by Susan Stoker
She sighed and clicked up the best one of Prince Erik, before his slow attempt to go horizontal. “This one is good,” she said into her headset. “I’m sending it right now, Carrie. The rest are on our shared drive, you can check them all out, but I think this one is perfect for your article. Let me know.”
“Thank you, Maya. Talk soon.”
Pulling off her headset, she rubbed her forehead and sighed, then grabbed her phone. Still nothing from Mags. This was strange, because a kind word for Mags might be ‘over-communicator.’ Mags was probably busy and preoccupied, driving away in a chauffeured car with a prince to talk about expanding their donations. Maya got that. But it had been six hours. Not even one single text?
She wrinkled her nose and wandered into the kitchen, stomach grumbling. A sharp rap on the front door made her slam the fridge shut.
“It’s about time!” she exclaimed, pulling open the front door. “I can’t believe you didn’t— Oh. Sorry.”
Instead of Mags, there was a black-suited, ear-pieced bodyguard, like the ones surrounding Princes Erik and Henri. WTF?
“Hello?” Maya’s voice was uncertain. “Can I help you?”
“Prince Henri of Syldavia would like to speak with you,” the guard said, tone even. “Would you please accompany me to his vehicle?” He gestured to the street. A few doors down, a black luxury car idled, windows tinted so dark the occupants were invisible.
“What?” She stepped out of her doorway and peered at the car, then stepped back.
“If you’d like to get your things, I will wait.” The guard had the same exotic accent as Henri. “Please do not rush.”
“Oookay.” She bit her lip. “What does he want to talk about?”
The guard didn’t shrug or make a motion. “He would like to talk with you. He would appreciate a few minutes of your time.”
“But he didn’t say why?”
“I am not privy to his private conversations.” The guard remained patient. “He said it was urgent.”
“Oh, really?”
The guard, impassive, nodded. “Yes.”
“Well, I guess.” How could she resist the curiosity? She had a sinking feeling that just maybe, this might be related to the fact that she had not heard from Mags all day. Even so, she imagined a scenario that ended with Henri’s lips on hers and his hands on her body, and his voice, saying he couldn’t resist, he had to have her. Right after he apologized for being a dick, of course.
She flushed. “I’ll just be a minute.”
She closed the door and put her hands to her cheeks. Deep breaths. She ran to the bathroom and brushed her teeth like a madwoman and fluffed her hair. Lip-gloss, check. Phone in purse, check. Quick rub of perfume on her wrists. She took her phone out and sent an urgent text. Prince Henri at my house. Where the hell ARE YOU?
Then, terrified he might have decided to leave, she grabbed her keys, opened her door, and almost knocked into the guard. “Okay! I’m ready. Cool. Thank you. Okay. So, uh, he’s in the car already? Right now?”
“Yes.” The guard gestured. “Please.”
When he opened the car door, her eyes widened to see Prince Henri there, all 6 foot 5 of him, as sexy as before. The smell of his cologne and the leather interior of the car mixed into a heady concoction that swam into her brain as she slid across the seat, wishing that she were wearing something fancier than her casual skirt and top.
“Thank you for joining me.” Henri nodded, then spoke to the driver in French and pushed a button to roll up the partition. “I imagine you were surprised at my request?”
“We didn’t leave on the friendliest terms,” Maya pointed out. “And we don’t exactly run in the same social circles.”
He smiled. “I imagine we don’t. Pity.” His eyes traced her curves, not in a pervy way, but assessing, with warmth.
She flushed, and he offered his hand. “Shall we start again, perhaps? I’m Prince Henri IV of Syldavia. And you?”
She took his hand. “Maya Murphy of Chicago, the one and only. Volunteer photographer at Save Our Smiles and owner of my own photography business.”
“It’s a pleasure.” His voice was low and silky, and her stomach fluttered. God, no wonder he was always in the press with a woman! She was ready to fling her panties at his head right the fuck now and beg him to take her on the seat of this limo.
