Page 19 of Secret
My wife is fucking fantastic.
I chuckle as the door shuts in her wake. I knew when she woke up this morning, she’d be upset. I expected it. Frankly, I would have been disappointed had she not been. I walk to my desk and snatch the phone from the cradle. It rings once before the concierge answers.
Good.
I’m glad to see my hotel staff have already implemented the changes from our meeting yesterday. Today, I implement those changes at The Krissinger.
“Mr. Banks, sir, how may I help you?”
“My wife is on her way downstairs. See that she arrives safely back at her hotel. Have Marcos drive her back. Instruct him that he is to stay with her until I tell him otherwise. He is not to be noticed by her.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Banks. Right away, sir.”
I like things to move as seamlessly as possible. I hang the receiver back in the cradle and stretch as I shake my head. I can’t believe I got so bloody pissed. This turn of events could work in my favor. I can’t help the laugh that tumbles from my chest.
My wife.
Christ, I drank way too much last night, but even all the absinthe can’t erase the images of my lovely new bride that still fire through my mind. Christina is gorgeous, exotic, and an amazing woman. Plus, I have never had such fantastic sex. That woman did things to my body I didn’t even know were possible.
My little Hell Cat. Inventive American, she is.
When I came to Vegas to check on my investments, I never expected I’d end up married. I have to say, I was quite shocked when I woke up earlier and saw my great grandmother’s rings on her finger, but after a small moment of adjustment, and having Marcos run a background check while she slept to make sure she wasn’t off her trolley, I realized this is for the best. Meeting this drunk American beauty was a stroke of luck, actually. I pick up my cell phone from the desk, scroll through my contacts, and connect the call.
“Hello, John. I need you to deliver a message to the Duke. I've had a turn of events I need to discuss with him upon my return.”
I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. My father didn’t want to listen to me when I insisted I in no way wanted to marry the daughter of the Earl of Abingdon. His arrangement wasn’t going to work for me. It isn’t that she is unsuitable or unattractive. She’s beautiful to look at. The problem arises when she opens her mouth. Her personality ruins it.
Isadora Nordstrom is a ball-buster of the highest degree. She is spoiled, snooty, and a horrible human being in general. More specifically, she is ultra-high maintenance. The few outings we have attended together as a couple are a testament to my ability to maintain my composure in public. She insulted every server who came near her at the last fundraiser we attended a month ago. Nothing was to her liking. She complained about the silverware used at the charity breakfast last weekend.
The silverware.
Christ.
I was half-pissed by the time the breakfast ended, trying to drown her out. It’s likely the only reason my dick won out and I fucked her in the limo on the way to drop her off. That and the fact that she got on her knees and fought me to suck my cock. A man can only say no to a blow job for so long while he’s under the influence. Terrible mistake that was, and now, it most definitely will never happen again. I only agreed to marry Isadora because of the sense of duty to Father and his title. He kept insisting I was getting too old to carry on without a wife and heirs. At thirty-four, I'd say I'm just hitting my stride. There's still plenty of time for a family, but duty comes before anything as far as Father is concerned.
I’d dropped off my grandmother’s rings to a local jeweler here that I trust, to be polished and resized. They called earlier, saying they were ready to be picked up. I was carrying them around in my breast pocket, the weight of them dragging me down. I had every intention of returning home to ask Isadora to marry me.
Thank Christ for drunken American women in Las Vegas.
“Yes, my lord.” John’s voice gives away his nervousness. Father’s long time private secretary knows me well enough to hear, by the gleeful tone of my voice, I am up to no good. It isn’t often I call out of the blue for Father. His impossibly high standards for me are best dealt with through avoidance.
“Tell him there is news on the proposal front. I'll be home soon to discuss.”
“I will deliver the message, sir.”
“Perfect, John. Give the Duchess my love.”
“Very well, my lord.”
I hang up and grin as a laugh escapes me.
The old man will lose it. I can’t wait to see his face when I show up with my wife in tow. It’s not that I don’t love Father. I do, but he is so focused on protocols and appearances that he sometimes forgets his family are still people underneath all the titles and wealth. We have our own desires. I want a wife of my choosing. Marrying this American—while seemingly a drunken mistake—can hopefully work out in my favor. It doesn’t hurt that she is beautiful—those gorgeous green eyes, dark locks, and a brilliant body—and fantastic in bed. I’d say I married up.
I stroll around the room, searching for her purse. I finally spot it underneath a chair across the bedroom. There’s no way I’ll allow anyone else to take charge of my wife’s personal effects.
No, indeed not.
I plan to deliver Lady Banks’ possessions in person.
