by Holly Hart
“Do you mind if I make an observation?” she asks.
Uh-oh.
“Not at all,” I say, managing to smile somehow. I can’t imagine what she might have to say about me, especially after what happened earlier.
“You have a tendency to undersell yourself,” she says. “You shouldn’t.”
Okay, that’s not what I expected at all.
“Thank you,” I say, toasting her.
She returns the toast as I take a deep breath.
“And now can I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” she says, sipping her wine. She makes even the simplest movement look effortlessly elegant.
Here I go. Time to pull off the Band-aid.
“Did I make a complete and total ass of myself with the prince?”
Okay, there it is, I’m admitting it. I acted like a fool. I came face to face with the hottest man in the universe, and I blew it. But God, how was I supposed to help myself? He’s literally the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Photos don’t do him justice. Those grey eyes were like magnets that were pulling my soul right out of my body.
He moved like an animal on the prowl. And those perfect royal manners… it was like my childhood fantasy walked through the door and ran right into me. Literally.
So what did I do? I showed off my wet tits at him and acted like a hick.
Maria smiles and shakes her head. “Not at all, Amanda. In fact, Dante and I both owe you an apology. Him for startling you with his outburst, and me for soaking you to the skin with my effort to save your blouse. I should have found you something to wear over it instead.”
“Well, sure, I wish I hadn’t accidentally flashed two Morovan princes,” I say sheepishly. “But I mean with the way I acted. Did I seem like as much of a hayseed to you as I did to myself?”
“I’m not familiar with the term ‘hayseed.’”
“Unsophisticated, I mean.”
My mind flashes back to miming how to brand cattle and I cringe inwardly. It clunked like a skit in the last half-hour of a Saturday Night Live episode.
Maria gives me an appraising look. I can’t help but feel like I’m always under a microscope here in Morova. I know it’s all in my head, but it’s a real feeling nonetheless. It’s about as far from Montana as you can be and still be on the same planet.
“Further to my previous point,” she says. “Don’t undersell yourself, Amanda. Sophistication isn’t some sort of achievement, at least in most cases. It’s the byproduct of a certain lifestyle. Just because you grew up around cattle instead of in a royal court doesn’t make you less of a person. It just makes you different from the people with whom you currently find yourself. That can be daunting for anyone.
“For example, picture me standing in a field on your family ranch. How do you think that would turn out?”
I do picture it, and it’s a pretty funny image.
“Well,” I say with a grin. “You’d definitely have to change your shoes.”
A wide smile blooms across her face and she sweeps a hand in my direction.
“My point exactly,” she chuckles. “Believe me, Amanda, if I was put in the situation where I had to brand a calf, I’m sure I’d be reduced to a blubbering mess. I doubt I’d even be able to walk into the pen without breaking down.”
I laugh out loud.
“Somehow I think you’d make out okay,” I say. “You’d probably charm the cow into branding itself. But I get your point: your circumstances don’t define your character.”
“Especially when it comes to wealth and privilege,” she says with a stern look. “Some of the most unpleasant people I’ve ever met are chauffeured around in Bentleys and have never prepared a meal in their lives. I would take your company over theirs any day.”
“The kind of people who think food comes from the kitchen instead of a farm?”
“Darling, they don’t even know what a kitchen is, let alone where it is. They think their food magically appears under the silver cloche on their plate when it’s set in front of them.”
We giggle together for a few moments and finish our wine. Thank God for Maria. If not for her, I would have just ran to the airport the minute the princes left the room earlier and bought a ticket on the next flight back to the States. Assuming it didn’t push my credit card over the limit.
“I can’t thank you enough for all your help,” I say. “And I don’t just mean giving me the job of planning the prince’s celebration. You’ve done so much to make me feel welcome, and like I actually belong here.”
“You do belong here. You know as much or more about royal protocol as any of the palace staff, myself included. The plain and simple fact, Amanda, is that we need you.”
Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever heard those words from anyone other than my dad in my entire life. It feels really good.
“As you know, the 30th birthday of a male Morovan heir is an important milestone,” she continues. “It signals the time when they become an active member of the principality’s government, as opposed to just a wealthy figurehead who controls the banking interests. And given Dante’s unique circumstances, this birthday will be one of the most important in our history.”
Unique circumstances is an understatement. Dante’s parents were famously killed in a plane crash when he was only ten. His older sister, Princess Adriana, took over the royal duties as regent until Dante came of age at 21. But she and her husband, Albert, died in an avalanche in Switzerland the year before that. Not only did it leave the prince without family guidance, it also made him the guardian of Adriana and Albert’s twins, who were just a year old at the time.
It was also a year of turmoil for the government, because technically, the prince was too young to assume the throne. Dante’s aunt Isabella – Emilio’s mother – offered to fill in as regent until he came of age.
I can sort of empathize with him – my mom died when I was young, too. But geez, his life has been like Game of Thrones. It’s enough to make me tear up just thinking about it, especially now that I’ve met him in person.
I clear my throat and manage to swallow my emotions as Maria continues with her thought.
