His Royal Secret (9 page)

He hugged her more tightly. “But your face is so beautiful.”

“It’s not my face itself. It’s knowing that if people saw the true me, they wouldn’t understand. They wouldn’t accept it. You know what that’s like.”

“Yes,” James said. “I do.”

•   •   •

The Crimson Night Dinner was the kind of thing James could get through in his sleep. He’d come very near it, a time or two.

His formula: Arrive in time to spend a few moments talking with the directors of the charity in question, most of whom he knew well enough to speak to, and if his memory failed him as to names and roles, Kimberley would be there to prompt him. Walk into the dinner, music playing, people applauding, cameras flashing; smile. Sit through interminable introductions as though fascinated. Give speech re: worthiness of cause in question. More applause. Chitchat through dinner with VIPs. Chitchat after dinner with other guests for thirty to forty-five minutes. Escape to car. Take antacids. Go home.

Arts education for children: Easy enough to feel good about, and James was happy enough for some of the considerable funds of the Prince of Wales Trust to be channeled in that direction. But sometimes it grated at him, how little he genuinely connected to many of the Trust’s causes. They just seemed so . . . safe.

At least this event was one of the prettier ones. James had attended so many dull affairs that he appreciated elegance when it was to be had. The dining hall was old enough that it still had Tudor-era woodwork covering the high ceiling and an intricate pattern laid in marble on the floor. Long banners of rich red fabric hung from various arches, and the women in attendance had all dressed in red as part of the theme.

Probably this will make the news merely because it looks so good
, James thought while auto-piloting his way through a conversation with a local MP.
Might get a few more donations because of the exposure.

Also, tonight there was some amusement to be had.

A frisson surrounded the person walking toward James, to be presented in his turn. James did his best to look stern. Really it was hard not to laugh.

“Your Royal Highness,” said Spencer Kennedy, with appropriate bow. He looked every inch a self-made man: fine suit worn carelessly, silk tie with a slightly off-kilter knot, hair longer than a male royal dared grow, and the ruddy cheeks of an Irishman. Only someone standing as close to him as James was could see the suppressed mirth in his eyes.

“Mr. Kennedy.” He kept his tone of voice cool. “I understand Kennedy Telecom took two tables tonight. Most generous.”

“It’s a good cause, isn’t it?”

They were being avidly observed by every person in the room, each of whom believed that Spencer was only the latest man Cassandra had cheated on James with. None of the people watching would guess that the two men had become friends these past few months. Ever since that day at luncheon, when Charles had finally dared to speak the truth to a near-stranger . . .

“Are you kidding?” Spencer had said. “You’ve got to be.”

James hadn’t found it a promising beginning. “This would be the worst practical joke of all time. No, I’m entirely serious. I’m gay, and Cass has always known it.”

“Please don’t think it was easy for me to lie to you.” She had reached across the table to take Spencer’s hand, though it was slack, apparently from shock. “I’m loyal to the people I love. That meant keeping James’s secret, just like it means telling you now.”

“But—you said—all that detail about your sex lives!” Spencer had kept looking from Cass to James and back again.

“Detail?” James had stared at Cass too.

She’d shrugged. “I don’t do things halfway, James. Not even bearding.”

““If you didn’t learn about Japanese rope bondage from him,” Spencer had said, jabbing his thumb in James’s direction, “then where?”

James had held up both hands. “Tell him later. I don’t want to hear it.”

Flashes at the corner of the room gave away those who were taking phone photos of James and Spencer’s meeting in the hopes of selling them to the
Sun
or the
Daily Mail
later on; there was a certain comfort in knowing exactly what the next day’s tabloid news would be. Spencer leaned slightly closer so that nobody else could hear, scowled as though he were about to take a horsewhip to James, and added, very quietly, “Grr. Growl. I violently dislike you.”

“Oh, I violently dislike you too. I can scarcely overcome my wrath.”

“Rather than fight you for my woman, I intend to go to Clarence House and mark my territory by urinating on the shrubberies.”

Not fair, Spencer!
James had to bite on his inner cheek to keep himself from laughing. When he could speak again, he said, “Leave now before I have you beheaded. See you this weekend?”

