by Ember Casey
I interrupt with a tilt of my head. “Actually, Andrew, you told me not five minutes ago you’d give me whatever I wanted. That, to me, means we’re going to play by my rules.”
He glares at me for a moment. “Name your terms, then, Ms. Simpson.”
“Well, first, call me Victoria.”
“Done.” His eyes flutter—almost in frustration. “Victoria. What else?”
My brow furrows and I let out a small sigh. “I want a job.”
“A…job? I’m afraid I don’t understand—”
“In the news bureau. In Montovia.”
He searches my eyes for a moment. “I’m not in a position to be able to offer such a position—”
“I think you are. Or you could be. Or you know who is.” I lift a brow—he has to know I’m not dumb enough to think he doesn’t have the full attention of his father, who is probably the final word on such jobs, if they even exist. “We can discuss the details later, if you’d rather. I think your country would probably do well to have a permanent American journalist reporting from there. Given how…difficult…your country can be with the media and all.”
He glares at me for a moment. “I can make no promises. That kind of decision—”
“Would be your father’s,” I interrupt. “I get that. But if the rumor mill is true—and I have no reason to think it isn’t—you’re being given more and more responsibility every day. In fact, a little bird told me a few days ago it might not be long before your ascension to the throne is—”
“That little bird’s name wouldn’t happen to be Elle, would it?” He almost growls the words. “I swear, I’ll have that woman locked in—”
“Actually, I haven’t spoken to Elle since she disappeared from the state dinner. Before I was deported.” I smile. “But thanks for the confirmation, Andrew. It’ll make my story—”
He interrupts, grabbing my wrist. “There will be no stories—not until I tell you everything. It is against the laws of Montovia—”
“And yet, here we are in America, where there are no such laws. In fact, we hold our freedom of speech and freedom of the press very dearly here, Andrew. Something you wouldn’t understand.” I twist my arm out of his grasp, trying to ignore the little thrill of electricity I feel—I’m not sure if it’s from his touch or from the argument. Maybe both. Either way, it’s definitely…something.
“Which is why we will be returning to Montovia tonight. On my personal aircraft. Where you will speak to no one unless you have cleared it through me.” He stares at me for another long moment. “Unless you wish to be deported again.”
I grin. “See, Andrew, here’s where you fail. You can’t get what you want by threatening people. You’re certainly not making your case for why I should even entertain the notion of coming to Montovia again. You can’t really believe I would willingly go back there with you, can you? After the hell you put me through before?”
His lips press into a line and he glares at me again. “You are not the only person capable of digging up distasteful stories on your subjects, you realize.”
I lift a brow. “Is that a threat?”
He lifts his shoulders in a small shrug. “You don’t think I would come here without a backup plan, do you?”
“Well played, Andrew.” My gaze narrows. “What is it you have on me?”
I swear his lips curl into the smallest of smiles. “That is for me to know and for you perhaps to never have to find out. If you’ll agree to my terms, that is.”
My gaze narrows again as I search his face for any hint he might actually know something about me. I shake my head. This is stupid. Even if he did have something on me, who would care? I just quit my job—and even if he has the most scandalous of stories, I’m nothing more than a tabloid writer. No one would give a damn about anything about me.
I search his eyes again, and I swear I see something there. Some knowing or something that gives me the tiniest bit of hesitancy.
He’s bluffing. He has to be. There’s no chance, not even the remotest possibility that he could possibly know anything—that he would even want to dig that deep.
But his gaze doesn’t waver.
I set my jaw and meet his gaze. “Are you trying to blackmail me?”
“I would never do such a thing, Ms. Simpson… Victoria.”
My eyes don’t even blink. “I want a job. In your news bureau.”
His lips tick up into what might barely pass for a smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Fine.” We stare at each other for what seems like a beat too long. “What are we talking about here? Is this about you? Your father? Leo?”
He takes a moment too long to answer, something flashing in his eyes before he speaks. “We’ll talk about it when we get to Montovia. After you’ve signed all the necessary forms and I’m under the protections of my own country’s laws.”
“I…I need to know if this is worth my time. If this is worth anything at all. I mean, you’re not telling me anything—you’re asking me to take you at your word there’s even a story here—”
“I assure you, Victoria, there is a story for you to write. Several stories.” He rubs his jaw for a moment, breaking our gaze. “I imagine this might be the kind of news story that would make you a celebrity yourself.”
“Why me, then? You seem to have a special kind of hatred for me in particular, Andrew. And like I told you up there…” I motion with my arm to the office building behind us. “There are plenty of reporters who are probably more capable, more experienced…hell, more willing to sit in a room with you for an extended period of time.” I stare at him for a moment. “Why are you so sure I’m your girl?”
“I’m not.” He keeps his face devoid of expression, something he seems to be a master at doing. “You’ve somehow earned the trust of my mother, and in my country, whether for good or not, that is the bottom line. At least for now.”
“I see.”
“We leave now.” He touches my elbow, pulling me gently beside him as we start to walk down the street again.
