The Prince's Playbook

by Pamela DuMond

“I’d like to pose a bigger question,” I said. “You ladies are here. Where are the guys? You know—the ones from the airport.”

  “They’re waiting for us to give them the thumbs up to see you,” Bea said.

  “Why are they waiting for your approval? Are you the Mafia? The Vatican? The CIA?”

  The hospital door flew open and slammed into the guard. A full-figured twenty-something woman wearing a red and black flamenco dancer’s outfit strode into the room and headed straight toward me. “No, bitch. We’re your Ladies-in-Waiting.”

  My breath caught in my throat and I pressed my palm over my paper-thin gown to my chest. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “I am Lady Esmeralda Ilona Castile Hapsburg the Fourth.” She pointed at me with one black-gloved hand. “And I want you, Cici.”

  “No, no. You totally don’t want me. I might have brain damage.” I pointed to Joan. “Take the redhead. She’s super cute and smart.”

  Esmeralda pulled me to her, squeezed me tight, and whispered, “I missed you so much. Don’t tell the other bitches—I mean ladies. They’ll detect I’m weak and go for the jugular.” She pulled away.

  “Okay,” I said.

  Esmeralda tossed her mane of brunette hair and clicked castanets. “The ‘guys’ are waiting for us—your Ladies-in-Waiting—to give them the heads up, the okay, the all-righty-then, the get-the-job-done, before we allow them to see you.”

  She eyed the guard collapsed against the wall, lifted her skirts seductively over her knees, and posed Marilyn Monroe-esque ala The Seven Year Itch. “Cancel your plans for tonight, soldier. I’ve got far better ideas for you.” She winked and blew him a kiss.

  “My ‘Ladies-in-Waiting?’” I asked. “Why do I have Ladies-in-Waiting?”

  “Get a room, Esmeralda,” Bea said. “Do not think you can pull that ‘I’m half Spanish and love runs through my veins’ excuse for the umpteenth time. We know your Latin Lover excuse is thinly worded for shameless flirt.”

  She laughed. “We’ve put up with your shtick forever, Cici, because we suspected that some day it would come down to this. Someday you would need us. When push comes to shove, we’re all loyal. And each of your Ladies-in-Waiting has a super-power.”

  “Super-power?” I asked.

  “Esmeralda, you’re exaggerating again,” Joan said.

  “Am I?” She raised an eyebrow and held onto her skirt. “No matter what the circumstance, I, Esmeralda Ilona Castile Hapsburg the Fourth can dance.” She twirled in the middle of the small hospital room. “Remember the time we danced topless in that little club on the Algarve, Cici?”

  “No,” I said.

  “I do,” Bea said.

  “Esmeralda, stop being a show-off,” Joan said. “We need to get Cici home so she can rest up and make a decision on her very important question.”

  “Who says chivalry is dead?” Esmeralda scrawled her phone number on a napkin and tucked it down the front of the guard’s codpiece. “Call me.”

  * * *

  I landed at Cici’s family’s condo high in the sky overlooking St. Luce, Bellèno’s capital city. I watched TV coverage from my ‘family’s’ luxury penthouse in the Alpine Towers. City lights shone around the streets twenty-five stories below, twinkling like fairy dust around the elite shopping and restaurant districts.

  Multiple flatscreens mounted on the living room walls aired coverage from a variety of news channels that had shown up for what the media had dubbed the “House of Bellèno’s Almost-Engagement’ Debacle.” Each news feed showed me on the tarmac, the wind whipping through my hair. Max stood next to me staring into the distance looking pouty, as Leopold dropped to one knee, held out the velvet jewelry box and asked me to marry him.

  Each channel also featured video of me as I collapsed into a heap while Max and Leopold dove toward me to see if I was still breathing. Five networks placed a fuzzy banner across the explicit view straight up my conservative designer skirt that had hiked all the way up to the top of my thighs and had flopped wide open.

  The sixth displayed my new, expensive, lace underwear that barely covered my lady bits. I thanked my lucky stars that Zara had ordered the full Columbian that day at Misha’s Salon, and not its less-aggressive cousin—the Brazilian.

  I watched the relentless, looping coverage while reclining on a velvet chaise lounge and spooning double dark chocolate ice cream from a crystal bowl.