“Like I’d miss the chance to watch Arsenal turn Man U to dust.” Spencer and Cassandra shared football teams. Otherwise, James doubted they’d have made it to the second date.

The mood in the room visibly relaxed as Spencer moved along. Kimberley Tseng leaned over and whispered, “Next up is Ivan Campbell, one of the teachers who works with the program in the Belfast office. Coordinates the music camps in Northern Ireland.”

James nodded and did his best to connect with Mr. Campbell (Dog, Labrador retriever) while still absent-mindedly taking in the room. Most of the men had worn red neckties to match the ladies’ dresses, though there were a few ties in black and white, and—good heavens, one man had worn purple, though at least it was a tasteful shade—

His eyes went from that man’s tie to his face, and it took all James’s self-control not to react.

Benjamin Dahan. Ben was here, in this room, right now.

A dozen emotions welled up at once, warring inside him: worry, anger, arousal, bewilderment. James felt as though someone had tightened a massive fist around his chest, crushing his ribs inward, pressing against the rapid beating of his heart. Ben gazed back at him, his dark eyes hotly intent. Had he been watching James like this all night? It seemed impossible that James wouldn’t have glimpsed him immediately, or even
felt
his presence.

James didn’t look directly at Ben for more than two seconds.

Smoothly he said, “You do such wonderful work, Mr. Campbell. It’s a privilege to meet you.” Handshake, good-bye, and then James had his chance to lean over and whisper in Kimberley’s ear. “I need you to pull someone aside for me. That man in the purple necktie.”

“At the Global Media table?”

He ought to have reviewed the list of who took each table; that would have given him some warning, perhaps. “Yes, him. His name is Benjamin Dahan. If you could get him to a private area and then arrange for a short break—”

“Of course, sir. In the meantime we have Harriet Musgrove, very significant donor, mostly interested in foxhunting.”

James managed to get through an entire conversation about the odious practice of foxhunting with Ms. Musgrove (Dog, Corgi) without glancing in Ben’s direction even once. He betrayed not one hint that he was anything other than totally interested in the people nearest him until the moment Kimberley reappeared at his side. She said, just loudly enough for the others to hear, “Excuse me, Your Royal Highness, but we need you for about five minutes.”

He made his apologies and let Kimberley steer him toward the back, where a small anteroom had already been cleared and secured. The idea was only that if he became ill or fatigued during the night, or had to take a confidential phone call, he would have a place of refuge.

Instead, pulse pounding so hard it seemed to shake him, James walked inside to find Ben standing in the center of the room, waiting.

James hadn’t been able to stop thinking about this man. All his righteous anger, all his knowledge that their sensual afternoon had been a trick—none of that had been able to keep him from thinking of Ben. From wanting him. Yet none of it had prepared him to see Ben again: black hair slightly shorter, stubble accenting his square jawline, hands in the pockets of his refined suit as if he didn’t give a damn. He looked too rugged for this elegant place, this civilized gathering. Almost unreal.

Slowly James closed the door, heard the latch click. Ben bowed his head slightly, just within the bounds of politeness. “Your Royal Highness. Or is it Your Majesty now that you’ve become Prince Regent?”

“I don’t think you’ve come all this way to discuss royal protocol.”

“No.”

How could Ben be so calm, so unruffled? They stood half a room apart, still as statues, and yet James knew his own reserve was only a mask. No doubt Ben knew it too; Ben could see through him, which was how James had gotten into this mess in the first place. Yet Ben was impassive and utterly unreadable. All James could see when he looked at him was the same damnably attractive stranger he’d first glimpsed through the rain.

Maybe he was about to be blackmailed after all.

James said, “How did you get here?”

“Global Media bought a table. I managed to snag a seat.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to talk to you again.” Ben squared his shoulders—and at that moment, James finally glimpsed that Ben too was uneasy. “To apologize. My behavior in Kenya was inexcusable. I lied to you. That’s not how I live my life. Not the kind of person I am. I betrayed my own principles that day. You must have been . . . unnerved, and at what turned out to be a difficult time in your life. I sincerely regret having hurt you.”

