I was almost taken on the spot by his outgoing charm and radiating sex appeal.
“That’s quite all right. We figured that you were close to closing up shop and heading to bed—which is where my young charge should be heading right now.”
“Where?” I asked in complete honesty—not to mention full blown curiosity.
“That’s what I would like to discuss with you, Ms. Anderson.” The man said again, then gestured towards the short hallway I had just came out of. “May I?”
“By all means…Mr. —?”
The man suddenly fell ill for a second and he said in a fretful tone, “Where are my manners,” he chided himself. “Allow me to introduce myself: I am His Majesty’s bodyguard and liaison—Conrad Westinghouse Jones, and may I present, His Majesty himself, Prince Bartholomew Herrington III? —currently seventh in line to Her Royal Majesty—he Queen of England.”
Now I was really flustered!
Completely taken in by sudden embarrassment, I stammered, “P-pleased to meet you.” I extended my hand to him, which he took and kissed lightly on the top; sending absolute shivers down my spine.
What I wouldn’t have given to try that again! I thought with intense heat flooding right through my body.
“The pleasure is all mine—to see such divine loveliness in my presence. It’s not often I get to surround myself with such beauty as yours.” The prince complimented, sending my sense of awareness into orbit.
What a flirt! I thought with genuine affection. I like him already!
Clearing my throat to cover up my own embarrassment, I said, “You’re such an expert flatterer, your Highness.” I told him, with a grin. “Thank you so much for the compliment.”
The prince bowed slightly and I excused myself to escort the pair into the hanger.
“Well,” I began with some personal reservation. “Here we are. Make yourselves at home.”
Both men did so, with the two of them looking around and then setting their sights on the Peacemaker.
“What manner of craft is this?” The prince jumped in first, his voice taking on a hushed kind of reverence.
“A one of a kind, next-generation, attack fighter. Was supposed to go into mass production, but axed because of budget cuts.”
“Is it fully operational?” Conrad questioned second, his outward demeanor no less astonished by the presence of my baby.
“Of course.” I revealed. “My father and uncle managed to convince the Defense Department to ‘loan’ the jet over to his courier air service—after selling them on the idea that my grandfather would‘ve wanted it that way. Plus, our air service was needing a fast jet with some speed and muscle on top of that—since our old Falcon-50 was shot up pretty good in Somalia 10 years ago.” I walked over to the jet and put a hand on the end of the nose. “A few heads in the Defense Department were a little interested in how the jet were to perform over certain regions—if they agreed to get the Peacemaker properly outfitted—secretly of course.”
“Looks impressive.” Conrad quipped. “But how does she handle?”
“Like a dream.” I said.
“This whole thing reminds me of a horned toad with some afterburners attached to it.” The prince said in a thoughtful tone. “But the canopy area…I think I’ve seen this configuration before. In a movie—I think.”
“The classic 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea film. The Nautilus’s forward section had an armored spine down the middle—just like the Peacemaker’s.” I told him with a smile.
The prince snapped his fingers in sudden realization. “Ah! I see it now! Most ingenious!”
“It certainly was. The military wanted a complete departure from traditional aircraft design and somehow came up with this profile. She may look large and bulky, but she actually performs 1000% better against any known fighter jet currently on the docket. But that was the whole point to this new design.”
“What’s her speed?” Conrad wanted to know—curiosity getting the better of him.
I paused for a second, thinking about my uncle’s warning: Don’t divulge too much information when asked.
“Fast. Mach 2 and then some without the need for afterburners.” I threw out evasively—watching the other man’s personal reaction to my answer.
Conrad apparently liked what he had just heard—because he beckoned me back towards my work area.
I followed him with some worry—wondering what he was up to.
“Good.” He said with a certain amount of relish. “That’s just what I want to hear.” Then he plunked the black briefcase he had been carrying with him the entire time on the work desk in front of me—flipping its black case up and concealing what he was doing for a few moments.
I had seen plenty of spy movies where the good-looking bad guy finally got the drop on the hero of the story by pulling a gun out of a briefcase—and making outrageous demands against the classic principle of life and death.
But a part of me could not believe that the good-looking prince was in on it from the start.
The kid is too perfect! I thought hurriedly. There was no way that he’d be in on such heinous plan—would he?
I kept my eyes riveted to the back of the man’s briefcase and suddenly filled with a moment of regret.
It was then and there I had wished I had the common sense to buy a gun.
Damn! I thought miserably. But other than that? There was little I could do to change the situation—especially if things got out of hand.
CHAPTER FOUR.
The next few minutes was killing me to no ends.
Gun or no gun? I argued over and over with myself—thinking that if the good-looking British guy was going to do me in, he could’ve at least had the courtesy to shoot me through the briefcase cover.
This way, I would never have to see it coming.
A puff of smoke—? I thought as the man continued to rummage through whatever was keeping him currently preoccupied.
