by Romy Sommer
The food finally stops my stomach from making any further noises, but the room has started
to swell around me in a hypnotic rhythm. I have to prop my elbow on the table and my chin in my hands, as I will myself to stay awake through yet another speech.
The real dessert is tasty, an airy chocolate soufflé dusted with an icing sugar image of the
Westerwald dragon. Gorgeous, but the portions are so stingy that I finish mine in a few mouthfuls.
The coffee’s really good too, rich and dark, real bean coffee, but I am now so exhausted I don’t think even caffeine is going to keep me awake much longer.
At long last, this interminable meal is over, and everyone rises to move back to the drawing
room for after-dinner drinks and more conversation. As I stand, I wobble on my feet, even though I haven’t yet risked wearing any of the heels Anton gave me. The room is definitely swirling now.
I feel a hand on my arm, and look up to see Adam. His expression is amused.
“I thought you said you don’t drink?”
“I don’t. I’m just jet-lagged.”
He smiles. “Sure, if you say so. How about we get you upstairs to bed?”
“If by ‘we’ you mean ‘me’, I think that’s a great idea.” My lips feel numb, and the words
sound slurry. Maybe I did have a teensy bit too much of the wine. And the champagne.
“I’m walking you to your room.” His voice is firm, discouraging opposition, but I argue
anyway.
“If this is how you seduce women into leaving parties with you, you really need to up your
game.”
He laughs. “Most of my reputation is well-deserved, but I have never taken advantage of a
woman who is…jet-lagged.”
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I don’t want to accept his help, but since the room is swirling even more vigorously, I decide to give in. By the time we reach the door to my room I’m even grateful he walked me all the way here. I would certainly have gotten lost on my own.
He opens the door, waits for me to enter, then says “Good night, sweetheart.”
Before I can object to being called ‘sweetheart’, he has already closed the door on me. I
stumble across the darkened room, lit only by a single lamp on the nightstand, and collapse on top of the covers, too tired to even kick off my shoes.
I feel as if I’ve run a marathon, sat an exam, and done a job interview all at the same time.
And as if I failed all three.
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Chapter Eight
Adam
“What the hell are you doing in Westerwald?” My sister, Jemima, asks when I’m stupid enough (or make that hung-over enough) not to check my caller ID before answering my mobile.
“You’re turning into Dad,” I moan, ignoring her question. London is a whole hour behind
Westerwald, and the caller ID shows she’s already at her desk at the office. “You need to get a life.”
“I’m at the office,” she says crisply, “because it’s better than being at home. Unlike you, I
can’t leave town to avoid the parents.”
I cradle my aching head in my hands. “I’m sorry, Jemmy.”
I really am. Our parents rarely disagree on anything, but since Nick’s death, my mother has
been adamant that I accept her brother’s offer, and my father is equally determined that I should stay in the family business. He has this antiquated notion that he’s going to pass the business down to me, even though it’s obvious to everyone that Jemima is far better management material. For the first time in my memory, they’re barely talking to each other.
But my parents are only one reason I’m in Westerwald. Another is that every woman I’ve
ever slept with in Great Britain suddenly wants to re-connect in the hopes that I’ll make her into a princess. How clueless do they have to be not to realise that if I wasn’t interested enough to stick around before, I won’t be getting down on one knee now?
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It’s clearly a major flaw in my personality, this lack of interest in settling down with just one woman. It’s not that I don’t like women. I adore them. But there isn’t a single one I’m not closely related to who doesn’t bore me to tears after a few weeks. Well, apart from Phoenix, but I refuse to think of her as a woman, because Max would have my balls for breakfast, served up with toast and marmalade, if I so much as looked at his bride-to-be.
And perhaps apart from one mermaid-haired bridesmaid I haven’t been able to stop thinking
about all night. Though considering my track record, there’s a very large chance that as soon as I sleep with her - which I have every intention of doing before this wedding is over - I’ll lose interest in her too.
“You’re needed here, so get your arse back on a plane and come home,” Jenny demands
impatiently.
“You’re not the boss of me,” I retort automatically, as I did a million times when we were
growing up.
“Until you start behaving like a mature and responsible adult, I am the boss of you.” Jemima is three years younger than me, but has always acted like she’s the older sibling. “Do you have any idea what day it is?”
I force a flippant tone. “Wednesday? Thursday?” But I know exactly what day it is.
She sighs. “What is so important that you’re going to miss the dedication of Charlie’s
memorial?”
“Haven’t you heard - I’m the Best Man at the wedding of the decade.”
“Max hardly needs you to hold his hand.”
“Nope, but the bridesmaid does.”
I can actually hear Jemmy’s eye-roll down the phone. “You’re going to miss the dedication
for a shag?”
