But not for long. I’ll find you, Mr Fuente.
You’re pretty hard to miss.
Joe toured round the edges of the room. Some of the guests recognised him and smiled, and Joe politely nodded back. Hopefully they would assume he was just an extra body, one among many CPOs patrolling that night, rather than a CPO who’d lost his principal within days of returning to work. The only comfort in all of this, scant though it was, was that the presence of someone who stood within snatching distance of the British crown meant that there was probably no safer place in London than the Firehouse tonight. Yet even that did little to comfort Joe as he prowled the happy crowd, looking for a man who didn’t seem the sort to want to blend in. Wherever Alejandro was hiding at this party, it wasn’t here in the heart of the gathering.
On the considerable stage, a band who looked more used to leather than silk played Goldfinger with a certain punkish aplomb, their tuxedos studded with no-doubt ironic sequins. Everywhere Joe turned were faces who appeared in Tatler and Vogue, dripping in jewels and enjoying the party with that breezy confidence which came with privilege. And with having a protection officer nearby.
“Sarge!” an excited female voice exclaimed and a moment later a slender arm was wrapped around his own, clinging on for dear life. “JW, look at you! You look like a film star!”
Joe chuckled, taken by surprise. But he was still scanning the room for Alejandro. Nothing could shake him from that. “I should’ve worn my tux!”
“Wish me a happy birthday, JW,” Princess Victoria requested, shimmering in her golden gown. She held up a handbag in a similar shade and from within a tiny white dog peered out with shining eyes, a black bowtie around his neck. “And Mr Wiffles too. He’s three today! The Bond party was his idea!”
Joe did his best to sound convinced by that. “Did he now? What a clever little dog!” He gave her a small bow. “Happy birthday, Princess Victoria. Many happy returns.”
“Are you looking for naughty Alejo?” She sounded just a tiny bit drunk, but it was her birthday. “He said you might swing by in the Aston to take him home, Mr Bond!”
“It’s parked up outside. I’ve just had the ejector seat and on-board rocket-launcher serviced.” Joe winked at her. “Yeah, I’ve lost Mr Fuente among the guys in tuxes. They all look so similar, don’t they, dressed like that!”
“Come with me, you!” She towed him towards the stage and, he hoped, towards Alejandro. Instead, Vicky motioned one of the band forward and, with a gesture from her hand, the music stopped short. Joe had a sudden, horrible impression that something he didn’t want to happen was about to happen, that Instagram had been only the start of some sort of strange roller coaster from which there was no escape. The roller coaster of Alejandro Fuente-Sastre.
Vicky put the bag containing Mr Wiffles on the edge of the stage and accepted a microphone, shooting Joe a bright grin as she announced to the crowd, “Now pay attention, 007s and gorgeous girls, Mr Wiffles says he wants to make an announcement!”
Silence descended slowly at first, but after a few seconds, every eye in the room was looking at them. At Joe and a princess and a designer handbag that held a dog.
Oh God.
“This is the gorgeous Joe who, you should all know, nearly lost his life and his handsome head saving the far-too-beautiful and lovely Romina—Her Grace to you lot—from a rotten old loon this year!”
And who’s rusty and can’t stop his principal from running off.
Everyone in the room rose to their feet and applauded, and Joe could only stand there, mouth agape, wondering how he could politely sidle away. And he couldn’t.
Just stand here a little longer, try to look pleased.
“Erm… Thanks, Your Royal Highness.”
“So, three cheers for JW!” And for what seemed like hours but was only seconds, Joe endured her call and response and did his best to look flattered when all he wanted was to fade into the background. Finally, his moment in the spotlight drew to a close with a resounding roar of approval and stamping of feet and Vicky surrendered the microphone, but not Joe’s arm. “Now will you watch my little birthday show? It’s going to be amazing, Alejo’s going to be here in about five minutes, he wouldn’t miss it.”
“Birthday show?” It wouldn’t be a muscley men stripping act, would it? All baby oil and spray tan? If the posters in Joe’s bedroom were anything to go by, Alejandro wouldn’t be able to resist. “Yes, I’d like that.”
