The Duke: A Standalone Royal Billionaire Novel Page 2

  "No, I’m just pissed because you made me look like a total dumbass in front of her," Gerry responds as he strides into the room and leans down to give my mother a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.

  "How you doin’, Ma?" he asks. Gerry is the closest in age to me, and the most fun of all my brothers. His scowl turns sunny as he sees me sitting next to our mother, and he ruffles my hair. "Kitty Kat, you’re not off spinning records tonight?"

  I roll my eyes. My brothers all think my passion is sort of stupid. I mean, they want me to do well, and have supported me by hauling mixing equipment all over Chicago, but they still think it’s some sort of childish dream that their eccentric little sister will eventually give up. Now I’m starting to wonder if they might have a point. Problem is, I don’t have an alternative. I’ve never thought about anything else to do. But I’m not about to admit I’ve failed to them until I absolutely have to, so I lie.

  "Do the Norsemen have a home game tonight?" I ask none too politely.

  "Why no, Kat," he says with a grin, "I don’t believe they do."

  The Chicago Norsemen was the biggest job I’d had to date. It was a dream come true for me. See, I don’t want to be a DJ who works teenagers’ birthday parties and people’s cheesy weddings. I want to be a top DJ, the kind that gets flown to Miami to play a party for Pitbull, or gets invited to work the Grammy awards show. Thus far, the Norsemen was the only gig that met my qualifications. And yes, it would make my life easier if I’d just went and got a job waiting tables so I could pay back my loans. I’m ambitious, but possibly not that bright.

  "There’s your answer." I turn my attention back to the potatoes.

  My oldest brother, Mikey, pops the top on the can of Miller Lite he just got from the fridge and comes over to sit down on the other side of me.

  "Hey, squirt," he mumbles around a mouthful of beer.

  "Hey."

  Gerry and Ronny go back to arguing about the girl, and Mikey starts talking to my mom about business. He works with my dad in the painting business. Dad does the meet and greet stuff these days and Mikey is the crew foreman. I think that means he tells all the guys what to do and acts important. But in all honesty, I don’t know for sure because I’ve never paid attention.

  My phone vibrates on the tabletop and I flip it over to look at the screen. The bank again. Damn it. I look around at my three older brothers. I could ask one of them for help, but they’d probably rat me out to Mom and Dad.

  They call them dreams for a reason, I guess—they can turn into nightmares if you’re not careful.

  4

  Winston

  I stride into the headquarters for the Norsemen at seven twelve on a Monday morning. I haven’t had coffee yet, so I’m relieved to see my assistant, Gladys, has acquired some. She holds the cup out to me as I make my way past her desk toward my office.

  "Mr. Miller is waiting for you," she says.

  I nod and mumble a “thanks” before crossing the carpeted floor and opening the door to my suite. The admin offices for the team are on the top floor of the arena. All the training facilities and staff are on the bottom floor, and the public areas are in between the two.

  I open the door to find Diego Miller, my in-house counsel, waiting at the conference table on one side of the room. He has a stack of paperwork spread out in front of him and my gut burns a touch at the sight. This is going to be a nightmare of epic proportions. There’s no way my grandfather will have made this easy. I hate the idea that the old man will still be able to screw with me from the grave.

  "Morning," Diego says, collecting the papers into a stack as I put my things down and come to sit next to him.

  "Did you get the documents?" I ask, not in the mood to worry about the niceties. I take the lid off the coffee and just let the aroma work its way through me for a moment before taking a small sip.

  "Yep, delivered first thing Friday morning. I spent all weekend going over them."

  "And?" I ask, my heart racing more than I’d like it to be.

  He sits back, crossing his arms. He’s in his shirtsleeves, his tie only knotted loosely, and I wonder if he’s slept in the last twenty-four hours.

  "You’re not going to like it," he answers unambiguously.

  I turn my face to the ceiling, groaning and running a hand over my chin, which carries some stubble since I shaved last night instead of this morning.

  "Ok. Just hit me with it. Can’t say I wasn’t expecting it."

