Blood Price (The Blankenships Book 5) (5 page)

“What? No! What makes you think that?”

“You’re staring off into space and chewing on your lower lip. You do that when you’re fantasizing about something.”

Zoey took a deep breath to try and control the eleventy millionth blush she’d experienced in front of Alex. “It’s nothing.”

“Oh, I think it’s something,” he said, and gently bumped his shoulder against hers. “Spill. Unless it’s completely humiliating. Then spill anyway.”

It was dark, and the street was almost empty. She found the words, deep inside. “There’s something in your voice when you talk about him. Like you two were—I don’t know, more than friends?”

Alex was quiet for several steps. It was so strange that even in the busy city, she could hear each and every footfall. The noise, wherever it was happening, was far away. She wasn’t sure she’d ever really heard quiet in New York City. Of course, back home, the wildlife kept things loud. City people always thought the country was quiet, but that was before they’d heard crickets and peepers causing a ruckus all night long, never mind coyotes or owls. “Yes,” he finally said. “I hope that’s not a problem for you.”

She loved the way he said it. Proud of himself and strong, willing to tell her that it was part of him, even if she did have a problem with it. That took courage. “Actually,” she said, “it’s kind of hot to think about it.”

He raised an eyebrow in her direction. She could see it, some, but more, she felt it in the quality of his gaze. “Is that so?”

“Yes. I’ve seen pictures of him before, in the press, or at diplomatic events that I was 'lucky' enough to cover. He’s huge. Not fat, but—gigantic. He looks like he could bench press a lean guy like you. And that would be a thing to see.”

Alex was quiet for several more steps, and then he paused in front of a gorgeous brick building with huge windows that climbed several stories up above her. “This is us,” he said.

She followed him inside, taking their conversation as finished. She tried not to feel affronted. After all, for all the pretty words, it had been a week or so. He was allowed to keep his secrets.

She followed him up to an elevator—there wasn’t an official button pusher, but he clearly knew which floor they were going to, so she didn’t try to beat him to the buttons—and into a scene out of Jane Austin novel, where the household greets the Lord who has been abroad. In his shirt and tie, he fit in just fine, while she stared at the three servants who were very carefully not observing her. There was a tall, thin woman, dressed in the sort of stark black that made her pale skin almost ghoulish, her hair shot through with artful blond highlights that were too light for her complexion. She held a planner like a knight held his shield. Next to her was a smaller woman, younger, with a South Asian look. She was dressed something like a chef in certain types of restaurants, with a bright white coat and black pants. She looked like she was full of smiles that she was currently choking back. A little apart from them was a man straight out of Jeeves and Wooster, down to the shiny bald pate and the disdainful expression, wearing a suit. Zoey found herself thanking the powers that might or might not be that the man wasn’t wearing tails. She was fairly sure that if he were wearing tails, she would have sat down on the floor and cackled, appropriateness be damned.

The tall woman was Eleanor. She was on staff with AEGIS UK, from what Zoey heard, and she was prepared to serve as personal assistant for Mr. Blankenship while he was in town. The way she said “in town,” as if everywhere in the world other than London was a godless heathen place, caused Zoey to bite the inside of her cheek again. Though, of course, maybe that was true from their perspective. The smaller woman was Mira, and when Eleanor introduced her, she produced exactly the kind of infectious grin that Zoey had hoped to see. She was to be Mr. Blankenship’s chef while Mr. Blankenship was in town. The man in the suit was Watkins, according to Eleanor. Alex held out his hand to the man to shake, and Watkins looked at it, gave it an odd, strained look, then shook. Zoey got the incredibly strong sense that Watkins didn’t like the Americans showing up in the middle of the evening and being American. She was just jet-lagged enough to find it all incredibly hilarious, but together enough to choke back the hysterical laughter that wanted more than anything else to escape.

Eleanor ran through a dozen details that Zoey found herself zoning out on. She needed to pee, and she was completely overwhelmed by the flat. Besides, if Alex was the Lord returning from abroad, she was the poor mistress that the staff would probably ignore as much as possible.

