Royal Elite: Leander (21 page)

“We
are
suckers,” Chey said, letting Elias down. The toddler took off for the door and the hallway beyond. Somewhere nearby, on the same floor, were two assistants prepared to catch and waylay the toddler before he got too far. “Although we still have things to do tonight, like Krislin mentioned, so I guess we should get to it.”

Wynn experienced a jolt at the subject of 'other things'. In days of old, she would have gladly attended a bachelorette party—and had for friends back in Seattle—to wile away the night with a hot stripper. She was no tame flower to sit back and watch everyone else have fun. Except all the other times, she'd been a guest and not the bride-to-be. Now it felt...strange. Even with the morning and afternoon to come to terms with it, to collect herself and realize it was a night of harmless fun, she still suffered cold feet. Handing Emily off to Chey, Wynn brushed her hands over her plaid patterned pants and adjusted the waistcoat of white with plaid cuffs and collar. Emily hadn't drooled, it just gave Wynn something to do with her hands.

“Right, the other things,” Wynn finally said, as Chey and Krislin both stepped into the hallway to transfer their babies to the assistants. Every possible care would be given in Chey and Krislin's absence.

“We're going to have dinner first,
then
the party,” Chey said, reaching for Wynn's elbow once the kids were in safe keeping. “Come on! I thought you'd be whooping and hollaring and hoarding dollar bills, Wynnie.”

“I know, I did, too,” Wynn admitted with a quiet laugh. How things had changed in the last year. She still enjoyed having a wild, fun time—with
Leander.

“And don't call me Winnie.”

Wynn wouldn't ruin Chey's surprise, however, and went along with the plans because it would be rude not to.

I promise I won't look, Leander.

Oh, this was bad.
Really
bad. Wynn broke into a sweat as she boarded the boat that would ferry them to the mainland. The girls attending the party—Krislin, Chey, Natalia and more—were on the vessel as well, all dressed in varying degrees of fashion. After a casual dinner with the group, Wynn had changed as well, choosing black slacks and a high collared, long sleeved shirt the color of a sunrise. She didn't mean to cover up so much skin...or perhaps she did. Subconsciously, she'd chosen the most concealing articles of clothing she owned barring throat to ankle coats.

That they were now on the ferry en route to the mainland told Wynn that they were heading to one of the clubs in the large city of Kalev. One of those racy nightspots with neon lights, glossy stages and gold poles for the stripper's use.

Fantastic. Now she really couldn't beg off the party, or admit she didn't want to go. What was wrong with her, anyway? It wasn't as if anyone expected her to kiss or fondle some strange man.

Waiting on the docks were no less than four limousines.
Four.
The women piled in, filling up each luxury car as they disembarked the ferry.

Wynn sat in the first one with her bridesmaids and closest friends, accepting a glass of wine from Chey like it was a lifeline. She gulped, coughed, then sipped at a more moderate rate. Music poured out the speakers, something upbeat and sexy.

Getting us all in the mood.
Wynn ignored her pessimistic thoughts and smiled, hoping it didn't look as forced as it felt.

The line of limousines, accompanied by SUVs containing guards, weaved through the maze of streets toward their destination. Wynn stared out the side window, cringing as they entered a row of businesses she knew quite well. Singles clubs, bars and other gathering places for those looking to party up the night filled at least three blocks. She'd spent a few evenings here before hooking up with Leander, enjoying the nightlife and the natives.

Cruising to a stop outside a ritzy club with a black, white and purple themed facade, Wynn guzzled the last few sips of wine and set the glass aside. She should have had a shot or two of Jager before this. The last one out of the car, Wynn brushed her hands down her thighs and looked up at the building.

“Go ahead and go in, Wynn. We've got a table in the front, right by the stage,” Chey said, waving her phone to indicate a call had come in.

With several other guests at her back, Wynn stepped through the front entrance. The club was every bit as classy as it was suggestive; purple draped the walls and the tables, a deep color that set off the white chairs and black floor. The main focus of the room, of course, was the large stage taking space against the far wall. A purple curtain followed the natural curve on the outside, hiding the stage itself along with any poles or whatever other props the strippers might use.

