A Princess in Theory

by Alyssa Cole

  Is he . . . bowing?

  “How was your dinner?” he asked. “Mine was delicious. There was only one thing that could have made it better.”

  Ah. There was the look. Heat rose to the surface of Ledi’s cheeks and neck.

  “Paprika?” Ledi guessed. “I thought it could have used some paprika.”

  He shook his head and his gaze quickly traced the curve of her shoulder before returning to her face.

  “Not paprika.”

  Two simple words that sent up blooms of sensation in her breasts and belly.

  “My dinner was good,” Ledi said, suddenly regretting not staying the previous night, which was a sign she’d made the right decision. “Probably not as good as the packet of ramen I would have eaten if you hadn’t been here.”

  He laughed. His eyes squeezed shut as he did, and it was a relief. She had boundaries—everyone needed those—but when Jamal looked at her, she could feel just how tightly closed in on herself she was, and how tiring it was to always be that way. His gaze made her feel like opening.

  She took a deep breath to center herself and something floral sweet and grassy green hit her scent receptors and kept going. It made a beeline for her brain and rustled around in her memory, nudging at shadowy outlines that she couldn’t quite make out. There was a flash of yellow against brown skin—and was that a smile?—but more than that there were feelings.

  Again with the feelings?

  Happiness. Belonging. The knowledge that she was loved.

  Jamal closed his door and stepped fully into the hallway and she realized the scent was coming from him.

  What the hell?

  Ledi backed away from him a bit, not because the scent was cloying, but because she had no idea why it evoked the burning at her eyes or made her want to be held.

  “Ohhhhhhhhhh. You’re the one who made Ledi dinner? The possible serial killer?” Portia’s gaze flicked speculatively between the two of them, the glance pulling Ledi from the memories and emotions that hovered just on the periphery of her perception. Portia was zeroing in on Jamal, and that was a problem.

  Oh god. No.

  Portia had offered to help kill her ex the other night, and although it had been hyperbolic, her friend could be a bit overprotective when it came to men. Men and Ledi, that was. She showed no such discernment for herself.

  Ledi began to drag Portia away. “The Institute is closed because of an emergency, so I’m going to actually do something fun before studying this evening.”

  “Closed? Is it . . . Was it because of the fire?” he asked, walking alongside them as they headed for the stairwell. His expression was so contrite that Ledi couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him. A little.

  “No. The restaurant survived your arson attempt, only to be felled by nature’s greatest asshole—the bacterium.”

  He looked confused.

  “Food poisoning.”

  His confusion changed to worry and she remembered that he’d recently eaten there, too. She’d let him figure out that he was fine on his own as a final repayment for his behavior that night.

  “Wait, what fire? What are you talking about?” Portia asked, turning back to look up at Ledi. That was when Ledi realized that she was walking next to Jamal instead of her friend. She hopped down a step so that she was next to Portia.

  “Nothing,” Ledi said. At the same time, Jamal announced, “I set fire to the fondue station.”

  Now it was Ledi’s turn to look up and back.

  “I’ll never forget the sight of you racing to save the day,” he continued. The white of his teeth broke up the uniform blackness of his beard as he smiled. “You were like—”

  He began to move in an exaggerated slow motion, mimicking the pivotal scene in just about every summer blockbuster. He pointed an imaginary fire extinguisher in Ledi’s direction. “The foooooonnndduuuuuuueeeeee!” he yelled in a voice that he also slowed and deepened as he pretended to spray an imaginary extinguisher that threatened to slip from his control. “Not on my watch!”

  When he finally stopped and met her gaze, his arms still raised as if they held the extinguisher, they both burst into laughter. Ledi didn’t know what was happening, but her stomach hurt from the heaving and she had to stop and hold on to the banister with one hand and her chest with the other.

  “That’s not what happened!” she managed to gasp.

  “I’m the one who nearly set himself on fire, Naledi. It is quite literally burned into my memory, and also my left forearm,” he said. “Trust me on this.”

