“A week tops. We didn’t expect this turn of events, but this is also why we hired you. We trained you, did the makeover and paid the big signing bonus for this. Every detail—including this possibility—is covered in your contract.”
“There was nothing in my contract that said I had to handle this alone.”
“I didn’t plan on undergoing disc surgery tomorrow.”
I winced. “Crap, Philips. Are you going to be okay?”
“I should be able to travel in a week, ten days. Zara is with Elizabeth but has assured me that she will be winging her way to Fredonia in approximately seventy-two hours. Can you hold tight for four days, Lucille?”
“I think. But what if all hell breaks loose and I can’t do this on my own? Is there anyone here who can help me?”
“The Ladies-in-Waiting,” he said. “They’re opinionated, a pain in the royal toucas, as well as commoners’ buttocks, but they’re also incredibly loyal—to Elizabeth. Ask the Ladies for assistance until we get there: I doubt that they’d let you down. But whatever you do—don’t tell them you’re not Elizabeth. Except for Zara, the Ladies are not privy to our secret business arrangement. The last thing you want is for them to turn against you.”
“But they seem so nice? What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Trust me on this Groucho—you don’t want to know.”
I soaked in the deep, lavender infused bath waters and allowed Helga to scrub me from head to toe and then dry me off with the cushiest towel I’d ever felt. While it felt really weird to let someone give me a bath, I had protested fifty times and she countered that this was part of her job fifty times. I finally caved to her demands because she was so determined.
She vigorously slapped moisturizer on me from head to toe. While I might be bruised tomorrow, my skin would be incredibly hydrated and smooth as a baby’s ass. She helped me pull on one of Elizabeth’s very soft robes.
I was finally clean and less stinkzys, but was still losing what little remained of my mind. I had to blow out of this beautiful penthouse prison. Yes, I’d been informed that Elizabeth never exercised. But I needed to workout, burn some steam and get a grip. If someone called me on it, I’d just say Elizabeth had fallen in love with exercising when she was in America.
I spotted her designer suitcases lined up against her bedroom wall like soldiers in formation wearing dress uniforms. I walked the few feet toward them, kneeled down onto the plush carpet and dove in. I tossed Gucci, Pucci and Dior garments into a pile onto the floor as I prowled for workout clothes. With the exception of red velvet-lined handcuffs and a matching velvet-lined leather mask, I found nothing athletically inclined. And then I realized I’d forgotten to bring my Nike cross-trainers. Crap.
I yanked open the door to her huge walk-in-closet, tiptoed inside and peeked around. I gasped at the sheer enormity of the place and crossed myself. This room was a shopaholic’s dream come true, and quite possibly a shrine to the Patron Saint of Women’s Fine Clothing.
I rifled through full-length designer gowns, cocktail dresses, business suits and upscale everyday attire. My hands caressed and lingered on the designer fabrics, perfect cuts and gorgeous designs. But as much as I longed to say yes? I forced my hands away from these delectables because these were all no, no, no! I was running out of time and out of luck when I poked my nose in the very back of the closet and discovered a small stash of exercise gear. Halle-freaking-lujah!
I shrugged out of Elizabeth’s robe, pulled on yoga capris, a stretchy top, a cute hoodie and even scored cross-trainers that appeared nearly brand spanking new, resting in a shoebox. They were a size 9 and I was a size 7 ½, but really who cared at this point? Well, actually me—because when I tried them on and did a few jumping jacks, I wobbled like a tipsy sailor.
I could easily trip, fall and break an arm. I yanked them off, grabbed packing paper from the box, crumpled it up, shoved them in the toes and pulled the shoes back on. A little scratchy but a much more solid fit. I stomped my feet on the ground—I could live with this.
I bolted into the bathroom and stared into the mirror. I looked like the Crypt Keeper: old, exhausted and dried-up. Oh-so-attractive. Not. I dabbed on eye concealer, swiped on a coat of mascara, as well as tinted lip balm. I tied my hair back in a ponytail, slipped on my sunglasses and squinted at my reflection.