She didn't see any table that stood out more than the others in the front, although one in particular looked like it might be the one Chey meant. It was the closest, front and center.

“So, is it
that
table?” Wynn asked the girls, then twisted to look back when no one answered. No one answered because no one else was there. “What the--”

Music drifted from the speakers, yanking Wynn's attention back to the stage. It wasn't the kind of music she expected to hear in a strip club; this was romantic and soft.

“Okay, Chey, are you trying to get me into trouble here?” Just about to flee back outside and chide Chey up one side and down the other, she paused to watch the curtain begin a slow slide away from the stage. Split down the middle, each side recoiled, revealing the stage itself.

Wynn covered her lips with her fingers. Situated in the center of the stage stood a linen covered table and two chairs. A bright array of flowers floating in a candle lit bowl decorated the table and silver covered platters sat before each chair, as if awaiting guests.

This was far,
far
too intimate a scene. There was no way she wanted to have dinner with some stripper and then be subjected to a private lap dance. Before she could turn back to exit, a ripple of a curtain further back on the stage snagged her attention. A man stepped out. Shadows obscured the fine details of his face and physique.

Oh
no.

“Excuse me, I think there's been some mistake...” Wynn held up a hand, prepared to apologize and even pay the dancer for his trouble.

Then he stepped into the spotlight.

White shirt casually unbuttoned to expose a slice of chest, black slacks neatly pressed, shoes polished to a shine, Leander looked nothing short of devastating. Devil-may-care, with his hair half pulled back as was his wont, mouth tilted into a subtle but amused smile.

Wynn's heart trip-hammered, thudding so hard she thought it might pop. Dumbfounded, all she could do at first was stare.

“You've got that whole deer in the headlight look going. I think. It's a bit hard to see with the spotlight shining in my eyes,” he said, coming to a stop at the edge of the stage.

Snapped out of her stupor, Wynn bolted for the stage, dodging tables and chairs, laughter spilling free. “It's
you!
I was so worried it was some stranger! I'm going to kill both you
and
Chey.”

He laughed and met her at a set of side stairs leading up to the stage. “And here you looked ready to bail on the poor guy. Where's your sense of adventure, Winnie?”

“Don't call me Winnie!” Wynn threw herself into his arms, lifted and swung about with effortless ease. Leander's muscles flexed under her palms. “I didn't know how to tell Chey that I didn't want to see strippers. I thought I'd hurt her feelings.”

Leander kissed her, interrupting her diatribe. “She knows you better than that. Actually, I thought you'd figure it out and walk in here all cocky because you'd guessed.”

Wynn kissed him again, and once more for good measure. “You smell good,” she said, blurting the first thing that came to mind. “I didn't guess at all. Maybe I've just been distracted by the busy day or something.”

He smiled, staring down into her eyes. “I'm glad you were surprised then. Come on, I hope you're hungry.” Taking her hand, he led her to the table and held a chair while she sat down.

“But Chey and the girls are--”

“Are going out for drinks. They'll be back to pick you up in exactly one hour.” Leander whisked the covers off the platters, exposing two plates loaded with Wynn's favorite Chinese food.

“Look at that! All my favorite things, too.”

“Of course.” Leander set the lids aside on a small cart. He took his seat across from her and poured wine into two glasses etched with an elaborate
M.

Wynn picked up the glass, unexpectedly overwhelmed by the reminder that she would become his wife tomorrow. Meeting his eyes across the table, the scent of roses a pleasant accompaniment to the spice of the Chinese, Wynn said, “To longevity, perseverance and love.”

Leander tinked his glass against hers. “And steamy kitchenette sex where we might or might not get caught.”

Wynn blushed, then laughed, and sipped the wine. The picture Leander made with his shirt partly unbuttoned brought a flush to her cheeks that had nothing to do with remembering the kitchenette, and everything to do with
tomorrow
night. Their wedding night.

