by Lara Hunter
THE PRINCE’S TRIPLET BABY SURPRISE
By Lara Hunter
And Holly Rayner
Copyright 2016 by Lara Hunter, Holly Rayner
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.
All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.
Table Of Contents:
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
ONE
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Lisa Garcia snapped her copy of the New York Times back on her coffee table, sighing audibly as the Brooklyn night churned on outside her window. She’d scoured the paper, studying the various photographs, the way the features used stunning pictures that didn’t just “complete” the stories, but breathed life into them.
She swept her long fingers through her wavy, white-blond hair, which gleamed in the light from the street lamps. Protected within the confines of her one-bedroom apartment, she felt far from the roving 20-somethings on the street, who lived to drink, to party, to yell.
Lisa hadn’t moved from her hometown, Detroit, to New York in order to sleep around, to bat her eyelashes at strangers, or down shots till dawn. She’d moved there to become a top-tier, professional photographer.
And now that she was 26 years old, she sensed that finally, that future was just around the corner. She just had to accept all opportunities that came her way, and be ruthless in sniffing out her path to the top. As of late, those opportunities had been purely tabloid-based. But everyone had to start somewhere.
Lisa padded to her kitchen, just a few feet from her couch in her closet-sized one-bedroom, and set the kettle on her stove, waiting as the stovetop turned a bright orange. It was autumn, and the New York night was crisp, its trees turning cheery yellows and reds—mere weeks from dying sad, brown deaths. As she waited, shifting her weight from one fuzzy-socked foot to the other, she was reminded that she hadn’t had a sizeable project in weeks. Her bank account dwindled away with each passing hour, with the electricity that pumped into her light bulbs and the heat that poured from the furnace.
She needed something. Anything. She couldn’t phone her mother for a loan again. That had been a dark, terrible day—knowing her mother had been struggling to put food on the table her entire life. “I don’t have a Prince Charming,” her mother, Diana, had scoffed, swiping crumbs from the table. “I only have you. And me.”
Lisa bobbed her tea bag in her cup, watching the brown liquid spread like lazy tendrils in the water. She had been feeling lonely lately; homesick for friends who were no longer like her, who no longer held the same beliefs about life, love or happiness.
Her best friend from home, Anne, had recently had a baby—a tiny-toed, tiny-fingered thing, with soft cheeks and a funny sneeze. And now, her entire life revolved around him, and posting silly photographs over Facebook while telling Lisa they should “catch up soon.”
Lisa had never put much stock in the married-with-children scenario, anyway. Since as far back as she could remember, her career had held absolute priority in her mind, alongside a deep, entrenched hope to save up enough money to go to college and use the skills she’d learned as a paparazzo in a more traditional environment.
Cue her endless subscription to the New York Times. Cue her refusal to date around. Cue her long walks through Central Park and Brooklyn, taking street photography, hopeful that she’d find one or two celebrities a week, minding their own business, sipping coffee, clinging to their last bit of normalcy. She would rob it from them. Because, in her industry, it was eat or be eaten. And she’d come too far to quit.
She lifted her phone to her ear, knowing that the sound of her mother’s voice always calmed her, assured her that she could pull through. “I always did, honey,” she’d murmur. “I always made sure we ate, and no one else mattered. And now, it’s just you against the world.”
But as she paused, her eyes closed tightly and her eyelashes flickering against her cheeks, Lisa felt the sudden vibrate of her phone, already pressed to her ear. Calling out to her at this incredibly late hour, there in her cave in Brooklyn.
Immediately, the photo ID gave him away. Lisa donned her articulate, professional phone voice and twirled her near-silver locks, smiling brightly as she spoke. “Rocco,” she said to her boss. “How are you this evening?”
Rocco Salvador, editor-in-chief of notorious tabloid, the Daily Sneak was smug and sleek: a fierce gay man who’d never had a stray hair or in his life, and who grew angry quickly, whether it be at a one-hour tardy photo, or an off-angle shot of a celebrity (both things that had happened to Lisa more than once).
“Fine. Actually, better than fine,” Rocco began. “We’ve just received a bit of information, and I thought I’d pass it on to you, Garcia. You’ve been busting your tail for the past few months—everyone can see it—so I’m entrusting you with something big.”
Lisa’s eyebrows rose high on her forehead, excitement brimming within her. Rocco had never once complimented her commitment to the position in the years since she’d accepted it. Was her ship finally coming in?
“But I should emphasize, doll, that this is a very important job. If you don’t think you can handle it, say so now so I can pass it along to one of our more—shall we say—accomplished photographers. Do you understand?”
“Of course,” Lisa whispered, almost breathless. “Of course I do. And I’m up for it.”
“Fine, fine,” Rocco said, without pause. “Have your notebook ready.”