  He nods and leans forward, beginning to talk as he shifts page by page of paperwork at me.

  Thirty minutes later, I sit looking at the conditions of my grandfather’s will and I want nothing more than to fly to the mortuary in London, resuscitate his body and kill him all over again.

  "I’m sorry," Diego says. "I wish there were a way around it, but I’ve consulted with a friend of mine who practices in the UK. He’s with one of the best, big London firms. It’s iron-clad. You can walk away from the inheritance, try to get financing for the team, start from scratch — or you’ll have to follow the directives as he’s laid out." He pauses. "Well, or you can say to hell with all of it and sell the team, tell the family to fuck off and go get a job."

  I snort bitterly. "Yeah, that’s not going to happen. I’ve been working my whole life to get my inheritance so I could finally be free of him and build the business I want. I don’t give a damn about the title, and I’m stuck with it no matter what, but I’m not going to give up the money. It’s mine. I earned it ten times over."

  Diego grins and looks at me approvingly. "I’m glad to hear it. So, do I need to call you My Lord or something like that, now?"

  I wave a hand at him. "Don’t worry about it. I don’t expect Americans to know all that. It would be a little pretentious to ask the employees to address me as Your Grace."

  "So it’s Your Grace?"

  I roll my eyes. "If you’re being technical about it, yes. But the only people who use that are the staff at the estate and the House of Lords."

  "So there’s an estate? Like Downton Abbey?" he asks, a gleam in his eye.

  "More like Pride and Prejudice, the Keira Knightley version," I answer. "Can you imagine trying to heat Downton Abbey? We all gave those places over to the National Trust decades ago. But the Dukedom does have a country estate. Some sheep, farmland, a small manor house, that sort of thing."

  "And how small is this manor house?" he asks.

  I think about it for a moment. I haven’t been to Quail Hill in years. But we used to spend every Christmas there. Most of my winter holidays were spent at the estate — riding, eating too much with my sister and cousins, trying to get the girls from the village to make out. A pang runs through me as I realize that I loved that place. It’s because I didn’t love my grandfather that I stopped attending family holidays. I gave up a lot of things because of my constant stand-off with the old man.

  "Twelve bedrooms," I say, counting them in my head. "Fourteen bathrooms, two kitchens — one for family and one the staff does the majority of the cooking in — several parlors, a library, formal dining room and family dining room, a ballroom."

  Diego bursts out laughing. "Just a small manor house, huh?" He shakes his head. "You sound like a Duke already."

  I smile grimly. "Well, that won’t do me any good if I can’t fulfill the stipulations of the will."

  "Right," he says, getting back to business. "And so we come to it. You have to acquire a wife within forty-five days of his passing. You do that and you get it all, the money, the team, the title. Everything a person could want."

  "And a few things a person might not," I quip. "It’s going to be damn hard to run the team from London. My family’s business interests will require me to spend at least half my time there.”

  "You’ll have plenty of money to hire someone to take over some of your duties while you’re gone, and you’ll go during off-season. I know you love being hands on, but you can’t do this and live in Chicago full-time.”

  I sigh. I
know he’s right. The Dukedom is really a mid-sized company. The title and a seat in the House of Lords comes to me per line of succession laws. However, the money and the control of the company were Grandfather’s to give where he chose. And the company includes not only the country estate and all the property and farming interests that come with it, but also a large investment portfolio that includes shares in real estate, mines, renewable energy, shipping, railroads, and even a few restaurants. We have a staff of attorneys, financial advisors, research assistants, projects managers, and others to keep track of it all. But at the top is the Duke, basically the CEO. And that’s all on me, now.

  "You’re right, half my time in England isn’t really an option. Realistically, it’ll be more than that. As much as the team is my main interest, the Dukedom is bigger and will require more of my time. The company employs a slew of Cauldwells, it’s up to me to keep all of them flush and happy."

  Diego looks at me sympathetically. "Now, for the other issue…" His voice fades away because it’s positively medieval. Who requires their heir to marry to inherit? I’m sure to an American in particular it sounds incredibly Draconian.

