To Kiss a King (Royal Scandals: San Rimini Book 6)

by Nicole Burnham

  “It looks too romantic.” It was a statement, not a question, but a rare grimace registered on Luisa’s face.

  “Your Highness, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, well—”

  “No, no. You don’t have to say it aloud. Your expression makes your thoughts clear enough. I’ll have them change it. I don’t know what Samuel thought I had in mind when I said I’d invited the new U.S. Ambassador to dinner, but this seems more flowery than usual.”

  “The flowers themselves are fine, but perhaps you could ask Samuel’s staff to remove the candles and raise the overhead lighting.” She paused, then added, “If you still think the pink flowers are too much, they could be switched with the arrangement that’s on the hall table outside Prince Antony’s apartment. It would work with the linens, but it’s smaller and white.”

  “I’ll do that.” He aimed a look at the handbag tucked against Luisa’s hip. “You’re heading home?”

  “Yes, though I did want to hear about today’s luncheon at the aquarium. And your breakfast with Prince Marco.”

  “Breakfast was postponed to tomorrow. Amanda wasn’t feeling well. But the aquarium was wonderful. Have you visited recently?” When Luisa shook her head, he described the newest exhibits and suggested she take her teenage nephew sometime soon. “They’re showing a new documentary on marine conservation he’d love. It’s fascinating. I wish I’d been able to stay for the entire film.”

  “He’s spending a weekend with me next month while my sister and her husband attend a wedding in Switzerland. I’ll reserve tickets and we can make a day of it.” They chatted for another minute, then she wished him a good night and said she’d see him on Monday.

  “Enjoy the rest of your weekend, Luisa. Thank you for the report and the dinner assistance.”

  He walked her to the door, then used the dimmer switch to adjust the lights in the great room to a level more appropriate for a business meeting. He dropped the papers on the desk in his study, then introduced himself to Emilia, the young woman who was arranging the flatware. He complimented her on the overall presentation, but asked her to remove the candles and switch the centerpiece for the one Luisa had suggested. Satisfied the romantic decor would be toned down, he headed to his bedroom suite to freshen up.

  It was odd. Samuel had planned dozens of table arrangements for dinners over the past few years, but none had looked like that. And he couldn’t remember the last time Luisa had come to the office on a weekend. He might work seven days a week, but he refused to burn out his staff members by requiring them to do the same.

  Which made him wonder: why had Margaret Halaby stopped by his office to deliver the media report on his Our Place appearance? Typically such material would be covered in their regular Monday morning meeting.

  He studied himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth. Did the whole palace think he was undergoing a midlife crisis? Because he’d danced with an ambassador and invited her to dinner?

  He spit into the sink, then rinsed.

  No, he decided, his imagination was getting the better of him. Samuel mentioned there had been turnover in the kitchen recently due to the retirement of several longtime employees. If the staff members setting up the table were sneaking looks at him, or were arranging the table in a different way, that was the most likely explanation. They were getting used to their new roles.

  This time of year was beginning to make him paranoid. The news media wasn’t alone in sensationalizing his relationship with Aletta. Souvenirs with their wedding photos were sold in every tourist shop in the country. Restaurants posted photos of her visits in their windows and on their websites. Even a local beach that had served as the site of their first date—a group outing with friends when he and Aletta were teenagers—often touted that fact to draw visitors.

  Then there were the stories. A fictionalized version of his and Aletta’s relationship had appeared on television in the United Kingdom and two miniseries had aired in the United States within two years of Aletta’s death. One of the American miniseries had been picked up by several European outlets and was broadcast at this time each year.

  Apparently another television movie on Aletta’s life was in production in Egypt, though he had only heard about that one through word of mouth. He’d been told the producers planned for it to be aired on the tenth anniversary of her death.

  Ridiculous as it sometimes felt, the world’s obsession with Aletta Masciaretti wouldn’t change. He needed to trust that his staff knew him better than the media did. He wasn’t on a date, nor should he have concerns that was what they believed.