  And then they were laughing again, and Ledi realized she felt the same way she had outside her door when she’d caught a whiff of his cologne. Happy. Like she belonged.

  “I don’t get it,” Portia said. Her thin brows furrowed and Ledi saw the slight hunch of her shoulders. Unlike Ledi, who was perfectly happy on the sidelines, being out of the loop was something that made Portia uneasy.

  “Eh, you had to be there,” she said as they touched down on the landing. She slipped her arm through her friend’s and headed for the exit.

  Standing in the vestibule was someone dressed in a suit that made Jamal look like a beggar. Tan slacks with a crease so sharp Ledi would find her jeans fashionably slit if she walked too close. A dark brown suit jacket that tapered at the waist—oh.

  The besuited woman was texting with a dreamy little smile on her face.

  “Who is that?” Portia whispered. “That outfit is everything!”

  “I don’t think she lives here,” Ledi whispered back. “But let’s jump her for those spats. I think I can fit into them if I cut off a few toes.”

  When they pushed through the door the woman glanced up from her phone, taking hold of the door as they passed through, like their very own dapper doorwoman. Her gaze locked on Ledi, and for a moment Ledi was sure that she knew her from somewhere; the woman looked at her as if they were old acquaintances. She said nothing, but gave a nod of acknowledgment that made Ledi feel almost regal.

  I really should wear this lipstick more often.

  Then she was looking past Ledi and Portia, and her expression grew more reserved. “High—Hi . . . man,” she said to Jamal. She had an accent similar to his, but with the “something else” more pronounced. It was closer to the lyrical English of the women who braided Ledi’s hair every now and then. “I regret that I have distressing news about, uh, stuff. Things. You know.”

  The smile she had sported while engrossed in her phone screen was gone.

  “Stuff and things. Quite.” Jamal turned to Ledi and Portia and gave another of his little bows. “Well, ladies. I hope you enjoy the museum,” he said, then turned to talk to the fabulously dressed woman. His demeanor was suddenly serious. He seemed taller, more rigid, more in control.

  Ledi liked this side of him, too.

  “Bye!” Portia was a bit too enthusiastic with her farewell.

  Ledi glanced back as she walked out of the building. She wasn’t jealous—she didn’t know him well enough for that. But still, curiosity bloomed. This woman was well acquainted with him, whereas Ledi knew nothing about him at all beyond the fact that he smelled good and didn’t want to disappoint his family. There seemed to be something more going on beyond the story Jamal was feeding her, though. It wasn’t that she wanted an excuse to see him again, or anything, but she had to make sure he wasn’t doing anything that Mrs. Garcia wouldn’t approve of in her apartment.

  If she had to meet up with him again, she was just being a good neighbor. That was it.

  Chapter 10

  It appears that you’ve crossed the fiery gulf that lay between you and your betrothed?”

  Likotsi’s voice echoed in the vestibule. She pulled out her trusty tablet from a perfectly aged leather satchel, swiped in her passcode, and began scrolling, but her eyes lifted from the screen to him every few seconds to let him know that she was awaiting a response.

  “Things are amicable between us,” he said, thinking of their dinner yesterd
ay. Thabiso had rarely cooked for himself—when he had, on a whim, he’d had the backing of the entire palace kitchen staff. With Naledi it had been fun. Intimate. He wished he had been able to impress her with his skills, but he had shown his deficiency yet again, and she hadn’t heaped invective on him.

  After she’d left, he’d sat alone at the dining table and wished for a knock at the door that never came. And that he could bypass the messy part of his plan, the telling-her-who-he-really-was part, so that they could move to the stage where his lips moved against hers and his hands traced the shape of her body.

  He’d tried not to let his mind stray too far in that direction, but even the food inspired lustful thoughts. Although gourmet cuisine made up much of his diet when he was abroad, the simple chicken thighs were the most delicious thing he’d tasted in recent memory. As he’d savored the citrusy sage sauce, he’d wondered whether Naledi’s essence itself weren’t mixed in, giving it some extra, addictive quality that had him licking his fingers. Thoughts of her “essence” had led to a night sleeping on his back, painfully hard but unable to pleasure himself in Mrs. Garcia’s frilly pink bedroom without feeling like even more of a pervert.