I’m not going to miss the dedication for a shag, though that would be a nice bonus. I’m
going to miss the dedication because I don’t want to have to look Charlie’s mom in the eye. I don’t
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want to be reminded that I wasn’t there when my best friend needed me; that maybe he’d be alive today if I hadn’t been so self-absorbed that I didn’t realise what was going on with him. Just like with Nick.
I cross my fingers. “It’s not like that - I’m helping her. She’s American, and completely out
of her depth here with all the palace etiquette.” At least that isn’t a lie.
“And it can’t wait until tomorrow? Charlie was your closest friend.”
“Charlie’s dead. He’s not going to care if I’m there or not.”
Jemmy blows out a long breath. “Fine. I’ll make your excuses. Have you at least decided
what answer you’re giving Uncle Lajos? If you plan to say yes, I need to replace you at the office.”
It shouldn’t come as any surprise that I’m that easily replaceable, since I’ve hardly made
myself indispensable, but the truth still stings. “There’s no decision to make. You of all people know I can’t be depended on. You can’t seriously think I could be responsible for an entire
country.”
She’s silent for a long moment, as if trying to find the right words. “Yes or no, it makes no
difference to me. But either way you need to stop blaming yourself for other people’s choices.
Charlie and Nick were not your responsibility. They were both grown men who made their own
decisions.”
I shake my head, even though she can’t see. Jemmy’s one of only a handful of people whose
opinions I respect, but on this we’ll have to agree to disagree.
“Have you considered that if I accept Uncle Lajos’ offer-” I can’t yet bring myself to say ‘If I become crown prince’ because it sounds so fantastical “-then Dad will be more likely to accept you as his heir?”
“Of cours
e I’ve thought of it. But you can’t make this choice for me. You have to make it
for yourself. Because whatever you choose, you need to commit to it. You’re either in or you’re out.
No more of this half life you’re living.”
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“Yes, ma’am,” I say meekly. “Oh, and Jemmy - if you need a place to stay to get away from
the parentals, you have the spare key for my flat.”
She laughs softly. “Thanks, but I’m not a coward like you. I can handle them.”
Ouch. I know she didn’t mean it to hurt, but it does. I am a coward, and I’m not proud of that.
For a long time after she hangs up, I sit staring at the phone. Even if it is cowardly, I’m not ready to go back to England, and I am most certainly not ready to face either my family or
Charlie’s. I need to clear my head, and I can’t do it back in England. If I could, I’d have done it already.
The thirty hours I’ve spent here in Westerwald are the freest I’ve felt in years. Maybe that’s because here I’m free of responsibility - or maybe it’s because my thoughts have been distracted by a certain Vegas waitress.
Khara… Bloody hell. Since I wouldn’t put it past my sister to check up on me, I’m actually
going to have to teach Khara etiquette. But first, I’m going to have to get her to agree, even though she’s made it crystal clear she wants nothing to do with me.
#
When I arrive at breakfast, Max and his personal assistant Jens are the only ones there.
“I didn’t see you leave the party last night.” Max grins as I settle at the table with a cup of hot, black coffee. “You leave with anyone I know?”
Well at least he didn’t see me leave with Khara. I don’t think she’d appreciate that news
spreading around the palace. So I simply lift a shoulder. “No offence, but your party was dull, so I went out to a club.”
‘Lost myself in a club’ would be more accurate. Loud, pulsing noise in a place where
nobody knew who I was, and where there was plenty of alcohol. I left the club alone, though.
“I’d like to take up your offer of a place to stay until after the wedding,” I say.
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“Sure. As I said the other day, you’re welcome to stay as long as you need.” Max leans his
elbows on the table, steepling his fingers. “But I’m going to ask for something in return.”
I nod for him to continue. Everything has its price.
“I need your expertise on a financial matter.”
Free financial advice in return for a place to stay seems like a pretty good deal, so I nod
again. “Just not today. I have something else I need to do.”
Once Max and Jens leave, I ask the maid on duty to prepare a breakfast tray. She glances at
the remains of my unfinished cheese and herb omelette, then heads off to arrange it without another word.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m at Khara’s door. Balancing the tray in the crook of my arm, I
knock.
When she finally opens the door, she looks as if she’s just woken. Her wild hair sticks out at all angles, her make-up is smudged, and there’s a pillow crease in her cheek. She’s also cradling her head in a way I know all too well. She groans. “Oh no, not you again. What are you doing here?”
“You missed breakfast, and I thought you might want to eat before your photo shoot.
Especially since I imagine you’re nursing a massive hangover this morning.”
She eyes the tray I hold out to her, torn between temptation and nauseous revulsion. Another
feeling I know only too well.
“Thank you,” she says, begrudgingly taking the tray.