Lisa was already poised, her pen hovering above her pad of paper. She shivered with anticipation.
“Prince Francesco of Aluzzi—that tiny, mega-rich country down the coast from Italy—darling, I’m sure you’ve heard of him. Prince Francesco of Aluzzi and Princess Rose of the Netherlands are engaged to be married.”
Lisa eyed her words on the page. The scribbles were barely legible. “Mm-hmm,” she murmured. “Engaged. Got it.”
“But there’s something different about this engagement,” Rocco continued, pushing ahead. “The couple’s courtship has been rather tumultuous. They’ve been spotted fighting all over the world. From Amsterdam, to Berlin, to Moscow, these two royals can’t seem to agree on anything. I read just last week that Princess Rose left the Prince in Paris without telling him. He was running through the streets, drunken, demanding people tell him where his princess was. And then, days later, they became engaged. Now, does that sound like the portrait of a happy couple, or what?”
Lisa’s heart thumped. “No, it doesn’t,” she whispered. “And perfect fodder for us. Has anyone else gotten to them yet?”
“That’s the very thing, my girl,” Rocco affirmed. “No American tabloid has captured them post-engagement, and certainly not in the middle of one of their famous rows.
“And where are they now?” Lisa asked, continuing to scribble. This could be her big break, if o
nly she twisted many, many arms across the world to reach it. She sizzled at the thought of so much work, knowing that she’d have to scam, cajole, and bribe her way to the best scoop.
“That’s not a question I can answer, darling,” Rocco said, scoffing slightly. “You’re the reporter, are you not? Get to the bottom of where they are in the world, right now. If you can get a picture of them arguing somewhere romantic-looking, then you’ll be seeing a nice five-figure sum in your bank account no sooner has the paper hit newsstands. Capeesh?”
Lisa’s eyes widened at the proposition. She’d never been paid more than a thousand dollars for a photograph, and her stomach flipped at the thought. Her bank account was dwindling ever toward zero, a reminder that failure was constantly hovering.
“I do,” Lisa said with conviction. “I understand completely. And I will deliver.”
“Good,” Rocco said. “I’ll expect the photographs on my desk within the week. I wish you the best of luck, Garcia. You’re going to need it. Ciao.”
With that, he ended the phone call, sending a high-pitched beep into Lisa’s ears, an affirmation that she was alone again.
She eyed her phone, her blood pumping quickly, her ears ringing slightly. She’d never been handed such a big assignment before. She felt that the money was already in her bank account; her bills were already paid; her college tuition fund (preferably for NYU, so she could continue her photography in the city) was finally set up. If she was going to compete in the world of photography, she was going to have to stretch her spine, crack her knuckles, and dive into the trenches. She was ready.
TWO
Despite the late hour, Lisa set to work immediately, pulling out a list of sources she’d used previously—taxi drivers, flight attendants, restaurant servers, and coffee baristas—people of all professions who blended in, but who saw and heard things due to their camouflage. These sources came across celebrities on a near-daily basis, and for a small price, they lit tabloid photographers’ ways.
“Marco,” Lisa said brightly, speaking with one of the baristas at a hipster coffee shop in Brooklyn. “How have you been?”
“Get to it,” Marco huffed, clearly drunk. Lisa imagined him at a corner bar, cigarette smoke oozing from between his lips. “Who do you need?”
“I get it. No time for pleasantries,” she said. “I need to get to Prince Francesco of Aluzzi. You got any word of him being in the city soon?”
Marco sighed evenly, the sound crackling through the phone speaker. “You don’t want to mess around with that, Lisa. Bad people.”
He cut the phone call short, then, allowing an ominous feeling to fold over Lisa. She shivered.
But still, she continued, her mind focused. She wouldn’t be defeated. She dialed Melanie, an airline attendant she’d met when pursuing an action hero, and she answered the phone cheerily, clearly well caffeinated due to her long hours.
“Darling Lisa,” she began, her voice lilting with the slight British accent she’d picked up in her years working for a UK-based airline. “How have you been? And who are you searching for?”
Lisa grinned, on the hunt now. “Hi, Melanie. I’m looking for Prince Francesco of Aluzzi. Have you heard anything?”
Melanie hummed for a moment, parsing through the many conversations she overheard every day. “Prince Francesco. I’ve actually seen him before, you know.”
“Really?” Lisa said, beginning to scribble. She only had a vague memory of what the Prince looked like. Black-haired, olive-skinned, remarkably handsome, with a slightly crooked, alluring grin. “What was he like?”
“Oh, love, I only saw him from afar,” Melanie continued. “At Heathrow. I haven’t seen a more attractive man in all my life, I swear. Far too handsome for the likes of that Princess Rose. That slob. I saw her eat an entire hot dog on a stick once. Disgusting.”