Now I resembled your basic twenty-something, slightly-athletic, hung-over chick. Not too cute, not too coiffed. Someone who could fit in with the masses of young-ish, post-Saturday night bar-hopping, fitness girls in just about any big city. Much better.
But what if the paparazzi were still lurking below? How would I escape their cameras? I grabbed Elizabeth’s sunglasses from the bathroom sink and slipped them on. There had to be a back way out of this building. I peeked out my bedroom mirror and saw the news vans pulling away from the curb below. Huh? Most likely some real news had come up.
I strode down the condo’s hallways, turning right, turning left, turning around, whatever—this place was like a labyrinth—until I spotted the foyer and front door. Holy mother of Toledo, freedom was in sight. I reached for the doorknob when I realized if I left the condo—I had no key to get back in.
I turned and spotted Helga shlepping a load of fresh towels in one arm flush against her chest; a large, empty wicker laundry basket dangled from her other hand. “Let me help you with that,” I said. “Hey—by any chance do you have a spare key to the joint? I seem to have misplaced mine.”
“No Lizbet.” She froze in her tracks, frowned and shifted her substantial body weight from foot to foot, the stack of towels wavering.
“You sure?” I walked the few steps toward her. “Hand me some towels. Or that basket?” Why wouldn’t she give me a key?
She backed away, her eyes widening. “You never offered to help me evah before. Are you sick? Is it the head-hitting thing? Do I need to call 411?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Spending time in the States changed me. In the Midwest, lots of folks offer to help other people. It’s kind of like saying hello. Or—How are you doing?” I yanked half the stack of towels from her arms. “Where are we going with this?”
“Oh, Lady. I don’t know.” She clucked. “I thinks you should geeve dose back to me. Ees not your job.”
“You’d be surprised at what my job entails. Stop complaining and lead the way.”
Chapter 18
Helga clucked as we backtracked into the bowels of the penthouse—dropping off fresh towels into the bathrooms and retrieving the used ones, plopping them into the basket.
The sixth bathroom was by far the fanciest: gilded crown moldings, a gorgeous hand-painted mural of naked young men and women on the ceiling, marble countertops filled with crystal perfume bottles with names like Chanel and Poison and Obsession. Small brown prescription pill bottles were shoved in a corner, as well as brown glass vials filled with liquid concoctions and capped with squeeze droppers.
“Whose bathroom is this?” I asked.
“Who else? The Duchess.” Helga yanked the towels off the racks, the washcloths lying on the marble countertop between the double sinks and replaced them with fresh linens.
“Duchess Carolina looks so young and beautiful,” I said. “Do you think these are her secret anti-aging concoctions?” I unscrewed the top of one vial, held it to my nose and sniffed its contents.
Helga slapped my hand. “No Lizbet!”
I dropped the vial: it fell and shattered onto the marble floor. “Crap!” I kneeled and reached toward its remains as thin wisps of smoke curled up from its splinters into the air. “That’s some serious skin-care product.”
“Glycolic peel,” Carolina said from the doorway. “Stimulates collagen re-growth in skin tissue. Rejuvenates one’s complexion.”
Helga burst into tears. “I am sorry Duchess!”
“There’s plenty more of that or every woman over forty would be in big trouble,” Carolina said. “Hand me one of those towels.”
&nbs
p; Helga did but I intercepted it. “This was totally my fault,” I said. “I’ll find some way to repay you.” I mopped up the gooey concoction and the glass shards. “How long have you and Papa been dating?”
“Practically a year.”
“Six months.” Helga sniffed.
I pitched the soiled rag in the wastebasket, stood up and washed my hands. “Papa seems so happy. Remind me again how you met?”
“We were introduced by friends,” Carolina said.
“You met on the Internet,” Helga said. “Plenty-of-Royals-in-the-Seasdotcom.”
“You know that’s not true,” Carolina said. “Papa and I shared our first date at Baron Pfefferhoofen’s annual Rose Ball. I fear Helga’s simply a hopeless romantic.” She smiled.
“Hopeful romantic. Beeg difference. I joined Plenty-of-Royals too,” Helga said.
