The Duke: A Standalone Royal Billionaire Novel Read online

  She huffs out a breath in disgust. "Yeah, Randy, are you going to let them try to buy me like I’m a cow or a hooker?"

  "Not a hooker," Diego is quick to stress, tension seeping through his normally calm facade. "The prenup specifically states there is no expectation of consummation. That’s not necessary to make the marriage legal in Illinois, and Mr. Cauldwell’s grandfather’s will doesn’t specify a jurisdiction the marriage needs to take place in, only that it be legal."

  Kat just blinks at Diego, then slowly shifts her gaze to me. It’s enough to make a lesser man tremble it’s so icy.

  "You’ve already drawn up a prenup?" she asks quietly.

  Shit. I think I’ve just stepped on one of those landmines men do with women because we’re born stupid wankers.

  Luckily, Diego steps in. "Ms. Monroe," he says, drawing her attention back to him. "We’ve drawn up a prenup for whomever enters this business arrangement with Mr. Cauldwell. He will be getting married within the next forty-five days — he has to. But when we saw your complaint, we thought maybe this would be a way to solve two issues with one contract — not that there is any validity to your accusations, nor is entering into the agreement an admission of guilt on the part of Mr. Cauldwell or the Norsemen," he’s quick to add, sounding like one of those disclaimers on a radio commercial.

  Kat just sits there, and as if someone has un-paused him, her attorney finally speaks.

  "So, only a hundred grand in cash?" he asks. I narrow my gaze at him. Where did she find this guy? He’s a complete arse, and my skin crawls in distaste.

  "How much do you want?" I ask, talking over Diego. He opens his mouth to protest but I quell him with a well-placed scowl. I learned that scowl from the old man, and it frequently comes in handy during business negotiations.

  The lawyer blinks at me.

  "You, personally," I continue, leaning forward, placing my elbows on the table. "How much do you want to get out of this?"

  He begins to sputter some bullshit about his client’s best interests, but I cut him off, pulling my phone out of my breast pocket.

  "Ten percent is standard, that would be ten grand if she accepts the deal. I’ll give you twenty, completely separate from her settlement, and we’ll call it good."

  Kat gasps. I glance at her. "Trust me, I’m doing you a favor. I’ll get you a real lawyer to handle the negotiations." I look at the wanker sitting at my conference table. "What’s your email?"

  He rattles it off in a shaky voice. I punch it into my online banking app and hit send. "There," I say. "It’s been Zelled to you, should show up any minute."

  His mouth gapes like a fish out of water. "Now, get out," I say dismissively. He stands in a daze.

  "Randy?" she asks, sounding slightly panicked. "You’re not going to just leave me here?"

  He shrugs lightly. "It’s twenty K," he tells her.

  "Oh. My. God! You are such a douche!"

  Randy edges toward the door, his face slightly flushed.

  "You’ll be fine, Kat. My advice is to take the deal, you can do a lot with a hundred big ones."

  He’s halfway out the door now. "I swear to the Virgin Mother, Randy, when Aunt Rita hears about this—"

  But good old Randy — who must be a relative, I realize then — is long gone.

  She turns and looks at Diego and I, swallowing uncomfortably.

  "Did that just really happen?"

  Diego nods, and tries not to laugh. "It really did, but we can get you an attorney. We’ll have the team’s risk management fund pay for it so there’s no conflict of interest. I know a great guy in private practice. He specializes in employment issues, you’ll like him, I promise."

  She seems to think about it all for a moment. "I don’t need a lawyer. I know what I want to do," she says.

  Diego nods encouragingly and, for some reason, my heart rate picks up, almost as if I’m excited about this, which is ridiculous because what I’m faced with is a marriage I don’t want to a woman I don’t like, in order to get what is rightfully mine in the first place.

  "You can keep the hundred grand," she says. "I’ll marry you, but I don’t want cash, just my job back."

  Even Diego shows surprise.

  "The job?" I ask, confused.

  "The money was Randy’s idea," she clarifies. "All I really want is my job back." She stops, seeming to think for a moment. "And an apology."

