After we leave, it nags at me, though—the necklace. For purely selfish reasons. Because I want to see her wearing it. It—and nothing else.
Talk about prime spank-bank material.
But when the night of the dinner arrives, and I see Olivia for the first time at the helipad, I forget all about the necklace—because she’s a vision. Her lips are dark rose and shiny, her midnight hair is swept up elegantly, her tits are high and stunning.
I take her hand, kissing the back. “You look amazing.”
“Thank you.” She beams.
Until her eyes settle on the helicopter behind me. Then she looks ill.
“So, we’re really doing this, huh?”
I fly whenever I have the opportunity, which isn’t nearly as often as I’d like. And Olivia’s never flown at all—not in a plane or a helicopter. It’s exciting to be her first.
“I told you I’ll be gentle.”
I guide her toward the custom craft that the CEO of an international bank who’s friendly with my family was kind—and shrewd—enough to loan me for the evening. “Unless you’re in the mood for a rough ride?” I wink.
“Slow and steady, cowboy,” she warns. “Or I’ll never ride with you again.”
I help her into the soft leather seat, buckle her harness, and carefully put her headset over her hair, so we can talk during the trip. Her eyes are round and terrified.
Does the fact that that turns me on make me a sick bastard? I’m a little afraid that it does.
With a quick kiss to her forehead, I walk around and climb in. Tommy rides in the back; Logan and James drove ahead earlier to confirm security details and will meet us when we land.
With a thumbs-up to the ground crew, we lift off.
Olivia freezes next to me. Like she’s afraid to move or speak. Until we bank to the right. Then she screams bloody murder.
“Oh my God! We’re tipping!” She grabs my arm.
“Olivia, we’re not tipping.”
“Yes we are! Lean! Lean this way!” She shifts her weight away from window—in the opposite direction of our embankment.
And Tommy, trying to be helpful, leans with her.
I level us off, but her grip on my arm doesn’t let up.
“Look at the view, sweets. Look at the lights—they’re like thousands of diamonds on a bed of black sand.”
Olivia’s eyes are squeezed shut so tightly, they almost disappear into her face.
“No thanks, I’m good like this.”
I pry her hand from my arm, one finger at a time. “All right, here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to put your hand on the stick and fly the helicopter.”
Her eyes spring open. “What?”
“You’re afraid because you feel out of control,” I tell her calmly. “This will make you feel better.”
“You want me to touch your stick so I’ll feel better?” she asks incredulously. “Sounds like a line.”
I laugh. “No line. But…my stick always makes everything better. You can’t go wrong touching it.” I take her hand and put it on the control, teasing her.
“That’s it, grip it firmly, but don’t strangle it. Don’t stroke, just hold it for now—I know it’s big—get used to the feel of it in your hand.”
Olivia snorts. “You are a dirty, dirty man.”
But she’s forgotten to be afraid, just as I was hoping. And after a few minutes, I take my hand off of hers and she holds the control steady, all on her own, her face flushing with happiness.
“Oh my God!” she gasps—and that turns me on, too. “I’m doing it, Nicholas! I’m flying! This is amazing!”
We land about two hours later and drive to the Smithsonian, which has been decorated dramatically with crimson swaths between stone pillars and sweeping spotlights along the red carpet. As we pull up, I see the familiar flash of cameras.
“Front door or back?” I ask Olivia, turning to face her in the limo. I mean the question exactly as it sounds.
She looks at me with a hint of a dry smile. “Don’t you think it’s a little early to be talking about the back door?”
I smirk. “Never too early for the back door.”
She giggles.
But then I turn serious. Because I know just how much I’m about to turn her life upside down…and then, in less than four months, I’m going to walk away. Olivia doesn’t understand yet, not really.
“If we go in the front door, they take your picture, they find out your name and the world goes mad—but it’s our decision. If we use the back door, we may buy a little more time but we won’t know when or where or how the discovery will come. Just that it will.” I smooth my hand over her knee. “It’s up to you, love.”
She angles her head, gazing at the window, watching the throng of photographers—seeming more curious than anything else. “What will we say?”
“Nothing. We don’t give them anything. They’ll write what they want and take their pictures whenever, but we never confirm or deny. And the Palace doesn’t comment on the personal lives of the royal family.”
She nods slowly. “Like when Beyoncé and Jay Z got married. It was all over the papers: the flower delivery, gossip from the caterers—everyone knew, but until they actually confirmed it, no one really, really knew. There was always that shred of possible doubt.”
I smile. “Exactly.”
After a few moments, Olivia takes a deep breath. And holds out her hand to me. “Sorry to disappoint you, Your Highness, but there won’t be any back-door action tonight—front door all the way.”