Desire: Love and Passion (3 page)

             
"There's
always
frozen," she replied. "Besides, I can live on coffee and salads."

             
"I see. That's the secret to that body."

             
She made a deep throaty laugh. She threw her head back when she did it.  He immediately thought about kissing her neck. He wanted to hear that voice pur
ring
his name as he kissed her.

             
"Flattery will not get you out of fixing my car. Neither will breakfast."

He removed eggs, frozen croissant dough
,
and more from the bag.

             
"You'll sing a different tune when you taste my vegetarian omelet."

             
"I thought a man of your stature would have better things to do with his time than make breakfast for a stranger. And if not better things, at least more interesting things that make tabloid news."

             
"Every dog has a day off."

             
"So
,
where were you in a hurry to get to?"

             
"Anywhere but me."

             
"Oh," she said. "That
’
s kind of difficult
, I’d imagine
."

             
"Tell me about it. Some days you feel like a slab of beef in a den of carnivores."

             
"That difficult, huh?" s
he asked.

             
"More like frustrating."

He found
that
it
was
easy to talk to her.

             
"Does speeding really help?" 

             
"It
’
s less complicated than giving the staff an earful. Well, unless you manage to run a beautiful woman off the road and then try to bribe her with dinner."

             
"The famed temper of James Monroe," Willow said. 

             
His infamy
had
started with a scandal. The once third in line for the throne of England had gone on holidays to Miami. On the final night of Spring Break he went partying. Perhaps he had
too much to drink, no one knew and he’d never given
an explanation for his behavior. The front page news the next day was of a butt naked prince clearly in the throngs of passion as he received oral sex from a female at the party.

             
Buckingham Palace had condemned the photographs, the photographers, the publishers
,
and James was given quite the public scolding. He was kept from the public for almost two months. His handlers were swiftly and efficiently replaced. All perhaps would have been okay, except someone, no one really knew who, had hinted that he
’d
made an apology for his behavior.

             
Willow remembered remnants of the speech. It was part of her political science discord at Cambridge. There was no apology. There was no rewriting of events. In five short minutes, James had gone from third in line to the throne, to out of contention. He followed up his speech by changing his
surname to that of his father;
Monroe.

             
Th
e story should have ended there, b
ut, James was singularly brilliant. After three years on his own he amassed considerable wealth by investing in well over forty startups. Thirty-six of which went on to be multimillion dollar, even billion dollar companies. It seem
ed
to everyone he had truly inherited his father's penchant for finding a winner. George Monroe the First was head of Lehmann's London division before he married the princess.

             
James cemented his place in history however, when he volunteered to fight front and center in the Middle Eastern War. His squad was attacked during what should h
ave been routine patrol.
He was not among the dead. He was missing. The military kept a gag order on his disappearance, hoping his capt
ors
wouldn
’
t recognize him. After the terror attacks on Windsor during a jubilee celebration, James was officially
declared dead.
Two years later, he showed up at the British Consulate in Turkey, scarred and if he had wanted
the title
, Britain’s true king.

      The temper that made him the black sheep of the family had not disappeared. His first public appearance took place three months are returning to England
.
The
whole
world watched and waited anxiously to see
what
his next move
would be
. He was back in the forefront at a time when sold
iers were seen as true heroes.
His miraculous appear
ance was seen as a sign by some, but n
othing had changed. 

James pledged to be the servant of the people, but vowed never to be their king. He called leadership by birth an antiquated philosophy. He took back the reigns of his company and within two years, claimed the title of World's Wealthiest Man. It didn
’
t matter what he said, the people loved him and he loved them.

             
"I don't have a temper," he said.

             
"It is none of my business,” she replied. “I'll brew fresh coffee."

             
He couldn
’
t help the defensiveness in his voice as he watched her pad around the kitchen barefooted.  Her casual dressing that probably would have made other women self-conscious in his presence didn't seem to bother her. He wished the shirt was just an inch shorter as she stood on tip-toes to remove a large canister of coffee from a top shelf.

             
"S
o was John like an uncle or…?"
James was trying to get to the bottom of their relationship. He knew from Larry's brief John was childless.

             
"My god-father," she volunteered. "I lived with John for a while after my parents died."

