The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(60)

“Agreed,” Kingsley said.

“Then it’s a deal.”

Kingsley took the soccer ball out of S?ren’s hands.

“First Presbyterian will never know what hit them,” Kingsley said. Side by side they ran on to the field, and in short order, Kingsley had taken command of the team. The team assumed, rightly, that being European, Kingsley could play better than they could, and they willingly followed his direction. The younger players especially were in awe. For a perfect two hours Kingsley didn’t think once of his impending test results, not once about Robert Dixon’s tape, not once about taking out Fuller’s church.

And not once did he think of S?ren as anything other than an annoyingly good player on his team.

When practice ended, they walked back to the church sweaty and tired. But it was a good sweaty, a good tired.

“Admit it, you had fun,” S?ren said. “Fun that didn’t involve sex, drugs, or blackmailing and/or bribing a district attorney.”

“I don’t bribe DAs for fun. That was a favor to you.”

“And I appreciate it. So does Eleanor, even if she doesn’t know what you did on her behalf.”

“She’ll make it up to me someday,” Kingsley said, attempting to goad S?ren and succeeding.

“I said if she’s amendable to the idea. She might not be.”

“You can’t even say that with a straight face.”

“I admit it’s unlikely.”

“You know,” Kingsley said, taking his keys out of his pocket. “I would have joined the team without you giving me a night with your girl.”

S?ren smiled and turned away, heading to his church. In French he called back.

“I would have given you a night with her without you joining the team.”

Kingsley laughed. Maybe there was hope for that priest yet.





19


“DO YOU WANT A STRAIGHT PIN THROUGH YOUR future children?”

“No.” Kingsley sighed.

“Then, young man, I’d suggest you hold still.”

“I am holding still,” Kingsley said, rolling his eyes. First Magdalena, and then Signore Vitale. Kingsley decided he had more than fulfilled his quota for suffering the abuses of irascible Italians for the century.

“Hold more still,” the little white-haired man at his feet said.

“King,” Sam said, tapping her foot in annoyance. “Hold the f*ck still.”

“When I have a man on his feet in front of me, it’s usually considered an insult if I hold still,” Kingsley said.

“Don’t f latter yourself. You aren’t my type.” The tailor, Signore Vitale, looked up from the f loor.

“Are you straight?” Kingsley asked. He was everyone’s type. Except Sam’s.

“No, but you are French.”

“Italians…” Kingsley shook his head. “Look, I’m no fan of Napoleon, either. But it was a hundred-and-ninety years ago.”

“Italians have long memories.”

Kingsley forced himself to stop moving, stop breathing, stop thinking.

“Better,” Signore Vitale said. “Much better. Soon we’ll have you looking like a new you.”

“I thought the old me looked good.”

“You dress like a gay hobo,” Signore Vitale said.

“That’s not true,” Sam said, coming to Kingsley’s defense.

“Merci,” Kingsley said.

“He dresses like a bisexual hobo.”

Kingsley glared at her.

“For the record, I consider myself pansexual.”

“Does that mean you like to f*ck cookware?”

“It means I like to f*ck everything.”

“Typical francese.” Vitale sighed.

“Am I paying for these insults to my heritage?” Kingsley asked.

“Yes,” Vitale said. “Five percent surcharge for French clients.”

“Make it two-and-a-half percent. I’m only half French.”

In his twenty-eight years, Kingsley had had many a man kneeling before him at crotch level. Signore Vitale would win the award for the oldest and least appealing of all the men who’d ended up in this position. He tried not to look down as Vitale made the most minor of adjustments on his trousers, pinning the fabric and marking it with chalk.

“Good. You’re finished.” Vitale clapped his hands once and, with Sam’s help, rose off the f loor. “You can take those off.”

With a sigh of relief Kingsley walked behind the changing screen where he’d left his regular clothes. He should never have let Sam talk him into getting a new wardrobe. She had taken over his entire life in a month. Sam had gotten all his files in order. She’d hired a housekeeper—a woman who’d once worked at a pornography studio and was thus unfazed by anything that happened under Kingsley’s roof. And after one session with Anita, the pain in his chest had lessened considerably.

Kingsley pulled off the jacket but paused when he noticed something on the wall. He walked to it, stared at it, studied it…

“King, what it is?” Sam asked, standing at his side.

He pointed to the cross on the wall. A small pretty thing, six inches tall, six inches wide. He hadn’t noticed it at first because the golden color blended into the green-and-gold wallpaper.