Lisa had to stifle a laugh. “Sure. That sets a wonderful dynamic for me,” she said, half-joking. “Any word that they’ll be in New York soon? Otherwise, I suppose I can travel…”
She imagined her empty bank account, an assurance that she’d have to take a loan from her mother if she needed to high-tail it to Europe at a moment’s notice. The thought curdled her stomach.
“Let me see,” Melanie murmured. “You know, I think you might know the Prince’s New York driver. He used to drive for that basketballer, when you took those shots last year. Do you remember?”
Lisa did. The amount paid—a whopping one thousand bucks, her biggest paycheck ever—had been for an image of the same basketballer sauntering through the crowd, an ice cream cone held high above peoples’ heads.
“Sergio,” she murmured.
“The very one. And a bright fellow, I think,” Melanie said. “I saw him at the airport and asked him who he was driving for these days. Michael fired him. Said he wanted to stick to Chicago for a while. The poor thing.”
“Wow. I think I have Sergio’s number, actually,” Lisa said, flipping frantically through her notebook. “We spoke at length last time. I think he’d remember me.”
“Of course he will. But he won’t remember you for nothing,” Melanie said, her tone hardening slightly. “And darling, neither will I.”
Lisa sighed, pursing her lips. “Sure. Absolutely,” she replied. “Can I offer you—” She paused, working out what funds she could possibly spare. “A hundred dollars?”
“Perfect,” Melanie said, and Lisa could hear the smile in her voice. “Thank you, darling. You can transfer me the amount tonight. Until next time!”
And with that, Melanie was gone, leaving Lisa to simmer in her own thoughts. She walked to her computer and sent the funds to Melanie, thankful that the woman had had any information at all. And then, she searched through her spreadsheet of previous sources, noting that it had been years since she’d contacted some of them. God, she’d been scampering after celebrities for far too long.
Prince Francesco’s driver, Sergio, had grown up just outside of Rome before coming to New York City as a 21-year-old “with dreams the size of Florida oranges.” When they’d first met each other, for the basketballer assignment, Sergio had been reserved. But after an hour or more of speaking, he’d eased into a grandfatherly demeanor, telling her he’d do “whatever he could” to help her, and not to hesitate to call him again.
Lisa dialed the number, not expecting Sergio to answer at such a late hour. But after two rings, the familiar, grumbling voice burst through the speaker.
“Lisa Garcia? Is that you?”
Lisa smiled, laughing to herself. “It is. How have you been, Sergio?”
“Oh, fine. Fine. The basketball player lost me. But I suppose you already knew that.”
“You got me,” Lisa said. “Nothing gets past you, huh?”
“Nothing,” Sergio affirmed. “So, you want to see the Prince, now, do you?”
“And preferably the Princess, too,” Lisa said, tapping the tip of her pen against her pad of paper. “Guessing they’re not in the States right now, since you’re available for this call?”
“Au contraire,” Sergio said. “In fact, I listened to them bicker just this afternoon driving them to his New York apartment. You’ve called at a wonderful time, Miss Lisa. Maybe you have the ear and the eye for this business, after all.”
Lisa brimmed with sudden excitement. “They’re in town tonight?”
“I believe they’re around for a few days,” Sergio continued. “But I can feed you something. A little bit of extra information, if you want to meet me tonight.”
Lisa’s heart jolted. “I’m guessing you want me to bring something along, for your trouble.”
“Sure do, Lisa. I don’t work for free. You know that.”
Lisa bowed her head, disappointment filling her. She’d just paid Melanie a hundred dollars, and Sergio would require at least double that. Outside, someone smashed their beer bottle against the sidewalk. She heard the pieces of glass scatter across the asphalt.
“Let’s meet at the corner of B
roadway and Bleecker, then,” Lisa murmured. “I’ll bring cash.”
“Three hundred, my little paparazzo,” Sergio affirmed. “And not a dime less.”
Lisa felt the words like a knife. But she agreed, before hanging up and clinging the phone close to her chest, simmering with panic. The world had begun to spin for her. She had pay to continue the ride.
She dressed quickly, painting on red lipstick and swiping mascara over her eyelashes, before donning jeans and a black V-neck. She rushed down the steps, her long coat flapping behind her, and swept to the ATM. She closed her eyes as the machine spit out a thick wad of twenty-dollar bills. She clung to the money, her hand pushed deep in her coat pocket, as she rushed to the subway, her heels clacking on the pavement.
By the time she reached the corner of Bleecker and Broadway, she was breathless, harried. Sergio stood, his rotund body leaning against the brown bricks, sliding a triangle of pizza between his lips. His beard, curled and greying, was speckled with grease. He grinned at her as she approached.