Chapter 2
Ethan
The text message on my phone makes little sense, even on the fifth reading.
I stare out of the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse, watching the sun disappear behind Los Angeles skyscrapers while I puzzle it out.
The message is from an unknown number, but there’s only one person it could be from. One woman I’m supposed to be meeting tonight for the first time.
One of my poker buddies, Royce, set up the date. He gave the princess my number in case she needed to change the location where I’m supposed to pick her up from. And, well, I guess she’s done that… in a mysterious way.
I sigh, massaging my temples, and pour myself a glass of scotch from the decanter on the serving trolley.
After spending an exhausting day with my lawyers, I’m tempted to call the date off.
But I’m intrigued. So instead of replying to the message with a cancellation, I phone Royce for a sanity check.
He picks up on the second ring. “Ethan. How are you?"
“Confused,” I say, swirling the scotch in my glass. “In a couple hours, I’m supposed to take out your friend the princess. I was going to pick her up at the Waldorf, but she just sent me a strange text message.”
"Strange how?"
"It looks like a booty call."
Royce barks out a laugh. "Really? What's it say?"
I read it aloud from my phone screen. “Ready for action? 7pm. 224 Park Street. I'll be oiled up and waiting.”
"No way!” He barks the words, clearly incredulous.
"That’s what it says.” My tone is dry. “Apparently, her royal highness wanted to let me know she’d be oiled up and ready for action.”
“That doesn’t sound anything like her. I mean, she did specifically request I set you two up, but…
no.” He scoffs. “No, that can’t be what she wrote.
The message must have been garbled. Auto-corrected.
‘Oiled up’ should have been ‘dressed up’, and ‘ready for action’ could have been…
I don’t know. ‘Ready for dinner’, maybe. ”
I grunt, unconvinced. “It gets stranger. The only thing at 224 Park Street is an old boxing and wrestling gym.” Taking a sip of scotch, I savor the burn.
“Hmm,” Royce sounds thoughtful. “Well, Princess Ulrika is a smart operator. She could be there doing a business deal, maybe looking to buy the place. Why don’t you send a message back and ask her?”
I frown. “Why would someone in her position buy a gym?”
“She’s clued up when it comes to real estate. She’s only sixth in line for her country’s throne, but I guarantee she’s the richest one in her family.”
“That’s appealing,” I admit, remembering why I agreed to the blind date in the first place. It’s not something I’d normally do, but Royce was convincing.
“Wait ’til you meet her. She’s gorgeous, too. And you can’t tell me you aren’t curious.” He chuckles. “I sure as hell would be. Where are you taking her for dinner?"
“The Pearl. Though if I’m picking her up at a gym, she’d better not be dressed in yoga pants." I grimace, wondering if this is a mistake. I’m too tired for games.
“Don’t worry, I’ve never seen her in anything less formal than a ballgown. Tell the princess I said hi.”
I end the call and slug back the rest of my scotch. Then I pour myself another. All day, I’ve been verbally dancing with lawyers who like to use so many long words, it’s as though they’re getting paid by the syllable. My head is aching. The smart thing would be to cancel the date.
But I’ve never had a booty call from a princess before. I want to know if she really is oiled up and waiting for me.
So, at seven o'clock exactly, my limo pulls up to a building that looks like it's seen better decades. The sign reading “First Strike Boxing & Wrestling Gym" is so faded I can barely make it out in the streetlights.
It seems like a joke. I’d assume Royce was pranking me with this whole thing, but he runs a billion-dollar company, and he isn’t the pranking type.
"Wait here," I say to Randy, my driver. “I’ll see if the princess is in there.”
He flicks a dubious glance back at me. Randy is on my security team, and I can see his reluctance to let me go in alone, though he’d never argue.
“Yes, Mr. Kane,” he says with a nod.
As I climb the short flight of stairs to the gym’s entrance, I take note of the building’s size and location, as well as the peeling paint and cracked front window. I’d like to knock this place down and build something better in its place.
Maybe the princess really is here doing a real estate deal. If so, kudos to her. The building is in such a state of disrepair, she could pick it up for a song.
At the top of the stairs, I straighten my tie and check my cufflinks.
The heavy door creaks as I push it open.
