“Any of it. The apology, the charity gigs.” Evans shakes his head. “Mr. Kensington doesn’t want to clean up his act. A few of the board members were friends of his father. They hired you to save his reputation, so they can give him one last chance. But he doesn’t care.”
“Then he needs a therapist, not a fixer.” I say sharply.
Evans shrugs. “For the money we’re paying you, you can be both.”
3
On my way to the pool, I school my face into a stern expression, one I often saw employed by Ms. Mavery, the librarian at my high school. I found it works on handsy boys and misbehaving clients alike. Combined with my business suit and unflappable poise, I will be unstoppable.
I hope.
I follow the sound of classic rock to the pool. My polished approach is spoiled somewhat when my heel catches in a crack of the pavement. By the time I free myself, the whole party is staring—a handful of men and twice as many women. And Theo, who is still not wearing a shirt.
“You’re fired,” he shouts as I come close. The ladies around him erupt into laughter.
I continue down the marble steps, passing topiaries and statues of cavorting nymphs. I’m sensing a theme here. Maybe living among all this lascivious art made Theodore Kensington subconsciously decide to be a modern-day Bacchus. I smile to myself. “Art and the Playboy Psyche” would make a great thesis paper. Miss Mavery would love it.
“I said you’re fired,” he repeats, and there’s a serious edge to his voice. This isn’t just Theo, the bad boy idiot, playing to the crowd. This is Theodore Kensington, testing me to see what I will do. Whether I can stand up for myself.
“You can’t fire me.” I come to a stop before his pool lounger. “I don’t represent you. I represent your dick.” I point to his swim shorts. Fortunately, he’s wearing shorts. Otherwise it’d be halfway to an orgy around here. I don’t think Mr. Evans would like that.
“My dick can speak for itself,” Theo says, and sets off another round of giggles.
“It certainly can. That’s your problem. Your dick is getting rave reviews on entertainment news shows. Apparently, it just delivered the performance of a lifetime. You’re a grown man,” I’m full on channeling Ms. Mavery here, “who got caught with his pants down and more than just your hand in the cookie jar.”
Theo wears a half-smile. There’s a gleam of intelligence behind his model looks. Thank God. Give me something I can work with. “So I’ve got a PR problem.”
“Mr. Kensington, you are the PR problem.” You and your harem. Besides the three women I saw climb out of the car this morning, there are four more, all in the tiniest bikinis ever invented. They might as well be wearing thick pieces of string. And high heels. Who wears high heels with a bikini?
Theo cocks his head to his side. “What’s your name, again?”
“Vesper Smith. Friends of your father hired me to clean up your image.”
“I like my image just fine. You know what they call me?”
I cross my arms, making it clear I’m not going to say it.
“The god of fuck,” he says. The ladies titter, but he’s not playing to his audience again. I’ve riled him. This show is for me. “You know why?”
“It’s a play on your name. ‘Theo’, is the Greek root for ‘deity.’” Thank you, Ms. Mavery.
Theo blinks.
The guy next to him bursts out laughing. “Theo, your new PR lady is a nerd.”
“I’m drinking a martini,” one of the ladies holds up her glass, “can you tell me the Greek root for that?”
I shake my head. Theo’s groupies laugh and laugh, but he just studies me silently.
“Just how much Greek do you know?” a surfer looking dude asks me.
“Why the fuck do you care?” a woman with fire engine red nails, hair, and a bikini to match snaps at him.
“You know what Greek sex is, right?” He whispers in Red’s ear, and she cackles.
I shake my head in disgust.
“No fucking way,” Red points at me. “She’s blushing like a virgin.”
“Fuck,” the first guy says. “A nerd and a virgin. I know someone who can help you with your V-card.” He smacks Theo on the back.
“Lay off it, guys,” he orders, before stepping close to me. Way, way up in my space.
My head tilts up to look him in the eye. I force myself not to back away.
“Your friends are jerks,” I tell him.
“Don’t listen to them. They’ve just never seen a media consultant as beautiful as you.”
“I’m not going to sleep with you,” I tell him. “Don’t try to flatter me.”
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” he says, and it’s my turn to blink. “I think you like it. I think you want me to flatter you.”
I push my glasses up my nose, more to insert space between me and him than to adjust my glasses. My hand almost brushes his tattooed pec. I wonder if he hears my heart pounding.
“You’re a little uptight, Vesper Smith. Maybe my friend’s right. You need a little Theo-therapy. Tell you what.” He leans close, his lips brushing my ear. “You fix my image; I’ll punch your V-card.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I snap. He bursts out laughing.
“I’m kidding. I don’t fuck virgins.”
Screaming, “I’m not a virgin” won’t gain me anything, so I spin on my heel and leave.
My cheeks are hot. Never mind the teasing. There’s so much sexual attraction between Theo and me, the eye fucking alone is enough to get me pregnant.
Gods did that, right? Poof! Pregnant. Now that would be a story to spin. Mr. Evans wouldn’t buy it, but every woman who’d been reeled in by that attraction beam would understand.
I glare at the naked statues of Greek gods as I march past. Evans meets me at the mansion door.
“We have a problem,” he says. “I just got off the phone with Sweden.”
“Did the queen see the news?”
“Yeah. She’s finally ready to recognize her grandson.”
“It’s been almost thirty years. Why now?”
“I think she finally wants to make amends. She lifted the ban on her deceased daughter.”
“A little late for that.” Poor Theo, losing his mother at birth, and bearing the brunt of her sins.
“It’s more a formality, to change the line of succession.”
“What?”
“Her son is ill. He and his wife have no children. When he dies...”
“Theo is next in line,” my head spins. “That’s the real reason she’s made contact.”
“She’s called him to an audience at her private residence. Friday.”
“This Friday?”
“That’s right. The queen wants to see him in four days.”
“So how’s it going?” My friend chirps. I wince, and prop my cell phone on my other ear.
I should be scouring my media contacts and calling in favors, and Googling what to wear to an audience with the queen of Sweden, but between Evans shouting about suing every woman his boss has ever slept with and Theo’s heavy metal rock fest in his backyard, I have a headache.