“Seriously?” I asked. “I didn’t know you wanted to date again after your beloved husband…,” what was his name again? Rhymed with Pervert…
“It’s been ten years since my Herbert died.” She dropped the toilet lid, plopped down and fanned herself.
“There are so many Internet dating sites. Helga, I don’t want to sound elitist—but why Plenty-of-Royals?” Carolina asked.
“Herbert was Master Hounds Keeper of Queen Cheree Timmel’s Labrador Retriever Sanctuary. He was titled—that made him practically royalty.”
Carolina arched one eyebrow.
“Of course it did,” I said.
“Besides, Groupon offered a month trial Plenty-of-Royals for only ten euros. How could I resist?” Helga asked.
“I did Groupon for a month of Brazilian martial arts as well as unlimited henna tattoos.” I nodded. “I learned how to throw a punch and looked like a badass circus side-show freak for six weeks! Score!” I held up my hand and high-fived Helga.
Carolina’s hand flew to her chest. “I beg you, don’t tell your father. What happens in the States stays in the States.”
Shit! I had just shared my life—not Elizabeth’s. Note to Self/Lucy: don’t get too comfortable and slip up.
“One day, by complete random accident—” Helga bit her lower lip. “I logged onto Papa Billingsley’s Plenty-of-Royals account. I saw your profile on his page, Duchess. You were so young-ish and beautiful. I knew he couldn’t resist you.”
“‘Young-ish?’ Oh, what does it matter how we met.” Carolina threw her hands up in the air. “We’ve been like two crazy kids in love ever since that day. I have more fun with your father in the last nine months than I’ve had in years.”
I hope that meant they went out to dinner a lot, went dancing and attended art exhibits. By the time we strode down the hallway, back toward the front door, I needed to exercise so badly my skin was practically crawling. “I really need my own key to the penthouse.” I said. “The locks have been changed, right?”
“Of course, darling.” Carolina slid open a drawer on a side table in the foyer, pulled out a set of keys and handed them to me. “But Prince Cristoph phoned this morning—twice, might I add—the second time from the royal limo. He’s on his way here to speak with you. Maybe you should wait a bit longer?”
I pulled my hair, twisting a chunk of it between my fingers. “I might have been a couch potato—I mean—fancy potatoes au gratin before—but in the States, I learned working out helps control my stress.” I snapped off a few strands of hair and stared at them lying lifeless in my palm. “Cristoph can hold off on his big question until after I exercise.” I shoved the keys in my pocket and raced out the door.
“Ooh,” Helga said. “Still fiery. I luff dat!”
My first trip jogging around Sauerhausen’s majestic Centralaski Park I heard squeaks emanating from towering trees high overhead. I glanced up and spotted fat, perky squirrels perched on branches nibbling on acorns as they chatted with their furry friends about their scores. I ran past a picturesque pond with porky ducks that quacked loudly to the passersby, insisting they needed more crumbs.
My second time circling the park I thought about Alida, my BFF, and wondered how Uncle John was doing at Vail Assisted Living. I’d find time to call them and check in. My third time sprinting on the dirt path in this outdoor wonderland, I was sweating like a horse being worked for a big race and fantasized about Nick kissing me—which apparently wasn’t the smartest thing to do as I ran into a low-to-the ground sausage dog and kicked him several feet into the bushes.
The mutt’s ancient female owner scrunched up her face. “Dog hater!” She hissed.
“That’s not true!” I said. “I love dogs. I’ve always wanted a dog!”
The pooch yelped, groaned, sighed and was then deathly quiet. I freaked out, thinking I had killed an innocent creature, raced to his motionless body, kneeled down and gave him chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. After thirty seconds he thumped his tail on the ground and stuck his tongue down my throat.
Frankly, it wasn’t the worst kiss of my life. I pulled myself off his drooly lips, palpated his long body for broken bones, when his owner suggested I meet her and Romeo the dachshund for ‘special’ play time every afternoon.
My fourth time around Centralaski Park I realized I hadn’t worked out in two weeks. Which was the reason my heart was pounding like wildfire and my legs felt like noodles.