  The older, handsome, silver-haired man seated in a recliner next to me was Cici’s father, Lord Angus Fontaine. Their family money was legendary, passed down from generation to generation. They were widely regarded as the Medicis of Bellèno: wealthy, conniving, supportive of the arts, and backstabbing assassins when required.

  “This is the best ice cream ever,” I said.

  “Organic milk from free-range cows who are grass-fed in the pastures surrounding our mountain chateau,” Lord Angus said. “You look healthy. You’ve changed since last I’ve seen you.”

  Let’s get this one out of the way.

  “How so?”

  “I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “It’s the Midwest. A decent place to live. I’m glad you stayed home, Papa. The hospital was crowded.”

  “Do you really want to become Princess of Bellèno?” he asked. “It’s your dear deceased mother’s cherished dream, but I’m not sure it’s yours.”

  “I’ll admit, at first the concept threw me. But then I warmed to it.”

  “It’s been sixteen months since we’ve seen each other. I got so scared when I saw the footage of you passing out on the tarmac. I’m so sorry we went so long without seeing each other, Cici.”

  “I missed you too, Papa. I’m fine. The flight over the Alps was rocky. My blood sugar dropped and I passed out. It’s nothing serious.”

  “Good,” he said and stood up. “I’ve got a conference call in a few. Do you need me to cancel?”

  “Business as usual,” I said.

  “Go say hi to Helga. She misses you. Good to have you home, sweetie.” He walked off.

  Helga… right—the Fontaine family’s chief cook and bottle washer for the last seven years.

  I got up and stretched. I doubted I’d see Papa again before morning. And because I’d passed out before I’d given Prince Leo an answer to his marriage proposal, the entire population of Bellèno was holding tight to their lederhosen because they didn’t know if I was lying in a hospital room, dead on a mortuary slab, or if I’d just said no.

  At least that’s what one news anchor speculated. That I’d turned Leo—aka The Playboy Prince—down because he’d slept with half of Bellèno’s royal court as well as women from adjoining countries and a principality. Another reporter insisted I was in seclusion, surrounded by my nearest and dearest while I contemplated my answer. A third channel featured relentless close-ups of my stomach while their female anchor with too much filler in her upper lip suggested that I was sporting a baby bump. Couldn’t a girl eat a decent meal without people thinking she was pregnant?

  I looked out the penthouse’s floor to ceiling windows. There were views of the capital city of St. Luce, old buildings mixed with new. A pretty castle sat on a hill in the distance with a moat around it. Seriously. Castles still have moats? Was Max holed up in his own private quarters at the palace? Had he hooked up with those girls in London? Why was I even bothering trying to wrap my brain around this? Prince Maximilian Cristoph Rochartè was out of my league. I was here for a job, and that didn’t include hot sex with a hot ginger prince. That was a one-time perk, better than an onstage kiss from a rock star. It was a royal fantasy I’d forever cherish. The problem was, it felt like more than that.

  It felt like a deep friendship was building between us. It felt like Max and I were old souls who had known each other forever. Like I had met my match. That what happened between us wasn’t just a random royal roll in the hay.

  I was past tired but my adrenaline had kicked in and wouldn’t shut down. I pushed myself off the couch
and wandered down a hallway into the kitchen. It was large, immaculate, and filled with shiny, state-of-the art appliances. Oil paintings of fruit lined the walls. I rinsed the ice cream bowl in a stainless steel sink, opened the cabinets, and searched for detergent.

  A woman barked, “Cici! What are you doing?”

  I swiveled and recognized a short, older woman from my tutoring sessions with Zara and Mr. Cartwright back in Chicago. Helga: chief cook and bottle washer for the Fontaine family since Cici was seventeen-years-old. “I’m looking for soap—”

  “I thought you were never coming home.” She leaped on me and smothered me in a bear hug. If a bear could be four feet eight inches tall.

  “Oof!” I gingerly hugged her back.

  She released me. “You need to rest. I will wash. What are you stinking?”

  I lifted one arm and sniffed. I was a little stinky. “Sorry about that.”

  “Not stinky—stinking.” She grabbed the ice cream bowl from me. “You need to go to bed. Sleep. Now.”

