by Jillian Dodd
Spy Girl has no choice. Although she’s a good shot, the chance of Ophelia shooting the Prince before a bullet could kill her is too great.
She reluctantly places the guns on the floor in front of her and holds up her hands.
“You ruined your dress,” Ophelia comments. “Which is fitting and slightly poetic. I can hear the account in the papers. A torn ball gown covers the dead, would-be Princess on the night the Montrovian monarchy dies.”
“How will you end the monarchy, Ophelia?” She knows the longer she keeps her talking the more time she has to figure out how to kill her.
“We get rid of this worthless excuse for a prince, for starters. Sorry about that. You seem to really like him. And you’re nice and surprisingly good with a gun. Something that would be valuable in the new world order of Montrovia.”
“If you kill the Prince, then you could be Queen.”
“Absolutely. Allowing me to do whatever the hell I want. And what I want is to systematically dismantle this farce of a monarchy, starting by selling the Strait of Montrovia to the highest bidder. Once that’s done, we close down our borders to these wretched tourists, shut down our port, sink all the yachts, and abolish gambling. We will ruin the country that shunned us all because—”
“All this because Daddy didn’t love you?”
The Prince winces as Ophelia digs the barrel of the gun into the side of his head. “Shut up!” she says, becoming agitated. She turns her gun away from the Prince and waves it in the other direction. Exactly what Spy Girl wants.
“You don’t know anything,” Ophelia rants, taking a few steps toward her. “You don’t know what it’s like to be treated like a nobody in France when your blood is royal. If it weren’t for my father’s philandering ways, my mother wouldn’t have taken us away to live like paupers.”
While Ophelia is ranting, Spy Girl puts her hand to her chest—suddenly remembering what she tucked into her bra earlier.
“You’ve hardly been living like paupers here. I overheard you telling Allie that your custom dress for the Queen’s Ball cost a half million euros.”
“Pocket change, now. I will soon be the richest woman on the planet. The Saudis appear to be determined to own the Strait and keep upping the ante.”
“You can’t do that!” the Prince yells.
“Actually, I just changed my mind, the first thing I will do is tear down the castle. Dismantle it brick by brick just like I will the monarchy.” She waves the gun in his direction again, her focus back on the Prince.
That’s all it takes.
Spy Girl leaps forward, first knocking Ophelia’s gun to the ground and then slapping a pore strip on her forehead.
“What the hell is that?” Ophelia says, looking up, cross-eyed.
“Put your heads down!” Spy Girl yells to the captives as she jumps up to the ceiling, grabs the exposed metal pipe above her and swings her body toward Ophelia. Her feet connect with Ophelia’s chest, kicking her across the room as the strip explodes and blows her back into the nearby window.
When the dust settles, Spy Girl picks herself up off the ground and dusts herself off.
“What the hell was that?” the Prince says. “How could you even—the way you shot—where did you learn all that?”
“Finishing school,” she replies as Gallagher comes running into the building with his gun drawn.
He surveys the carnage, then looks at her in astonishment. “Did you do all this?”
She gives him a noncommittal shrug as sirens sound in the distance, causing her to rethink the situation. “Actually, I didn’t. You did all of this. I was kidnapped along with the Prince and Ari. You saved us.”
Gallagher studies her. Her gown is ripped and torn. Her feet are shoeless and bloody, but her hair is still perfectly coiffed and priceless jewels glitter from her neck and wrist. “I don’t know what kind of look you were going for here, but it’s bloody gorgeous.”
She looks down at herself and smiles. “Thank you.”
“How’d I do that?” He takes a peek out the broken window, where what’s left of Ophelia lies.
“Explosive band-aid to the head. After you took out her guards, she came out of the office with a gun, threatened the Prince, and made you give up the two you had.”
“Fingerprints?”
She raises her hands. “I had on these gloves the whole time. Found them in the street.”
“Weapons used?”
“A wire, a brick, their guns, the band-aid—actually, technically it was a pore cleansing strip.”
“What’s that?”
“You put it on your nose to clean out your pores.”
“Impressive,” Gallagher says.
“I’m really sorry I knocked you out,” she says sincerely.
“It’s okay,” Gallagher says. “But next time we work together.”
The Prince keeps looking from her to Gallagher and back again. “For God’s sake, will someone untie us?”
Gallagher stares. “That all depends on you. Will you tell the same story? That I rescued the three of you?”
The Prince stares back, incredulously.
“I think Miss Von Allister would like to retain her cover, Prince Vallenta. My agency works closely with the Americans, and we had no idea she was an agent. Exactly who are you working for?” he asks, turning toward her.
“Black X,” she whispers.
Ari shakes his head. “Don’t lie to him, Huntley. Sir, we work for the CIA—we’re undercover together. Our mission was to protect the Prince.”
The Prince’s eyes widen, and she can see the hurt in them. It guts her.
“I’m sorry,” she says to him as the sirens get closer.
Gallagher stares at the Prince. “So, do I have your word?”
