The Prince's Playbook
Page 9
The air masks popped out of the overhead containers and dropped. I grabbed a mask and jammed it over Max’s mouth. He removed it and placed it firmly over my mouth. The plane jittered back and forth like a cockroach racing across my kitchen floor. I clung to him, my hands digging into his biceps that flexed hard under my grip.
I flung off the mask. “I’m scared.”
“I’m here for you, Vivian. I’ll always be here for you.”
Chapter 12
MAXIMILLIAN
I held Vivian’s hand as she white-knuckled the armrest while as the jet’s wheels bumped down St. Luce’s runway. The wind buffeted the plane, the landing gear screeched, and the wheels bounced on the runway. “I told you we’d make it.”
“Whoo-hoo!” she said.
The pilot pulled the plane to an abrupt halt.
Vivian looked out the window, which was facing the snow-capped mountains. “There really is snow in July in Bellèno?”
“Yes. The mountaintops get snow all year round.”
Screeching, honking, and blaring emanated from the tarmac. I hope this wasn’t what I suspected.
“What’s that noise?” Vivian asked. Her hands were shaking. “It sounds like my high school marching band.”
I squinted out the window and frowned. “I fear that’s the welcome wagon.”
Karl stood at the front of the plane and took the microphone. “I bet you’re thinking, ‘Phew. We are so glad we didn’t die.’ We at Bellèno Air always planned to get you safely to St. Luce. However, I’m tasked with delivering the unpleasant news that our jet bridge is non-operable.”
“Are we going to be all right?” Vivian asked.
“Yes. Does this mean we can’t leave the plane? I could totally go for a single malt Scotch and some pretzels right about now.”
“Pretzels would be awesome. Even better some fruit?” she asked. “Or possibly chocolate?”
“You’ll be able to exit via our staircase,” Karl said. “We’ve already alerted the tower. Once you’re on the tarmac a limo will arrive to whisk you away to your destination in no time. Thank you for flying Bellèno Airlines!”
Karl saluted me. “Might I say, sir, it’s been an honor serving you?”
I saluted him back. “You’re a patriot. Ready, Lady Fontaine? Not going to puke on your pretty shoes are you?”
“Verdict’s not in.” She reached to retrieve her bags, but I’d already secured them. “You don’t have to—”
“Not a problem.” I nodded. “Ladies first.”
She rose, squared her shoulders, and walked down the aisle in front of me. I could almost see her checking her posture in her head. “Thank you, Max.”
The mountain winds were still battering the aircraft even though we were on the ground. Vivian extended her arms to keep her balance. It reminded me of when she was naked, clutching the bedpost, her delectable bottom up in the air as I nailed her from behind.
“Thank you, love,” I whispered into her ear. “I have a much nicer view of your ass from back here.”
“Shut up!”
She clutched the railing and cautiously descended the jet’s steep, narrow staircase.
The winds whipped the hair around her pretty face as she stood on the tarmac and got her first official look at Bellèno.
A small marching band rounded the compact, pristine, two-story building that was St. Luce’s only terminal. “Looks like we’re getting the official welcome wagon.” I stepped off the plane’s stairs and stood beside Vivian.
She shook her head “Do they do this for everybody?”
"No."
An old-fashioned horse-drawn carriage appeared behind the marching band. The buggy was painted purple, white and gray, and accented with gilded gold—Bellèno’s royal colors. The two horses were gleaming white and in sharp-contrast to the marching band, high-stepped in perfect coordination. The driver, an older man in a black suit and a top hat held their reins. Behind this dog and pony show, six news vans with satellite dishes followed at a respectful distance.
“What’s going on? Where’s the limo?” Vivian asked.
“This is the limo.”
The marching band played a song that was a blast from my parent’s past.
“They’re playing “I Think I Love You” by The Partridge Family,” she said.
“Yes, I know it well.”
The procession approached us until it was fifteen yards away. The bandmaster lifted his hands, paused, and brought them crashing down as the band stopped playing on a dime.