Alex’s penthouse had seemed…normal, other than how damn big it was. It wasn’t particularly full of opulent furniture or fancy artwork or other ostentatious displays of wealth. It was all luxurious, but it wasn’t distancing.

This place, on the other hand. It felt like she’d stepped into a magazine, and she wanted to check behind herself, and make sure she wasn’t leaving a trail of mud that someone would have to deal with later. The furniture was all clean lines and cold, neutral colors, with windows that were so spotless, she wondered if a kid would ever dare to run a fingertip over them, or press their nose against the window to see when their parents were coming home. No, strike that. No kid would dare touch the satiny wood finish of the floors in this place.

Between the staff and the decor, Zoey was completely convinced that she didn’t belong here. It was a disconcerting feeling, to say the least. She wished she could chase it away.

Alex was staring at her. “Sorry, what?”
Great way to make an impression, Zoey. Now you get to debate whether they think you’re vapid or inconsiderate. Excellent.

But at least Alex was smiling. She could live with whatever else if Alex was smiling. “If you’re ready to eat, Mira has everything laid out for us in the dining room.”

“Sure,” Zoey said, and gave Mira the biggest, friendliest smile she could muster. The small woman smiled back, and Zoey breathed a slight sigh of relief. At least if she was going to have an ally in the house, it would be the cook. That was a promising sign.

Alex took her hand and lead her through the apartment as if he’d been there before. Maybe he had; she certainly didn’t know. Or maybe AEGIS had apartments in every major city, and he’d overseen the design of all of them. That was probably ridiculous, but so was the fact that the wooden table he was leading her towards actually appeared to be inlaid with abalone. The food, laid out on the table, smelled completely amazing, but she was surprised to see that instead of paper take-out containers, all the food had been dished out in fine china.

Her temper was frayed to a breaking point by lust and jetlag. She took a deep breath, and managed to entirely miss that Alex was pulling her chair out for her until he cleared his throat gently and gave her a somewhat pointed smile. “Sorry,” she said again, sitting down.

I do not like this, Sam I am. Not one bit.

CHAPTER SIX

The food was delicious, though Alex couldn
’t for the life of him figure out why the staff had decided to dirty a bunch of dishes for his take away order. It wasn’t like they needed to impress him. His father had used the same agency to provide chefs and house staff for his apartments around AEGIS’s locations for the past two decades. Admittedly, it was his first time in London on business, but that hardly justified this sort of treatment. He was a little shocked they hadn’t put a red carpet down the stairs for him. And thank God they hadn’t; Zoey looked completely shell-shocked.

He reached out and touched the back of her hand. It took a moment for her eyes to focus on him. “Everything all right?” he asked.

She turned her hand to his, palm up. He thought that was a hopeful thing. “The food is amazing.”

“And how are you?” Because she hadn’t really answered his question at all.

She gave a shrug. Her eyes flicked over his shoulder, to where Watkins was standing, poised to assist at the absolute moment that anyone required him. Alex had a momentary urge to do something totally childish, drop his napkin on the floor or something, just to see the man dive for a clean one.

At home, Sophia was very used to him. She didn’t crowd like this, and she was confident in his ability to either get off his butt and get himself a glass of water, should he require one, or at least ask for one if he was somehow trapped in place. These people didn’t know him, just knew that he was new, and important—and hell, maybe they were compensating the same way he was. Wanting to make sure that the new American understood exactly what proper service was.

“Try a samosa,” he said, nudging the silver dish a little closer to her. “I admit, they taste better straight out of the carton, but they’re still pretty decent like this.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, which made her laugh. That was something at least.

“Sorry,” she said, for the thousandth time since they’d walked into the flat. “I’m just discombobulated, I think. I wish I hadn’t slept on the plane. It’s so dark out, but I feel—well, not wide awake, but not tired either.”

He’d been holding himself together reasonably well, but it was too many sleep words in one sentence. The yawn that had been holding itself back for hours broke free in a jaw-popping crackle of joints. He’d napped briefly on the plane, but he’d more or less been awake for a day and a half, and he was completely exhausted. “Sorry,” he tried to groan through the yawn, but it didn’t help at all. “I had vague plans of showing you some London nightlife, but I don’t think I’m going to make it much further into the night than this.”