There’s no question the electricity that pulses up my arm at his touch this time comes from him. It’s just too bad that whatever attraction might be here is pretty obviously totally one-sided. He doesn’t seem to be affected by me at all.
Figures. That’s about how my luck runs with men.
Andrew
I can’t deny how relieved I am that she’s accepted my offer. While I told her I had a backup plan, I’m not entirely sure what I would have done had she refused me. Now, I’m eager to get back to Montovia and settle things as quickly as possible.
I allow her a brief stop at her home to collect some of her things—though I assure her all her needs will be met while she works for me, she insists she needs some personal possessions. I try not to look too impatient as I wait for her to pack. We need to get to my country as soon as possible. I don’t have time to stand around and wait for her to decide which of her blouses she wants to bring.
Calm yourself, Andrew, I think. You don’t want to risk angering her before she’s on the plane with you. It was difficult enough to get her to agree to come with you in the first place—she could change her mind at any moment.
So I bite my tongue and pretend I don’t notice or care that it takes her an ungodly amount of time to gather her things. I remind myself why I need her, and that she’s the only one I can trust with this story.
Finally, after what feels like forever, we arrive at the private airstrip where I’ve been keeping my plane.
“Oh,” Victoria says as she steps out of the car and sees our mode of transportation. “I guess I thought we’d be flying in something bigger.”
“My family prefers to use our own private aircraft,” I tell her. “You might have noticed the airstrip behind our palace when you were there for the state dinner.” I keep a small plane—much smaller than my brother Leopold’s luxury jet—but she’s a thing of beauty. Her name is Atalanta—a call back to my studies of Greek
mythology—and she’s traveled most of the globe with me. A fine craft by any account.
We walk over to Atalanta and up the small set of stairs to her tiny cabin. My brother has an entire living area in his plane, but Atalanta only has a couple of passenger seats.
“Sit wherever you like,” I tell her. “There’s also a seat next to me in the cockpit, if you’d prefer some conversation.”
Her eyes widen. “You are flying this thing? We don’t have a pilot?”
“I received my pilot’s license during my time in Montovia’s military,” I tell her. “I have as many flight hours as any private pilot in my country.” And unlike Leopold—and certain other members of my family—I prefer to handle my own needs. In many cases, my own efforts are as good as—or better than—those of anyone I might hire to assist me. I’m not interested in having a bunch of simpering valets or private attendants running around me. I have a job to do, and the only person I trust to do that job properly is me.
“I guess I’ll sit with you,” she says with a shrug. “I’ve never been in a plane like this before—it might be fun to sit in the cockpit. Plus I’ll probably get to see a lot more.”
I suppose I should be grateful her mood has improved—I’d prefer not to conduct the rest of our business as we’ve conducted most of our interactions so far—but I’m still a little wary of her acceptance of my offer, which I only made in politeness. Still, I won’t make a fool of myself by retracting it now. Hopefully, she’ll fall asleep quickly and I’ll be able to fly the rest of the way home in peace.
I say nothing further to her as I settle into my seat. She takes the one beside me, and within fifteen minutes, we’ve been approved to take off.
There’s nothing quite like the thrill of taking off—the rush as the plane picks up speed, the jolt in my stomach when the craft first takes to the air. Knowing I have complete command over something of this size, that I’m defying gravity by controlling one of mankind’s most innovative inventions… Frankly, it’s a powerful feeling. Montovia doesn’t have much need for an active or even a standing military—our military is more a product of tradition and political status than a true martial necessity—but perhaps in another lifetime, I might have made a career of this.
Beside me, Victoria looks like she might actually be enjoying herself. She leans forward, staring out through the windshield as we reach our cruising altitude.
“This is definitely not like flying in a normal plane,” she says. “Even when I manage to get a window seat, it looks nothing like this. It’s like we’re right on top of everything.”
“Well, in a way, we are on top of everything,” I say.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her glance over at me. “Was that a joke, Your Highness?”
“Hardly.”
“I think it was. Maybe there’s a sense of humor in there after all.”
“I assure you, Victoria, I have a sense of humor. Most of the time, however, I find it inappropriate to make light of things.”
“Okay, we’re going to have to do something about this grumpy broodiness of yours when we do your story,” she says. “Assuming you want to come out of this with people liking you and taking your side.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting the way to solve my problem is to make more jokes? Because if that’s the case, then perhaps my judgment was wrong about you.”
“No, that’s not what I was suggesting. I’m just saying it wouldn’t hurt if you loosened up a little bit. Remind the world that you’re human. They want a sexy prince, not a robot.”
“I think Leopold has the ‘sexy prince’ thing covered,” I say. “I’m going to be king someday. I don’t care if the world thinks I’m sexy. I need the world to respect me.”
Victoria sighs and leans back in her seat. “If this is going to work, you need to trust me. We’ll get them to respect you, but sometimes you have to start with just getting them to like you.” She turns her head toward me again. “Of course, this would all be easier if you just told me what it is you did. What story are we trying to head off?”