  He’d looked up the term gaslighting instead, and then layaway and foster child, and a deep sense of sadness had spread through him as he thought of Ledi alone in her apartment, with not even memories of her family to keep her company. He’d rarely ever been alone—if his busy but attentive parents hadn’t been with him, then a nanny, or advisor, or tutor, or coach, and eventually Likotsi, had been around. His lack of privacy had always been a bother to him, but now—without romanticizing his past—he could see that it had been a privilege. One he hadn’t asked for, but benefited from nevertheless.

  He’d thought of the smiling little girl in the picture from their betrothal, then imagined her in an enormous country like America—and a huge and frightening city like New York—all alone, shuffled between people who knew nothing of her homeland.

  In Thesolo, when a child was orphaned, they were placed with relatives, or with a family who could not conceive, or in one of the communal orphanages that tried very hard to reproduce the feeling of a family and usually succeeded. He’d looked at the high brick buildings outside the window, and the dirty concrete sidewalks. Manhattan did not seem like an easy place to be an orphan.

  “Sire? What’s wrong?” Likotsi asked, breaking his reverie.

  “Last night, I learned a little about Naledi’s life after she came to the States.”

  “You know the location of the traitors Libiko and Kembe? I had no luck finding them during my search, and she had no information listed on the genealogy site.” Likotsi’s eyes narrowed the way any good Thesoloian’s would when Ledi’s parents were discussed. It had never bothered Thabiso before, but he hadn’t known Naledi then, or what had happened to her parents.

  “They are walking with the ancestors,” Thabiso said. “They died when she was very young, perhaps not long after they arrived here. She was placed into the care of the state, raised by strangers.”

  Likotsi gasped, her eyes wide and suddenly glossy with emotion. The reverence of the ancestors was ingrained into every Thesoloian, whether they were a beggar or a king. The remembrance of those who came before you and the passing on of familial knowledge was something sacred. To not even know one’s parents or one’s roots . . .

  Thabiso understood Likotsi’s sudden upset—it was horrifying to think of someone being denied that birthright.

  “Highness, does she know who she is?” she asked in a low voice. “Where she’s from?”

  Thabiso looked over at her, feeling the weight of Ledi’s loss as if it were his own. It was, in a way. “I don’t think so.”

  The vestibule was suddenly stifling. Likotsi swung the door open, as if she sensed it too, and let in some fresh air. Fresh by New York standards.

  “If her parents died soon after they arrived . . .” Likotsi looked anguished. “This changes everything. This means they never returned because they did not have the opportunity. This means they never communicated because they could not. This means . . .”

  Likotsi’s expressive face contorted in confusion.

  Thabiso nodded. “She says she does not remember her family at all. I assumed her parents had changed her name to Smith to avoid detection, but it could have been done by the state if they did not know who she was. It is a very common name here.”

  “I will look into it, sire.”

  Likotsi had a determined look in her eye, and that usually boded well.

  “Just—perhaps you should tell her who you are now?”

  “How was the penthouse?” Thabiso asked, changing the subject. “And I believe that you never wear the same suit twice in a row, but what have we here?”

  He tugged at her lapel, which bore a red stain of some sort. Lipstick?

  “There is a term native to this region. I learned it last night. ‘nunya.’”

  “Nunya?”

  “‘Nunya business’ is the full colloquialism.” Likotsi got a faraway look in her eye and smiled as she said it, as if there was some joke in the words that Thabiso couldn’t decipher.

  “I understand. I think. I will stay out of your affairs, but I’m glad to see you smiling like a schoolgirl.”

  Likotsi was quite the bachelorette back in Thesolo, though she, too, had lost her taste for dating of late. Many disappointed mothers hoping to have the prince’s right hand, and eventually the King’s right hand, as a daughter-in-law had been sorely disappointed.