She cleared her throat. “To what occasion do I owe this pleasure?”
His smile faded. “My brother has been incommunicado for the past six hours, ever since he disappeared with your friend. I would like your assistance.”
“To find them?” She raised her eyebrows. “You’re the one with, like, ten private guards and probably your own personal FBI, and you think I have the skills you need?”
He laughed, a short bark. “We know where he is. He’s at his private hotel suite in downtown Chicago with her, not answering calls or knocks at the suite.”
“You can’t just go in?”
“He’s a royal prince of Syldavia. One does not simply go in if he does not want you there. Even his brother.”
“Oh.” Worry flooded her. Oh, Mags! What are you doing? She bit her fingernail. “Okay. That’s… wow.”
“The question is not where they are, but what state he’ll be in tonight, at our gala.” The prince sounded grim. “As you noticed, so aptly before, he was indeed a trifle… relaxed… on the stage.” He grimaced. “I need you to sign this.”
Out of the dim, he produced a clipboard with a sheaf of white papers clipped to the top, and a gold pen. “Non-disclosure.”
“For?”
“Read it.”
“Right now?”
“Yes, right now. Please.”
She shrugged, scanned. “This says I can’t talk about any personal details I learn about the royal family, divorce proceedings, family issues. I don’t understand.”
“If you come with me right now, you are going to be privy to personal information that cannot be made public. By signing this, you agree not to do so, under legal risk of a lawsuit.”
“Okay, but just for the record, if you sued me, it’s not like you would make bank. My entire house, and I’m not knocking my house for one single second, my entire house could probably fit in your seventh servant’s uglier bathroom. And have less precious jewels in it. I’m not worth a whole ton, money-wise.” But she scrawled her signature on the line. “Here, go crazy.”
He smiled. “You have an odd sense of humor.”
“So, okay. I signed. I still don’t get why you need me.”
“I want you to get your friend to back off. Whatever she’s doing with my brother, she needs to stop, okay? He’s… in a delicate place right now, with his divorce, with his celebrity. I’m afraid he’s going to make a terrible mistake that could hurt the both of them for a very long time.”
She bristled. “Mags is a great person, okay? Whatever’s she doing with him, I’m sure is honorable and just fine.” She bit her lip, thinking about their discussion and Mags’ exuberant declaration about becoming a princess. She grimaced.
“Aha! You know it’s a problem.” He pounced.
“I know no such thing, okay? She was really excited about the interview. She’s not some whore, okay? And even if they did happen to, whatever, it’s not like he’s uninvolved. So don’t make her out to be some tramp. He’s just as trampy. I bet his tramp stamp card is way fuller than hers, BTW.”
She crossed her arms and scowled at him.
He frowned back, then burst out laughing. “Tramp stamp card? I can’t even… that doesn’t even make sense. But it’s funny.”
She softened into a giggle. “Right? I was proud of that one.” She preened, then sighed. “Mags really isn’t like that, okay? Whatever is going on, I’m sure it’s not… bad.”
“The only contact I got from him is that he’s bringing her to the gala tonight, and she’ll be his dinner partner. But his voicemail was a trifle garbled. I’m concerned.”
“Oh. Wow.” A
slight stab of jealously flitted through her chest, but it wasn’t really about Mags. She envisioned that stupid Celeste in some amazing ethereal gown, dancing with Henri. “And you, are you taking Celeste to it?”
“I’m taking you.” He handed her a small black leather case. “Look inside, please.”
“You’re—me? What?” She shook her head, looked at him, then opened the case. “A credit card?”
“You’ll need a dress and shoes. It’s only fair that I provide it for you since I asked you to attend.”
“That, and you probably assume I don’t have anything suitable in my closet?”
“Do you?” He raised an eyebrow.
“No.”
“Well, then.” He gave her a smug smile.
“You know, I don’t…” she trailed off. “You really want me to come to this gala with you?”