“That’s why I could kill him for fooling around so long and forcing me to rush the process,” she says with a scowl. “Thank God fate put you in my path when it did, Amanda. I can’t imagine doing this on my own.”
She’s right. We need to focus on the task at hand here, not the tragic prince. The tall, chiseled tragic prince with the black curls and the smoky eyes, who seemed to appreciate my wet breasts when he saw them…
What was I saying about focus? Oh yeah, the task at hand.
“Everyone on staff has been very accommodating so far,” I say. “They’ve helped me find what I need, put people in place. And I have to say, having an unlimited budget really helps things go smoothly.”
Maria smiles. “I thought you’d enjoy that part of it. And now that we have Dante’s sign-off, I want you to go ahead and implement everything. Don’t second guess yourself, just do what you need to do.”
I return her smile and nod.
“All right,” I say. “I’ve got my orders. My main priority right now is to get the family sword from Signore Ferrare. Apparently he’s had it since my friend Peter went to talk with him about whatever it was that got him so excited.”
“You really should ask him about it when you see him,” says Maria. “I’m curious to know myself what the big secret is.”
She leans forward in her chair and lowers her voice.
“Speaking of Peter and secrets,” she says with a lecherous grin. “Is there anything going on between you two? You were working very close to him in that small vault, and he’s quite handsome.”
Me and Peter? Uh, no. Should I tell her he’s gay? It’s not like he keeps it a secret or anything. But then again, it’s not my place to talk about someone else’s business. That was one of the lessons Dad drilled into me at a young age.
Besides,
even if Peter wasn’t gay, I doubt he’d go for me.
“There’s nothing going on between me and anyone,” I sigh.
“Oh, I find that difficult to believe. A beautiful girl like you must have suitors around every corner.”
Beautiful? Me?
“That’s very kind of you,” I say quietly. “But bookworms usually aren’t on a guy’s list of turn-ons. I dated in high school, sure, but I haven’t seen anyone socially since I started university.”
Maria arches a delicately curved eyebrow.
“You’ve got your master’s degree,” she says. “You mean you haven’t been with a man for over six years?”
“I haven’t been with a man ever,” I hear someone mutter.
Wait, was that me?
Jesus, did I just tell my biggest secret to the most sophisticated person I’ve ever met? I never even told that to my friends in school! Now I’m outing myself to this wonderful woman who I’m trying so hard to impress!
Maria must see the color in my cheeks because she reaches out and puts a hand on top of mine.
“I honestly don’t know why I never have,” I blurt.
Why did I say that? Why didn’t I just let it go? God, why am I oversharing so much?
“I guess I’ve been too busy. And I try to be a good Catholic, you know. And my dad, he… well, he’s kind of intimidating, he’s really big and he’s a cowboy and he’s got this collection of shotguns…”
I’m rambling now, careening towards the edge of a cliff. Thank God Maria senses it and pulls me back from the brink.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she soothes. “You haven’t found the right man. I understand. In fact, I think it’s admirable.”
Every time she opens her mouth, she makes me feel better. If I could custom order an older sister, it would be her. I smile wanly and squeeze her hand.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t shut myself up when I get nervous.”
She smiles. “I’ve noticed. But there’s nothing to be sorry for.”
“I’m so glad we met that day. I honestly don’t want to think about where I’d be if we hadn’t. Still holed up in that vault, reading dusty old parchments, probably. Living in an old convent room and eating wedding soup for supper every night.”
At that moment, as if to save me from the situation, the door to her suite swings open, and Maria’s face lights up as two children in school uniforms charge into the room.
“Ciao, piccoli terrori,” she says as Oriana and Vito throw themselves down on the 19th century Chesterfield sofa. Hello, you little terrors.
Oriana pulls out an iPhone and starts thumbing keys like mad. Vito throws his raven-haired head back and huffs at the ceiling.
“Quel teste era brutale – ” he begins before Maria cuts him off.
“English,” she says, pointing politely in my direction. “We have a guest.”
They both stop what they’re doing and stand. It’s so quick it’s like they’re being controlled remotely.
“Children, this is Ms. Amanda Sparks from America. She’s planning your uncle’s celebration.”
“A pleasure,” they say in unison. Vito takes my hand and pumps it twice, followed by Oriana. I can tell their response is automatic, the result of years of training.
“The pleasure is mine, Your Highnesses,” I reply, rising from my chair.
They’re both stunningly beautiful, with black hair and grey eyes, just like their uncle. It’s a Trentini family trait that goes back generations.
“I’m very sorry to hear your test was brutal,” I say primly. “However, I’m sure you both rose to the challenge.”
Vito seems surprised that I speak Italian. No doubt he’s now wondering why he has to speak English if that’s the case. But, being a prince, he says nothing, just smiles.
“I think we passed,” he says, turning to Oriana. “At least I did. I don’t know about my sister.”
She glares at him. “I was the one you were copying off of, remember?”
He sticks out his tongue at her. So does the same to him.
I wish I had a brother or sister.
“All right, you two,” says Maria. “Go change and Cook will make you a snack.”