  “Bah,” she said, brushing past him to step outside. “There are matters of more import than my love life.”

  He was going to point out that love was a rather strong word to use so quickly, but then he saw how grave her expression had become.

  “What is it?” he asked as he stepped outside behind her. A group of teenagers bopped past the front of the building, their posturing reminding Thabiso of the students who attended the high school that bore his name. Youthful braggadocio was the same worldwide it seemed.

  She sighed and shook her head. “There has been a report from Lek Hemane. The wife of one of the elders has fallen ill.”

  His stomach lurched. “Who?”

  “Annie,” Likotsi whispered. Annie Jarami was a legend in Thesoloian politics, and her husband, Makalele, was just as respected. They were keepers of knowledge, those who had lived through generations of change in the kingdom and who told tales at times of festivity. They’d both been old for as long as Thabiso could remember, but Annie was hardy, like the twisty trees that sprout on the windiest mountain and bear the brunt of the gale, leaning but never falling.

  Annie was also Ledi’s grandmother.

  “Ingoka makes no mistakes, Highness. For Annie to become gravely ill now? You must tell Naledi who you are, and who she is, soon,” Likotsi said. “In case the worst comes to pass.”

  Thabiso gave a quick nod. The burden of the secret he was keeping seemed to grow heavier by the hour, but there were other issues at hand. “Will Annie’s sickness impact the tribal representation at the land stewardship meeting?”

  “Yes. Makalele refuses to leave Annie’s side, so Finance Minister Alehk is going to represent them. He is . . . cut from a different cloth than his parents, as you well know.”

  That was Likotsi’s delicate way of saying the man was greedy, stubborn, and didn’t care about the well-being of his tribe, only about lining his pockets. He was the primary push for the Omega Corp deal, which was reason enough for Thabiso to distrust the company. Alehk had convinced the majority of the other ministers though, forcing Thabiso’s hand. He had always wondered why the goddess had punished Annie and Makalele with not one dishonorable child, but two; though now everything he thought he knew about Libiko might be wrong.

  “This is disappointing, but hopefully Annie will recover before the council meeting. What ails her?”

  “That’s just it, sire. No one is sure—”

  “Thesolo has the b
est doctors on seven continents, unless there’s a crack team of penguins we’ve yet to discover in Antarctica,” Thabiso said, letting his frustration get the best of him. “What do you mean no one is sure?”

  Likotsi nodded. “You have not spoken falsely, sire. The doctors are working hard to find the cause of the problem and to ensure that she recovers quickly.”

  Unease slithered around Thabiso’s ankles like a cobra, and he was worried that the venomous strike would come sooner rather than later.

  “The timing of this is unfortunate, but she’s elderly so it’s not entirely unexpected.” Elderly, but not frail. The way Likotsi’s brow creased convinced him that she thought the same. “Keep me updated of her status, and have the doctors send us their initial findings.”

  His thoughts went to Naledi. He’d looked up epidemiology; this was in her wheelhouse, something that would interest her. But discussing it would require him to provide specifics such as location, and she hadn’t responded well to Likotsi’s emails. If he mentioned Thesolo at the wrong moment, in the wrong way, he would also have to drop the news of her past on her like a hippo from a tall building—it would crush her in the messiest way possible, and whatever it was that was growing between them as well.

  His resistance to telling her had grown instead of diminished. He liked the way Naledi looked at Jamal; he liked being able to talk and joke freely. Once she knew who he truly was, all of that would change.

  “What else is on the docket for today?” he asked. Best to focus on his actual reason for being in New York: improving the welfare of his country.

  “After your lunch with the representatives from PharmaMundial this afternoon, there’s a General Assembly at the UN that requires your presence. Cocktails at the South African consulate afterward—”

  Thabiso grimaced. “Does that diplomat still work there? The woman who wouldn’t stop calling after our liaison?”

  “You mean the woman who you made think she might have a shot at princess-hood? No, she requested to be relocated. I believe she is at the consulate in Iceland now.”

  Thabiso wasn’t fond of the censure in Likotsi’s words.