Page 13 of My Dark Prince
Because I’m a master at secrets.
When Frankie had asked me for a ride to The Grand Regent, I couldn’t refuse. First, because my family owned the hotel. One of many in our chain of six-thousand-plus properties across the world. Since I couldn’t stop the walking disaster that was Franklin Townsend from entering my hotel without suffering Romeo’s wrath, it would be negligent of me to not personally escort her there and ensure she didn’t burn down a sauna or two.
And secondly, because I’d just announced in our group chat that I was headed there to golf. Turning her down would be rude. I also enjoyed the welcome side effect of pissing Romeo and Dallas off by pretending that spending time with the southern bombshell delighted me. They treated her like one would a delicate flower without realizing she devoured more victims than a Venus Flytrap.
“What brings you to The Grand Regent today, anyway?” I drawled, trying to avert the conversation from the date Frankie wanted.
By the time we made it off Dark Prince Road, Rom and Dal must’ve already imagined me ravaging her in five different ways. In reality, I had a team management meeting in half an hour. I did all the hiring and firing at our flagship branch in the DMV. I liked to have my finger on the pulse.
“I’m meeting a Tinder date in the presidential suite.” Frankie curled a lock of hair around her finger. “He’s married and thirty years older, so we have to do it somewhere discreet.”
“Put a towel over the linens, please. Those sheets are seamless silk.”
“He wants to do it in the shower.”
“Wear some slippers, then. I don’t want any lawsuits.”
“Christ.” She threw her head back and laughed. “You really don’t give a shit about me hooking up with other people, do you?”
“What you do with your time and your body is none of my business. Radical sentiment, I know.”
She tilted her head, frowning at me. “I thought you wanted to hook up with me.”
Everyone did. I made a whole stink about hitting on Frankie the minute I caught her shoving miniature bottles of vodka into her clutch at a debutante ball years ago.
“Truth is, I did it mostly to piss Romeo and Zach off.” I put a hand to my heart. “As lovely as you are – and make no mistake, you are one of the loveliest creatures to grace this godforsaken planet – evenIhave limits. Besides …” I shot her a quick glance. “You’re not really headed for a hookup. Tell me what you’re up to. And assure me that it will not ruin next year’s disaster insurance policy.”
“If you must know, I got myself a gig at your hotel.”
I shot her a glare. “Sexual solicitation is prohibited in—”
“Holy shit, Ollie, notthat.” She slapped my shoulder hard enough to dislocate it. “I’m interning for Hollywood’s most coveted intimacy coordinator.” Frankie practically beamed.
“Awhat?”
“Intimacy coordinator.”
“Intimacy doesn’t need a coordinator. I can tell you what goes where. It’s an all-of-the-above answer, but you don’t need an expert to point out the pros and cons of each hole.”
“An intimacy coordinator is a member of the film crew that ensures the well-being of actors and actresses who participatein sex scenes.” She licked her lips, picking at the seam of her skirt. “This is actually a huge opportunity for me. The film is produced by this three-time Oscar winner. And two of my favorite actors star in it.”
I’d never seen Frankie taking anything but her hair care routine seriously, so I very much doubted this would pan out as something more than a catastrophe once she realized what hard work actually entailed. Then again, maybe Frankie was like me. Maybe she only pretended to be a ditzy woman with nothing but boys and designer clothes on her brain. Maybe she had dimension. Wants, and needs, and desires. Desires I wouldn’t fulfill but desires, nonetheless.
I saluted security guards and two porters as we cruised from the back entrance toward the main hotel, passing rows of sculptured fountains and white dogwood trees. “They’re filming in the hotel?”
Now that she mentioned it, I remembered signing off the fine print and insurance documentation. Itwasa major film. We’d agreed to close off an entire wing for it.
“Yes.” Frankie swung her purse onto the crook of her elbow. “I can’t guarantee the survival of your seamless silk sheets.”
The Ferrari slid past rows of long-term lease bungalows, two highly acclaimed golf courses, four outdoor pools, eight tennis courts, and the arena, home to some of the biggest annual medical and technology conferences in the universe. Frankie took it all in with the typical boredom of a jaded rich girl who had already tasted all things decadent the world had to offer.
I turned into the underground staff parking, dipping into the darkness, my favorite place.
She stared out the window, unusually quiet. “You’re not truly dumb, are you?”
“Excuse me?”
Sometimes – not often – my mask fell off. Sometimes I wasn’t fun-loving, skirt-chasing Oliver von Bismarck: billionaire, playboy, and world-class knucklehead. Sometimes I let myself just be … me.