  Great idea. But there were so many rooms in this place. I didn’t know which one belonged to me. “The place looks different, Helga. Which bedroom is mine?”

  “Your bedroom is the red one, silly. The red one will always be yours.”

  “Thanks.” I exited the kitchen, padded down the marble hallway and paused at the first tall, wooden door. I wiggled the knob and peeked inside. The room was pastel blue featuring a large bed with a big, blue canopy. Not red. Not mine.

  I shut the door and wandered to the next one. This room had a king bed with a black and gold canopy. Not red. Not mine.

  I turned right down another hallway and poked my head inside another doorway. A flat-screen hung on the wall, a ping-pong table positioned on one end, a kitchenette tucked in the other corner. Free weights were stacked against one wall. Open-faced wooden cubicles filled with white, cushy towels and robes lined another. A sunken hot tub occupied a corner of the room. Metallic rails lined the steps leading down into the steaming waters and the air smelled of eucalyptus.

  Not red. I didn’t care. Mine!

  Except for a quick nap on Posh Air, I’d been up for well over twenty-four hours. I desperately needed to sleep. But the steam wisped from the simmering hot tub waters and I remembered the mineral waters at the Drake Hotel.

  I stripped off my clothes and glanced down at my new La Perla bra and panties. Did I really want to soak my new fancy underwear? No. The windows in the room were high and covered by blinds. I was alone and I was in Europe. I unhooked my bra, shrugged out of it, and tossed it onto my clothes pile. I shimmied out of my panties and pitched them as well. I leaned down, set the timer for five minutes, and the waters bubbled to life.

  I stepped into the tub, leaned back against the tile, and flinched when the painful bump on my head brushed against tile. I flipped over onto my stomach, placed my arms on top of the hot tub’s tiled lip, and rested one cheek on my hands with my legs splayed out behind me. “The perfect end to my not-so-perfect day.”

  “Actually, I’d call that the perfect ‘rear-end’ to my almost perfect day,” Max said.

  My head snapped up.

  He stood in front of me, wearing a look of amusement.

  “Oh, crap,” I said and ducked under the water.

  Chapter 14

  MAXIMILLIAN

  I smiled down at Vivian, naked under the bubbles. “Vivian!”

  “It’s Cici!” She slapped one hand across her boobs and the other over the V between her legs.

  I was a terrible person, but I couldn’t help but play with my delectable mouse. “Are you drowning, Vivian? Do you need me to rescue you?”

  “No! And don’t call me Vivian. We’re in Bellèno. You have to call me Cici.” She glared at me from the churning waters. “What are you doing here? Never mind. Leave. Now.”

  “I texted Joan Brady. She said the ladies had dropped you at the condo. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “I’m fine, thank you. Who let you in?”

  “A short, squat woman with a little moustache. She said you were headed for bed. I insisted that I needed to see you or I’d worry the entire night. She gave me directions to your room. I passed this door, heard the jets fire up, and peeked inside.

  “Mission accomplished. Go.”

  “But I have a question for you.”

  “Then ask it and leave, I beg you.”

  I leaned down and winked. “Who looks really sexy when she’s wearing only bubbles?”

  The hot tub’s timer clicked off and I realized that very soon I’d feast my eyes on almost every square, naked inch of delectable Vivian. My shitty day was bumpy, downright rocky in parts, but there appeared to be a bright spot on the horizon.

  She widened her eyes and stared at the door. “Oh my God! What’s that?”

  I turned and took the bait. I rather liked this game. It was fun and there were obviously prizes. I heard a clip-clop of footsteps approaching.

  I turned back only to see that she’d re-set the Jacuzzi’s timer, and sank back under the bubbling waters. I laughed. “You’re too clever for your own good, Vivian. I’m going to see those beautiful tits again.”

  “Not today,” she said. Her face was beet red and she crossed her arms firmly over her chest. “Not ever again.”

  The door flew open and Leo strode into the room. “Who’s Vivian?”

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded.

  “A short moustached woman gave me directions to Cici’s room. The door was wide open and I heard your voice.” He pushed past me and knelt next to the Jacuzzi. “Hey, baby.”

