Princess: A Private Novel(46)

“Good. It’s important he trusts you.”

“I don’t know if he trusts me, but he believes me. With the state of mind he’s in, I think that will be enough.”

“Very good, Colonel. You’ll see this through for me, won’t you?”

“Anything for you, Your Highness.”





Chapter 81


JACK MORGAN STARED intently through the Audi’s windshield, his fingers tight on the wheel. The car’s navigation system told him that he was one minute away from the destination given to him by De Villiers, and Morgan intended to make his first reconnaissance in the car.

The venue’s location was in Knightsbridge, which struck Morgan as no surprise. Given that the streets were dotted with Ferraris and Maseratis, where better to hold a private party for London’s mega-rich and ultra-connected?

It was the appearance of a tall woman that first gave away the location. She was every inch the Russian millionaire’s wife, with blonde hair piled on top of her head, and fur over her shoulders. Knightsbridge was home to rich clichés, and Morgan watched as she was followed out of the golden Lamborghini by a bearded man whose clothes were twenty years too young for him, and two chest sizes too small. Morgan slowed and watched the couple as they climbed the steps to a black door. The bearded man gave his woman a helpful grab on the ass as she slipped slightly in her heels, then knocked on the door. The couple waited patiently to be admitted. As there was no one else outside the building, one thing was clear to Morgan—the security, and the weapons he wanted, were behind that black door.

“Dammit,” Morgan swore softly, pulling his car into a side street a block away so that he was clear to think—how the hell could he get inside there without starting World War Three?

And then he had it.

“Hello,” Morgan said into his phone when it was finally answered. “I know, it’s been a long time,” he went on politely. “Listen, I’m calling because I need a favor.”





Chapter 82


AFTER MORGAN HUNG up the phone, he drove to the nearest twenty-four-hour superstore to collect what he would need to turn that favor into weapons. By the time he had arrived back at the Knightsbridge location, the American had received a text that told him he was “all good.” Armed with that piece of information, he began the short walk to the party. With each step he prayed that the rain would hold off and he could ascend the steps dry, his freshly purchased clothes spotless. Despite knowing what was soon to come, Morgan fought back his adrenaline and took the steps slowly, trying hard to appear as cool and calm as possible. He needed to look as though he belonged at that party.

He knocked and counted to ten.

Nothing.

He knocked again.

Eight… nine… ten…

“Yes?” a female voice buzzed from the intercom beside the door.

“I’m here to see Albert,” Morgan announced, using the phrase he had been given in his phone call.

“There’s no Albert here,” the voice answered through the intercom.

“Yes there is,” Morgan insisted. “Abbie Winchester told me to come and say hello to him.”

The intercom went silent. Morgan pictured how the woman within would be looking on her phone for confirmation that the well-known socialite Abbie Winchester had indeed invited a guest.

“She’s not here,” the voice came back, and Morgan wondered what his chances were of knocking down the thick door—zero, he reckoned.

“I’m visiting from out of town,” he explained, smiling, certain that he was on camera. “Abbie recommended this place. I don’t really know London.” He shrugged, with another disarming smirk.

A second later the electronic bolts of the door clicked open, and Morgan found himself looking into an empty hallway, the dull thud of bass drifting down from above.

He stepped inside, and sense told him to wait. Moments later he was met from an adjoining room by the owner of the intercom’s voice, a petite young woman with tattoos teasing up her neck.

“You’re too clean-cut to be a friend of Abbie’s, mate,” she assessed, looking Morgan over.

“I’m American.” He smiled helplessly. “We’re not known for our fashion.”

“True.” The girl smiled. “You got a phone?”

Morgan shook his head. “Abbie told me to leave it in the car.”

“Good. No photos allowed here. Lifetime ban if you do.”

“Any other rules?” Morgan asked.

“Just don’t be a dickhead.” She shrugged. “Three hundred quid, please.” The girl put out her hand.

Morgan reached for his wallet and pulled out the notes.

“Next time bring a girl and you’ll get in easier. Or don’t.” She shrugged with a smile, playing the game.

“Here’s another two hundred for your trouble,” he told her, playing it himself.

The girl held his look before finally nodding her head. “Upstairs. You can’t miss it. Just follow the music.”

“I’ll see you later,” Morgan promised, and walked toward the staircase. As he moved, he looked through the open door that the girl had walked out of. He saw two muscular men on a sofa, their eyes on a bank of CCTV screens that showed what must be the party upstairs, and the building’s exterior. They were big men, Morgan thought to himself, dismissing the idea of rushing them immediately. Better to bide his time, he decided, and to think of a plan.