Yes—she’s definitely been a busy-researching-bee.

“So,” she starts, leaning back. “What are your intentions with my sister, Prince Nicholas?”

If she only knew.

“I want to spend time with Olivia. Get to know her.”

Intimately.

“My intentions are all good ones, I promise.”

Very good. Orgasmic. The XXX-rated kind.

Ellie’s innocent-looking eyes narrow, reading me, like she’s a visual lie detector.

“You probably know a lot of people—rich people, famous people. Liv is good people. The best. She’s given up her whole life to keep this place going—for me and my dad. She deserves to have fun—a good time—a hot fling with a former bad-boy prince who can talk dirty to her in five languages. I’m hoping you can give her that.”

I know where she’s coming from. I understand that protectiveness—the wish for happiness and joy for someone you care about so much your chest aches. It’s what I feel for Henry every day.

At least, on the days he doesn’t make me want to strangle him.

“That makes two of us, then,” I tell her plainly.

“Good.” With a rap to the table and a nod, little Ellie stands. She retrieves a pie server from a neighboring table and taps each of my shoulders with it.

Like she’s knighting me.

“I approve you, Prince Nicholas. Carry on.”

I try very hard not to laugh at her. And fail.

“Thank you, Miss Hammond.”

And then she leans over me. “But just in case you get any ideas…if you hurt my sister—” she tips her head toward Logan by the door “—delicious-looking security guards or not, I’ll find a way to shave your eyebrows off.”

And I actually believe she’d pull it off.

Ellie straightens up, grinning evilly.

“You feel me, Nicholas?”

I nod. “Loud and clear, Ellie.”

That’s when Olivia walks into the room. And just when I was sure my balls couldn’t get any achier, she proves me wrong.

Her navy-blue tank top, beneath a light gray flannel, highlights her creamy skin, and tight dark jeans tucked into knee-high brown boots accentuate those long, slender legs. Her black hair is down, almost to the curve of her gorgeous arse, and simple silver and pearl earrings peek out between the glorious glossy waves.

“Hey.” She smiles, making the room a little bit brighter and my cock a lot harder. “I didn’t know you were here already. Were you waiting long?”

“It’s all good, Livvy,” Ellie says. “Marty and I kept him company.”

Marty stands, wiggling his mobile. “Before you go, can I get a selfie? You know—for the spank bank?”

“Oh God.” Olivia groans, covering her eyes.

Then she tries to get me off the hook.

“Nicholas doesn’t like taking pictures, Marty.”

I hold up my hand. “No, it’s all right. A photo is fine.” Then I lower my voice so only she can hear me. “But I’m going to need a deposit from you in my spank bank tonight.”

She giggles, while Ellie watches us carefully, with something like approval in her eyes.

The ride to the hotel is pure, unadulterated torture—and an exercise in restraint. Our small talk is comfortable and benign, but our looks are intense and heated. I catch Olivia checking out the perpetual bulge in my trousers no fewer than three times. And I don’t even bother trying to pretend that I’m not staring at her tits. Her scent—that clean, freshly shampooed, warm honey scent—fills the space of the limousine, making my nostrils flare, trying to absorb every trace of it.

Logan and Tommy flank us on the way through the lobby, with James taking the rear position. It’s busier than it was last night—crowded with visitors on their way to dinner or a Broadway show—and we’re the recipient of more than a few double takes. Once we arrive in the suite, the lads scatter. I’ve given David the evening off so that we have some privacy, and I guide Olivia into the kitchen.

Over a glass of white wine, she tells me about her day, about the poor, bedraggled young mother and her brood of five hell-raisers who visited the coffee shop. I convey the boredom of the Art Commission of New York charity luncheon—which is really just an excuse for politicians to hear themselves talk.

I take a chopping knife from the wood block on the counter, and the unpleasant, piercing sound that results from sliding it against the sharpening stone momentarily halts our conversation. Olivia comes up behind me, peeking over my shoulder as I slice the salmon and chop the celery into match-sized sticks.

“Where did you learn to do that?” she asks with a smile in her voice.

“Japan.”

I look over my shoulder to catch her rolling her pretty eyes—because I suspect she already knew the answer.

Then she picks up a knife herself, stands next to me, and makes quick work of three carrots, chopping them just as well, if not better, than me.

Then she shrugs coyly. “Manhattan.”

We both chuckle as she rests the knife on the counter and I wash my hands. As I dry them on a clean towel, I lean back against the sink—watching her.

Olivia runs her hand along the counter, observing the dishes of spices and rice, shrimp and salmon. She dips her finger into a small bowl of black soy sauce and seems to move in slow motion when she raises that finger to her mouth, and wraps those gorgeous fucking lips around it.

I’ve never come in my trousers, but I’m dangerously close.

A groan is trapped in my throat, because I want to be that finger—more than I want to breathe. Our eyes meet and hold. And the air is thick between us—filled with magnetic particles that draw us toward one another.