  Besides, he barely knew Claire Peyton. She was intelligent, of course—she needed to be in order to do her job—and she was both attractive and single. But he knew dozens, probably hundreds, of women near his age who fit that description. And never once had a member of his staff expressed concern that he’d buy a red Ferrari and go zipping along the coast with a different woman in the passenger seat every weekend.

  He checked his hair and teeth a final time, then exited the bathroom. He was not having a midlife crisis.

  He finished his preparations and strode into the great room just as Miroslav Vulin, a massive Serbian man who worked closely with Chiara Ascardi in palace security, knocked and entered. “Your Highness, Ambassador Peyton’s car just entered the rear gate. If you’re ready, I’ll escort her here.”

  “Thank you, Miroslav.”

  Not long afterward, Eduardo heard the click of the vestibule door being opened, then the tap of heels on the hardwood and the heavier tread of Miroslav’s feet.

  Miroslav entered, then gestured for Claire to move into the great room. “Your Highness, Ambassador Peyton is here for dinner.”

  He crossed the room as Claire entered. To Miroslav, he said, “Thank you.” To Claire…well, to Claire he said, “Welcome,” though he was suddenly at a loss for words.

  She thanked Miroslav for the escort as he departed, then turned from the door and shot him a smile he felt clear to his bones.

  If anyone had the potential to send him along the road to a midlife crisis, he decided right then and there it would be Claire Peyton. She looked stunning. He shouldn’t notice that about an ambassador, but he did. Her eyes were warm and lively, her lips curved into a soft pink smile, and though her cream-colored suit and light blue blouse were perfectly suited to business, they also perfectly suited her figure.

  He hadn’t been this disconcerted about being alone with a woman since his first solo date with Aletta and he’d been sixteen at the time.

  “The residence is lovely,” she said as she moved forward and shook his hand. “I appreciate the invitation to dinner here.”

  He thanked her and, grateful for the opportunity to latch onto a subject that would help clear his thoughts, he added, “The room was recently refurbished. It hadn’t been updated since well before my father was born. Every wall was covered in heavy brocade wallpaper. Having it removed made quite a difference.”

  She took a long look around the room, which was now covered in a pearl white paint. The baseboards had been stripped of years of wax, then refinished in their original dark color. The contrast gave the room a luminescent quality, especially at this time of day, as the sun set.

  “It must have been quite dark in here, given that there are so few windows,” she said. “I’m surprised an update wasn’t completed earlier. You strike me as the type who prefers to surround yourself with all things light and bright rather than cocoon yourself in a dark room.”

  He smiled at that. Most people who visited the residence commented on the color, rather than the feeling it evoked. “I try not to hide away anywhere.”

  “Surely even a king needs respite from the world now and then.”

  “Now and then, but I don’t consider respite the same as hiding.” He cocked his head. “As an ambassador, you’re often the center of attention. When you need time to yourself, do you consider it hiding?”

  “I don’t, but when my phone i
s turned off, my staff does.”

  “How often do you turn your phone off?”

  She laughed and he loved the sound of it. “Almost never.”

  “So you don’t hide, either.” He gestured toward the bar, which was discreetly tucked against the wall near the entrance to his study. “May I offer you a drink before dinner?”

  “I would love one, thank you.” She glanced around as he crossed the room and opened the cabinet doors. “You’re pouring?”

  “Contrary to what most people believe about royalty, we’re entirely capable of preparing our own drinks. Or drinks for guests.” He scanned the bottles, then said, “I believe the chef plans to serve red wine with dinner, but I have the ingredients for a Negroni or an Aperol spritz, and the staff had the forethought to leave fresh ice. I also make a decent Manhattan. What would you like?”

  “What are you having?”

  “When I drink these days, it’s usually whiskey. But in the spirit of going light and bright rather than dark, I’ll have a Negroni.”