The Prince nods, silently.
Gallagher finds a rope and ties her to a chair. He waits until the police arrive to untie the Prince, who is quickly whisked back to the safety of his castle.
Ari and Huntley are briefly questioned and then driven home.
On the way there, the radio pauses for a moment of silence in honor of the passing of King Vallenta.
She knows the Prince probably hates her, but she texts him anyway, telling him she is sorry about his dad.
Then she cries.
MISSION:COMPLETE
The day that follows is full of news reports about the Prince’s kidnapping by a rogue terror group, his rescue by an unnamed British agent, the official story of Ophelia’s death claiming she was killed during the kidnapping, and the passing of the King.
Ari and I are besieged with interview requests from reporters wanting to know about us being kidnapped along with the Prince.
Needless to say, we haven’t responded.
Ophelia’s memorial service is held the following day at her church in France. Her sister left Montrovia, returning to France, after shockingly abdicating her right to the throne. Viktor did not attend Ophelia’s funeral and hasn’t been seen since. It’s rumored that he was picked up by the Montrovian government, questioned, and then was allowed to privately mourn the death of his fiancée at his father’s summer home on Lake Como. Intelligence believes he had no clue what Ophelia was planning.
The country and the world mourn together on the third day as Montrovia lays their beloved King to rest. Ari and I are allowed to attend the funeral.
Daniel was taken to the American Embassy from the palace the night of the kidnapping, not to be heard from since.
On the fourth day, I alone receive an invitation to attend the coronation ceremony of the new King of Montrovia. The coronation is held in a massive old church on the castle grounds. While the King’s funeral the day before was all black, this is a colorful affair with much pomp and circumstance. Richly hued robes worn by the bishops of the church, fully decorated military dress uniforms, banners displaying the country’s flag and crest, and a choir in bright red robes. The rest of the guests are in formal attire—suits on the men, long demure gowns
and hats on the women.
Although this ceremony is being televised around the world, the actual number in the church is limited. I’m shocked I was invited.
My heart swells with pride to see Lorenzo seated on the ornate gold throne. He stands and is draped in the Imperial Robe then sits back on the throne where he’s handed the Royal Scepter and the Rod of Equity and Mercy. The crown is removed from a gilded platter and placed on his head.
“God save the King!” is shouted three times and then the bishop finishes the ceremony and pronounces Lorenzo as King of Montrovia.
Trumpets play, bells chime, gun salutes sound, and King Lorenzo Giovanni Baptiste Vallenta V of Montrovia walks proudly down the aisle with his mother and out to greet thousands of his countrymen outside the church.
After the processional, I find Juan standing next to me. “The King requests a word with you.”
I’m escorted to the War Room and told to make myself comfortable. I give Juan back the royal jewels I wore to the Queen’s Ball, then flip on the TV and watch the live footage of him greeting his fellow Montrovians. I take the fact that I’m here and not his residence as a bad sign.
An hour later, he strolls into the room. The crown, scepter, and cape are gone, but he’s still in full royal military garb. It reminds me of dancing in his arms at the Queen’s Ball.
“Your Highness,” I say in greeting.
“I’m sorry I haven’t properly thanked you—for saving my life, saving the monarchy, and for protecting my country,” he says with a sincere tone, but I can tell by his body language that he’s not feeling it. He’s mad at me. And I don’t blame him. “But things all happened so fast—the ball, the kidnapping, my father’s death, the funeral, and the coronation.”
“Thanks for inviting me to your coronation. I was honored.”
“I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. The people of Montrovia and I owe you a great debt. I had planned on bringing you here after the funeral and well, to be honest, before everything happened I was considering proposing.”
“Proposing?”
“You would make a lovely queen.”
“Shouldn’t you marry someone you love?”
“You struck my fancy.”
“We haven’t even slept together.”
“That was planned for somewhere between then and the proposal,” he says, without a trace of a smile.
“But now?”
“I received a call from the director of the CIA, who then transferred me to someone who wouldn’t give me his name or tell me who he worked for. It was requested that I tell no one about you, not my government or even my closest confidants. They say your cover has taken years to put into place. It’s my understanding you will continue to be Huntley Von Allister.”
“That’s correct.”
“Then please get down on your knees in front of me.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “Are you looking for a royal blowjob?”
“No,” he says, finally laughing at me as he takes a large sword off the wall. “I’m giving you an Accolade.”
“What’s that?”
“A ceremony to confer knighthood.” He grins. “It’s my opinion that making you Montrovian nobility will up your social status and strengthen your cover.” He taps the flat side of the sword on my right shoulder, then gently raises the sword just up over my head and then taps my left shoulder. “With the power vested to me by country and crown, I make ye a knight of Montrovia.”
He sets the sword aside, helps me to my feet, and kisses both my cheeks.
“I thought women couldn’t be knights.”
“You will be Montrovia’s first, and you will be referred to as the Contessa of Courtenay, a nobility title that is bestowed for your lifetime.”
“So you don’t hate me?”