“A front row seat for JW and the birthday girl.” She picked up Mr Wiffles, looped her arm through Joe’s again and, with a strength that belied her slight build, marched him to the seats that were clustered in front of the stage. They were already filling up and Joe imagined, knowing Vicky as he had for some years, that this party had been planned like a military operation. Fun was a serious business for her. “Do you want some champers? I bet you’ll tell me that you’re not allowed!”
“It’s not allowed. You can’t imagine how much I’d like one right now, though.” She really, really couldn’t. “I’m on the tonic water.”
“Poor old you!” Vicky gestured to a passing waiter and took one of the glasses of champagne from his tray before requesting tonic water for her companion. Then she told Joe, “Mr Wiffles says you’re going to love the show! But you might wish you’d chucked a gin in with your tonic!”
So it was to be strippers. And was Alejandro in a dressing room somewhere, gleefully slathering baby oil over flexed biceps?
Not that I’m jealous.
But as the tonic water arrived, Joe had a feeling that Vicky was right. He should have chucked some gin into it.
The gold curtains at the back of the stage swished to reveal a young woman in a black evening gown, a violin in one hand and its bow in the other. Did men strip to the sound of violins now? Joe couldn’t imagine much of a market for it on the hen party circuit, but maybe he was just out of touch. As a hush descended over the room, she took up the instrument, drew the bow across its strings and began to play the lush intro to You Only Live Twice, the melody taken up by the band around her as she did.
And still no Alejandro.
How apt that song was after Vicky’s speech. Joe could’ve been killed when that car smashed into him, but he’d been given another chance. He was living twice. He thought of Alejandro and the strippers, and he wanted more than anything to be with them. To be himself, finally.
And at that moment, he knew just what he needed to do. He’d ask Alejandro if he knew Paloma.
The curtains swished again but this time, with a flourish, they swung open to reveal not the expected troupe of musclemen, but a lone female figure, her body poured into a gown of red with intricate gold filigree patterns shimmering over its surface. Rubies shone at her wrist and on her finger and Joe allowed himself to believe that the ring she wore was the same ruby that Paloma had sported over her lace glove, though he knew it couldn’t be.
But Alejandro might know her. She didn’t have to be lost.
The singer’s face was concealed behind a fan of red and gold feathers and Joe wondered which superstar was going to be revealed when the fan dropped away, because it had to be somebody.
Not Mariah, he prayed silently. Not again.
She walked out onto the stage to a deafening round of applause and cheers, none louder than those of Princess Victoria. Then, in a graceful, sweeping arc, the singer closed the fan.
And there stood Paloma.
Joe blinked. He had to be imagining it. But those shaped cheekbones and those full lips, those dark eyes. Who else could it be? Prickles of heat rushed over Joe’s skin as he stared, remembering their kiss and Paloma’s caress. She was even more lovely now without the sugar skull make-up.
But would she remember him?
Her hair was a glossy red wave, loosely piled atop her head with only a single white rose to ornament it, and as she stood beneath the blazing lights it seemed as though a thousand camera flashes went off at once. Then she caressed her elegant fi
ngers around the microphone and began to sing.
No. God, no.
He’d heard that voice before, emanating from Alejandro’s room as he duetted with Mariah. Paloma couldn’t have been in there too.
But of course she had been.
Because Paloma and Alejandro were one and the same person.
Joe was paralysed by the surge of confused emotions that tore through him. His lust for Paloma, his frustration with Alejandro, his disgust of Zak—who Joe now realised he’d seen hitting Paloma—his surprise that Alejandro had said nothing when Joe had turned up to be his CPO, and over all, Joe’s despair at his thick-headedness. He was the worst police officer on the force.
How did I not know?
All those questions about Wendy, about children, marriage, the digs and snarks about teasing bi-curious men running back to their wives, it was all suddenly, horribly clear. That’s what Alejandro saw when he looked at Joe. He saw a married man who’d satisfied his freakshow curiosity with a kiss from a queen. No wonder he was so hostile.
And he was so wrong.
He’d explain. He’d try. But now Joe had a dilemma. He could not have a relationship with his principal. And he’d lose Paloma all over again.
