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Charlie stared at his boots. “I said I was sorry.”
“I know. You’re always sorry. Never sorry enough not to do it again though.”
Silence.
“Why Lord Malcolm’s painting? Of all the paintings, you just had to give her—”
“It’s the only one she’d take.”
“Why?”
Charlie shrugged. Arthur could only assume she knew the story behind the painting, that it meant the world to his parents. Or was there another reason?
“You’re not going out again tonight, are you?” Arthur asked. “You’re going to stay in, right? No pubs. No parties. No hotels.”
“Yeah. Course.”
“All right. Go on. Get some rest. I’ll call when I can.”
“You’re really getting the painting back from her?”
“Yes. I hope.”
“How?”
“Doesn’t matter. Nothing you need to worry about. Go on. Take a shower. You smell like a brothel. Wonder why.”
“Do you hate me?” Charlie asked.
Arthur sighed. “I don’t hate you. I just wish you’d grow up.”
“Stop treating me like a child then, and maybe I would.”
“Stop acting like a child, and I’ll stop—”
“Yes, King Arthur. Anything you say, King Arthur.” Charlie shoved open the door and disappeared into the building.
“Love you, too,” Arthur muttered.
* * *
When Arthur returned to Piccadilly,he took a long hot shower, standing under the water until his skin turned red. He dressed in dark jeans, a grey t-shirt, a navy jacket, and his most comfortable boots.
He could still hear Regan’s voice taunting him.You agreed to that far too easily. You must be the sort of man who likes being tied to beds…
No. Of course he wasn’t that sort of man. But he was the sort of man who would do anything he had to do to help his brother. That’s all. Even if it meant sex with a veritable stranger who clearly loathed him.
Regan, he decided, must be one of those women who got off on hurting their partners or humiliating them. This was her darkest dream come true, then—a man selling himself to her to save his brother. The son of a peer on his hands and knees in front of her. His cock stiffened at the thought, but he ignored his erection, telling himself his body was confusing excitement with dread.
It was nighttime proper when he returned to The Pearl and parked in their underground garage. As he made his way to the lobby, he did a quick online search for anything he could find about Regan. Rule number one inThe Art of War:Know thy enemy.
He didn’t get much right away except her husband’s obituary. Jack Ferry had been a hotelier and a good thirty-five years older than Regan. He’d left her very wealthy, with sole ownership of the hotel.
An image search returned photos of Regan and Sir Jonathan “Jack” Ferry at various parties in Milan, Paris, and Rome, Regan on Jack’s arm, looking like his doting daughter. A few photos showed the Ferrys with various political figures, including the prime minister at Royal Ascot. She was connected and protected. If Arthur didn’t “earn” Lord Malcolm’s portrait back from her, then he knew there was a very good chance they would never get it back.
So he was fucked, literally and figuratively.
The lift opened onto the seventh storey and Arthur walked slowly to the door. It couldn’t be that bad, could it? She was beautiful—truly, easily the most attractive woman he’d ever met. Not even that much older than him. Only nine years. All right, so she’d probably tie him up and flog him or whatever women like that did. He’d survived the Royal Military Academy, he could survive her. Nothing to do but soldier on.