He nodded. “I do.” He took her hand, and she felt the sparks again. “Please. I would like your help to rein in my brother. I can tell that, despite your neurological condition, you are a kind, caring and realistic person.”
“My condition? Oh. Yes.” She turned red.
“That was unexpectedly hilarious. You and your friend do seem to have a good time.” He sounded wistful.
“Don’t you joke around with your brother?”
He shook his head. “Not like you do, not with anybody.”
“That’s sad.” She couldn’t imagine life without humor.
“It’s not that I don’t laugh, Maya. But my family is very intense and proper. Joking around like you do? It’s not… done. But I like it.” He sounded surprised. “I like it.” He sighed. “And I imagine that so does my brother.”
He twisted on the seat to look into her face, and squeezed her hand. “I’m not trying to denigrate your friend. I’m sure she is a lovely person. But an affair right now? The media will eat him alive, and his wife—it would ruin any chances of reconciliation. He doesn’t need this. He’s supposed to enter rehab next week for substance abuse problems, a very discreet place in Switzerland, private, with a private doctor. I don’t know your friend. I don’t know what he’s telling her. I don’t know what he’s deciding to do or not do after meeting her. I don’t want him to even think about postponing his treatment again because he’s met someone. I’m scared.”
His raw honestly punctured her façade. “Oh, Henri. I’m sorry.” She took his other hand into hers and squeezed. “I really am. Look, Mags is a good person. If we explain it to her, I know for sure she’ll support his rehab, okay? One hundred percent. And we don’t even know if they’re having an affair. I mean, God, they just met. Right?”
“So you’ll talk to her, confidentially? Ask her to help him, keep his information private? Encourage him to go?” He touched both of her shoulders and looked directly into her eyes.
She nodded. “I mean, I don’t know how much help I can be. I can’t promise you anything. But, yes, I will talk to her. Of course.”
“I’m sorry I insulted your charity before, and the honor of you and Mags. That was wrong of me.” He sounded so genuine. “I’m panicked about Erik. He’s making bad decision after bad decision, and the press is catching on that he’s in trouble with substance abuse. I’m afraid that his talk today will give them more ammunition. He’s charming and charismatic when he’s himself, and it’s easy for him to convince women to—look.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I just want to get him some help before it all falls apart in the media.”
Sobered, she nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry about your brother.” Yet even though they were talking about something serious, she couldn’t ignore the flashes of passion that kept surging through her body every time he touched her or leaned closer, sending his intoxicating cologne into her space.
“So I appreciate your help, and I hope we can be friends.”
“Friends.” She gave him a look. “Okay, sure, let’s be BFFs. Later, after we save your brother, we can braid each other’s hair and talk about boys.”
She crossed her legs, and her skirt slid up, revealing a patch of bare thigh. His eyes darted down, then met hers, and the slow smile and the look in his eye made her catch her breath and flush, her breathing coming faster.
He snorted. “Je préfère te déshabiller et parler de comment je vais te faire crier de plaisir.”
“What’s that?”
He smiled. “I said, what a wonderful idea.”
Chapter Three
The golden gown ($5,000) fit her like skin, like it was meant for her body alone. It dipped down in back nearly to the crease of her buttocks, and skimmed her like fingers, like a butterfly’s touch. Her breasts were firm and full, and the front of the gown displayed them, treats in a French confectionary, something out of a dream. The shoes were wisps of gold and air ($1000), and her hair was all Vogue.
The woman in the mirror was so unlikely that she reached out and touched the glass, as if to verify: Yes! This is me. It is. She tried to figure out if the clothes looked as expensive as they really were. Was there something different about a five-thousand-dollar gown that made it imbue a person with something extra? She thought that there was.
It didn’t make her essence any more valuable, of course, to wear a dress worth a fortune. But it made her cognizant of the cost of the ensemble, and that gravity became part of the outfit, too, as much as the clothes themselves. It was a little nerve-wracking, uncomfortable, humbling and fucking exciting to wear something this rich. It was wrong to wear a gown that could cover the cost of so many surgeries overseas. But here she was.