She lifted the microphone from the stand and made her way along the stage, never missing a note, never looking at Joe even as she let her long-lashed gaze roam the audience. Then she descended the three steps from the stage to the floor and the camera flashes popped again, calls of “Alejo” and cheers filling the air. And she was pitch perfect. This was the step-grandchild of the head of State and she—he—was dressed in the most exquisite gown Joe had ever seen, a white rose in her red mane and her voice a sensuous purr.
Was it wrong to think that Alejandro made a more glamorous princess than some of the real things?
Stroppy, diva-ish Alejandro. He had every reason to be furious at Joe. Although surely Alejandro was secretly pleased that Joe hadn’t recognised him as the man behind Paloma. It said a lot about Alejandro’s skill that Joe had simply no idea that when he’d met Alejandro for the first time, he had met Paloma for the second.
You only live twice, indeed.
“Isn’t she amazing?” Vicky whispered, releasing Joe’s arm to lift her phone and film Paloma’s promenade. “I told you Alejo wouldn’t miss Paloma Picante!”
Paloma Picante, who was strolling through her audience, stroking her feathered fan over the occasional jaw, touching her gentle fingers to the hands of those whom she had enchanted. And those towering heels were bringing her ever closer to Joe.
And she didn’t even look at him.
Joe swallowed. Don’t think of your principal like that. But did it count if they had met before Joe had been assigned to Alejandro? Not that it mattered. He was a bodyguard, he wasn’t a royal. He could never be good enough for Mr Fuente.
And Mr Fuente was giving him the very public cold shoulder, far too occupied with the handsome young men in tuxedos to look twice at his CPO.
Paloma paused at Vicky, handing her fan to the birthday girl, who reacted with a little squeal of excitement. A few more steps carried her past Joe and still she sang, running her hand through the hair of the young man beside him, who cheered her on in a bray that suggested he too was no stranger to Eton. Joe, it seemed, had disappeared.
Until those large, dark eyes moved just a little, just enough to peer down at him through the luxuriant eyelashes. For a moment their gazes met then, without so much as missing a note, Paloma lowered herself decorously to perch on Joe’s lap, one slender arm encircling his neck.
And she sang to him.
Even as he was bewitched by Paloma’s voice, Joe’s protectiveness kicked in. He rested his hand on her waist, holding her lightly so she wouldn’t fall off his knee. What a lovely waist it was too, even though he knew it had to be the work of corsetry. And the rasp of the gown’s sequins was oddly pleasant to the touch.
But he couldn’t say anything, and it was just as well, because he hadn’t a clue what to say. And he couldn’t be sure if Alejandro wasn’t teasing him again. He’d look an utter fool if he told Paloma how attractive she was, and how he’d remembered their kiss, and how he kept her rose under his pillow, and how—
His gaze fell on Paloma’s white rose. Which bore the initials JW embroidered into one corner.
She’s wearing my handkerchief in her hair.
Joe stared at Paloma, at those beautiful dark eyes, but had to hold back every word he wanted to say.
As the band took the melody, she lowered the microphone and pressed her lips to Joe’s ear. Her perfume filled the air, her hair brushing his skin. Heat surged in his blood and she purred, “Thank you, Osito.”
Osito.
All the memories of their snatched moment came back to Joe, and his body reacted just as it had then. There was no disguising his arousal from the drag queen perched on his lap.
“You’re so beautiful,” Joe whispered.
“And you’re much, much more than an eight.” Paloma stroked her hand over his jaw. “Trick or treat, Osito?”
This time she didn’t wait for his reply before she pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. Then she rose from his lap and continued her song, ascending the steps back to the stage on her perilously high heels.
Stupid, stupid, stupid man. Why the hell did I tell her she’s beautiful?
But it was true. Paloma really was, just as Alejandro was extremely pretty. Joe glanced at Vicky, giving her wry grin. An I’m a straight man and how amusing, a drag queen just sat on my lap! sort of grin. Then he turned his attention back to the stage.
As the song died away and Paloma graciously accepted the tsunami of applause, Joe found himself enchanted all over again, just as he had been beneath the lights on Halloween. She held up her hand for silence and put the microphone back into its stand.