The carriage door creaked open and my nemesis, my best friend, my brother, Prince Leopold Edward George Rochartè Third stepped out. He wore a finely-cut black suit, dragged his fingers through his thick mane, grinned, and bowed to her. “Lady Catherine Theresa Fontaine. Welcome home.”
Prince Leo was a tricky combination of good looks, smarts, a devil-may-care attitude, and entitlement. He was also a charmer. He knew when to turn it on, how to play his cards, and was well versed in getting what he wanted.
Vivian curtseyed. “Thank you your Royal—”
“Call me Leo.”
Vivian gestured to the band. “What a lovely greeting. Thoughtful of you.”
“Anything for you, my dearest Cici. Hey, Max.” Leo frowned. “You’re an unexpected surprise. I thought you were in the States on business.” He bear hugged me for a quick second. “You and Cici shared a plane back?”
“Only the flight from London to St. Luce.”
“You’re late. Did you… detour?”
“No. Thunderstorms in London and a snowstorm in the Alps. Weather, Leo.”
“I trust you haven’t been trying to steal Cici away from me?”
He circled me. It was a tell. Leo was about to do something unsettling. Something that would change the game. I knew what game I was playing, but I wasn’t sure what his was.
“I didn’t know she was yours to steal,” I said.
Vivian stared at her shoes, then lifted her eyes to meet Leo’s.
I cleared my throat. “Leo. You’re heir to the throne. Cici would never be interested in me.”
“You’re right.” He turned and nodded to bandmaster. The band launched back into the song.
Doors to the news vans popped open. Reporters poured out, circling us, speaking in hushed tones into microphones. Their camerapersons focused their equipment.
The winds gusted and Vivian practically swayed in the breeze, her face turning white as a sheet.
“I need to ask you something Lady Catherine Theresa Fontaine,” Leo said. He snapped his fingers. An assistant raced up and handed him a luxurious bouquet of red roses, which he offered to her.
Her hands trembled as she accepted the bouquet. “Thank you. That is so sweet. I need to ask you something too.”
She fanned her face. “Do you have anything sweet I could snack on? Something with a little sugar? A piece of fruit? Some chocolate?”
The reporters smelled weakness or blood and boldly tightened their circle around us. Their cameras clicked and snapped, popped and whirred. Baptism by fire, my darling, Vivian. Let’s see how she holds up.
Leo frowned. “I’m so sorry, Cici. I’m not in charge of the menu today. I think mother has that covered.”
“Is she planning something?” I asked. I hadn’t told mom about The Crown Affair. The last thing I wanted was to put additional worry on her shoulders. She knew the House of Bellèno was in trouble but she didn’t know the extent. Nor was she privy to the real reason I’d traveled to Chicago.
“Does anyone have a granola bar?” Vivian asked. “Like, seriously—all you lovely people out there—” She dropped the flowers on the tarmac and dug through her purse. “I’d pay ten euros for one granola bar. In the States it would cost ninety nine cents at a White Hen Pantry.” Her hand quivered as she held out a bill.
Press and band members dug though their purses and pants pockets. In seconds wrapped bars flew through the air. Two bounced off the airplane and dropped onto
the tarmac. One hit Leo’s shoulder.
Vivian caught a bar and devoured it.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“My blood sugar. If it gets too bad I have a history of fainting. Don’t tell anyone.”
“I’m sure the paparazzi haven’t noticed a thing. Are you planning on fainting now or in the near future?”
“Not anytime soon.” She finished the bar. “The fainting only happens if my blood sugar is so low and I am spent, exhausted, stressed, shocked, or a combination thereof. This did the trick.” She crumpled the foil and tucked it in her purse.
She turned back and executed a royal wave. “Thank you, kind people of Bellèno. It’s good to be home!” She looked at Leo. “Sorry for that interruption.”
“We’ve got all the time in the world, Catherine.”
Competition. Jealousy. A gnarled beast stirred in my gut. I tried to tamp it down but I couldn’t help myself and took the bait. “Cici,” I said.