  "An apology?" I raise one eyebrow and sit back in my chair. If I had actual bristles they’d be sticking out all over now. "I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for?"

  She huffs out a breath in frustration. The sound goes straight through me, chest to dick. I’ve never heard such an unintentionally erotic sound in my life. My gaze darts to Diego to see his response, but oddly, he doesn’t look like it affected him in the slightest. I know he’s married, but you’d have to be dead not to have reacted to that sound.

  "You need to apologize for being a total douche," she tells me. "There was absolutely no reason to fire me because I shouted something from the upstairs balcony where I was standing all alone. No one could hear me."

  I’m about to point out that I heard her, but Diego jumps in. "I’m sure we can work out something in the way of a formal apology and I can make the changes to the prenup to indicate your continued employment as the DJ for the Norsemen—"

  "Diego," I snap, not taking my eyes off Kat. "Give us a minute, would you?"

  He starts to protest, but I give him the scowl again and he stands, muttering to himself about jackass team owners who can’t see their own best interests as he leaves the room.

  I stand, as well, casually starting to pace as I talk.

  "I’m not sure if you were able to hear all the details when we explained the situation earlier," I begin. "But this inheritance I’m due is more than simply money. I am, in fact, the new Duke of Surrey." I turn to watch her. She tries to look bored, but mostly she looks nervous. "That means whomever I marry will be the new Duchess of Surrey."

  She swallows. "For real?"

  "Yes, Ms. Monroe." I step to the table where she sits and lean one hand on the heavy wood surface, the other on the back of her chair. It brings my face next to her ear. "For real."

  She smells like the lemon verbena my grandmother used to grow in her greenhouse, and for a moment my head swims so hard I can’t do anything but breathe in her scent. I hear a tiny gasp as she turns to look at me and realizes I’m so close we can see each other’s pupils dilate.

  Her brown eyes turn almost black, and my breath speeds up. When I speak again, my voice is rough, like I swallowed a mouthful of gravel.

  "There will be certain expectations of my Duchess. Some events, some photos. She can work—" I pause as the tip of her very pretty pink tongue slips out to lick her lips. "—but at things like interior design, law, philanthropy."

  "So, no DJs," she whispers as if she’s in a trance.

  "No DJs," I respond, equally preoccupied.

  "I love DJing. How long do I have to stay married to you?" she asks me, her chest rising and falling rapidly. My dick turns hard as steel then, and I reach out a finger and stroke her perfect, ivory skin right along her jawline.

  "You can have your job back at the end of a year."

  "How will I eat until then?" she says.

  "Trust me, you’ll be well…fed."

  And then, before she can say another word, I give in to the insanity racing through my blood and lower my lips to hers.

  7

  Kat

  It takes me a moment to realize that he’s kissing me. The freakin’ Duke of Douches is kissing me.

  And damn is he good at it.

  My lips part like the Red Sea and his tongue slips in, caressing my mouth like it’s a chocolate dessert.

  Before I know what’s happened, he’s pulled me up from the chair and wrapped an arm around my waist, pressing my chest to his. I can’t help the little groan that comes from my throat as his palm heats the bend of my waist and his other ha
nd cups the back of my skull, exerting just the right amount of pressure to tilt my head so he can explore my mouth deeper.

  Then, as suddenly as it started, it’s over. He gives my lips one last brush, then pulls back, looking at me with his blue eyes glittering menacingly.

  "You won’t want for anything during the next year, Ms. Monroe. Think of it as a little vacation."

  I blink at him, so much weird stuff still buzzing through my system I’m not sure what to think.

  So, I focus on the one thing I know. "But I get my job back at the end?"

  He tilts his head and looks at me appraisingly. "Yes, you get your job back at the end. And you should let me pay off that bank loan I know you’re behind on. It’s really the least I can do considering I’m asking you to give up a year of your life."

  I take a deep breath and try to regain my moxie. It was just a kiss, after all, no need to completely lose it like some stupid fan girl.

  "You looked at my credit record?”

  He gives me a small smile and shrugs. “Did you really expect me to legally tie myself to someone without knowing their financial status?”