  I stand and pace over to the windows. "I suppose I can set my mother on the task. There are undoubtedly half a dozen London socialites who would do the duty for a nice prenup and a fancy wedding."

  "It might not be so bad marrying for convenience," he says. "You can pick someone hot and if you’re lucky she’ll let you screw her senseless every now and then. You don’t even have to live with her." He shrugs.

  I look out the windows at a plane flying toward O’Hare. I’ll be on one heading the other direction in a few days and my life will never be the same again. There’s a lot of bittersweet to go along with that.

  "I’ll figure something out," I tell him. "I’ve got forty-five days. I’m sure I can find someone at the funeral. Let’s talk about something else. Any other business you have with me today?"

  He clears his throat. "Actually, there is a little something we need to handle."

  Part of me is exhausted and doesn’t want to hear more bad news, but another part of me is grateful for any distraction from my grandfather’s ridiculous micromanagement of my future.

  "Ok, hit me," I say.

  "You’ve been named in a sexual harassment complaint."

  "What?!" I spin to face him, shock making me take a step forward at the same time. "I’ve never—"

  He holds up a hand, palm out. "Just take a breath. It’s a complaint through HR at this point, so we can nip it in the bud before it reaches any public notice. But it may cost you to do that."

  "Who is it?" I ask, my brow furrowed as I try to think of any possible moment I might have mistakenly given someone in my employ the wrong impression.

  "You remember firing the DJ at the home game Thursday?"

  My mind spins back to the game against the Florida Frost. "Redhead? Mouth that never stops?"

  He looks uncomfortable. "Maybe we do have a problem…"

  "We don’t have a problem," I snap. "She was standing up on the balcony shouting at my player to 'knee him in the ‘nads’. Hardly professional behavior."

  He shrugs. "But there’s no rule against it, and arguably no one can hear her from up there. She was alone, her job didn’t necessitate her at that particular moment, and she got caught up in the game."

  "So, she could argue wrongful termination, but how is it sexual harassment?"

  "She says you, and I quote, 'checked out her rack before sneering and firing her’."

  "I never—" I reply indignantly. But as I do, an image flashes through my head of her ample chest in a tight black top. It was a deep v-neck, so there was an abundance of creamy white cleavage showing, and nipples that couldn’t be contained by that thin fabric. The whole thing was not unlike two perfect scoops of vanilla ice cream just waiting to be licked from bottom to top. I restrain a shudder that runs through me at the memory, working to replace that image with one of her yelling 'take that, bitch' like some sort of reality show contestant.

  "Well," Diego continues, "if this were five years ago, we could tell her to shove off, but after metoo?" He shakes his head. "As your legal counsel, I have to advise that you settle this as quickly as possible before she decides to go to the press and you end up getting called out publicly. It could be really damaging to the team."

  Bloody hell, I think, grinding my teeth.

  "Fine." I sit back down at the conference table. "What does she want?"

  He slides a notepad my direction. I look down at the number on the yellow legal paper. My eyes widen in shock and I feel my blood pressure ratchet up until there are sparks floating in my peripheral vision.

  "You have got to be fucking kidding me!"

  “I am not kidding, but something else has just occurred to me.” His gaze narrows and he looks thoughtful for a moment.

  I wait, trying to be patient even though I want to punch someone repeatedly.

  “I think I might have a solution to both of your problems,” he says.

  My brow wrinkles because I’m not sure which other problem he’s referring to. Then he begins talking and my stomach sinks. Oh. That other problem.

  5

  Kat

  "So, you think they might actually give me that much?" I ask my cousin Randy. He’s an attorney, and when I asked him if I could sue for wrongful termination or something, he said we needed to go the sexual harassment route. I told Randy his royal dickness wouldn’t be caught dead harassing me sexually. I obviously disgust him to no end, but Randy says with the metoo thing, it’s the best way to go. He says any employer accused of sexual misconduct right now folds like a cheap suit.

