Page 2 of The First Taste

In London or Glasgow, they’d have slipped the barricades and beat on the windows of the SUV as it slowed to a stop. I lean forward, glancing past the press to the sleek, reflective skyscraper just behind them. At the very top, I can just make out the NewsCorp logo scrawled in bright red.

I may not be running for prime minister, but at least we are about to enter a building where everyone will know my name.

Lord Keiran, future Duke of Grayrose. Or as the people inside probably think of me, that fucking prick who’s in charge.

I can’t help the slight smirk that tilts my lips up as I open the door. Instantly, the press falls upon me, ravenous for the barest scrap of news about myself or my brother.

“Lord Grayrose! Lord Grayrose! Over here! How does your ownership of NewsCorp affect your younger brother’s chances of winning?—”

A young man jostles the young woman screaming into her microphone aside, interrupting the flow of her question. He sticks his microphone under his face, preparing to rapidly fire questions at me.

“Lord Grayrose, where is your wife? No one has seen her for years?—”

Plastering a bland smile over my face, I turn away. Inside, my stomach tenses. I hate when the press mentions my ex, Kinsley. She’s off the grid, doing whatever she wants… as long as the circling sharks in the media don’t get a whiff of her partying or living separately from me.

I plan on keeping it that way.

I shade my eyes and look over the crowd that’s gathered. Reporters scuffle with each other in their attempts to reach the microphones toward my face.

“Lord Grayrose, how does the Queen feel about your brother’s run for prime minister? He’s the youngest man who’s ever had a serious shot?—”

James gets out of the SUV after me, buttoning his suit. He gives the press his million dollar smile, trying to look suitably demure. The journalists fight over the right to wave their microphones his way. He waves, their shouted questions not phasing him in the least.

“Hello.” He stops to sign an autograph, but his eyes never really stop roving over the crowd. “Yes, it’s not a very nice day, is it?”

After another half a minute of him basking in the glow of their attention, I motion to the security team. They make a path and open up the door, forcefully pushing journalists and well-wishers back a few steps. I grab James by the elbow and steer him past the press, not releasing my grip until we are past the doors and several steps inside. When the doors close with an automatic whoosh, I finally let him go.

Now, I’m staring down at least thirty nervous-looking guys in suits. My employees, although I can’t say that I know a single one of their faces or names.

They all know me, though. From a glance, I would bet that they have all been briefed on my temperamental personality.

“Lord Grayrose!”

Natasha, my personal assistant, steps out from behind one of the suited men. She rushes up to me, all but ignoring my brother. “Lord Grayrose. We have the studio all set up for you.”

Clasping my hands behind my back, I give her the smallest smile. “Lead the way.”

She takes off toward the elevators. I glance at James, raising a brow. His expression tightens. He likes it when he is in control. He likes it even more when there are positive stories about him in the press. Those are things that will not happen at NewsCorp without my express say so.

We step into the elevator, Natasha pressing the buttons.

“Chin up,” I tell him. “Look like you really want to be here, not home in your favorite chair with a fire crackling at your feet.”

“I am rather jet lagged right now.” He pulls a face and fusses with the knot in his tie.

“Well, don’t let all of America know that. Remember, you are just trying to drum up some support before we announce your official run next week.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but I’m already turning my attention to Natasha.

“Do you have the poll numbers?”

She pulls a sheet of paper out of the stack of folders under her arm, double checks it, and then hands it to me.

I glance over it and show the colorful chart to James; it currently has his opponent, Mr. Lewis, winning in the runoff for the Conservative seat by quite a large margin.

“Lewis wishes he had that kind of pull,” James mutters. “He only has the old geezers’ vote, by my reckoning.”

Clearing my throat, I prepare myself for what’s about to happen. The elevator stops, the doors open. To my surprise, there are only three people waiting for us.