“Yes, that. You're never going to let me live that down, are you?” she asked as she set the glass down and picked up a set of chopsticks. Leander knew she preferred them whenever possible. Mostly because he would use them, too, and he was
terrible
with control. Which he demonstrated in the next instant. A chunk of sweet and sour pork flipped out of his chopsticks onto the table, followed by a long suffering sigh.

“No, never. Especially not right now,” he said with a grunt.

Struck by a fit of giggles, Wynn covered her lips and laughed. Hard.

“Laugh now, young maiden. Just wait until I get thee alone in the tower.”

The ridiculousness of Leander's 'threat' kept the tickle on Wynn's funny bone, never mind his dry-as-sawdust tone. She set down the chopsticks and stood up, drawing his gaze. Peals of laughter floated across the stage unabated and unchecked as she swerved around the table, helping herself to his lap. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she buried her face in his throat and let him feel the extent of her amusement. His shoulders shook briefly when he chuckled and slapped her lightly on the hip.

“I. Love. You. So. Much.” Wynn made sure to punctuate every word. Lifting her head, she stroked her fingers down his cheek. “I want you to feed me my dinner. With the chopsticks.”

He snorted a laugh. “So you mean you want to wear it more than you want to eat it, right? That'll be romantic.”

She trembled with a suppressed laugh. “Come on. You can do it.”

“How about I just use my fingers? It's easier and then you can turn me on at the same time with all the seductive sucking.”

“You mean you don't find it seductive that I'm in your lap to begin with?” She arched a brow for emphasis, having far too much fun.

“If you were naked, I'd find it a lot more sexy.” He wagged his brows and popped a piece of chicken into his mouth—with his fingers.

“Heathen,” she whispered, catching his hand to lick the orange sauce from his skin.

“Mhm. I am. I'll show you just how much after we eat.”

“But we're in a public place!”

“That hasn't stopped us before.”

“You're corrupting me, Mister Morgan.”

“I don't hear you complaining.” He offered her a bite of sweet and sour pork, a devilish look in his eyes.

Wynn took the piece between her teeth, suddenly anxious to eat and find some unoccupied back room to have Leander all to herself.

. . .

Leander watched the limousine pull away from the curb and ease into a light stream of traffic. The taillights flashed red in the darkness, then disappeared around a corner, whisking the women back to the docks. Three more limousines and SUVs with security followed in their wake. Sliding his hands into his pockets, he tipped a look up at the clear sky, skimming the constellations, before turning to make his way along the sidewalk.

Couples, singles and groups came and went from several other bars and clubs along the strip, laughing, talking, and flirting. Leander stalked past, paying only enough attention to make sure no one had any nefarious intentions. He would always be on the lookout for trouble, it was just a part of his nature.

Two blocks and one turn later, he approached a smoked glass door at the front of a modest cafe. The dim interior was a product of design that allowed customers a small level of privacy. He bypassed several secluded booths, tables half hidden by partial walls, and entered a back area via a push-through door.

A horse-shoe shaped booth in the back was his destination, the rest of the room cleared of guests. All except the two men slouched in the booth seats, half empty drinks on the table.

“You're late,” Sander said.

“I take it the dinner went over well?” Mattias added.

“Only fifteen minutes late, and you knew I would be anyway.” Leander flashed the two men a smile and slid onto the leather seat. A low hanging light above the booth provided a diffused, yellow glow. “She loved the dinner—and what came after.”

Sander snorted. “You're an exhibitionist.”

Leander laughed and slapped a hand on his thigh. Sander must have heard about the kitchenette sex. Apparently he hadn't muffled Wynn's sounds good enough. “Like you wouldn't have done the same thing.”

“I would have waited until I got home, at least,” Sander retorted.

“See, that's why I'm glad I'm not king,” Leander replied. “Having to adhere to stodgy rules and regulations, always wondering who might or might not see what you're doing. Then announce it to the media, along with an embarrassing snapshot or two, making for a hell of a public relations nightmare. No one cares if my lady and I have a little private time in a back room.”

Mattias, chuckling, brought his glass up for a drink. Then he said, “You're incorrigible.”

“This is why you like having me around. I can do all the things you two are afraid to.” Leander couldn't have smiled any wider or more devilish.