. “Your Majesty, Mr. Winters spends every afternoon with the royal children. I assure you, he’s been extremely well-vetted. You have nothing to worry about.”
Only my sanity. I let out a heavy sigh and reluctantly nod my agreement. She gives me her usual bow of respect before striding off to continue with her day.
I know I’m acting completely irrationally. If we were in the old days of an absolute monarchy I’d be able to snap my fingers and the American would be gone. But that’s not how it works now. Veronika is the Crown Secretary and the hiring and firing of staff is in her hands. Of course I’m allowed input, especially when it comes to the children, but I have no reason for requesting the American’s dismissal. The man has done nothing wrong, except unlock a desire I’ve been managing to keep under control for years.
Christ, when I caught sight of that erection tenting his sweatpants last night, all I wanted to do was drop to my knees, tug down his trousers and take him into my mouth. The mere thought of tasting him had my cock thickening to the point I was unable to move from my position in front of the counter lest he notice my problem and learn the truth. I doubt I could have gotten away with the same flimsy excuse he’d used. Morning in America. I manage to bite back a wry chuckle as I recall the ease of his lie. I’m king of an entire country, of course I’m aware of the time zones around the world. It was evening in the U.S. when we encountered each other in the kitchen, which means there was another reason for that erection.
I try not to consider the idea that he could possibly be attracted to me. That’s a dangerous thought that will make it impossible to pack these ridiculous urges back in that sealed-off box where they belong.
I wipe the entire encounter from my mind before I’m left standing here with another problematic situation and no kitchen counter to hide behind.
Making a decision, I turn away from my office and proceed down the hallway toward the rear of the palace.
“Is there a change of schedule, Your Majesty?” Boyd asks, stepping up beside me.
“I’m going to spend the morning in my garage.”
He gives a single nod. “Of course, sir.”
I’d planned to spend this morning reading through the minutes from last night’s Cabinet meeting, but there’s no chance of me concentrating on that right now. Not until I’ve had a chance to clear my mind and let out some of this tension. And the best way for me to do that is with my cars.
I’ve always loved cars. Driving them, fixing them, building them. In another life I’d be a mechanic, no question about it. But I can’t complain; my privileged position allows me to keep a garage of vintage cars, all of which I’ve restored myself.
When I get to the garage I use the bathroom to change into something more appropriate for working on cars, and then I head over to where I have one of my Aston Martins set up on blocks. She’s a 1961 Zagato, and usually runs like a dream. She’s been giving me a little trouble lately, though, so I’m glad for the opportunity to get under there and see what’s happening.
As usual, I get completely lost in what I’m doing, and it’s not until Boyd interrupts me later in the day that I realize exactly how long I’ve been down here.
“Might I suggest you stop for some lunch, Your Majesty? It’s almost three o’clock.”
I bump my head against the hood as I startle at Boyd’s words. Ducking out from my work on the engine, I stare at Boyd in surprise. “Three o’clock?”
He cants his head toward the clock hanging on the far wall of the garage and I see he’s right; it’s right on quarter to three. Shaking my head in bafflement, I clear up my tools and close the hood.
By the time I’ve cleaned up, showered, and changed back into my suit it’s past three thirty, so I’m not surprised to encounter my daughter on my way back to my office.
“Papa!”
I smile as Katya comes racing toward me down the gallery with absolutely none of the grace a princess should exude. My father would be rolling in his grave if he saw the way my daughter behaves around the palace, a thought that never ceases to put a smile on my face.
I open my arms for her and she runs right into them, hugging me tight. I press a kiss to her blond hair, which, as usual, seems reluctant to stay in the neat braid it was put in this morning. “How were your lessons?”
She draws her head back and beams at me. “Did you know the first queen of Korova was named Katerina, like me?”
I offer an indulgent smile. “I did know that. And she was very beautiful, just like you.”
She smiles even brighter. “And there was a great empress of Russia with my name, too! And we’re related to her!”
I nod. “We are.”
Although we’re not technically related to Catherine the Great, because she’s not technically part of the Romanov bloodline. I don’t feel the need to make that clarification, however.
“And we’re the heirs to the Russian throne!” She chatters excitedly.
I snap to attention at that. Christ, is this man trying to get my children killed? “There is no Russian throne anymore, Katya,” I say sternly. “We represent the people of Korova. That is all.”
“Ahh, sorry, Your Majesty.” I glance up to see the American has caught up with us, one of those self-deprecating smiles on his handsome face. “We were having a history lesson and it turned into a bit of a hypothetical discussion.”
I frown as I make a decision. If I focus on his incompetence, I won’t have to think about the way his bottom lip is jutting out and how I want to snag it between my teeth and hear him groan. I narrow my eyes on him, making my disapproval clear. “If you are the expert you claim to be, you would know my great-grandfather relinquished any claim to the Romanov throne after the death of the Tsar. It’s what kept my family alive when the Bolsheviks took power.”