“Might I suggest you change before you go downstairs? You might not want everyone
wondering why you’re still in last night’s clothes.”
She glares at me, and when she moves to shut the door in my face, I block it with my foot.
“I also have a proposition for you.”
“Give it a rest. It’s too early in the morning for this. I Am Not Interested.”
I don’t budge. “Actually, it’s nearly ten, and you haven’t even heard what I have to say.”
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She squeaks. “Nearly ten already? It’s going to take me at least half an hour just to
straighten my hair!”
“You don’t need to straighten your hair, and this is more important.” Since she’s no longer
actively trying to shut the door on me, I slip into the room. Aside from the wallpaper, it’s a mirror of my own.
“You have two minutes.” She heads for the sofa, perching on the edge of the seat and
balancing the tray on her knees. I follow, closing the door behind me, and take the armchair across from her. She digs into the poached eggs and ham, and orange juice. Good, plain, restorative
hangover food.
I grin. “I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest that last night’s dinner was a
tad…daunting for you.”
She nods, attention still focussed on the tray.
“There are still a whole lot of formal events planned in the run-up to the wedding, and even
more rules and protocols you’ve not yet been introduced to.”
“If you’re trying to make me feel even worse, you’re succeeding,” she says through a
mouthful of egg. “And your two minutes are nearly up.”
“I want to offer to tutor you.”
Her gaze snaps up to mine. “Tutor me in what?”
“Etiquette. How to walk and talk and dress so you can fit in better.”
“I know how to walk,” she retorts, but the light in her eyes shows she’s intrigued. Looks like it’s my lucky day.
“But do you know how to walk like a princess?”
“I don’t need to be a princess; I’m only here for a few weeks. All I need is make it through
the wedding without embarrassing myself - or Phoenix.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Why would
you do this for me?”
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I concentrate on straightening out a crease in my neatly-pressed trouser leg. “I’m bored, and
this could be amusing.”
When she doesn’t answer, I glance up to find her scrutinising me. “Don’t you have a job?”
“I do. But right now I’m on an extended leave of absence while I figure out what to do with
my life.”
“Isn’t that nice? That’s a luxury no one in my world can afford.”
I would laugh at her snarky attitude, except I know she’s speaking the truth. It’s no different from Jemmy calling me a coward. They’re both right, of course, but for some reason I want Khara to think better of me. Which is a scary thought I quickly suppress.
“Do you always say everything you think?” I keep my voice light and amused.
Her eyes hold a glimmer of mischief. “No. In fact, I think I’ve been very good at not saying what I’m thinking.”
I lean forward, intrigued. “What are you thinking?”
She leans forward too, to whisper. “I think that you’re wasting your time. I’m not going to
sleep with you out of gratitude for your help.”
Well there goes that idea. I shrug. “Would you believe me if I told you I wasn’t making this
offer to get you into bed?”
“Only if you tell me the real reason you’re here, kicking your heels in Westerwald.”
I say nothing for a long moment as she nibbles on a slice of toast. I’m tempted to give her a
glib answer, the same glib answer I’d give to the Elenas of the world, but as Khara eyes me
expectantly, not letting me off the hook, I experience an urge to do something completely alien, something I almost never do: I want t
o be honest.
Well, at least partially honest.
“I have to make a decision,” I admit at last. “It should be a very easy decision, but everyone is pressuring me to do what I don’t want to do… what I can’t do. They all expect me to be someone
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I’m not.” I blow out a long breath. “They think I’m a better person than I am. And so I’m hiding here, hoping they’ll come to their senses while I’m away.”
In her expressive eyes I can see her imagination shift into overdrive. She’s probably
thinking I was asked to donate a kidney to save the life of a loved one, and I’m too selfish to do it.
Which isn’t that far from the truth.
But I’ve already been more honest than I’m comfortable with, so I change the subject. “If
you don’t get moving, you’re going to be very late for your photo shoot.”
With a guilty start, she sets the tray on the coffee table, grabs clothes out of the wardrobe, and heads for the bathroom. I pace to the windows and pull open the drapes, letting in the bright morning sunshine, and sit on the wide window seat. The sound of the shower starts, and just like that I imagine Khara standing beneath the spray, naked, eyes closed and face turned up to the spray, the gentle curves and dips of her body, her smooth skin… what can I say? We men may not be the most imaginative creatures, but there are certain things we can imagine very well.
Fortunately, she takes her time before she comes out of the bathroom, enough time for me to
exercise the willpower needed to suppress my arousal. Her hair is still wild, her face is completely bare of make-up, and she’s dressed in ripped jeans that mould to her curves, beige pumps, and a dusky pink sweater with a deep V-neck that gives just enough hint of cleavage for my body to