Page 32 of London Dynasty

I swallowed at the lingering hunger I’d glimpsed before he turned away. There was no denying the white-hot intensity blazing in his eyes. He’d been thinking about my dress and his car. I had no idea what wicked thoughts my innocent observation had produced, but the effect they’d had on him had, in turn, tightened my core and dampened my knickers.

“Where are we going to dinner?” I asked, desperate to break up the tension stretching between us.

“Dinner. Right.” He opened my car door and helped me inside. “We better go before I lay you across the hood of the car and see how well you match.”

My mouth fell open.

“Even your damn lips match,” he muttered gruffly. “I bet your cheeks would, too...Christ, we need to go.”

He slammed my door and circled to the driver’s side, getting in without a word.

I was beginning to see what Iris meant when she said what I wore was armor. Not only did it strengthen me, but it also had quite the effect on my intended, it seemed.

“Dinner,” he said as he hit the ignition button like he was going to walk himself through step-by-step. Whatever internal struggle he was dealing with wasn’t giving him any slack.

That’s why I couldn’t help myself when I added, “And after—dessert.”

Chapter Eighteen

It was a mistake to bring up what might happen after dinner, given the enclosed space we now found ourselves in. I couldn’t help but notice how tightly Spencer gripped the steering wheel. Five minutes into our drive, I realized that if I didn’t distract him, this evening would turn into another disaster. I turned my attention to the window as we merged onto the A502 and watched as the world whizzed past with dizzying speed. I had no idea how fast we were going, but Spencer’s driving was a mix of recklessness and anger like he was pissed at the road for some unspeakable sin.

“What’s your favorite color?” I blurted out. It took effort to resist the urge to unfasten my safety belt and fling myself from the moving vehicle. Was that the best I could come up with?

Spencer glanced over, tension fading into puzzlement. “Are we five years old, Kerrigan?”

I had two choices: to be offended or to double down. “Well, since you’re being so conversational, I am forced to start at the beginning. Spoiler: I’m going to ask what you want to be when you grow up next. Think of your answer.”

“Red,” he bit out.

“Hence the car.” I nodded. No wonder he liked my dress. “I think mine is blue, but it depends on the day. And what do you want to be when you grow up?”

“You already know the answer to that one.” This time he didn’t look at me.

“Prime Minister. That’s...ambitious,” I admitted to him.

“When we marry, my grandfather will pass his seat in parliament to me. From there, it will be a few years. Although I am expected to be the youngest man elected to the position.”

He spoke of it in a curiously detached manner like he was reading from a map he’d been given. None of the passion that sometimes inflamed his words was present. It was a clipped, specific response.

“Spencer, do you want to be Prime Minister?” I asked.

“What?” He threw an insulted look in my direction. “Of course. What man wouldn’t want to be the most powerful man in the country?”

“I think the king is the most powerful man in the country,” I pointed out.

“Not once I’m in power,” he muttered.

“Isn’t your family more traditionally leaning when it comes to politics?” I asked.

“My grandfather is.” He didn’t offer any further clarification on this point.

I sensed it was time to move on. I wondered if he would ever open up to me about how he really felt about being groomed to be Prime Minister. But maybe our first date wasn’t the place to start. “Football team?”

He exhaled as if relieved to be talking about anything other than colors or careers. “West Ham.”

“West Ham?” I couldn’t contain a laugh.

“I’m a glutton for punishment,” he admitted.