  Well, when he puts it like that I guess I see what he means. My heart is hammering. This is totally nuts. Who makes offers like this? And more than that, who accepts them?

  “Ok then, I’ll do it." Me, I guess. Darnell is never going to believe this.

  He smiles, but there’s not a lot of joy in it. "Splendid. Mr. Miller will introduce you to your new attorney and they’ll handle the paperwork." He starts toward the door.

  "Wait," I call out, my heart racing as I feel blood rush to my face.

  He pauses, turning to look at me. "Yes?"

  "Why did you do that? The kissing, I mean. Because that’s not part of the deal, you know? I’m not interested or whatever…no matter how much money you’re throwing around." I fold my arms awkwardly, trying to look stern. I definitely don’t want him to think he can take husband-type liberties.

  Even if he was really good at it.

  His left brow rises a touch as he seems to mull over his answer. "To practice. We’ll need to look comfortable with one another for the cameras and my family."

  Oh ok. That makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is the trickle of disappointment that runs through me.

  "Now, after you sign the paperwork we’ll go to the courthouse and get the formalities over with. Then we leave for London tomorrow. We’ll be attending my grandfather’s funeral."

  My jaw falls open as he walks out the door. Wait. London? Oh my God. Darnell is going to die.

  * * *

  "Ma," I say as I roll my eyes. "Calm down."

  "Calm down? Calm down?" Her voice rises at least one octave every time she repeats the words. "You just got fired and now you’ve married a man you don’t know—for money—and you’re moving to England!"

  I have the phone held out six inches from my head now and my mother is yelling so loudly Darnell can hear her from his perch across the room where he’s busy whipping up some sort of quiche for his date tonight.

  He looks over at me and smirks.

  "Ma," I repeat. "I didn’t marry him for the money. Well, not entirely. I mostly just wanted my job back. And we’re not moving to England, just going there for his grandfather’s funeral."

  "You don’t know him," she repeats. "What if he’s a rapist? Or one of them serial killers? What if he takes you to foreign soil and makes you a white slave?"

  I lay the phone down on the table and hit the speaker button, then let my forehead thunk on the tabletop alongside it.

  "Hi Marie," Darnell sing songs cheerily.

  "Darnell," my mother commands. "You have got to talk some sense into her. She can not leave the country with this man."

  "He’s royalty, Marie," he answers from the kitchen. "He has, like, the whole world watching him—or the whole country or something. He’s not going to sell her into slavery."

  My mother pauses. "Royalty? You said he was a musician, Katherine."

  Of course, she’ll listen to Darnell but not me. "No, Ma, a Duke, that’s what I said."

  "You said 'the Duke' not a Duke."

  I lift my head and look at Darnell, who shrugs.

  "The…A…what’s the difference?"

  "I thought he was one of your musicians, and his nickname was 'the Duke’. They all have such strange names these days—Piddly this and Lord that."

  "Lourdes, Ma," I say in exasperation.

  "That’s what I said. Lord. So I thought you were talking about another one of them."

  "No, Ma, I’m talking a real live Duke. From England."

  There’s silence for a moment, then she yelps, "Oh my God, you’re going to be a Duchess! Ryan! Get in here, Katherine’s going to be a Duchess!"

  It all goes to hell in a hand basket from that point on, but by the time we hang up, my mother is convinced that she’s going to meet the Queen, and she’s gone online and ordered a copy of Debrett’s peerage, so she can see all the royalty and lords and ladies she’s sure I’ll be meeting. I kept trying to remind her we were only going to England for his grandfather’s funeral, but she couldn’t hear me over the chatter about tiaras and scepters.

  "I could see him with a scepter," I tell Darnell as he pulls the most perfect quiche I’ve ever seen from the oven. It’s golden and fluffy and smells divine. I’m really bummed he’s going to take it to his place across the hall and feed it to some guy he’s only gone on one date with, while I’m sitting here by my lonesome trying to figure out what to pack for a last minute trip out of the country.

  "Baby doll," he answers, smiling down at his creation, "the things I’d like that man to do to me with his scepter."

