1
“He has a dick the size of the Empire State building—and an ego to match.” The blonde on screen says with a perfectly arched eyebrow. The gossip newscaster across from her nods.
I hit pause and the video stops just as the blonde leans forward to impart another juicy secret about Theodore Kensington’s dick. Her boobs look like they’re going to topple out of her shiny pink blouse.
“Someone’s already got a book deal to kiss-and-tell,” I murmur to the frozen blonde on my phone screen. “No way you came up with that line on your own.”
I press play again, bracing myself for more drama. I shift to ease the pinch of my high heels. This fancy marble porch isn’t helping my feet any. I’ve been up since five a.m. to dress and check out of the hotel, and take a cab to this modern palace north of New York City. The driver had just pulled through the opulent gates when my Google feed started going nuts. I always set up a news alert so I can stay up-to-date with what the media is saying about my public relations clients.
“Theo Kensington has a long history of loving and leaving a trail of broken hearts. He’s the son of a Swedish princess and an American businessman. Heir to the Kensington fortune. Kensington, Inc. alone is valued at $400 billion.”
“He has incredible... assets,” the blonde cackles.
“He’s actually a prince, right?”
“That’s right. But he doesn’t like to talk about it. Prince or not, doesn’t matter. In the bedroom, he’s a god.”
I pause the video again. The blonde on screen isn’t the first to call Theo Kensington a god. Last year, a popular Hollywood darling tweeted, “Prince in the streets, god in the sheets,” accompanied by a picture of the ‘god’ in her bedroom. A very naked god. The tweet was deleted, but not after it got seven thousand likes and retweets.
And now he’s in the media again. Prince or god, he’s my new PR nightmare.
I pocket my phone and ring the doorbell again, but I’m not surprised no one is here to greet me. Mr. Kensington’s staff is probably watching the same media channels I am.
A shadow rises in the stained glass on either side of the door, and then the lock clicks open. A bear of a man with a shaved head and muscles straining his button-down shirt stands in the doorway.
Mr. Evans, head of security for Theodore Kensington.
“Have you seen it?” Evans says without preamble. “The sex tape?”
“Yes, I was just watching the interview...” I rewind what he said. "Wait, there's a second sex tape? Another one?"
“Just hit this morning.”
Shit. I fumble with my phone. “I thought they were referring to the last one, the one with the porn star,” I wrack my brain for the name of the blonde in the interview. “Pepper something.”
“Pepper Spice. And no. This is a new one. A redhead. At least, I think that’s what she is. She’s not too clear in the video. Mr. Kensington, however…”
“Shit.” This time I say it out loud.
“Exactly,” Evans answers, grim-faced. He leans down and picks up my suitcase. “Normally I’d let you get settled in but—”
“We need to get ahead of this,” I interrupt. “Where is—”
A bright orange Maserati roars down the drive. Bass on full blast, it zooms around the fountain accompanied by Metallica and squeals of delight. The air shudders as the car slides to a stop.
Three ladies trip out of the convertible, laughing. Sleek hair, huge boobs, and tiny handbags. They barely look at us as they head down a manicured walkway towards the pool.
A dark-haired man unfolds from the car, heavy metal still blasting from the stereo like a theme song. He doesn’t bother to turn off the car, or shut the door before he tosses the keys to Evans, who catches them with a blank expression.
“Park it out back for me, Evans? Thanks, man,” the new arrival says, and turns his smirk on me. I recognize him right away—the gorgeous, tanned face from this morning’s tabloids.
Theo Kensington. Billionaire. Playboy. Prince.
My new boss.
2
He’s not wearing a shirt. He. Is. Not. Wearing. A. Shirt. Who joyrides around the North Shore on a Wednesday morning without a shirt?
Prince Theo, that’s who.
He strolls closer, chest muscles flexing. His muscles aren’t the only yummy thing about him. He’s got the best of his Nordic mother and striking father, perfect bone structure and bronze skin. Heavy brows over come-to-bed blue eyes. Black lashes long and thick enough to make any woman jealous. There isn’t an adjective good enough to describe a man as pretty as him. Even the tattoos slinking up and down his torso and wrapping around most of his right arm don’t detract from his prettiness. A panther tattoo prowls down his hip, disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants.
“Hey, babe,” Theo says to me with a smile aimed to melt all the panties in the vicinity. Or maybe just mine. I’m pretty sure Theo’s lady friends aren’t wearing any.
My eyes hit the sleek V etched into his lower torso that leads to his groin. My girl parts roar to life like the engine of a Maserati. A smooth sleek purr, right between my thighs.
Shit. Ten minutes on the job, and I’m making eyes at my boss. Never mind he’s the most eligible—or ineligible—bachelor on the East Coast... probably the entire world. Theo Kensington isn’t a guy you take home to your parents. He’s the guy you take to bed and gossip about him with your girlfriends after, in hushed, reverent tones, as the fuck of your life.
Or, like a bottle-blonde hussy with a book deal on today’s entertainment news, tell the whole fucking world.
“Mr. Kensington.” I extend my hand. He ignores it, and moves in closer. I’m wearing my tallest, most professional pumps and Theo still towers over me. There’s an intensity about him, a hungry energy, some sort of powerful force field that would drag off my panties if they hadn’t already melted.
No wonder all these women go to bed with him. No wonder celebrities star in his private sex tapes.
No wonder the board of his father’s company wants him gone.
“I’m Vesper Smith,” I withdraw my hand, because he’s too busy undressing me with his eyes to shake it. “Your new media consultant.”
“Nice,” he drawls to my boobs. “I’m looking forward to you working under me.”
I stiffen. I know I look good. I’m wearing a grey business suit that sets off my eyes, even hidden behind black-framed glasses. My heels make my legs look killer and give me a few inches of extra height. I look good, not slutty, yet my new boss is looking me up and down like I’m a pin-up model and he’d like to nail me on the hood of his car.
My heart sinks a little. He really is a man-whore.
I push my glasses up my nose. “Mr. Kensington,” I start in my sternest voice. “You’ve cultivated quite the reputation. If you’re not careful—”
Theo interrupts. “Where’d you dig this one up, Evans?”
The music cuts off as Evans turns the key in the Maserati. “She comes highly recommended, Mr. Kensington.”
“Great. Do you want me to call the ladies back?” He jerks a thumb and I realize he’s talking about the three women that just got out of the car. “We can do a photo shoot here. Something for you to put on Instagram.”