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“What is it?” Grinder asked when he exited the lift.
“A possible kidnapping.”
He scrubbed his face with his hand. “Who?”
“Someone with close ties to the monarchy.”
“We’re going deep on this one, aren’t we?”
“We are.”
He looked over his shoulder at the lift and then back at me. “Let’s go.”
“Is there something you need to take care of first?”
When he shook his head, I wanted to suggest that he go up to the room and, at a minimum, tell the woman whose bed he’d just left that he was leaving London. However, that would require I explain how I knew he’d been in said bed.
“There’s been a sighting in Budapest,” Decker reported a few minutes later. “I’m tracking credit cards and facial recognition.”
“Did she appear to be in distress?” I asked, not surprised in the least by her whereabouts.
“The information didn’t indicate either way, but I’ll keep you informed of anything else I learn.”
“Budapest?” Grinder asked.
“The plane is at Gatwick.”
“Why Budapest?”
I told him what I’d heard about Kensington’s involvement with the heir to the former Austro-Hungarian throne.
“Otto or Konstantine.”
“Konstantine,” I responded, surprised Grinder knew anything of the historic empire.
“He’s an asshole.”
When we landed at the airport in Budapest at three in the morning and deplaned, a car was waiting on the tarmac.
“Who are you?” Grinder asked facetiously. “And more importantly, can you arrange for a cup of tea and something to eat?”
I was the nephew of a reigning monarch, a king, and I could arrange for anything Grinder or I wanted, any time, day or night. Did I take advantage of my position? As little as possible with the exception of keeping the Bombardier at my disposal.
A driver delivered us to the Four Seasons Hotel where he’d already checked in on our behalf, under assumed names, and in the penthouse suite. With three bedrooms and a private lift, it would give us a place to set up a makeshift command center while affording us ultimate privacy.
“How much money do the Invincibles have?” asked Grinder, looking at the view from the suite’s window.
“You receive monthly reports.”
He raised a brow.
“Upwards of forty million pounds sterling. Do you require an exact number?” He certainly shouldn’t. Grinder was wealthy without his stake in the Invincibles.
“Wow,” he said, looking at the screen of his mobile. I opened mine as well and perused the same photos of Kensington that I assumed he was. “She’s gorgeous.”
Breathtakingly so. Despite the fact that Miss Whitby was far too young for me, I felt a stirring. Two, in fact. The first was one of intense attraction; the second, the same level of inappropriate possessiveness. Both were equally ridiculous. However, the longer Grinder studied the images on his mobile, the more I found myself wanting to rip it from his hand.
She looked like the supermodel her familial connections would never allow her to be. She was tall, perhaps close to six feet. She was reed-thin but with ample breasts, evident in the photo of her in a hot-pink bikini. Her honey-blonde hair was waist-length, and her amber-colored eyes were beguiling.