I stopped for a moment to catch my breath when I spotted two spit-shiny black Mercedes SUVs surrounded by a few beefy bodyguards wearing black suits, matching sunglasses and earpieces.
Five news crews camped out next to them, several hundred yards in front of me. A pretty, young, coiffed female reporter with ducklips was accompanied by her van with a satellite dish on the roof, a cameraman and a driver.
Ducklips gazed up and batted her eyelashes at one gorgeous blonde guy in a perfectly fitted suit.
Prince Cristoph of Fredonia held a ginormous bouquet of red roses cradled in the crook of one arm and a black velvet box in his opposite hand. He talked animatedly with her while a string quartet practiced “I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You” by Elvis Presley, in the near background. His bodyguards fidgeted and paced around them in a tight circle.
I doubted they’d spotted me—yet—so I dodged into a thick hedge of bushes surrounded by pine trees, dropped my ass onto the dirt ground and clamped my hands firmly over my ears. “No!” I mumbled as I rocked back and forth. “I can’t freaking do this again. I just came here for a little cardio, to burn some steam and feel like Lucy Marie Trabbicio. I need to feel normal—again.”
When a big, tall, gorgeous guy with jet-black hair pulled the tree branches apart and squeezed into my hiding place. “If it’s steam you want to burn, Lizzie, well, we’ve always been good at that,” Nick said.
I gasped, fell backward and caught myself on one elbow, my gaze directly in line with his crotch.
Dear God the man was packing. And I didn’t think that was a pistol in his pocket.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Didn’t you get my message that Cristoph was setting up this whole freak show in Centralaski Park? What the hell are you doing here? And who is Lucy-whatever-her name-is? Why do you want to feel like her?” He held out his hand to me and helped me to sitting. “And I’m sorry, but I’m worried about you and brought you some organic dark chocolate.” He pulled an extra-large dark chocolate bar from his pants pocket and handed it to me.
“Thank you!” I peeled back the wrapper and took a bite. “This is so sweet of you.”
Get real, Lucy I told myself. It wasn’t that sweet. I couldn’t allow Nick to blow Elizabeth’s secret, ruin my mission and get me fired from my job.
“Lucy’s a friend from Chicago, and she’s well, relatively normal.” I munched. “And she’s nice, funny and she plays a mean game of… Ping Pong.”
“Table tennis?” He asked.
“Whatever. Some people even think she’s cute.” I finished the chocolate bar.
“Ah.” He raised his eyebrows. “Is she a special friend
? Is this why you’ve been resisting my boyish charms?”
When it dawned on me… “I’m not—I mean Elizabeth’s not—I mean Lucy’s not—we’re not wired that way. But might I add we have nothing against folks who are wired that way. And you’re too old to have ‘boyish charms.’ You big dork.”
He frowned. “No one’s called me a dork since the fourth grade.”
“Then you’re long overdue,” I said. “How did you find me? Did you secretively implant a car-jack device on me?”
“Nah.” He smiled. “I splurged for the Princess-jack device. More expensive—but obviously worth it. Kidding!”
“That sounds a bit pervy.”
“According to the gossip rags—almost everything I say sounds a bit pervy.” He plunked down next to me on the dirt ground. “I phoned your place and talked to Helga. She said you were out exercising somewhere nearby. Had to be the park. Again with the exercising thing Lizzie. I’m confused as to why you suddenly love to exercise?”
“Have you ever had Chicago deep-dish pizza? It’s delish, but it can put a few pounds on, if you know what I mean.”
He nodded. “Honestly—the pizza pounds look really good on you.”
“Thanks. For now. What about in twenty years?”
“I hope I’ll know you in twenty years. Know you really well and be able to comment positively on that.” He grinned.
Since last I’d seen Nick, he’d showered and shaved. He was wearing jeans and a V-neck T-shirt that showed off the black curls on his chest, as well as the fact that he was buff as all get-out. He smelled like sage or cedar. Not strong enough to be a men’s cologne. Most likely expensive soap. Delicious, intoxicating and—frankly—totally not fair!
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