  I open my mouth to tell Darnell to stop being a horndog, but then I remember that kiss—the press of his lips, the slide of his tongue. My blood heats. The weight of his hand on my skin, the taste of him—coffee and mint—the smell of him—woodsy and dark. Yeah, he’s probably really good with his scepter.

  "Kat? Earth to Kat." Darnell is standing in front of me, snapping his fingers.

  "Yeah?" I ask weakly.

  "Are you ok? You got flushed all the sudden and your eyes glazed over."

  He puts his hand on my forehead like a mother hen. I slap at it. "I’m fine, just thinking of all the things I have to do to get ready."

  "Oh. My. Gawd!" He throws his hands up in the air. "We have to go through your entire closet. You’re going to London for a week, you’re going to need at least eight pairs of shoes, a daytime handbag and an evening handbag, a set of silver jewelry and a set of gold, and some Spanx, because have you seen Kate and Meghan? Not an ounce of spare anything on either of them—" He’s already marching off to my bedroom, and all I can do is stand there and watch him go.

  A handbag? Spanx?

  I rush after him. "I only have five pairs of Chucks," I say. "Do you think I should bring my combat boots in case it rains?"

  8

  Winston

  As I watch Katherine walk toward the car that’s going to take us to the airport, I realize I’ve made a terrible mistake. Her curly red hair is up on top of her head, pieces falling out every which way. She’s wearing a pair of black jeans with rips on both thighs and knees. Her feet are encased in the dirtiest pair of trainers I’ve ever seen, and her top is…tight. And purple. And possibly velvet.

  I nearly groan at the incredible inappropriateness. "Wait here," I instruct the driver. I climb out of the car and walk toward her, stiff armed, palm facing out.

  "Stop," I command.

  She does, looking at me from behind mirror-lensed aviators. Behind her, a tall, lean guy pulling two suitcases does the same. I narrow my gaze at him. We never really talked about whether she has a boyfriend, or any other details of her personal life. I assume no man would allow his woman to marry someone else, but hell, maybe he’s looking for a good way to unload her?

  "What?" she says, and I can’t help but notice that her lips are a perfect rose pink with
just a hint of shine. They look like two berries just begging to be dipped in cream. I have to clear my throat before I can speak.

  "You can’t get on the plane dressed like that," I instruct, waving my hand around in front of her.

  "Like what?" She looks down at herself as if she’s going to see something other than what she donned this morning.

  "Like…like…" I’m struggling to find a word that’s adequate.

  "Like she’s getting ready to sell pirated DVDs on Hollywood Boulevard?" her companion contributes.

  "Yes," I answer. "That."

  She turns to look at her friend over one shoulder. "Seriously?" she says, irritation lacing her words.

  He shrugs. "I told you to wear the dress."

  She turns back to me and raises the sunglasses to the top of her head. Her dark brown eyes flash with anger.

  "Nowhere in that contract did it say you get to tell me what to wear," she snaps.

  "Actually," I begin, pulling my phone out of my pocket, "it’s in section three, paragraph A." I tap the screen and bring up the contract, scrolling until I hit the portion I need. Then I hold the phone out in front of her. "Right there. 'Party B shall maintain attire and behavior appropriate to the responsibilities of her new position as Duchess of Surrey.'"

  She glares at me. "Right. And I think this is entirely appropriate attire for the Duchess of Surrey."

  "But what you think doesn’t matter, love," I say, looking at her sympathetically. "It’s what I think."

  Her complexion turns a shade not unlike her hair, and if looks could kill, I’d be in pieces on the sidewalk.

  "What I think doesn’t matter? You listen here, Mr. uppity stuffy British royal dude—" She pokes a finger into my chest, jabbing me with every word.

  "Whoa there, tiger," the guy with her says as he steps forward and grabs her finger. She turns that blazing rage on him, and I have to admit—I’m the tiniest bit relieved.

  He drags them a few feet away and furious muttering and hissing ensues. I check my watch and tap my foot impatiently. I should have never listened to Diego when he suggested this fiasco. "Kill two birds with one stone," he said. "It’ll be simple," he said. Well, it’s not. And I can tell already that she is going to be a complete pain in my arse.