Desire: Love and Passion - By Lesia Reid Page 0,4

was easy to talk to her.

"Does speeding really help?"

"It’s less complicated than giving the staff an earful. Well, unless you manage to run a beautiful woman off the road and then try to bribe her with dinner."

"The famed temper of James Monroe," Willow said.

His infamy had started with a scandal. The once third in line for the throne of England had gone on holidays to Miami. On the final night of Spring Break he went partying. Perhaps he had too much to drink, no one knew and he’d never given an explanation for his behavior. The front page news the next day was of a butt naked prince clearly in the throngs of passion as he received oral sex from a female at the party.

Buckingham Palace had condemned the photographs, the photographers, the publishers, and James was given quite the public scolding. He was kept from the public for almost two months. His handlers were swiftly and efficiently replaced. All perhaps would have been okay, except someone, no one really knew who, had hinted that he’d made an apology for his behavior.

Willow remembered remnants of the speech. It was part of her political science discord at Cambridge. There was no apology. There was no rewriting of events. In five short minutes, James had gone from third in line to the throne, to out of contention. He followed up his speech by changing his surname to that of his father; Monroe.

The story should have ended there, but, James was singularly brilliant. After three years on his own he amassed considerable wealth by investing in well over forty startups. Thirty-six of which went on to be multimillion dollar, even billion dollar companies. It seemed to everyone he had truly inherited his father's penchant for finding a winner. George Monroe the First was head of Lehmann's London division before he married the princess.

James cemented his place in history however, when he volunteered to fight front and center in the Middle Eastern War. His squad was attacked during what should have been routine patrol. He was not among the dead. He was missing. The military kept a gag order on his disappearance, hoping his captors wouldn’t recognize him. After the terror attacks on Windsor during a jubilee celebration, James was officially declared dead. Two years later, he showed up at the British Consulate in Turkey, scarred and if he had wanted the title, Britain’s true king.

The temper that made him the black sheep of the family had not disappeared. His first public appearance took place three months are returning to England. The whole world watched and waited anxiously to see what his next move would be. He was back in the forefront at a time when soldiers were seen as true heroes. His miraculous appearance was seen as a sign by some, but nothing had changed.

James pledged to be the servant of the people, but vowed never to be their king. He called leadership by birth an antiquated philosophy. He took back the reigns of his company and within two years, claimed the title of World's Wealthiest Man. It didn’t matter what he said, the people loved him and he loved them.

"I don't have a temper," he said.

"It is none of my business,” she replied. “I'll brew fresh coffee."

He couldn’t help the defensiveness in his voice as he watched her pad around the kitchen barefooted. Her casual dressing that probably would have made other women self-conscious in his presence didn't seem to bother her. He wished the shirt was just an inch shorter as she stood on tip-toes to remove a large canister of coffee from a top shelf.

"So was John like an uncle or…?" James was trying to get to the bottom of their relationship. He knew from Larry's brief John was childless.

"My god-father," she volunteered. "I lived with John for a while after my parents died."

"Oh. I'm surprised I never ran into you."

"Not out here," she said. "We lived in Cambridge. And before that I went to school in Paris."

"Paris?" James asked.

"Yes. John was not exactly the single parent type. By the way, do I need to be more careful driving around here?"

"No. Yesterday was a rare occasion. There is nothing like the wind through your hair for a little clarity."

"So the media is right," she turned to look at him. She leaned against the countertop. Her shirt automatically rode up two inches higher. "You are procrastinating on the aid package."

"No," he said as he placed croissants in the oven. "I'm giving