But Conrad finished with what he was doing and looked up—breaking me out of a cold sweat with that charm of his.
“Don’t be nervous, Ms. Anderson.” He offered in a soothing voice. “If your worried about me doing something terrible, don’t be. I am simply here to make a judicious business proposition with you.”
“What kind?” I asked.
“A quick trip down to the Augusta Golf Tournament in Augusta, Georgia. The prince is a big fan of Tiger Woods and he wants to meet him while he’s still on tour.”
I shook my head—laughing.
“You do know that this is a courier service and not some tourist jaunt—right?”
For added points, the man did take my subtle hint a quite well.
“I’m not in the habit of ferrying people around in the Peacemaker. Security concerns and all that.”
The man continued to smile—apparently not taking my hint.
“Then we both have something in common, my dear.” Conrad said with great conviction. “We need a courier whose security is top-notch and an aircraft whom can provide a smooth and suitable ride. You have both.”
“Not interested, Mr. Jones.” I told him flat out—hoping he’d take the hint now—instead of pushing my fucking buttons. “I am a specialty courier service which does all sorts of traveling—here and abroad for a number of supply companies and a few well-to-do national governments.” Looking over at the prince, I added, “Passenger service is strictly out of the question.”
Conrad studied me obliquely. “What can I do to change your mind, Ms. Anderson? What must I do to convince you that I am most sincere about my request?”
Die, most likely. I thought irritably—thinking the worst of this man.
Okay, so even the cute guys around here can be world-class assholes!
Looking around, I said, “The only way I am taking anyone with me is a signed contract towards ultra-secrecy and about…?” I did some quick figures in my head.
Double-rate would be good. But hauling an extra human body around carries a serio
us penalty weight in fuel like it does with my Aunt Sherry’s Christmas fruitcake for every year I went to her house in downtown Rutland. (Taking the bus of course. I didn’t think she would appreciate me turning her backyard into a snow-blown runway.)
“A million plus.” I finally decided—hoping that I didn’t sound too greedy. But if this jerk of a hottie wants me to carry his reigning prince of god-knows-what—?
The money better be there! Otherwise…?
I locked gazes with him as he chewed on my counteroffer.
Then he said:
“A million plus it is.”
Just like that.
Cool as my grandmother’s prized cucumbers.
“A million plus it is.”
The words kept bouncing around in my head.
And for all intent and purposes…? I just stood there like a dumb shit—with my jaw hitting the edge of the table and the floor underneath it at a dead run.
Was he fucking serious??? I managed to get out.
Mr. Jones just stood there like an unmoving iceberg—waiting patiently for my answer.
Me on the other hand—?
I was practically doing mental somersaults and back flips in the back of my mind!
A million plus in the piggy bank?!? Up front, free and clear? Oh, yeah!
Then calm rationale and cool thinking got a hold of me and I started to simmer down considerably.
There was no way I was going to take this the easy way.
I had to see what this clown’s game was.
Nobody came into my place and dumped a butt load of money at my doorstep without some kind of explanation.
Recovering from my initial shock, I adopted a “no bullshit” stance and a silent expression which practically read, Cross me and feel the pain of my foot up your ass.
I’m sure that “Mr. Hollywood” over there could see it. How could he not?
“You’d better not be joking.” I said with dead seriousness. “The last client whom tried to shortchange me ended up with his ass up around his ears for the long haul—just to prove that I don‘t enjoy getting fucked around the hard way.”
“Believe me,” the man said with a calm expression on his face. “It isn’t my intent to mislead you in any way.”
“Then show me the money, or I’m carting both your butts out of this hanger—” and glanced at poor Bart; whom was still inspecting my pride and joy.
I didn’t want to do this to him—since he was so sincere with his words earlier and a cutie to boot! I reflected with some inner guilt.
“—and that includes your prince over there too.”
Conrad nodded. “Very well. The money it is.”
The man went back to his briefcase and started doing something with it—laying out some wads of tissue paper (which covered most of the table) and then that’s when I thought:
Bet the bastard’s got fucking Monopoly money in there! Or something equally pretty meant to persuade me to part with a day’s worth of precious fuel and wasted time! I thought with unswerving charm.
But I wasn’t prepared for what he did next.
As calmly as he could, he started producing $100s—in stacks of four—seven feet long and four wide!
RIGHT NEXT TO HIM!
My eyes bugged out so much that they practically hurt from the strain! Not only that, but my mouth practically ran dry!
“Is $1.4 million enough for you? I can get more if need be.” Conrad responded pleasantly voice, before adding something else on the stack of bills.
“I was only allowed to carry so much, you see. The rest had to be imprinted on that Bank of England treasury note. The amount is for $840,000 made out in your name.” He explained to me.
But I was already in motion—practically flying over to see what had been given me.
Green and white bills sporting the revamped image of Benjamin Franklin.
And the Treasury note which had the Bank of England’s seal and stamp of approval—with my full name written across it!
