The Prince's Playbook

by Pamela DuMond

  And just like that, nearly two weeks in Chicago flew by. The Crown Affair had started off as an idea. I lucked out when I stumbled across Vivian at MadDog. I was thrilled that Catherine had seen fit to hire her, and over the moon that she had been trained so well in all things necessary to be perceived as royal.

  One tiny problem.

  I was developing feelings for her.

  A bigger problem.

  I couldn’t let that get in the way of why we’d hired her.

  I still wanted tonight to be special, something she’d remember if I saw her in passing in Bellèno.

  Our five star Italian dinner at Castellamare on Taylor Street in Little Italy was not only special because Vivian had now graduated from princess training school, it was likely our last unencumbered, uncomplicated night together. Tomorrow was her free day to clear up loose ends, attend to her personal life, and do whatever she wished. If all went according to plan, my darling Vivian would be leaving for Bellèno in less than forty-eight hours with Mr. Cartwright and stuffy Zara to chaperone her.

  Castellamare was old school, tiny, and used to be someone’s living room. It usually took months to get a reservation but I called in a favor and one of my banker pals pulled some strings. The tuxedoed waiter dropped off the first course. Vivian swirled her a fork in the creamy pasta, lifted it to her mouth, and took a bite. She paused, confusion crossing her face. “This is what fettucine burrino is supposed to taste like?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “It tastes nothing like the stuff in the box.”

  I smiled. “No, it doesn’t. You’d be surprised what other items, once unwrapped, taste like.”

  “Are you talking about the chicken rustica?” She closed her eyes, savoring the dish.

  I stared at her lips. “The chicken rustica’s the best I’ve had since I visited Milan a few months ago. But no. I was not thinking of the chicken rustica.”

  “You’re spoiling me, Max.”

  “I want to spoil you more. Give me a chance. Say the word.”

  She pressed her napkin against her lips, set it on the table, and looked at me. “Word.”

  “Wait.” I shook my head. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “I’m serious. Word.”

  “Prince Maximillian Rochartè? Your Royal Highness? Is that you?”

  I startled and turned to the sound of the voice at the next table. My heart sank. Someone had finally recognized me.

  “Yes, so good to see you, Phil, yes? Phil Constantine?”

  “You remembered,” he said. “Pleasant surprise to see you here. What are you doing in Chicago?”

  “What I’m always doing. Business.”

  “When was the last time we stumbled across other?”

  “The party at the consulate?”

  “Which one?”

  “Balls if I know.”

  He laughed, and gestured to curvy, short brunette with a cute face to his left. “Might I introduce my fiancé, Angela Katsaros.”

  “Lovely to meet you, Angela. This is my friend and business associate… Lady Catherine Fontaine.”

  Vivian looked at me, eyes widening.

  Show time.

  She nodded to Phil.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Fontaine,” Phil said.

  “And you.” Vivian smiled.

  “Lovely to meet you, Lady Fontaine,” Angela said. “Are you in town for business as well?”

  “You could say that,” Vivian said, glancing at me.

  Angela turned to Phil. “Honey, our party tomorrow?”

  “Right,” Phil said. “Angela’s parents are hosting our engagement party at Athena’s. It’s a last minute invitation, I know, but we’d love it if you’d stop by.”

  We’d be honored if you made an appearance,” Angela said.

  “Cici calls the shots. I’m practically at her beck and call these days,” I said.

  “Don’t exaggerate, Max,” Vivian said. “We’d love to attend your engagement party.”

  “Aren’t you getting ready for a trip?” I asked.

  “Love should be celebrated. We can make time for a celebration of love.”

  “Great,” Phil said. “I’ll message you the details.”

  * * *

  I held Vivian’s hand as we made our way from the car to the front stairs of her walkup apartment. “Word?” I asked.

  “Words have come and gone. Replaced with the harsh reality of work.”

  “I missed my moment?”

  She released my hand. Hers lit on the wrought iron rail, its paint peeling from wear. I gazed at her a bit moonstruck as she put her key in the lock. “Come on, Vivian. Ask me inside tonight.”