  “Then make it two.”

  As he opened the gin and measured it into a cocktail shaker, Claire asked, “You said ‘when you drink these days.’ Meaning?”

  He capped the gin bottle, then tapped his chest with two fingers. “I had heart surgery a few years ago to repair a defect. All is well, but I err on the side of caution.”

  “I remember reading about that. I’m glad to hear that you’re healthy.”

  He aimed a wry look at her as he added Campari to the shaker. “You weren’t briefed?”

  “I was, but I was also given background on a slew of parliament members, your chief justice, and several other prominent citizens. That much information at once tends to run together in a person’s head.”

  Once he had all the ingredients, he put the lid on the shaker and gave it several flicks of the wrist, studying Claire’s face as he did so.

  “I don’t think much runs together in your head. I suspect when it comes to your job, you keep everything straight.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  He poured, then handed Claire her tumbler. “The President wouldn’t have assigned you to San Rimini if you weren’t intelligent. You also have backbone. Most in your position would have kept silent if Sergio warned them not to raise a topic with me. You called me out on his warning, but you did it with grace.”

  “Was it grace that earned me tonight’s invitation? Or guilt?”

  His eyes caught hers. Energy sizzled between them, so strong it was almost palpable. Neither of them looked away. They’d each been too well trained for their jobs to ever look away. But in this case, the underlying tension had nothing to do with work.

  It took Eduardo a few beats to answer. “The invitation was sent because you deserve to be heard. Over Sergio’s objections, I might add.”

  “It’s his job to watch your political back.”

  “Yes.”

  “He does it well. Your approval rating is very high.”

  “I like to believe that’s due to my irresistible personality and sparkling wit rather than Sergio’s political acumen, but let’s not tell Sergio.”

  “I have no intention of doing so.” She took a sip of her Negroni and her brows lifted in approval. “You really do know how to mix a drink, Your Highness.”

  “If I’m ever forced to abdicate, I’ll keep bartending in mind as a backup.”

  That made her grin. “Well, on that note, it’s my understanding that one never attends a dinner in San Rimini empty-handed.”

  She moved toward the vestibule, where he spotted a bag he hadn’t noticed before. She must have set it down as Miroslav escorted her inside. She bent to catch the handles, then returned and presented it to him. He gave her a questioning look before he reached inside and partially withdrew a large bottle of whiskey.

  “Colkegan Single Malt,” he read aloud.

  “Product of New Mexico. Don’t forget that part. It’s my home state.”

  “I had no idea that New Mexico produces whiskey.”

  “There are a few boutique distilleries. I thought you’d enjoy trying an American whiskey.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  He slipped the bottle back inside the bag and was about to place it on top of the bar when she said, “There’s more.”

  Curious, he took a second look inside the bag. Sure enough, there was a small glass container at the bottom. When he read the label aloud, he couldn’t disguise his amusement. “Prickly Pear jelly?”

  “Made with green chiles from New Mexico. It’s good stuff, but I offer no guarantees as to whether it’s easier on the heart than whiskey.”

  “Are you hoping I drop dead? I must warn you that if you harm the monarch, diplomatic immunity won’t cover you.”

  “Not at all. In fact, it would be rather inconvenient if you were to drop dead, given that you invited me here to discuss San Rimini’s participation in a program that is near and dear to my heart. Consider it a peace offering.”

  He looked at the label again. “Prickly pear? And after I sent you an olive tree. One strikes me as more peaceful than the other. In fact, I was going to send flowers, something local to welcome you to San Rimini. But then I thought, ‘what’s more local than a Banduzzi olive?’”

  “It’s a lovely olive tree,” she admitted. “You need to focus on the pear rather than the prickly.”

  “A peaceful prickly pear?”

  “Bit of a tongue twister, isn’t it?”

  He laughed as he placed the gift bag on top of the bar. “How about this: I’ll consider the whiskey a peace offering. It’s good for mellowing the soul.”