Inside, the gym smells of sweat with a strong tang of dampness.
Old posters of boxing and wrestling matches cover the walls, and a raised boxing ring dominates the interior.
One side of the gym is filled with fitness equipment, with punching bags hanging from the ceiling and weight racks pushed against the walls.
The large space is quiet, and it seems empty.
“Princess?” I call, more convinced than ever that this is a mistake. “Are you here?”
“Back here.” A woman’s voice calls to me, low and throaty, from somewhere near the rear of the gym. “I’ve set up a mat behind the ring.”
I follow the sound, and when I round the side of the boxing ring, I see her.
The woman stands in the center of large rubber mat, watching me approach. She’s tall, and though I tower over most women, I only have a couple of inches on her. Royce said he’d never seen her in anything less than a ballgown, but she’s wearing a whole lot less than that now.
She’s wearing nothing but a red bikini, red knee-high boots with black laces and soft soles, and a black masquerade mask that covers her eyes.
Her body is exceptional, with more muscles than a seafood counter.
It’s perfectly showcased by the silky fabric of her bikini.
Her golden skin glistens under the overhead lights as though she’s coated herself with oil.
My lungs empty.
I can’t remember how to breathe, let alone how to form words. All the blood that should be powering my brain has rushed below my belt to power an entirely different organ.
Even with the mask hiding the top half of her face, I can tell the princess is gorgeous.
Her dark hair is tied back in a ponytail, showing off the perfect oval of her face.
Her nose is long and aristocratic, and her full lips are curved in a predatory smile.
But it's her body that robs me of breath.
She has the figure of an Amazon warrior.
Her breasts are small, stunning globes, her nipples peaking the fabric of her bikini top.
Her bikini pants are like skin-tight shorts, and her thighs are solid and sturdy.
Her shoulders are wide, and her muscles are so well defined, she could model for anatomy classes.
“Uh?” I ask. It’s not much of a question, but my brain is like a stalled engine that needs to cough a few times before it starts to run again.
She lifts her eyebrows. “You're right on time.”
“Always,” I manage, forcing the word through my dry throat.
She nods at my suit. “Is that what you’re going to wear?” The question implies that I’m the one wearing something unusual.
This whole encounter feels more like a fever dream than real life, and I glance down, half expecting to find that I’m now mysteriously wearing something odd. A chicken suit, perhaps, or the male version of her bikini. But no. I’m still in my hand-tailored Brioni suit.
“Yes,” I say, somehow managing to sound less puzzled than I feel. Could the princess have taken hallucinogens? No, her pupils look normal. So this must be some kind of kinky game. A booty call, as I suspected from her message.
“Those shoes are all wrong,” she says. “You’ll have to take them off.”
“So we’re already at the clothes-removal part of the evening, Princess? I had planned to take you to dinner first.”
Despite my levity, I’m already toeing off my leather brogues. As weird as this is, the princess is one of the sexiest women I’ve ever seen. Her body is so sculpted, I’m burning to run my hands over it, to worship every ridge and plane. And if she wants me to take off my clothes, who am I to argue?
“Very funny.” Her lips curl down, and her tone is flat, making her disapproval clear. “Are you ready?” she asks, when I step out of my shoes.
“Ready for anything,” I say, meaning every word.
She frowns. “You’ll need to come closer. There.” She points. “On the mat.”
I do what she asks, stepping onto the soft surface. Whatever she’s into, I’m sure I can handle it.
She moves toward me with startling grace, then lunges at me, fast and powerful.
Her weight slams low, her shoulder going into my chest. One second I'm standing, the next I'm airborne. I hit the mat with a thud that knocks the wind out of me. Before I can fully register what’s happening, I’m on the floor, lying on my back, staring at the ceiling.
“Oof,” I grunt.
She pins me down with surprising strength, lying half on top of me with her arm hooked around mine, squeezing it in some kind of complicated hold beneath her body.
Her shoulder is against my chest. One of my arms is trapped.
My other hand instinctively goes to her waist, and I'm distracted by how warm and smooth her skin feels under my palm.
Her face is above mine, so I get to gaze into her eyes behind the mask. They’re brown and pretty. But with my arm wrapped into a pretzel, I can’t move.