“What?”
“Your lower lip. Left-hand corner.” I reached my hand out toward her, but she batted it away.
“What?”
“You’ve got a smidge of granola with a raisin.”
“I do?” She swiped her hand over her mouth, captured the crumb, and flicked it away.
“Are you all right Cici?” Leo asked, even more attentive.
What was up with him? When I left for Chicago a few weeks ago he wasn’t all that interested in getting married.
“Yes,” she said. “Disaster averted.”
“Good to hear,” Leo said. “I’d like to get on with the program if I may.”
“What’s on the program?” she asked.
Her pretty face looked tired. I wanted to scoop her up, feed her, fuck her, and then take a nap with her cradled naked in my arms.
Leo stared at her like he was seeing her for the first time—which he was. I suspected we shared the same thought.
“I’ve been flying all day. I could totally go for a quick bite to eat and then grab a nap,” Vivian said.
Leo smiled and took both her hands in his. “Lady Catherine Theresa Fontaine?”
“Yes?”
“I, Prince Leopold of Bellèno, have been in love with you since we met on the playground eighteen years ago.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. You stomped around clutching your favorite doll and you were pouting something fierce.”
“She has a gorgeous pout,” I said.
“I do?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t believe you remember that about Cici-I-mean-me?” She regarded my brother seriously for the first time.
He smiled. “I remember everything about you.”
“Do you remember that you yanked her doll from her chubby hands, tore off the arms and legs, tossed them over the schoolyard fence, and laughed?” I asked.
“I’ve never had chubby hands,” Vivian protested.
“Come on,” Leo said. “That was like two decades ago. Since when have you been keeping score when it comes to Cici? What matters is the present.”
He got down on one knee and pulled a black velvet box from his pants pocket.
Vivian inhaled sharply and clutched her chest with one hand.
“I always knew it was you. But today’s the day that I formally ask.” Leo popped open the box and revealed an engagement ring the size of an apple. Except this poisonous fruit sparkled. “Will you marry me, Catherine?”
“Oh. My. God.”
The tuba player tooted his horn. “Say yes!” the big guy yelled.
Vivian hesitated. A blast of mountain air swooped onto the tarmac and she shivered.
The uniformed trumpet players shot each other a look and blasted their trumpets in unison. “Say yes!” the head trumpeter grinned.
Her eyes widened. “I, I…”
I glared at her and instantly regretted it. This wasn’t her fault. It was mine. I’d gotten her into this. I wanted to take her far away from here. Away from the paparazzi. Way out of Leo’s reach. I’d fly her back to Chicago. Back to any place she’d be safe.
The cymbalist clashed his cymbals and the drummers drummed. “Say yes! Say yes!” they chanted.
She fanned her beautiful face and looked to me for guidance. “Max?”
I couldn’t meet her gaze.
Leo reached over and took her hand. “Say yes, Cici. You’ve been my princess since your first day of kindergarten. Now I’m asking you to marry me, be my wife, and become Princess of Bellèno. What do you say?”
The camerapersons stomped their feet as they filmed. The reporters chanted, “Yes! Yes!”
Vivian gazed at the brilliant, sparkling diamond in the box and then at my ridiculously handsome brother kneeling in front of her. She was a down-on-her-luck American commoner who had had ten days of training. What the fuck had I gotten her into?
She shivered. “Leopold…” She clutched her stomach and swayed in the mountain air. “My answer is… My answer is…”
She crumpled and hit the tarmac.
Chapter 13
VIVIAN
I woke up to two pretty twenty-something female faces hovering over me, both wearing a healthy dose of concern.
“God bless Bellèno, she’s awake!” a cute redhead with cropped, glossy hair exclaimed. “Cici. Can you hear me? It’s Joan Brady.”
“Of course I can hear you.” I glanced around at the small, white, sterile room. A uniformed guard was stationed at the door. “Who’s Cici? Oh, wait a minute… Where am I?”