  “Not tonight, Max.”

  “We won’t have forever, you know.”

  She met my look. “That’s what scares me.”

  Chapter 9

  VIVIAN

  He was killing me.

  Prince Maximillian Rochartè of the House of Bellèno was killing me. The delight that consumed his face when he surprised me with something new was intoxicating. The charming stories he told me about his family. The way his lip quirked in that sexy way when he was being a smartass. The longing in his eyes when he asked if he could come in was nearly irresistible.

  I closed the front door, counted to thirty, then raced to the kitchen window and peeked out as his driver carried him back to the Drake. Back to the world of perfection and loveliness, where everything was in order.

  Don’t get me wrong. The paycheck was sweet. My curtseys were impeccable. I rocked the best royal wave in all of Chicago and I’d probably sport perfect posture for the rest of my life. But I was losing a battle with self control. My reservations were melting like the polar ice caps. The third night after we went out for dinner, after he took me for tapas, my ability to turn him down was disappearing. I shut the door in his face, gritted my teeth, and counted to ten.

  I peeked out the window, watched their car round the bend, then raced to my room, and turned on “Ice Cream” by Sarah MacLachlan. I wriggled out of my pants and pulled my top up. I shut my eyes, ran my fingers across my breasts and pushed a hand between my legs. I was already dripping wet.

  I imagined him stripped naked, reddish curls on his hard chest. His fingers would trace my breasts, then he’d palm them, kneading them as my nipples hardened and my breath quickened. He’d touch me, circling his fingers around my clit, making me wetter and wetter until he slipped his cock inside me and I shuddered from his fullness.

  ‘You feel, incredible, love. You okay?’ he’d ask, in between trailing kisses down my neck.

  ‘Better than okay. You feel amazing.’ I’d said, as he buried himself in me, riding me hard, then harder.

  I came hard that night after we went out to dinner. I came harder the night after that when I imagined him parting my legs, bending his mouth to my pussy, and lavishing my clit. If actual sex with Prince Maximillian was half as good as my fantasies, I’d be a lucky woman.

  Now I was left with one free day to wrap up my outstanding business, say goodbye, and make excuses to my nearest and dearest as to why I wouldn’t be around for a few weeks. Tomorrow I’d be traveling to Bellèno. Zara had already packed my bags, dropped off my new passport, credit cards with photo IDs, bank accounts, fresh iPad, laptop, and phone.

  The next day I sat with my BFF, Lola and her son Mateo in the nosebleed section of the White Sox’s bleachers. We stood up and sang along to “Take Me out to the Ballgame” during the 7th inning stretch. When the Kiss-Cam flashed I wished Max was here. But Prince Max wasn’t in this ballpark today—literally or figuratively.

  “I can’t get over it,” Lola said. “You look like you and yet you look completely different.”

  “It’s the hair. I’m the same old Vivian. Nothing’s changed except I have less in the hair and nail department.”

  “You still can’t tell me the deets about the new job?”

  I shook my head. “I signed a confidentiality a
greement.”

  “They’re not going to take a kidney, are they?”

  “I have been assured no kidneys will be taken.”

  “I’m going to miss you,” Lola said. “I already miss you at Mugshots. That asshole Woodman hired some chick with big hair and fake nails who wears bubblegum pink lip-gloss.”

  “That sounds like me.”

  “She’s not you. She wears her skirt so high she’s practically giving the goods away every time she drops off a drink. The new customers are tipping her like crazy.”

  “You don’t know what they’re tipping her for,” I said. “My new gig only lasts a few weeks. I’ll be back home in no time. If Mugshots still sucks, we can look for new jobs together when I get back.”

  “I’ll miss you.”

  “Ditto.”

  * * *

  A few hours later I squared off against Uncle Florio at Winterpark Assisted Living across a Ping-Pong table. I slapped the ball back at him and it skimmed the net. He scooped it up with his paddle and volleyed it onto my side of the table. I took my best shot but the ball hit the net.