“I owe you my life.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” I touch his face and tenderly kiss both his cheeks, letting the kisses linger. “My mission was to get close to you and protect you.”
“Which you did.”
“Yes, but there’s more you need to understand. I was taught not to become emotionally entangled—told that it only leads to failure, but I failed in that part of my mission. When I ignored you to get your attention and when I saved you, that was me the spy, but as we spent time together and I got to know you, the things I said—they were not part of the mission. Those words came from me, from my heart. I care about you, Enzo.” It’s the first time I’ve called him by his nickname. He covers my hand with his, holding it in place against his cheek. “You are going to be an amazing King.”
We stand and gaze at each other.
“You and I are in the same boat,” he finally says, kissing my lips in a way that feels like goodbye. “Our countries need us.” He shakes his head and chuckles. “I still can’t believe what you did. I’ve only seen people move like that in the movies.”
“It was my first time,” I whisper.
“Your first mission, I know.”
“That’s not what I mean. It was the first time I ever killed anyone.” Tears flood my eyes. “I’m really sorry you had to see it.”
He pulls me into a tight hug. “You took out seven highly-trained guards by yourself, plus Ophelia. I don’t like that people had to die, either, but it was for the good of the world. The good of Montrovia. You should feel no guilt as they brought it upon themselves.” He smiles and tries to change the subject. “So did you receive commendation from your country?”
“I was told to take a couple weeks vacation until my next mission.”
“Hmm, somehow that doesn’t seem like enough. So, I have some gifts for you, my sweet.”
“I don’t need presents, Lorenzo.”
“Nonetheless. From my country.” He hands me a passport. “You are officially a citizen of Montrovia. There are some places in the world you may travel where having an American passport is, shall we say, tricky.”
“Thank you.”
“From the monarchy which you saved, a monetary account has been set up in the Royal Montrovian Bank to be accessed only by your handprint. No identification is necessary. No name. A nest egg in case you decide to retire.” He holds out an iPad, clicks a button, and instructs me to lay my palm on it. “Perfect.”
“And from my mother, for saving her son.” He hands me a deed. “The villa is now yours.”
“Lorenzo, I can’t accept these. I didn’t do it because—” He puts his finger over my mouth to shush me.
“And that is exactly why you deserve them. I’m not finished.” He grins. “As a token of my gratitude—”
An idea flashes in my brain causing me to interrupt him. “With all the women you’ve dated, why haven’t you dated Lady Elizabeth?”
He sighs. “I’m afraid Lizzy—how do you Americans say it—friend zoned me when we were teens. She liked older boys.”
“You’re an older boy now.”
He cocks his head. “You think?”
“Yeah, I do. She would make a lovely queen.”
“Yes, she would. I’ll admit that I have carried a bit of a torch for her since my youth.”
“I could invite her over to hang out. You could show up. Maybe I could find a date, and we could double?”
“Although that sounds lovely, I’m afraid you are due in port. Right now.”
“For what?”
“Your gift from me is the use of my yacht. Do a few quiet days at sea sound good?”
“That actually sounds really nice.”
“Juan will escort you there now.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“But I need to go home and pack.”
“Your luggage is already packed and on board.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“No.”
“Wait, why don’t you want me to go home?”
“Let’s just say Ari will be—um, how do you say it—holding down the fort while you are gone.”
&n
bsp; “Did you give him a passport, too?”
“Yes. You and your brother will always have a home here.” He gives me a hug. “I mean that sincerely. And if you ever need anything. Anything at all. Seriously, call me. I would do anything for you.”
“Thank you. That means a lot to me.”
“And, now, you must go,” he says, shooing me into the secret passageway from the castle down to the harbor.
When I get to the docks, I call Ellis.
“Miss Von Allister,” he says, loud dance music blaring in the background.
“What’s going on there? Is Ari having a party?”
“You could say a party is being had for Ari. Can’t say I mind.”
“Girls gone wild?”
“Very.”
As I get closer to the Royal Yacht, I wonder what to expect on board. Will it be full of hot men waiting to fulfill my every desire?
I see the crew lined up for my arrival. No one else in sight.
“Good afternoon, Contessa. I’m Captain Marco. It’s a pleasure to have you on board. I was told to set course for Ibiza. Unless you’d like to go somewhere else.”
“No, that sounds great. And, please, call me Huntley.”
As I’m shown to the owner’s suite, I realize that the Prince knows the real me well. Knows that I crave solitude and silence. A few days at sea with the ocean breeze in my face sounds perfect.
I change into a red bikini then head to the pool deck. It will be the perfect place to view the gorgeous city as we leave the harbor.
I have music playing, and I am swaying to the sounds of a sultry song as I stand next to the railing and watch my new home retreating into the distance.
A steward brings me a flute of champagne on a silver tray. I raise the glass into the air.
“You should never drink alone,” a deep, sexy voice says as a strong arm snakes around my waist, pulling me back up against a muscular chest and swaying with me. “What are we drinking to?”