  "Oh yeah," Randy says, a predatory gleam in his eye, "they’ll pay."

  "But a million dollars?"

  He snorts. "Of course not. But you start high so when you negotiate down they feel like you’ve done 'em a favor."

  He brushes an imaginary piece of lint off his brand new shiny three-piece suit. Every other time I’ve seen Randy at work, he’s been wearing a synthetic polo shirt with the firm’s logo on the chest, and a pair of pleated khakis. Darnell says if I cared about my cousin at all, I’d explain to him that no one except men old enough to be grandfathers wear pleats these days, but really, what do I care what Randy wears to his two-person law firm in Cicero?

  I think today’s upgrade — if we can really call it that — is in anticipation of a big payout from my boss. Former boss. Whatever.

  "So, how much do you think we can get?" I ask.

  He shrugs and mumbles something that may have been a number or his grocery list.

  "I wish we could just get my job back. That’s all I really want. I loved that job." I sigh. I mean, yeah, it would help to have some cash to pay off that loan, but mostly I just want to work for the Norsemen.

  "You’re gonna’ end up with enough cash to DJ in Monaco, Kat. Trust me, you won’t need that bullshit job."

  "It wasn’t bullshit, it was the fucking Norsemen. You love them as much as everyone else in the family. Hell, your dad’s the one who got arrested stalking Mick Petrovich last year before his injury—"

  "Hush." He scowls at me. "We don’t talk about it. Ever. You know that." He rolls his shoulders like he’s getting rid of something distasteful. "Once Dad started going to AA meetings that all got straightened out."

  I cover my laugh with a cough. Uncle Brian might go to AA meetings, but then he heads straight to McDuff’s afterwards for a bracing boilermaker or two.

  Randy’s secretary opens the door and sticks her head in. I see Randy’s eyes light up. Maggie’s twenty-four, blonde and stacked, I know that’s why he hired her. But she’s also really smart — way too smart to get involved with him.

  "You have a call from a Diego Miller, in-house counsel to the Norsemen," she says, wiggling her eyebrows.

  Randy gives me a smug look. "Told you," he says before pumping a fist. Maggie rolls her eyes at me and I laugh.

  "Quiet,"
Randy instructs, holding up a finger. Maggie and I smirk but get quiet. He picks up the phone and I swear he makes his voice deeper on purpose. If only I could have afforded a real lawyer.

  "This is Randall Monroe," he says. Randall? That’s not even his name. His birth certificate actually reads Randy. Don’t ask. My Aunt Rita is a trip.

  He turns his back to us, listening for a few moments, grunting every now and then.

  "I’ll check with my client and see if she’s available," he tells the guy from the Norsemen. "Mm hmm. We’ll be in touch." He ends the call and turns around, beginning to shuffle papers on his desk. Maggie and I look at each other. She shrugs.

  "Well?" I ask in exasperation.

  He looks up at me and a full-on grin breaks across his face. "They want to negotiate terms. We’re supposed to meet at two this afternoon."

  My eyes widen. I can’t believe it. Randy really got them to negotiate? They might actually pay me money? Or maybe I can convince them to give me the job back.

  That’s when I finally whoop, jumping up and down. Maggie gets a big smile and hugs me.

  "Never doubt me, cuz," Randy says, watching us. "This is the start of big things for both of us."

  I think he might be right.

  6

  Winston

  "You want me to what?" Her voice has reached a pitch that is probably setting every dog for blocks to barking.

  "If you’ll just hear us out, Ms. Monroe," Diego says calmly.

  My blood pressure is rising and a headache threatens behind my left temple.

  "Hear you out? Have you lost your damn minds?"

  The guy she brought in as her attorney isn’t really doing his job. His gaze just ping pongs between Diego and Kat, like he’s watching a match at Wimbledon.

  "Are you going to say anything?" I ask the smarmy-looking guy in his cheap suit and what are clearly fake glasses. "Aren’t you her attorney? Surely you have an opinion on the whole thing."