The Only King to Claim Her
CHAPTER ONE
MAXIMUS KINGLOOKEDacross the ballroom at Arianna Lopez, who up until tonight had been a disgraced starlet working her way back into the good graces of society. Optics were everything in this age of social media. Constant visibility.
Arianna had made the terrible mistake of being beautiful, rich, and seeming selfish. And so, had fallen out of favor with the clambering masses on the internet who saw her as a property belonging to them.
And rehabilitating image was his business. Tonight had been a sterling success. The charity event was sparkling, and perfect. And she now looked more Madonna than whore.
His job was done.
She was the same shallow, ridiculous creature she’d been when they’d met two weeks ago. But now the world had forgotten her tantrum about the roses she was given not being entirely white, and so it didn’t matter what was in her heart.
Only what people saw.
Optics, after all, were everything.
With every aspect of a person’s life available for public consumption nowadays, it had to be so.
Perhaps it was why he took such great, perverse delight in using optics as his cover.
For no one, not even his family, knew the truth about Maximus King.
He straightened his tie and turned, beginning to walk out of the room. He heard the click of high heels behind him.
He paused. He knew that it was Arianna; he had noted the sound her shoes made against the marble floor. No one ever took him off guard.
“Are you leaving?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I thought that we might...leave together. After all, our working relationship was so satisfactory. I thought we might be able to...transition it.” She put one delicate, manicured hand on his shoulder, and her touch left him cold.
But he smiled. That charming grin of the playboy that all the world took him to be. “Not tonight.”
“Not tonight?” Her eyes widened. “I was under the impression you’re up for it every night.”
He gave her his best, most practiced grin. Nothing to see here, just a playboy. Not a care in the world. “There’s already a woman waiting in my bed, sweetheart.” He winked for good measure. “You have to book early.”
He turned and continued to walk out of the ballroom. His car was there at the front of the hotel waiting for him. He scanned the street, a habit. Then got into the vehicle, maneuvering through the San Diego streets, making his way back to his glittering mansion in the hills. He had a spectacular view of the ocean from the front, and the protection of the mountains in the back.
Lots of windows.
With bulletproof glass.
Again, part of the facade. An appearance of vulnerability, of openness. Without actually offering it.
He parked his car in front of the house and got out, using the fingerprint sensor to allow him entry into the home.
And the moment he stepped into the darkened room, he felt something was off.
He paused and reached into his suit jacket. He had a small gun there with a silencer. He always carried it.
As he walked deeper into the house, he heard nothing. Rather, he sensed a ripple of disturbance in the air. He had learned to listen to his gut. It was the difference between life and death. And he was still alive.
“I would quite rather you did not shoot me.”
The voice coming from the darkness was feminine, accented and sweet.