She shakes her head as though disgusted, and the end of her dangling ponytail tickles my neck. “That was pathetic. I pinned you too easily.”
I take in a deep breath, inhaling the coconut scent of the oil. “You wanted me to fight back?”
Her eyes narrow. “Of course I did. You’re supposed to be trying to win. That’s the whole point.”
“From where I’m lying, it feels like I am winning.” I graze my free hand softly over her back, enjoying the feel of her bare, slick skin over hard muscle. The oil is slippery, and her body is warm from the exertion. The effect is highly erotic. I’m hard as fuck.
“No inappropriate touching!” She leans into my body, pressing her weight down on my chest. The bicep of my trapped arm is squashed between her breasts. Maybe her increased weight is supposed to be a punishment, but my cock throbs.
“Define the word ‘inappropriate’.” I slow the downward sweep of my hand as I reach the small of her back. “I’m not sure we’re using the same dictionary.”
“Touch my ass, and I’ll twist your arm off.” Her tone is flat. No nonsense. No leeway.
Disappointed, I pull my hand away, showing her my palm. “Fine. But let me point out that you’re touching me, Princess.” I attempt to shift under her weight and fail.
“Stop calling me Princess,” she snarls, “and give me a real fight.”
Besides the fact that I’m enjoying my current position, I’m not about to fight a woman. But as it’s what she wants, I make a half-hearted show of trying to push her off me.
Nothing happens.
Honestly, even if I wanted to, I’m not sure I could move her. She has me immobilized. I don’t know much about wrestling, but I’m impressed. Whoever this woman is, she's clearly good at it.
Her frown deepens, and she makes a sound of disgust. “You lied on your application form, Enzo. You suck at this. It’s disappointing.”
Before I can respond to this blow to my ego, she lets go of my arm and eases off me. All my blood rushes back into my arm. Well, some of my blood. A lot of it is still swelling my cock.
“My name isn’t Enzo,” I say, getting to my feet.
“It’s not?”
“You can’t be who I thought you were either.” I pick up my shoes. “This is a case of mistaken identity. Wrong place, wrong time. Or it could be a prank. I haven’t ruled that out.”
She lets out an impressive string of curse words, then puts her fists on her hips, glaring at me. “If you’re not Enzo, who the hell are you?” Then she seems to realize something. “Wait. That means you didn’t sign a waiver and video release form?”
“Video release form?” I glance to the side of the mat and register what’s there. A camera on a tripod. Dammit, the woman is filming me.
“I forbid you to release any footage or images of me online,” I growl, striding to the camera.
“Don’t touch that!” She’s there before I can grab it, inserting her incredible body between me and the tripod. She shields the camera from me with her glistening bare skin, and my hands burn with how badly I want to put them on her.
“I’ll wipe the footage,” she says. “But you need to leave. Now!” Her body vibrates with the strength of her fury, and her glare is impressive.
I’ve never had a woman order me around like this, and though I should hate it, I don’t. Not even a little. It’s incredibly sexy. She’s sexy. And I’m not sure I’ve ever been more turned on in my life.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“None of your damn business. Now, get the hell out of here before I throw you out.” She points at the door. “And I won’t be gentle!”
“First delete the footage. Then I’ll go.”
“Fine. With pleasure. Nobody wants to watch someone who sucks that much at wrestling, anyway.” She looks down at the camera and I move beside her so I can see what she’s doing as she finds the video file and deletes it.
Her shoulder is almost touching mine. She concentrates on the screen, and I inhale her coconut scent.
It’s delicious. The curve of her neck is exquisite. The swell of her breasts even more so.
“Done.” She turns her glare back onto me. “Now leave.”
A loud creak comes from the door as it opens.
“You here, boss?” Randy calls, stepping into the gym.
“I’m coming,” I call back to him, not taking my eyes off the Amazon in front of me.
I should be as angry as she clearly is. The message she sent me was obviously a wrong number, and not from the princess at all. Which means that I’m late for my real date. And if I want to pick the real princess up, first I’ll need to change, seeing as my suit is ruined.
But I can’t summon even a little anger. As I turn and reluctantly stride to the door, all I feel is disappointment that I’ll never get to see this warrior woman without her mask.