             
"Oh. I'm surprised I never ran into you."

             
"Not out here," she said. "We lived in Cambridge. And before that I went to school in Paris."

             
"Paris?" James asked.

             
"Yes. John was not exactly the single parent type. By the way, do I need to be more careful driving around here?"

             
"No. Yesterday was a rare occasion. There is nothing like the wind through your hair for a little clarity."

             
"So the media is right," she turned to look at him. She leaned against the countertop. Her shirt automatically rode up two inches higher. "You
are
procrastinating on the aid package."

             
"No," he said as he placed croissants in the oven. "I'm giving it careful thought."

             
"You don't have to get defensive," she said. "I understand. Everyone understands. We have your back, whatever you decide."

             
James was recently appointed as British Envoy to the United Nations. As if someone was playing a cruel joke, his first duty was to broker an aid package to the same countries that had been enemies of the Crown during the war. He was quite candid i
n his opinions and carrying the title of
diplomat did little to temper his candor.

"What would you decide?"
h
e asked.

             
“Sorry, I
’m
not in your shoes. I
don’t have all the facts and therefore
have no clue what I would do.”

             
"Okay then, what do you
think
I should do?"

      "I
’
m not a politician. And I
’
m certain you know both the humane and politically correct thing to do."

      "That's a cop out," he said. "I think you
do
have an opinion on the matter."

      "My opinion is unimportant. In fact, even the opinions of your peers are irrelevant
and
that is why everyone has quietly and respectfully shoved the ball in your court."

        "Now that is an interesting observation." He whipped a batch of eggs to which he added mushroom, spices she could not identify and a whole host of
other
vegetables.

             
“But you knew that
’
s why the assignment
fell to
you."

             
“I suppose. It doesn
’
t make the decision any easier.”

             
She turned away and started the coffee. Willow was thinking of what to say. She was good at making light of a bad moment. Somehow her senses were failing her
in this moment
. Maybe some of it had to do with him standing across her kitchen looking all male in his tight-fitted tee-shirt and everyday jeans. She noted that he had
n’
t bothered to comb his hair before showing up at her door, and that rugged unkempt look was very sexy on him.

             
"Are you going to be living here alone?" James asked breaking the silence.

             
"Mostly," she said.

             
"Mostly?"

             
"A girl has to get out once in a while," she said. "You don't live out here by yourself. You have Larry and your bodyguards."

             
"So are you in a relationship?"

             
"Occasionally."

             
"You mean like an on again off again thing?" James asked.

             
"No, I mean occasionally, sort of like you. You may be single but you get out every now and then. If the media is to be believed," she said the last part as if it was a secret.

             
"Oh."

             
"Come on," she said with a bit of annoyance in her voice. "You cannot be a prude at thirty seven. The whole world has changed. Homosexuals
have
legally recognized unions with the same benefits as heterosexual married couples and the richest man in the world is making breakfast in my kitchen."

             
"I didn
’
t mean to upset you," he said. 

             
"I’
m not upset, and I know you
’
re not prudish. Your trysts have made Murdoch a lot of money."

             
“Don’t believ
e everything you read,” he said stiffly.

             
“Why do you hide it?” She pointed to his face and he knew she meant his scar.

             
“Why do you think I hide it?”

             
“I’m
asking you.”

             
“It makes everyone more comfortable?”

"Does it make you more comfortable?"

He shrugged.

             
She removed a clean dish towel from the drawer and ran it under the sink. She walked over to where he stood, waiting on the timer that would tell him precisely when to start his omelets.

             
"Do you mind?" She pointed to the scar.

He realized that he did what he always did when
go
ing out in public. He put a dash of make-up to conceal it as much as possible.

             
"No," he said.

             
Her right palm was on one side of his head, soft slender fingers fanning out for support.  She gently dabbed away at his deception.

             
For a moment, he had a feeling of déjà vu. It was a long time since anyone had touched him so tenderly and he closed his eyes against the sudden surge of emotions. He breathed in the soft scent of lilacs that came from her. They had done this before.

             
"I hope I'm not hurting you," she said in a soft voice as if she was watching him.

             
"No," he opened his eyes.

             
"That's better," she said looking at him and not his scar.

             
"Thank you."