“Are you ready?” Henri’s voice, muffled from behind the ornate door, startled her.
She swallowed and picked up her tiny beaded clutch. “I am, yes.”
She opened the door and almost gasped. If he’d looked handsome before, in his suit, he was wickedly attractive now in his formal tux that fit him effortlessly. His eyebrows raised and he murmured something in French as he stepped forward to kiss her on the cheek.
Startled, nervous and attracted, she twisted her head at the exact moment he bent forward to kiss her, and his lips ended up on her neck, sending shocks of arousal through her body. He steadied her with his hands, and his chuckle tickled her skin.
“Sorry,” she said, breathless. “I’m not used to hello kisses. I don’t know how they work.”
“You don’t know how kisses work?” He raised an eyebrow and smiled. “I’m appalled. I will make it one of my duties tonight,” and he lowered his voice and leaned his head in, “to teach you about it.”
Her eyes widened, imagining his lips on hers, and her face flushed.
“First lesson,” he said, running a finger across her cheekbone for a mere second. “You let the man kiss you first here. Stand still, please.” He pressed his lips to her left cheek, lingering for just a split second longer than she remembered seeing these kisses go on TV shows. “And then he kisses the other. Yes?”
He paused and looked into her eyes and smiled, and she nearly combusted. Then he bent in and kissed her other cheek, sending wild sparks into her entire body.
“And do I…” her voice was breathy. “Am I supposed to kiss you, too?”
A broad grin spread across his face. He cleared his throat. “Usually to avoid destroying their lipstick, the woman kisses the air next to the face.”
“Okay.” Her heart pounded so fast she could feel it in her wrists.
“So. We try it again. Come here.”
She widened her eyes, but he took her hands in his. “You look breathtaking, Maya.” He smiled, then leaned in and kissed one cheek softly, then the other. This time she stood still and didn’t jerk her neck, but her breath came faster with the second kiss. She was sure he could see her pulse in her neck, feel it in her skin.
“Perfect,” he murmured, touching her arm for a second. “You are a natural.” Then he added, “Il y a tant de choses dont je voudrais t’ensigner, et ce bisou est juste le commencement.”
“What was that?”
He c
huckled. “I merely said that I am looking forward to tonight.”
“I somehow think it sounded more complicated. Doesn’t bisou mean kiss?”
“That it does.” He raised an eyebrow.
“And doesn’t ensigner mean teach?”
“You only require a little more tutoring, and your French will be on point, like your kissing. This way, please.” He touched the small of her back, and she gasped at the warmth, and the way arousal flooded her. “We will drive together. And hopefully, if all goes well, Erik will be there shortly with your friend.”
“You know, for the record, I am a very good kisser. When it comes to real kisses.”
“Are you?” He stopped walking and looked into her eyes.
She sucked in a breath at the feral look in his eye. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and for a second—one crazy second—she was sure he was going to…
“Henri. We must leave.” An aide touched his sleeve.
He nodded, stepped back, but offered her his arm. “If you please.”
She took it. “Thank you.”
***
The room was so full of glittering décor that one could nearly forget that behind it all was the same brown wood, the same tile floor that housed things less fantastic; medical awards dinners, perhaps; political fundraisers. But she was in the mood to be beguiled, not just by her own clothes, but by the surroundings.
Shimmering silky drop cloths adorned the walls. Chandeliers sparkled in a thousand directions, dancing off a thousand smiling faces wearing a thousand diamonds. A classical string quartet was set up on a stage, a jazz band on another. Right now, the jazz band was on break, and the violin was singing something achingly beautiful that shot shards of desire into her soul.
“This is magnificent,” she said, squeezing Henri’s hand. And it was as much the man beside her as the ambience that had her swimming in the stars. How was it possible that regular—cool and amazing and awesome, yes—but still regular Maya was here, with these people?