I couldn’t make heads or tails over what Mr. Jones just turned over to me, only to say that I was sold.
I felt a little guilty, but I couldn’t argue with myself over semantics.
Business was business. I was in no position to complain.
I needed every break which came my way these days.
“I take it we have a deal then?”
I could only nod numbly and think about the possibilities which now opened up to me like my mom’s prized rose garden after an invigorating Vermont rain spell.
There was enough money here for another six trips this year! And some left over for parts and any other maintenance needed!
Or…
I could hire back five of the ten guys I just put on furlough.
I stood there for another second more, before turning around and looking the man in the eyes.
“I leave early, so get your butts here early if you plan on tagging along.“ I said, before fingering the top stack with serious reverence.
Monkey puss bucket…is this a serious haul!
Conrad Jones bowed again.
“Thank you for your time and understanding. However—” he stopped and looked over at the prince.
“Would you object to having his Highness stay the night here and leave with you tomorrow? I’m afraid I’ve other…prior engagements which I must not be allowed to be late for.”
I didn’t have a problem with that.
“I can have him bunk with me on the spare couch in the living room. My pad’s off limits.” I explained to him—watching Conrad snap shut his briefcase and leaving the money piled before me like a tantalizing prize.
“Then it’s settled.” He said—bowing before me one final time. Bading the prince to come over, his bodyguard whispered to him for a few seconds and then embraced him.
Then left me with him.
The prince watched his body guard go with a mixture of pride and affection.
I guess this guy’s something of a close uncle or something. I thought—thinking about my own family and other close relatives.
My uncle Gary—the one at the Pentagon—was the closest person I ever had a serious attachment to as a kid.
“Don’t worry, your Highness. He’ll be back before you know it.” I said out of habit.
The teen hottie looked relieved at my choice of words because he smiled and nodded out of appreciation.
“He said that he had some loose ends to tie up, but he’ll be back before too long.” The young man told me. “Two days possibly.”
I took the semi-wet towel and finished toweling off my head.
“I know this is something out of character for you, but could you fetch me one of the green gunny sacks stashed in one of the tool barges on the Peacemaker?” I asked.
The prince bowed and said, “It would be my pleasure, fair lady.”
I stopped toweling myself for a second and peeked out from underneath the ratted mess which was my hair—watching him disappear like magic.
I definitely was going to like having him around!
“Could you call me Kina instead, you’re Highness? I’m afraid I’m not that big on formalities and all that?”
But to my private dismay, he never heard me coming back.
“Did you say something, my lady?” He asked shamelessly.
I pulled the towel off—revealing my dry/wet brown hair.
“Yes,” I said, looking at him sternly. “Call me Kina.” But the puzzled look on his face told me a completely different story entirely.
“Don’t tell me that you’re not allowed to call someone by their first name—?”
The prince shook his head—tousled blonde hair flying back and forth in a tightly wound arc.
“It is not encouraged amongst my family. Royal protocol forbids such things out in public or private.”
“Why?” I inquired curiously.
“It would…” he began and broke off for a second. “Lead to misunderstandings among the people.”
He said.
Taking the gunny sack from him, I began the process of filling it up and then folding up the signed treasury note so that it would fit nicely in the side pocket.
The prince watched me quietly and then asked, “Why did you ask for so much money in the first place?”
“I didn’t.” I told him.
“Conrad said you did—when you spoke to him on the phone.”
I paused right then and there.
“When?”
“Before we left Heathrow Airport, two days ago.”
“I never spoke to him before tonight, your Highness.” The hairs on the back of my neck rising in silent alarm.
“You certain?” He pressed.
I shoveled the rest of the money in before I could have a complete change of mind about this whole affair.
“The only people whom I had a conversation with—at length—is my suppliers down in Bowling Greens, Kentucky.”
The poor prince was confused more than ever.
“That is so very strange. I was certain that’s what he said before he left. Maybe I was the one whom was mistaken.”
I looked up and immediately felt sorry for the young man. I reached across the table and squeezed his hand without thinking; startling us both.
“Sorry,” I said out of concern—drawing my hand away. “But a lot of things like that happen. Even I get my wires crossed from time to time.” Like right now.
The prince appeared to take my statement at face value and smiled in heartfelt sympathy.
“Perhaps you’re right.”
CHAPTER FIVE.
Zipping the bag shut, I had the prince go outside the door and head up the small stairwell slaved to the side of the hanger—while I accessed the small alcove’s fire-proof safe and stuffed my future livelihood into.
Afterwards, I padded my way up the stairs, only to find the prince gone.
“Did he—?” I thought out loud—feeling my face turn a shade redder than usual. No! I mean…! YES!!! I mean—!
I thumped myself on the head.
“Get a grip, girl. He’s too young for you anyways…” But that didn’t stop my overactive imagination from trying out a few themes with this delicious dish of a prince.
Even if he was royalty.
The Peacemaker Page 3