Private Princess

Chapter 83

As young marines, Jack Morgan and his comrades had enjoyed letting their hair down, short as it was. As head of Private, a multimillion-dollar business, Morgan had been invited to plenty of parties.

He wasn’t sure if any of those experiences had prepared him for the sight that greeted him at the top of the staircase.

It was not one of Caligula’s orgies, by any means. It was more just the sight in front of him was...bizarre, like a wild, wacky dream.

To begin with, the building itself was a marvel. What appeared on the outside as a Knightsbridge home was actually a party space as well appointed as any London club. There were lasers, flashing lights and smoke machines. There was a DJ, a packed dance floor and a bar running across the back wall. Morgan realized that the building didn’t end there, and a quick look into the other corridors showed him a maze of rooms filled with bean bags, smoke and beautiful people.

Having got his bearings, he turned back to the main room, first scanning the crowd for anyone known to him — in his position, it was always a possibility that he could run into a former client at a high-end establishment like this. Morgan saw none of them, but he did recognize an international football star sweating and grinding his jaw as he raged on the dance floor. In the room’s back corner, a toppled TV presenter was doing bumps of cocaine from the fingernails of a Page Three model. Little wonder they wouldn’t allow phones and cameras inside, thought Morgan. And little help these people would be to him in his attempt to liberate the guards of their weapons.

Or maybe not, he thought, remembering a British showbiz scandal that had made the American news.

Morgan stopped at the bar and ordered a virgin daiquiri. “Dress it up,” he asked the bartender. “I like flowers in there.” He slipped the man a note as tip once the glass was brimming with decoration.

Then, having watched the TV presenter take another snort from his companion’s nail, he made his way over.

“Hi.” Morgan smiled at the pair, directing his biggest grin at the presenter. “I’m Jack.”

“I’m Natalie,” said the model.

The presenter simply greeted Morgan with a nod, arrogant enough to believe that everyone knew his name.

“You’re Matthew Alexander, right?” Morgan offered his hand as he named one of the man’s biggest rivals.

“Matt Lloyd,” the presenter corrected, unable to take his scowling eyes from Morgan’s flowery drink. “What the fuck is that?”

“It’s a daiquiri.” Morgan smiled. “Would you like some?”

“Looks like something from the Chelsea Flower Show.”

Morgan allowed his smile to drop and his shoulders to slump slightly. Natalie noticed.

“Aw, don’t be a dick, Matt. You’ve hurt his feelings.” She stepped over to Morgan and put a protective hand onto his shoulder. Matt Lloyd saw the picture in front of him, and realized that the attractive woman’s attention had now switched to the American.

“Are you gay?” he sneered.

Morgan looked taken aback. “And what if I am?”

“Yeah, Matt. It’s not a big deal,” Natalie opined.

But it was a big deal for Matt Lloyd, Morgan knew. In fact, it had been a big part of the reason that Lloyd had lost his seven-figure contract with the BBC — a homophobic tirade that had been captured on smartphone and leaked to the media. The LGBT community had been outraged, and demanded Lloyd’s head. They’d got it, and Morgan was certain that Lloyd would have spent tens of thousands on PR gurus and therapists to clean up his image, and his act. There would be no more public slip-ups from Matt Lloyd, no more loose tongues.

Of course, cocaine had a way of changing all of that.

“It’s a big deal to me,” Lloyd rumbled, the drug divesting him of any tact or inhibition. “Your rainbow-loving freak mates cost me my job.”

“I’m sorry?” Morgan asked, feigning ignorance.

“You and the rest of the queers. You pushed me out of my job.”

“He said some things about gays,” Natalie confessed. “They weren’t very nice.”

“True though,” the bigot smirked. “So why don’t you take your flowers and piss off.”

“Wow. I’m sorry I upset you. Really I am. I’ll go now.”

Lloyd was halfway back into his chair when Morgan delivered his mental right hook: “Natalie, would you like to dance?”

Lloyd was jumping to his feet in an instant. “You don’t ask my girl to dance!” he shouted, pulling Morgan back by the shoulder. Deliberately, Morgan dropped his glass, and heads turned to look at the commotion.

“What are you doing?” Morgan shouted, feigning helplessness.

“You do not dance with my girl!”

“Your girl?” Natalie shouted. “I’m no one’s girl.”

“Oh, really? Who bought you those clothes? You think you’re special? You’re no use except for getting your tits out. Those pics will be fish and chips wrapping by next week, and you’ll be forgotten!”

By now a small crowd was gathering as people recognized the turbulence in their midst.

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Morgan demanded.

“Or what, faggot?” Lloyd spat, using the most offensive American term he could think of.

Morgan said nothing publicly. Instead, he leaned close to Lloyd and spoke words into his ear that only they could hear.

It was the final straw for the bigot — he threw a punch.

It was an angry punch, sloppy, mistimed and misdirected. Morgan ducked it without even thinking, his own hands never leaving his sides. Lloyd swung a second haymaker. Morgan easily stepped out of its way.

The disgraced man never had a chance to throw a third. The two security men that Morgan had seen downstairs had been patiently watching the situation develop, hoping that it would fizzle out. Flare-ups between the stellar-sized egos at the establishment were not uncommon, and would be tolerated so long as they kept to chest-beating and insults. Once a punch was thrown, however, the security contingent would sweep in on the perpetrator within moments. During their phone call, Abbie Winchester had told Morgan as much. Now he watched as the two men expertly restrained Lloyd, one on each side of him, exerting enough pressure to hold him in place, but not to cause damage.

“I’ll have your face cut off!” Lloyd raged at Morgan as he thrashed to break free, his rage escalating higher as Natalie threw a drink in his face and the watching room cheered.

“I’m really sorry, sir,” one muscular security man apologized to Morgan as he and his partner turned Lloyd to the stairs and prepared to march him out.

“I’m sorry, too,” said Morgan, the security man’s face dropping as Morgan’s hand shot up under his jacket. Morgan stepped back and clear before the bouncer had a chance to decide if he should defend against the American or keep hold of the thrashing Lloyd.

Now it seemed the answer was clear: there was only one true threat in the room, and that was Jack Morgan.

Who had a gun in his hand.