A thousand internal dialogues with an imaginary Ben, and yet James had never invented so satisfying an apology. It caught him off guard in a way defensiveness or aggressiveness couldn’t have. After a moment, James managed to ask, “When did you change your mind?”

“About my behavior?”

“About reporting on me.”

Ben paused. “I didn’t lie to you to get a story. At least, not after the first few minutes.”

“Then why?”

After a moment’s pause, Ben said, very slowly, “Because I hoped I could get you into bed.”

The thought made James reel. It was dizzying to be betrayed by his body this way—to feel an exhilarating rush of arousal at the mere thought of Ben wanting him, doing whatever it took to get James into his bed.

“You suggested I was a blackmailer.” Ben’s voice was harder now. A flash of his earlier wrath heated his gaze. “I thought that was outrageous. I still do. But when I deceived you, I gave you reason to think badly of me. So I had no right to object.”

“No, you didn’t.” James felt as though he were on steadier ground. But the way Ben was looking at him—as if he too were surprised by their powerful reaction to each other—no, he couldn’t speculate. Couldn’t think about it. “I appreciate the apology. More than that, I appreciate your discretion.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

James fought back the urge to say
thank you
. He’d be damned if he’d thank anyone for merely behaving decently. Instead he ought to walk out again and leave Ben behind forever, no more than a sensual memory and a cautionary tale. So why didn’t he move?

But Ben wasn’t done. “That doesn’t mean your secret is safe. Only a fool would expect to keep this information hidden forever, and I don’t think you’re a fool.”

“You treated me like one.” His temper sparked anew. “I don’t need your advice about how to manage this.”

“You need
someone
’s advice. The paparazzi search for you every moment, every day. It’s a miracle you’ve gotten away with it up to now. But you had a moment of weakness in Kenya, didn’t you? You’ll be weak again. It’s human nature. The next guy might not be as nice as I am.”

“I beg your pardon?”

The nerve of the man: Ben looked
pleased
with himself, his cool superiority only stoking the fire within James “I didn’t just get your clothes off; I also heard your secrets. You’re lonely, James. That makes you vulnerable. Someone could play worse games with your head than I ever did.” For a moment Ben hesitated, and then he added, more quietly, “Be careful.”

James wasn’t about to be preached to, not by Benjamin Dahan. “Don’t forget, I know your secrets too.” He arched an eyebrow. “I got as much on you as you got on me. That’s what you told me to do when we started the chess match, isn’t it? Don’t imagine I’ve forgotten a word of what you said.”

For a few seconds they stared at each other, equally angry. And yet the anger was in part only a mask for the other force in the room, the one that made James’s breath come fast and shallow, the one that darkened Ben’s gaze. It was dangerous to be so vulnerable to this man, but James couldn’t feel ashamed. All he could feel was the triumph of realizing his hold over Ben was as powerful as Ben’s hold on him.

“Be careful,” Ben repeated, but now the edge had returned to his voice. “One day you’ll go too far.”

“With you?”

Ben grinned, an expression so fierce it startled James nearly as much as it aroused him. “I thought we’d already proved that you
can’t
go too far with me.”

They were on the brink now, and they both knew it. James came a few steps closer as he said, “Can’t I?”

“Care to find out?”

He won’t tell. I already know Ben will never tell. So that means—there’s no reason not to rip that suit off his body and—

“Listen to me very carefully.” James kept his voice pitched just above a whisper, so that Ben had to lean closer to hear. He could smell Ben’s skin; he’d never forgotten that scent. “At 11 p.m., you’ll go to St. James’s Palace, on the Mall. Not the main entrance—walk along the side to a door marked RP. There’s a security system panel beside that door. Repeat after me: 387211.”

“387211,” Ben said. His eyes never looked away from James’s.

“That code gets you into the back hall of those offices. Wait there.”

“Are you giving me orders?” Ben stepped closer still. They were breathing each other in now, close enough to kiss.

James heard the words as though they were being spoken by someone else, someone more daring than he had ever been: “I’ll give you your orders later.”

“Yes, Your Royal Highness,” Ben murmured. “Or is it Your Majesty? You never said.”