She was grinning in a funny way, her eyes lighter and happier than they’d been just a few minutes before. “It’s okay,” she said. “We’re here on a business trip. I can entertain myself.”

“Oh, can you?” He raised his eyebrows as he took a bite of lamb wrapped in naan.

Her eyes flicked back towards Watkins, and he could almost feel her nervousness on the tip of his tongue. “I have a really good book on my tablet,” she said, and he could hear the soft warning in her voice, telling him not to push. He managed not to laugh. It was a struggle.

As the food settled, his eyes got heavier. He felt them close, felt them almost shut on him, and jerked awake again as Zoey’s hand brushed over his. “Come on,” she said. “You’re exhausted. Let’s go to bed.”

Alex stood, proud of himself for only wobbling a bit. He was more stable on his feet when he’d been drinking; this felt truly ridiculous. “Yes,” he murmured. “I’m going to take you to bed.” He gave her what he hoped was a lascivious eyebrow waggle; the bark of laughter told him that he’d missed his mark.

“Deliveries were made to the flat a few hours ago sir,” Watkins interjected. “A large bag from Harrods, and several smaller packages from shops in Notting Hill.”

“Thank you,” Alex said.

He led Zoey back through the flat, towards the bedroom. It was as spacious and modern as everything else his father had touched, and it gave him the same sense of discomfort being here. The old man’s spirit was everywhere in this space, as sanitized and cold as it was. Depending on how things went with Wells and Crane, the two heads of AEGIS UK that he’d be meeting with tomorrow, he might have to look into redecorating the flat. There was no way he could spend significant time here without his father’s angry ghost driving him into panic attacks.

If it wasn’t for his association with his father, he would have considered the room extravagant, but beautiful. The platform style bed was up on a dais, and the head and foot were covered with black leather. The bedding was a pale dove gray that would have been gorgeous in a different setting, but here, just added to the coldness of the room. There were two leather chairs arranged around a small table, near a balcony, and a desk and chair on the other side of the room. A small gas fireplace was opposite the balcony.

The bed was covered with bags from boutiques and stores from around London. He half wondered if Claire had given Christopher a call, as well as Sophia, to arrange this little surprise. He had to love it. He never would have gotten away with giving Zoey a new wardrobe, and it was rather delightful that his kid sister had taken on this task for him.

Kid sister. He was going to have to stop calling her that.

Zoey was standing completely still, her eyes locked on all the bags. He nudged her with his shoulder. “Go on,” he said. “I’ve yet to meet a woman who doesn’t get excited at the results of a shopping spree.”

“Glad to be your first,” she said. “In case I didn’t make it clear before? I hate shopping. I get dressed in the dark, and if I can help it, I only buy a couple of colors of clothing, so that I don’t even have to open my eyes. I tolerate fashion because I have to, but it’s not my thing. What am I going to find in here?”

He shook his head. “I have no idea. The number of bags makes me think Claire was involved somehow, and that might actually be helpful to you? But—hell, I live in jeans and T-shirts when I’m at home, and suits at the office. Men’s fashion hasn’t changed all that much. I usually wear my clothes until they wear out. If you want, I can have them send all of this back, and you can go shopping tomorrow.”

“What? No way in hell.”

He rubbed at his forehead for a second. “Because then you’d be going shopping?”

“Yes. And there’s no way. Unless every single item in there is—I don’t know, neon fuchsia, I’ll cope. I’m just saying that if you want me to do the thing where I try every single thing on and do a little turn for you, that’s not going to happen.”

He gave her another smile that morphed into a yawn half way through. “I don’t think I could stay awake if it did,” he said. “How about this? Let’s sweep all this crap off the bed and onto the floor. Go to bed naked. I bet you ten dollars that it’ll all be hung up and put away in the dressers by the time we wake up, as if the house were cleaned by little elves.”

He wasn’t entirely sure the joke would go over, but she laughed and nodded. “I’m more tired than I thought. I think. Or at least, I’m disoriented enough to want to lay down and sleep.”

He stepped into her, nuzzling gently into her neck. “If I cuddle into you, will that bother you?”

“No? Why would it?”