“She has amnesia!” a young blonde woman said. “I haven’t talked to her in a year except for texts and Facebook and now she has amnesia? How am I going to explain all this to her?”
“Maybe you need to be thinking about Cici right now, and not yourself, Bea,” Joan said.
“I’m not simply thinking about myself. I check Instagram and Facebook twice daily and click ‘Like’ on everyone’s posts. Except for the scary ones that involve bungee jumping or if someone added the ‘I’m in a relationship but it’s complicated’ status. Those frighten me.”
“Hello.” I waved my arms. “It’s me. Lady Catherine Fontaine. I do not have amnesia. Who are you ladies? I’m concerned that this place looks like a James Bond villain’s lair circa the 1960s. Are we trapped here? Do we need an escape plan? Trust me, I’m good with shit like this. Why is the guy guarding that door wearing an enormous cod-piece?” I rubbed the back of my head and felt a lump the size of a goose egg. I winced. “What happened?”
The women rolled their eyes and clucked their tongues. Joan pulled a silver flask from her purse, took a sip and handed it to Bea. “Single malt. Prince Harry’s private reserve. The good stuff.”
She accepted it, downed a shot, and grimaced. “Excellent. Thank you. Look into my eyes, Cici, and concentrate. My name is Lady Beatrix Hafligher. Our great grandfathers were first cousins and served together during the Great War.”
I blinked. “World War I?”
“Not that Great War,” Bea said. “The Great War of 1965 when the Bellèno bakers declared war on the fishermen to protect themselves from the hardened loaves of bread and stale rolls that, when properly aimed, could take out a man more efficiently than a volley of bullets. The fishermen fashioned armor from petrified fish scales. That codpiece—” she pointed to the guard’s groin “—is a revered, traditional outfit for a Palace Guard of the Inner Circle. The nuns taught us that in grade school at All Saints. Remember?”
“Of course.”
Joan took my hand. “Cici. You blacked out on the tarmac and hit your head.”
“We were waiting for you in my family’s limo next to the runway and watched the whole thing happen,” Bea said. “You fell over like a fat redwood after a lumberjack took a chainsaw to your trunk. We followed your ambulance to the hospital.”
“I’m not fat.” I frowned.
“No, but you’ve picked up a few curves in the States. Tell all. Did you get your boobs done?” Joan asked.
“I read that if you talk about what you remember immediately following a head injury, your memories might return.” Bea grabbed an ice bag from a stainless steel medical stand and held it firmly against my head. “What do you remember?”
“Airplane turbulence, no food on the last flight—not even one piece of fruit—a loud marching band, hot guys—a ginger and a brunette. Hold on, I already know the ginger—Max. There was also an engagement ring with a huge center stone and a serious question.”
“The enormous center stone is Leopold’s style,” Bea said.
“He’s always been partial to over-the-top bling.”
A nurse popped her head in the room. “You’ve been given the all clear, Lady Fontaine. You can get dressed and check out of here. You just can’t drive.”
Joan pulled her buzzing phone from her purse and tapped the screen. “Your papa messaged. He’s on his way.”
“No.” I sat up. “Text Papa and tell him I’ll meet him at home.”
“Done.” Joan keyed the message in and tapped send. “We’ll drive you.”
“But what about Prince Leo’s question?” Bea asked.
“What about it?”
‘What was it’ would have been the more appropriate prompt as I could barely remember Leo let alone his question. I plopped my feet onto the floor. The guard leaped across the room and slid hospital slippers on my feet.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, my lady.” He moved back to the door.
“His proposal came out of left field, but it can’t be completely unexpected,” Bea said.
“Expecting what?” I trudged across the room in my wispy hospital gown. A chilly breeze traveled up my spine. I realized my ass was peeking out the split in the gown’s rear. I twisted a hand behind my back and fumbled to hold the pieces together.
“Cici,” Bea said. “You have to remember. It’s the biggest question of your life.”
Joan tapped a finger on her head. “Head trauma.”