Page 53 of Royal Desire

“I’m not afraid of anything,” I lie. “Don’t you have clients to shmooze and convince to give you control of their life savings? Isn’t that what this weekend is all about? Unless you’d like to give me feedback on the show, there’s nothing else for us to talk about.”

Felicity turns to Payne. “Were you not happy? You looked happy. Everyone looked happy.” Then she turned to Devon. “Do you agree?”

Devon agrees, but does it like a true Brit. “Bloody happy.”

Blake goes back to counting money. “By the weight of the tip jar, everyone was more than happy.”

Payne doesn’t take his gaze off of me. “The only thing I wasn’t happy about is you didn’t sing one of my requested songs.”

I shrug. “I wasn’t feeling it. Call it what you will—creative license or an artist’s choice. But when it comes down to it, your suggestions were shit.”

Blake laughs, and Felicity lets out an uncomfortable squeak.

Devon doesn’t have time to say anything because the door opens, and the bartender squeezes his way into the cramped room. “Sorry, boss. The bar is slammed. How long do you want me to stay open since the show’s over and it’s an open bar?”

Devon hikes a brow at Payne to let him answer. Payne looks at his watch, but I’m the one to speak up. “An hour. Maybe two. Let them drink up.”

An uncomfortable silence covers the room. The only noise is Blake counting in a murmur to himself since he’s ignoring everything else. He finally slams down the last bill. “Dang! Just my cut will be more than I usually make in a week working in The Greenhouse. I’ll get everyone paid.”

Blake leaves the room, and Felicity turns to me. “If you’re okay, I think I will go home. We have activities I need to see to first thing in the morning.”

“And I need a bottle out of that box you’re sitting on,” the bartender says.

Payne bends to pick up my heels and bag before he plucks my jacket from my arms. “We’re in the way. Let’s go so we can find a private place to talk. Then I’ll take you home.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll check on Grandma. I’ll even take your cut home for you,” Blake offers. I breathe a silent sigh of relief knowing I’ll be able to pay my rent back in New York.

“If everyone is good here, I’m going to shut down the office and get back to Harlow. I’ll be around tomorrow if you need anything,” Devon says.

Payne holds my things in one hand and offers me his other one. “See? Everything is taken care of. I’ll take you home after we talk.”

I don’t take his hand and jut to my feet, but not for Payne. I do it for the bartender since I’m in his way. I march out of the storage room on worn flip flops. Payne doesn’t miss a beat. He falls into step next to me, and his warm hand lands low on the small of my back.

I try not to, but the sheer touch of his hand sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with me being cold. I know he feels it, because his strong fingers give my side a squeeze.

The bartender wasn’t kidding. The Speakeasy has barely cleared out, but I do not see the man who grabbed me by the arm right before Payne kissed me for all the world to see.

Or at least his clients.

I guess I should be thankful it was a closed event. Otherwise we’d be the talk of Winslet by sunup.

Payne must be off the clock even though he’s still footing the ever-growing bar bill, because he doesn’t say a word to anyone. With a firm hand, he leads me through the lounge and atrium.

“Where are we going?” I whisper.

He leans down and puts his lips close to my ear. Goosebumps run up my bare arms when his warm breath hits my skin. “I have a room for the weekend, so I don’t have to go back and forth. I’m not having this conversation in public.”

We’re two steps from the elevators when I come to an abrupt stop. “I’m not going up to your room with you. If you want to talk, we can do it here.”

He jabs the button to call the elevator then claims my hand in a tight embrace. “Sorry, Red. We’re talking in private. When you find out what this is about, you’ll thank me.”

I try to pull my hand from his, but his hold is resolute. “Stop doing that.”

He looks down at me through a devastatingly handsome hiked brow. His whiskey eyes are sharp and piercing. “Stop doing what?”

I lower my voice as another couple steps up to wait for a ride. “The nicknames—it’s too much. Red, Rubes ... you need to stop.”

He looks over my head and lifts his chin to the other couple with a smile that would dazzle anyone to hand over their bank accounts or panties. “I hope you had a great evening and are enjoying the manor.”