  I bristled. “‘Baby?’”

  “Lady Bea texted me, Cici, and said that the hospital had released you. You hit your head. Isn’t it dangerous to be in a Jacuzzi?”

  “I was wondering the same thing,” I said.

  Leo held out his hand. “It’s decided. Time for you to get out.”

  I squatted next to him and held out my hand. “I’ll help you, Cici. Like I always do.”

  Leo glared at me. “I don’t even know what you’re doing here.”

  “Same thing you are. Making sure Cici’s okay.”

  “I’m not getting out of this tub now or any time soon,” Vivian said. “You both need to leave. Now.”

  “No, Max needs to leave.” Leo pulled out that damn black velvet jewelry box, popped the lid open, and held it in front of her like a tennis ball in front of a retriever. “This is really important, Cici. Marry me.”

  “Why are you suddenly the marrying kind?” I asked. “You’ve been insisting for quite a length of time that you weren’t ready to get married.”

  “Again, what’s it to you? It’s out of your hands. Ultimately, everything is out of your hands.”

  “I’m sleep deprived, Leo. I’m exhausted,” Vivian said. “I’m overwhelmed by your offer. Seriously I’m all a tingle—”

  “That’s just the extra strong, strategically placed water jet talking,” I said.

  “Zip it!” She shot me a dirty look, then smiled sweetly at my brother. “I need to sleep on your question and give you an answer tomorrow.”

  “You hit your head dozens of times in soccer tournaments, Cici. I know because I watched you and cheered from the sidelines. You were always fine after those games. Give me an answer tonight,” Leo said.

  “Please. You used Cici’s soccer tournaments to pick up girls a few years older than her,” I said.

  “You didn’t?”

  Vivian stared at the timer, her eyes widening, as precious bubbly seconds ticked away.

  “Might I remind you, I am the Crown Prince of Bellèno,” Leo said. “The heir apparent. As much as I like you, bro, I get first dibs—on everything.”

  “Cici is not a dib,” Vivian said.

  We stared at her.

  “I mean, I am not a dib. What’s a dib?” She whistled under her breath.

  The short woman with the moustache walked into the room, froze in her tracks, and frown
ed.

  “Help!” Vivian said.

  Boisterous laughter emanated from the hallway. “Get out of town, bitch!”

  “Esmeralda, you know the best tapas and tequila joints in every country.” Bea squealed as she slid through the doorway, landed on her ass, and giggled. “You’re gifted.”

  “Cici?” Joan followed behind her, clutching a half empty tequila bottle. “I see three gorgeous men. Are you going to marry one of them? Because if you don’t I will.”

  “No, I’m going to marry Leo,” Bea said. “Prince Leopold. I, Lady Beatrice Hafligher accept your ring. I will be your wife in sickness and in health, in—”

  “You’re already married,” Joan said.

  “I’ll initiate divorce proceedings tomorrow. Give me the rose.” Bea burped. “Sorry! That’s the enchiladas talking.”

  “He’s a prince, Cici. He’s gorgeous,” Joan said. “He totally loves you.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” I said.

  “I do love you, Cici,” Leo said. “I always have.”

  “Lord Fontaine! Need your help.” Helga hollered into the hallway.

  “Grow a backbone, Cici.” Esmeralda swiped the tequila bottle from Joan and took a slug. “Don’t you know what you want?”

  “No. I’m tired. Can I figure this out tomorrow?”

  “Your Royal Highnesses. Ladies.” Lord Angus arrived in the doorway. “Cici has had an extremely long day. I beg your forgiveness, but it’s best that everyone go home. I’ll order you rides. Whatever this is can be re-visited after a good night’s sleep.”

  “Get up, Bea.” Joan grabbed her wrist. “Your husband and wee ones are waiting. We’re out of here.”

  “Therein lies the problem. The wee ones are always weeing. And pooping,” Bea said.

  Esmeralda grabbed Bea’s other wrist as she and Joan dragged her out of the room.

  “What about—” Leo said.

  Lord Angus bowed his head. “Tomorrow, Your Highness. Helga, help Cici, please.”

  Helga grabbed a robe from the stack on the right and shook it out.

  “Bye, baby,” Leo said and walked toward the door.