  “On that point, we agree, Your Highness.”

  A knock sounded at the door. Eduardo told Claire, “I believe our dinner is here,” then called out, “Please come in.”

  Emilia entered with a rolling cart. Samuel Barden trailed a few steps behind.

  Eduardo looked at him in surprise. “Samuel, I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  “Your Highness,” the chef said with a slight dip of his head. “I wanted to ensure all was in order. I hope you’re having a good evening?”

  “I am, thank you. Madam Ambassador, may I present Samuel Barden. He is my personal chef and plans the menu whenever I host dinners such as this. And he is supposed to have today off.”

  “It’s an honor, Madam Ambassador,” he said, shaking Claire’s hand.

  “The honor is mine. Whatever you brought on that cart smells divine.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am. If anything is not to your liking, please let me know. It’s my job to ensure that everyone who enters the king’s residence leaves well fed.”

  “I’m certain I will.”

  Eduardo escorted Claire to the table and introduced Emilia, then Samuel presented a pinot noir while Emilia filled their water goblets and set dinner before each of them.

  Once all was in order, Eduardo thanked Samuel and Emilia, then assured them that all was well and that he would call when he and Claire were ready for dessert.

  After they departed, Claire said, “He’s worked for you for some time.”

  “He has. Before he became my personal chef, he ran catering operations for the entire palace. You should have seen the reception he managed when the King and Queen of Spain came for a state visit. There were over four hundred guests, yet each meal looked and tasted as if it had been cooked by a master chef for a private table.”

  The conversation turned to business topics after that. He told her about a threatened fisherman’s strike his office had been monitoring and she shared news on an initiative a prominent American tech company hoped to pursue in San Rimini. That evolved into a debate on how the United States’ latest trade agreement with the European Union would affect countries around the Adriatic, and he found himself settling into the usual cadence of all his business meetings.

  Yet for the seriousness of the topics, the evening didn’t feel like work. There was a lightness to their conversation th
at put him at ease. Good food and good wine helped, as did the setting.

  “So, King Eduardo,” Claire said, eyeing what was left of her salad and the elaborately garnished manicotti Samuel had served, “I sincerely hope this is your favorite meal.”

  He grinned at the light teasing in her tone. “And why is that?”

  “Because you invited me here to discuss the education program and I’m about to do just that. I want you in a good mood.”

  He made a point of using his fork to expose the copious amounts of spinach inside his serving of manicotti. “I would prefer a good American cheeseburger with fries, but since my chef fears such a meal would put me into cardiac arrest, this is as good as it gets.”

  He meant it, too. Though Samuel did his best to create delicious meals, Eduardo couldn’t remember the last time he had a meal containing anything close to the medical community’s recommended daily limits of fat or sodium. He told Claire, “My staff doesn’t seem to understand that cholesterol wasn’t the problem. It was structural.”

  “They care about you.”

  “That they do and I’m grateful, which is why I eat what Samuel prepares, even when it involves flaxseed or mounds of vegetables. I also see a trainer three times a week who happens to be the first cousin of my personal assistant, Luisa. It keeps everyone happy.”

  “Everyone but you?”

  “If they’re happy, my life is considerably easier. It’s worth it.”

  Claire tilted her head, making a show of studying his navy suit. “You’re overdressed for a Big Mac. But I’ll express your appreciation of our beef industry to the President and I’ll see what I can do should you attend a dinner at the embassy.”

  “Even though you’re a vegetarian? You represent your country and its interests well. I must keep that in mind.”

  Her soft brown eyes widened in surprise. “How did you know that?”

  “It was a guess. I noticed that you ate the salad and the rice at the credentials ceremony, but didn’t touch your cordon bleu. Apparently my staff hadn’t been informed.”

  “That was entirely my fault. I was focused on the speech and the proper etiquette for the occasion and failed to communicate my dietary preferences. But I’ll keep in mind that you watch what a woman eats.”