“Some people don’t like being cuddled unless they’re postcoital.”

“I don’t promise I won’t be reading half the night if I can’t sleep, but if that won’t bother you, then I’m not worried.”

She made a sweet little sighing sound as he brushed his lips over the pulse point at the base of her throat. “If it bothers me, I’ll turn over.”

“Okay,” she said.

In a way, it was as deliberate as they’d ever been about going to bed. Nearly every night, there had been sex of one kind or another, and this casual undressing and climbing between the covers—it felt different to him. Domestic, maybe. Soft. Zoey wasn’t quite meeting his eyes, either.

She was beautiful, naked. It was different than sexy, different than being someone he desired. She was calm and quiet, the tips of her breasts soft, the pale skin of her chest light, not flushed with arousal. When she met his eyes, it was a different sort of need that he saw. He pulled back the covers and opened his arms to her. Instead of facing him, though, she turned around, snuggling into his chest and letting him envelope her in his arms.

It was good
, he thought, as his cock stirred sleepily against the warm flesh of her ass,
to be the protector. To be the one who could keep her safe.

When she spoke, though, her voice crackled with something that threatened to tear them apart. “I feel poor here,” she whispered.

He didn’t know what to say. Compared to him, she was poor. She was destitute. Compared to some of the people he’d seen in the city, she was as far above them as he was above her. That comparison wouldn’t help her right now. It took more than he anticipated to fight off his defensiveness and just listen to her.

She shifted for a moment, like she might turn to face him, but she didn’t. “I didn’t feel this way back at your place in New York,” she said, after a bit. “I don’t think it’s you. But this place. This city. Those—that man, staring at me, like I was so far beneath him. Like he wouldn’t cross the street to piss on me if I was on fire.”

“I’m not trying to excuse it,” he said, “but things are different here. One of the weird things about the U.S. is that everyone wants to be middle class. Lower middle class, upper middle class—we’re really upset about calling ourselves rich or poor sometimes. And here, that’s never been the case. People define themselves by their jobs, and being in service is still considered, by some, to be better than being in trades.” He shook his head. “I can have the agency send someone else.”

“There’s an agency that hires Jeeves?”

He chuckled at the literary allusion. “There are indeed. More than one, in fact.”

She was quiet a while longer. “No. I don’t want him to get in trouble. But I just—I needed to tell you, I think.”

There were a million things he thought of saying. Apologizing for his life, or telling her that it would all be okay, or offering to give her anything she needed—but she shifted her hips, he swore it was a deliberate motion, and his tired cock was hard, pressing into her soft flesh. “Minx,” he whispered.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, in the naughty tone he’d learned she used when she wanted him to pinch her and push her and make her whimper. “I thought you were too tired.” Another shift and a grind, and his cock was sending happy sensations to his head, but his head was so close to offline he could barely think.

“Honestly, princess, I’m so exhausted I don’t know if I could come, and there’s nothing less sexy than a skinny dude falling asleep with his dick going limp in you. But I tell you what…” He ran a hand over her thigh, pulling it back, hooking her knee back over his so that she was spread open in front of him. He could hear her breathing picking up pace, soft and delicate and then not either as his hand traced the outer lips of her cunt, weaving through her curls. “Let me see if I can help you get to sleep.”

She purred under his hands, but when he slid his fingers down over her sex, she was dry. Warm, soft as silk, but his fingers felt like they were grating over her delicate tissues. He nipped lightly at her ear. “You okay?”

“Yes,” she said, the sound a long, soft sigh. “I’ve just been—I don’t know, vaguely turned on so long that things kind of moved on?”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” she said after a moment. “I like feeling this close to you. I just don’t seem to be quite there.”

“Hm,” he said, taking his fingers back to her outer lips, to the caress that made her sigh and shift her hips against him. “Would you like me to tell you a bedtime story?”

“What, like Little Red Riding Hood?”

Something deep inside of him quavered. She’d looked so interested out on the street, so turned on, but this was something that he’d so rarely shared. “More like the Russian and the Trust Fund Kid.”

She went still under his fingers, and he was suddenly, totally afraid that she would turn around. Or worse, that she would leave. “I would love to hear that story.”