“Your very Royal Highnesses, ladies, gentlemen and virtually invisible close protection officers,” she said sweetly, “I’m Paloma Picante and this is my first time!”
Vicky cupped her hands to her mouth and cheered her approval, but Joe was too busy being swept up in that voice. Paloma’s voice.
That soft lisp. Joe remembered again their kiss, and how sweet Paloma’s lips had tasted, how warm when the evening was so cold. His for a moment, then she had gone.
Until tonight.
“I’m looking at an ocean of men in well-cut tuxedos, it’s heaven.” Paloma quirked one immaculate eyebrow, her gaze settling on Joe even as some of the young men around him squared their shoulders or glanced to the women at their side, clearly enjoying the compliment. “But I think there’s a gentleman in the front row who’s my favourite for tonight.”
Mr Whiffles, no doubt.
Joe glanced at the little dog. He certainly looked very pleased with himself. Perhaps the idea for the party really had been his after all.
“Mr Whiffles, you’re the perfect secret agent!” Paloma announced. Vicky stood and held up the handbag, letting the dog accept his applause as the music swelled again and Paloma continued her concert, claiming the stage as her own.
So Joe watched as Paloma sang her way through classic Bond themes, every so often drawn so far into the performance that he forgot that Paloma was Alejandro, and that he and Paloma had kissed. Then the whole horrible tangle would rush back to his mind again and he had to square his jaw, focussing on the show, in order to keep a lid on his anguish.
What the hell would he do? And everyone had seen Paloma on his knee. They’d think it was all a jape, surely.
But Wendy wouldn’t. Wendy would be even more furious than she had been before.
Joe shoved aside the image in his mind of Wendy’s Gorgon glare. Paloma. The beautiful Paloma, who could never be his.
The set lasted for twenty glorious minutes until Paloma Picante, that beautiful, perfect creation, gave the lowest curtsey her couture gown would allow and basked in the applause as her audience rose to its feet. She turned and swept towards the gold curtains, pausin
g only to blow a kiss over her shoulder before she disappeared once more.
“How amazing is Alejo?” Vicky turned to Joe, her eyes glittering with excitement. “He’s such a naughty boy, trying to embarrass you. How lucky are you to be literally living with Paloma? She’s your Bond girl, lucky old JW!”
“Yeah, lucky old me!” Joe tried to laugh. He managed a strangled squeak. What the hell was he going to do?
And where was Alejandro? Or Paloma?
At least that question was answered a few seconds later when she sashayed her way through the throng towards him, accepting hugs from women and pats on the back from men as she went. She held a glass of champagne and moved with a confident, elegant gait, quite unlike Alejandro’s nervous energy. And she was stunning as he was pretty.
“Hello, Sergeant Osito,” she said. “Did you enjoy the show?”
“I did, yes. Very good.” Joe wasn’t going to say much more than that because he didn’t want to be overheard. Professional, that was the route to take. “Are you going to spend the rest of the evening here, Ms Picante?”
“I am,” she said sweetly. That voice. “It’s very crowded. Will you stay close to me, officer, in case I need protection?”
“Yes, of course I will.” The lovely Paloma and that lisping voice that melted Joe each time he heard it. Such a change from the caustic Alejandro. “I’ll be right at your side, Ms Picante.”
“I kept your handkerchief,” Paloma told him, as though he might have failed to notice. “I’ve never had my own hero before.”
“I kept your rose,” Joe whispered. Then he glanced away, wondering if he should have admitted it. Yet her smile was all the answer he needed, radiant and happy and without a trace of the cynicism he might have expected from Alejandro.
‘Stay close to me.’
She was as magnetic as her mother. The duchess had spent most of her public engagements beaming for photographs and graciously accepting the wondrous words of others, and tonight it was her son’s opportunity to do the same. Everyone wanted to meet Paloma, it seemed, and though they all knew who was beneath the make-up, the spell seemed to have fallen over everybody at the party. This wasn’t Alejandro in drag, it was Paloma Picante, and nobody was inclined to break the enchantment.
The Reluctant Royal Page 9