Page 8 of The London Chance

“Okay, okay. I’ll be good,” he snickered. “You’re funny. And kind of a tight-ass. You know what helps with tight ass-itude? Karaoke. Ish good for you.”

“I don’t think so.” I raised my arm to flag down a cab and—

“Tickle, tickle.”

I slapped his hand from my armpit and scowled. “Behave.”

“Ooh! Or what? Are you going to spank me? I could be into that.” He rubbed his hands gleefully. “We have to make up a scene…something porny and dirty. You probably want me to call you daddy, huh? I could do that. Daddy, I’ll be good. Daddy, I’ll—”

“Enough.” I glared at him, sending a quick prayer that the taxi gods would give me a fucking break here.

My prayer was miraculously answered. I ushered my cackling companion inside and explained the situation to the cabbie, who swiveled to give me a WTF look.

“You want me to drive through Soho till he sees somethin’ familiar. Is that it?”

I pulled my phone from my pocket and googled a couple of possible addresses. “Let’s start with the Hilton in Soho. He said it was close to the restaurant we were at earlier. I bet that’s it.”

The driver shrugged nonchalantly before easing into traffic. And yes, there was traffic. Especially around Trafalgar Square. Chance’s awestruck ramblings about the places he’d seen and the things he wanted to check off his list kept this segment of the evening from being a total disaster. At least he was a pleasant drunk.

But it went downhill pretty damn fast. Now that he’d seen it, Chance was adamant that he wasn’t staying at the Hilton Soho. Nor was he at the Hilton Hyde Park or the slew of Marriott properties in the vicinity.

“Lookssss familiar, but…that’s not it.” Chance yawned and cuddled to me for warmth…or because he’d literally lost all sense of propriety and personal boundaries were no longer a concern.

“Where to now, sir?” the driver asked, somewhat impatiently.

“Let’s try the one on Piccadilly.”

“We did, sir.”

“Just…one more time,” I replied, glancing down at the now-snoring man drooling on my damp suit coat.Oh, shit.Do not pass out on me now.

Yep. He passed out.

The cab idled in front of the fifth or sixth hotel five minutes later while I tried…and failed to rouse Chance.

“Bloke’s out for the count. If you don’t have a room here, you might want to get one now for you and your friend,” the driver suggested.

“I live a mile away. I don’t need a room,” I huffed, shaking Chance’s shoulder.

“Either he goes home with you or you leave him at the hotel. No skin off my nose, but this is the end of the line. If you live close, I’ll take you. If not, let’s settle up, shall we?”

Oh, wow. How did I get here?

I admit that Chance had starred in some sexy fantasies of mine over the past few months. Which was funny ’cause our conversations had been relatively innocent. Yet there’d always been a spark. And when he’d first mentioned coming to London, I’d visualized a night ending like this…in the back of a cab, his head on my shoulder, his breath fanning my cheek as we sped to my place.

Passed out cold with breath that would knock a heavyweight champion to his knees in the ring…not so much.

I wasn’t about to pay for an expensive hotel room for a date that had really kind of sucked. For a beat, I thought about leaving him in the lobby, but my conscience wouldn’t let me. There was only one thing to do.

I gave the driver my Kensington address and hoped to hell I wouldn’t regret it.

3

CHANCE

Where was I?

I sat up gingerly and surveyed the shadowy bedroom, furnished with a four-poster bed, a wardrobe, a massive desk under a wide window covered in thick natural linen drapery. The duvet matched the curtains, complementing the Persian rug and a hodgepodge of tasteful scenic paintings on the walls. It was nice for sure, but it definitely wasn’t my hotel room.