  “And that is match,” Uncle Florio said. “Your dear old uncle beat you three out of five.”

  “At least I won two this time. Are you happy here?” I sipped from a water bottle. “I’m leaving town for a few weeks.”

  “But you don’t like to travel.”

  “This is for my new job, Uncle Florio. It won’t be that long. A temporary position.”

  “Are you coming back?”

  “Of course.” I brushed his salt and pepper hair off his worried brow.

  “Your dad said the same thing when they left on the bike outing. ‘Look after our Vivvie for just two nights, Florio,’ he told me. But then he and your mom were in the accident and—”

  “I’ll come back, Uncle Florio. I promise. I’ll always come back.”

  * * *

  Max wanted to pick me up and drive me to the engagement party.

  I texted and told him no. The truth was I running late from Uncle Florio’s. The more accurate truth was I wanted to look good tonight. Really good.

  I showered, then rummaged through the suitcases that Zara had already packed. I pulled out an above the knee black fitted dress with a pinch of spandex that had been selected for cocktail parties. It had a boat neckline and short, fitted, mesh sleeves with a tucked, narrow waist. I shook it out. It was hopelessly wrinkled.

  But I was a determined girl. I walked down the hall to the bathroom, turned the shower back on ‘Hot,’ hung the dress on a hook, and closed the door. I shimmied on my new, pretty black lace thong with matching bra. Ten minutes later I retrieved the dress from the bathroom and voilà. Perfect. I pulled it on, smoothing it over my bust, hips, and down my legs. I sat in front of the mirror at my bureau and pulled out the small tray with my makeup from a drawer.

  I wanted him to see me tonight. Vivian Marie DeRose. Not Lady Catherine Fontaine.

  I applied light base, and a little shimmer to my cheeks and eyes. Zara had taught me how to dial back the cat-eye liner, making the look more elegant. I swiped my lips with sheer gloss, styled my hair in a loose chignon, and secured it with a rhinestone pin. I grabbed black, Stuart Weitzman slingbacks and slipped into them. Then I donned a pair of drop pendant diamond earring knockoffs.

  I checked my reflection in the mirror.

  Not horrible.

  Half an hour later I walked into Athena Restaurant on Halsted Street. Live music emanated from the back of the place. The smells of allspice, gyros, and Mediterranean food wafted through the air.

  “Katsaros-Constantine engagement party?” a hostess asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Up the flight of stairs in the back. It’s a great crowd. Have fun!”

  The ceiling vibrated above me as I made my way up the carpeted stairs and peered inside the party room. The party was in full swing. I took a moment to take in the gaiety, the distinct smell of ouzo, the flames of saganaki, the cries of “Opa!” and people laughing. And the endless shots. The air conditioning was on and the windows were open, but it was still summertime in Chicago and it was hot. I took off my wrap and draped it over the crook of my arm. I spotted Max at the deep end of the room. He’d ditched his coat. He was wearing a crisp white shirt with the top buttons open. There was a hint of reddish curls on his defined chest.

  An older man with eyebrows that resembled mating caterpillars tapped my arm. “Kopelia mou!,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you my whole life. Toast with us.”

  “Your whole life?”

  “Seventy-six years. Thank God you finally showed up. I was growing tired.” He rolled his eyes and handed me a shot glass. “Cheers!”

  I tossed back the shot and then Max was at my side, slipping his arm naturally around my waist. “Hands off, poacher. She’s mine.”

  “You snooze, you lose,” the guy said.

  “Don’t try and steal my gal,” Max said.

  Max exhaled. I watched his breath leave his full lips. I imagined those lips on my body. “You clean up nice.”

  “You look hot. Shall we?” He took my hand, like it was something we did all the time.

  I let my hand stay in his. It felt comfortable. Safe. Tingly. “Shall we what?”

  “Congratulate the couple in love. The couple that has committed to matrimony. The thing that must be celebrated.”

  “Of course,” I said. We made our way toward Phil and Angela as the DJ span Donna Summer’s “I Feel Love”.