“Will Uncle be at dinner?” Oriana asks, eyes hopeful.
“I’m sorry, bella. He has royal business to attend to.”
The girl sighs. Poor kid. From what I’ve read, the prince is a bit of an absentee parent. You always see him in the headlines, but you never see these two. It’s almost as if the media has forgotten they exist.
“All right,” she says, turning to me. “I hope we’ll see you again, Ms. Sparks.”
“I look forward to it, ma’am,” I say. “And please call me Amanda.”
Vito takes my hand again. “Good day to you, Amanda,” he says with a polite nod.
“And to you, sir.”
With that, they amble towards the door. As they reach the hallway beyond, I see Oriana shove her brother out of the way and take off at a run.
“Hey!” he shouts, bounding off after her.
Maria shakes her head and smiles.
“Well, that’s the future of the monarchy,” she sighs. “What do you think?”
“I think Morova is in very capable hands.”
“From your lips to God’s ear. I hate it when I have to tell them Dante is away.”
“Isn’t that pretty much all the time?” I ask.
She smiles knowingly. “One would think so, if all you ever saw was the media coverage of Dante’s life. But that’s all an act. The twins are his heart and soul.”
Really?
“You’re right,” I say. “I was totally under the impression he’s a playboy.”
“He pays his public relations manager a lot of money to make that happen. The more he’s in the spotlight, the more the children are out of it. Dante spent far too much of his life in the watchful glare of the public eye; he doesn’t want them to go through what he did.”
Wow. That’s… wow. Here I am thinking I know everything about the royal family, and now I find out it’s all an act? That’ll teach me to pull my nose out of the books once in awhile and take a look around.
And it makes me think about him in a whole new way. An even more intense way.
“Well, I suppose the two of us should get back to work,” Maria says, glancing at her Tiffany watch. “We’ve got a lot to do.”
“We sure do,” I say. My mind is elsewhere.
“Is there anything you need from me before you go?” she asks.
“Not that I can think of.”
Unless, of course, she happens to have a spare nude photo of Dante lying around that I can take into the tub with me.
Chapter Five
5. DANTE
There’s nowhere else on Earth like Monte Carlo. It’s like Las Vegas and a Disney kingdom fell in love and had a baby.
Like Morova, Monaco is a principality that sweats money. And like Vegas, it attracts the richest of the rich, with its casinos and the unspoken promise of luxury and adventure.
And, as usual, I’m bored of it already.
“Carte,” I say.
The dealer slides a card from the clear plastic dealing box, taking my discard away. Across the table from me is a pair of Australian mining heirs who somehow talked – or, more likely, bought – their way into the VIP room. Beside me, as always, is Emilio.
“Only one?” says the older of the Aussies, a chubby blond in his late 20s who just took three from the draw. He glances at his brother, who’s a little younger and in better shape. “Whaddya think, Robbo?”
Robbo fixes me with a stare that I suppose he thinks is intimidating.
“Yeah, I reckon he’s bluffin.’”
Normally this room is reserved for baccarat, but, not surprisingly, my new friends have never heard of the game. So we’ve opted for Texas Hold ‘Em instead. The dealer managed to accommodate us without rolling his eyes, but I’m betting it wasn’t easy for him.
/> “Right,” says the blond, pushing a pile of chips into the already hefty stack in the center of the table. “I raise seventy-five thousand.”
I turn my head to Emilio. He tilts his and shrugs, telling me it’s all up to me.
“Very well,” I say. I round up my remaining chips, most of which are rectangular $100,000 plates, and add them to the pile. “All in.”
The Aussies exchange panicked glances.
“You only took one card,” Robbo says to me. “That’s bloody suicide, mate. You must think we’re a couple o’ yobbos.”
“Gentlemen,” I say coldly. “My entire country is a bank. Do I look like someone who makes a habit of bluffing?”
Beside me, Emilio arches an eyebrow at them.
The two sweat a little longer, looking at the cards, then at the pot, then at each other.
“Fuckin’ fold, mate,” the blond mutters, tossing his hand towards the dealer.
I offer a thin smile and pull the chips towards me, including the hundred grand they just pissed away.
“Oi!” says Robbo. “What did y’have?”
The dealer, an unsmiling middle-aged Czech, glares at them as he draws the used cards away. “Players are under no obligation to show their cards,” he scolds.
I raise a hand towards him.
“It’s fine, Karel,” I say, flipping my cards face-up. “They’re just learning.”
The Aussies stare at them for a moment, then turn their eyes to me, mouths open.
“Ten high,” says the blond. It sounds like tin hoy.
“Correct.”
“You fucking wanker!” Robbo snaps. “You were bluffing!”
In the corner of the room, I see Marco, my head of security, standing with his hands clasped in front of him. He shifts his weight subtly from one foot to the other, preparing to step forward if he’s needed.
He won’t be. I never need him, and I know it drives him up the wall.
“Gentlemen,” I say with an easy smile. “Poker is a game of wits, not luck. The game is played in your head, not on the table. You saw a sophisticated, serious-looking European. Given your obvious rural nature, you assumed that I was somehow better than you.”