Royally Bad (Royally Wrong Book 1)

of a Maserati. A smooth sleek purr, right between my thighs.
Shit. Ten minutes on the job, and I’m making eyes at my boss. Never mind he’s the most eligible—or ineligible—bachelor on the East Coast... probably the entire world. Theo Kensington isn’t a guy you take home to your parents. He’s the guy you take to bed and gossip about him with your girlfriends after, in hushed, reverent tones, as the fuck of your life.
Or, like a bottle-blonde hussy with a book deal on today’s entertainment news, tell the whole fucking world.
“Mr. Kensington.” I extend my hand. He ignores it, and moves in closer. I’m wearing my tallest, most professional pumps and Theo still towers over me. There’s an intensity about him, a hungry energy, some sort of powerful force field that would drag off my panties if they hadn’t already melted.
No wonder all these women go to bed with him. No wonder celebrities star in his private sex tapes.
No wonder the board of his father’s company wants him gone.
“I’m Vesper Smith,” I withdraw my hand, because he’s too busy undressing me with his eyes to shake it. “Your new media consultant.”
“Nice,” he drawls to my boobs. “I’m looking forward to you working under me.”
I stiffen. I know I look good. I’m wearing a grey business suit that sets off my eyes, even hidden behind black-framed glasses. My heels make my legs look killer and give me a few inches of extra height. I look good, not slutty, yet my new boss is looking me up and down like I’m a pin-up model and he’d like to nail me on the hood of his car.
My heart sinks a little. He really is a man-whore.
I push my glasses up my nose. “Mr. Kensington,” I start in my sternest voice. “You’ve cultivated quite the reputation. If you’re not careful—”
Theo interrupts. “Where’d you dig this one up, Evans?”
The music cuts off as Evans turns the key in the Maserati. “She comes highly recommended, Mr. Kensington.”
“Great. Do you want me to call the ladies back?” He jerks a thumb and I realize he’s talking about the three women that just got out of the car. “We can do a photo shoot here. Something for you to put on Instagram.”
He thinks I’m going to manage his Instagram account. “Actually, we have more pressing matters at hand. We need to prepare a statement, tell our side of the story. Pepper Spice already has a media tour—” I stop when he waves a hand in my face.
“Boring. You’re hot, but you talk like my father’s friends.”
“That’s who hired her,” Evans said. “They’re concerned that when the board next convenes, the vote won’t be in your favor.”
Theo shrugs.
I frown. “You’re going to lose your seat on the board of a billion-dollar company and you’re not even going to—”
“I need to get to the pool,” Theo interrupts. “Got some friends waiting for me.” He looks me up and down, and once again I feel that force field pulling me forward, clouding my mind, making me want to take off my clothes and make poor choices. “You’re welcome to join me… if you wear a bikini.” With a wink, he strides off.
I whirl on my heel to face Evans. “Show me the sex tape. Then I’ll go down to the pool. Mr. Kensington and I are going to have a little chat.”
Evans leads me down the mansion’s wide halls, past giant paintings of landscapes and shipwrecks and Bacchus leading a party of nymphs and satyrs out to have a drunken orgy in a pasture. There’s also a few statues, including a pink marble representation of Venus De Milo.
“Who decorated this place?” I ask.
“The late Mr. Kensington hired a collector who chose these pieces.”
I tiptoe past the naked form. “Theodore Kensington’s father was Turkish, right? An immigrant?” I had to dig for that information. Mr. Kensington the elder didn’t want his immigrant status well known.
“Immigrant turned billionaire tycoon,” Evans confirms. “Who fell in love with a princess.”
“Kensington doesn’t sound very Turkish.”
“He changed his last name when he received his citizenship.”
“Like Donald Trump’s grandfather, changing the family name from Drumpf to something more marketable.”
“Exactly.” I don’t miss Evans’ dry tone as he turns into a small dark room. Empty coffee cups litter the desk under the many mounted screens. A pair of security guards nod as Evans introduces me.
“So you’re the fixer,” one says. “You gonna fix him?” The guard points to the screen where Theo stretches and poses on a diving board in front of an audience of bikini clad woman. One is already topless. The second security guard has the camera zoomed in on her.
“I’ll do my best,” I say as Evans hands me a laptop. He guides me to a private corner and gives me headphones. I pull off my suit jacket and press play. Theo’s muscled chest and bikini wearing babes cavort on the big screen as I focus on the similar shadowy figures on small screen on my lap. I feel like I’ve got my own private peepshow.
Business as usual.
I don’t know how I ended up the world expert on fixing sex scandals, but after five consecutive cases—three sports stars accused of sexual harassment, one philandering senator, and one startup CEO who dropped trou at a wild party a week before his company went public—I have a reputation. Vesper Smith makes the bad boys good again. That headline was on HuffPost last month.
Yes, I read my own press.
I have to say, of all the sex tapes I’ve seen, Theo Kensington’s is the best. He’s got a beautiful, muscled back that flexes with his buttocks in time with his thrusts. His jaw clenches and his eyes bore into the mirror over the bed. It’s almost as if he’s looking at me.
Then he pulls out and I get a good look at him. All ten inches.
The tape ends. I watch it again, feeling each thrust deep in my womb.
“So what do we do?” Evans asks when the