  “You look so happy,” I said to Angela. “Huge congratulations.”

  “I am,” she said. “Thanks for coming. Are you having fun? Did you have some food? Oh my god, the gyros are to die for...”

  “Come here, my gorgeous, fiancé,” Phil said, pulling her away from me. “I feel love.” He led her, giggling, to the dance floor.

  “Come here, gorgeous, Lady Catherine Fontaine,” Max said, pulling me toward the dance floor.

  “No.” I stood firm, locked my knees, and resisted him. “I’m a shitty dancer.”

  “Too bad. You shouldn’t have worn a dress like that if you didn’t want to dance.”

  “Just one, then.” I relented. “And you have to promise not to laugh.”

  “It’s disco, love,” he said and gave a pelvic thrust, worthy of John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. “We’re all laughing.”

  * * *

  By the time his driver had parked down the block and Max had walked me back to my place, I was hot and sweaty. The black dress would have to be cleaned. But I’d had the time of my life dancing disco with him and tossing back shots.

  “Are you going to ask me in tonight, Vivian?”

  I’d already unlocked the door and cracked it open. Tomorrow I’d start the crucial second part of my job: traveling to Bellèno, impersonating Catherine. But now I paused on the concrete stairs of my walk-up. “We’re from different sides of the tracks. We can never be.”

  He walked the few steps toward me and gazed up at me. “You don’t know that, love.”

  “I do.”

  “You’re a risk taker, Vivian. I see it in your eyes. I saw it the first night I met you at the bar when you poured that pitcher of margaritas on top of that guy’s head. How are you going to feel if we miss our opportunity?”

  “Our opportunity?”

  He nodded. “We’re young. You’re gorgeous. I’m appealing on a good day. We’re both healthy.”

  I cracked a smile.

  “If you don’t ask me inside tonight you’ll always wonder. You’ll look back in fifty years and think, ‘I really wish I had asked that relatively appealing young man inside on that very warm night in Chicago, Illinois.’ Say the word, Vivian.”

  For better or worse I made my decision. I held my hand out to him. “Word.”

  He took my hand, interlaced his fingers between mind, and we walked inside my apartment.

  Chapter 10

  MAXIMILLIAN

  Her place was small. Suitcases were li
ned up against the wall next to the front door. Unlike the outside with its peeling paint and crumbling concrete, the inside was tidy and pretty. Pictures of her friends and family were on the wall along with a few lithographs. I followed her into the kitchen. There was a Formica table with two seats. My phone buzzed with a text. It was a message from my fuck buddy girls. I didn’t want or need this right now.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Vivian asked.

  I placed my phone on the table, grabbed her hand, and pulled her flush against me. The beast was stirring and I wanted to feel her. “Yes, you.” I pressed my lips to hers, softly at first, then more insistently.

  I needed.

  I wanted.

  At last I would have.

  Her lips were soft and full. She parted them with a breath, and I found my way inside, exploring. She tasted of hopes and dreams. “Delicious, Vivian,” I said, pulling the clip that held her hair in that messy bun. Her hair cascaded and bounced off her shoulders. I ran my fingers in it, twisting a lock around my fingers, reveling in its softness.

  She sighed. “What are we doing, Max?”

  “Anything we both want, darling.” I pushed the sleeve off her shoulder and kissed her creamy skin. My hand roamed across her tits. I cupped one breast and kneaded it before I switched to the other.

  She moaned as her breath came faster. “Better question. Should we be doing this?” she asked.

  “We should have done this the first night we met.”

  * * *

  Her bedroom was tiny and simple but I didn’t care. All I cared about was in front of me. Vivian. Princess. Pawn. Fantasy girl. I’d already taken off my shirt. Now I unzipped her dress, my fingers caressing her skin. “Step out of it, love.”

  She placed a hand on my shoulder to balance, and did as I asked, her frock falling to her ankles. She stood in her black lace bra, nipples jutting through the see-through lace. Barely-there matching panties skimmed her hips. Her warm pussy practically called my name. “Intoxicating.”