I shake my head. “We won’t speak of specifics until we’re in Montovia.”
“Because you think your laws will protect you?”
“Because once we’re there, you’ll be signing a contract confirming our agreement.” I tighten my grip on the yoke. “You might accuse me of needing to loosen up, but I’m not a fool. I won’t say anything to a reporter until I’m certain I and my family are protected.”
“Well, that’s up to you. But this whole thing would be a lot easier if you trusted me.”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to justify my sense of responsibility or caution to her. We’ve come to a large bank of clouds, and I check the instruments and radar in front of me as Atalanta is enveloped in a white fog.
“How do you see through this?” Victoria asks me.
“You don’t,” I reply. “You trust your tools.” I indicate the instruments in front of me.
“Ah,” she says. “God, that’s sort of terrifying.”
“Not if you know what you’re doing.”
“I never realized you flew your own plane,” she says. “Any other surprise talents I should know about?”
“I’m not entirely certain I could guess what you’d consider a surprise,” I say. “I specialized in aircraft when I did my military training—that information is on public record.”
“But military training for the royal family is more of a formality than anything else,” she says. “No one expects you to actually fly yourself everywhere. So what else do you do? Do you secretly hand make all your own clothes? Or play the accordion? Or make elaborate five-tiered wedding cakes?”
“Are you amusing yourself?” I ask her.
“A little.”
“I assure you, everything I do is in the service of my country and my family,” I tell her. “I don’t have time for meaningless hobbies.”
“Then what do you do for fun?”
I glance over at her. “Are you going to pepper me with pointless questions the entire way to Montovia?”
“First of all, that’s not a pointless question,” she says. “Secondly, we definitely need to find you a hobby. A fun, meaningless one.”
I shake my head. I don’t have the time or patience for this—and I’m definitely regretting allowing her into the cockpit with me. One can only hope she exhausts herself soon and nods off before we reach the Atlantic. Otherwise, I might be tempted to throw her in.
She seems to get the hint, though, because she falls silent for a little while, apparently amusing herself with staring out the windows at the solid wall of white. She settles back in her seat, making herself comfortable.
Thank God.
A short while later, she sits up again, and my hands tighten, afraid she’s going to start asking me inane questions once more. Instead, she simply takes off her jacket, balls it up, and props it behind her head as she settles back into her seat.
I should be relieved that she appears to be preparing for a nap. Instead, though, I find myself suddenly on edge. I hadn’t paid much attention to what Victoria was wearing before—it was suitable for a professional environment, which meant it was inoffensive and forgettable—but apparently beneath her professional jacket she was wearing something much less work-appropriate. In fact, it’s little more than an undershirt—a black, strappy thing that leaves her shoulders and much of her upper chest bare.
She’s from L.A., I remind myself. Women wear such things to the grocery there. And why are you even noticing, anyway? But in spite of everything, I find myself thinking once again that Ms. Victoria Simpson would be quite attractive if she weren’t so infuriating or saddled with such a distasteful profession. She turns her head, making herself comfortable on her makeshift pillow, and her dark hair falls down across her bare shoulder. A sigh escapes her lips, drawing my attention to the rising swell of her breasts—a lesser man might allow himself to be distracted by breasts like that, but I know b
etter. She and I have business to complete, and I’m not interested in anything more than that.
Still…
Sometimes I wonder how my life might be different if I allowed myself to behave as my younger brother does—or used to, before he met Eleanor Parker. I wonder whether I’m missing anything by keeping my dalliances responsible and discreet. I am a man, after all—it’s not as if I haven’t thought about throwing caution to the wind and indulging my baser urges more often. But I have a responsibility to my country—as I am to be king, I must control my behavior. It is my duty to act in a way that befits a future monarch, and that includes all my personal affairs. My life is dedicated to my country—it is my responsibility to marry in a way that politically benefits us, and to ultimately produce an heir.
So, naturally, any sexual thoughts about the woman beside me are unwise and ill-advised. It would be best to avoid them altogether—though even now, I feel my eyes being drawn back to her.
Control yourself, I think, forcing my attention back to the instruments in front of me. You need to get to Montovia and settle everything, then be rid of her for good.
Just as I’ve refocused myself, however, Atalanta suddenly shudders.
I straighten, gripping the yoke. What is it, girl? This doesn’t feel like normal turbulence. Everything looks fine on the radar—
Suddenly Atalanta jerks again, this time dropping. Something flashes on my controls.
The wing. Something is wrong with the wing.
Beside me, Victoria has jerked upright. “What’s going on?”
Atalanta pitches forward, and my stomach leaps into my throat as she loses altitude.
“I don’t know what happened,” I say, flipping a couple of switches, trying to help Atalanta stabilize. “There’s damage on the left wing. Maybe it was a bird strike.”
“A bird strike?”
“We might have hit some birds. Sometimes they get sucked into the turbines. It’s rare at this altitude, but—”
Atalanta pitches again, and I focus my full attention on the controls.
Beside me, I hear Victoria suck in a shuddering breath.