But Alexandra was delighted with the twelve-carat exclusive Tiffany design of diamond cuts which the Tiffany Concierge had managed to not only design and produce after a personal meeting with Peter and the Queen, but also have delivered to them in time for the engagement ceremony.
After the engagement was official, they posed for photographs, and Peter did his best to smile convincingly. He was in full uniform, and Alexandra, whom the cameras loved, looked stunning and radiant in all of them, of course. But there was something off about the woman. Perhaps it was the influence of Eastern European culture and being raised as she was, because she had a sharp edge to her. But it seemed to Peter to be more than that. It didn’t matter, though. Whether she was the devil or an angel, he was required to marry her.
Then he wondered about his brother, who had all but vanished with his new bride, and sent not a word since he was married. Though Peter was angry with him for being so ridiculously selfish, he hoped his brother’s choices would at least make him happy.
His father was released from the hospital and told to rest, and Peter responsibly began taking over some of his father’s duties, minor ones for right now, mostly to help lighten his schedule.
Peter checked his watch and realized he’d been gone for nearly two hours. How long had he been sitting in his special spot contemplating his life? Likely too long. No doubt everyone, including his fiancée, was looking for him.
With a grimace, Peter got up and jogged back to the palace.
chapter 11
The next morning Peyton went shopping, insisting that Emma didn’t have anything decent to eat. When she was alone, Emma showered and checked her phone for the first time since before her visit to her past life. Ten messages and, Emma assumed, all from media still looking for an interview.
The first one was from Eddie: “Em, they officially announced their engagement. I’d love to grab a comment from you. Call me back.”
Not a chance, Em thought while the words sank in: “Officially announced their engagement.” Of course they had.
Gone.
He was gone, officially.
She clicked over to the next one. Four in a row—more media wanting a comment.
The next voicemail was not media. In fact, it was work. Someone high profile, coming to the US, needed her assistance with the media.
There were five messages from the same person. Five? It must be urgent. The number was overseas, but right before she started dialing, her phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Yes, Miss Avery?” asked female voice with an odd, heavy accent she couldn’t place.
“This is she,” Emma replied.
“I’m calling to inquire about your availability to work with an individual from overseas coming to the US for a two-week visit. We need to create the best possible press coverage in the US and build her brand there.”
“Who is it?” Emma asked, her curiosity fully piqued now. Truth was, unless it was a terrorist or Kim Jong-un (there was no helping that guy), she’d probably accept the job. Candidly, after working for her grandfather for the past month (and refusing to let him pay her), she needed the income.
“I cannot disclose her identity at this time, but we would very much like you to take a meeting. Is that possible?”
Emma reached for a pen, “Sure, when? What’s the address?”
“The address is overseas, miss.” Said the voice on the other end with a slight hint of sarcasm, as if it was perfectly obvious the meeting wouldn’t be in New York.
“Okay. Would you prefer do the interview via Skype or FaceTime?”
“We only meet face-to-face. We are able to have a plane standing by for you anytime.”
Okay, something’s off here. There were publicists far bigger and better than she was. Why her, and what was the project?
“We will also compensate you for your time, whether you accept the job or not. Five thousand dollars. To prove we are legitimately interested, we will wire the money into your account as soon as you agree to take the interview.”
What the hell? That never happens. Then it clicked. It must be someone from Dubai, or one of those countries where they throw thirty-thousand dollar birthday parties for their kids and have so much money they use one-dollar bills for kindling. Of course. Who else would have a private jet and offer to pay her for her time, whether or not she took the job?
“Sure, fine, I’ll take the interview.” She heard herself say. After all, what did she have to lose? She was stuck here trying to get over heartbreak and could use the distraction.
“Where am I going?” Emma asked.
“You have a current passport?”
“Yes, but where am I going?”
“I will email you the details if you will please confirm the best email for the flight information and where to send the wire transfer.”
Emma did, after which the woman ended the call with a curt good-bye.
Ten minutes later Emma received confirmation of both the trip and the money. She would be flying out later today from JFK. No other itinerary was sent, not where she was going, nothing but formal paperwork indicating the amount of money she’d get for the job (if she decided to take it), and how long the interview would last.
She’d be gone one day, that was it, and the trip in question was planned for three weeks from now. So at least they were planning enough in advance for Emma to arrange television, national newspapers, and perhaps a magazine photo shoot to be published at a later date. There was also a non-disclosure agreement (NDA) requiring her electronic signature.
Peyton walked in then, and Emma said, “I have a job interview, and they’re flying me overseas for it and paying me five thousand dollars just to take the interview.”
Peyton set down the bags of groceries, “Wait, what?”
“Some foreign dignitary wanting to make inroads in the US wants me to plan and manage a publicity tour.”
“Who is it?”
“I won’t find out until I get there.”
Peyton frowned, “Is that such a good idea, I mean, flying blind this way?”
Emma walked over to her and put her hands on her shoulders. “My darling cousin, this isn’t an episode of Alias, and I’m not a CIA operative. I’m only a publicist, and I’m sure it’s fine.”
“I have an odd feeling about this, Em.”
“You mean odd, as in I’ll be kidnapped and begging for my life on Aljazeera television, or odd as in this person is the kind of freak no one will want to interview?”
Peyton shook her head. “It’s not life-threatening, but I think heartbreaking.”
Emma threw up her hands, “After this week, I should be immune to that. Seriously I’m sure it’ll be fine, and even if it’s not okay, they’re paying me to listen to them even if I don’t accept.”
“If I don’t hear from you by text at least once an hour, I’m calling the FBI. The minute you get there, you must tell me where you are so I don’t worry. I’m serious, Em. Promise me!”
chapter 12
Alexandra studied her reflection in the full-length mirror next to her desk. “She’s on her way, then?”
Her assistant, Adrienne, nodded. “Yes, ma’am, and everything is as you instructed. The plane is in the air, and she will know she’s landing in Brussels but will be told it’s a layover.”
“Excellent. Now I want you to call a few celebrity media outlets, especially the ones that covered Emma and Peter’s”—she threw her hands up—“whatever it was…I think there was one called TMZ or something? Anyway, call them, tell them we are considering Emma for our tour in the US, and we’re so excited to have an old friend of Peter’s on this job.”
Her father burst into the room. “What the hell are you doing?”
They were in the palace, having been given a large suite of offices and bedrooms in a separate wing
. Alexandra insisted she needed a lot of space for her and her wedding coordination staff to plan the wedding.
“Father, hello.” Alex directed a shooing motion at her assistant. “Adrienne, you may go now.” Her assistant grabbed her notepad and a set of files and scurried from the room. No one liked to be within reach when Sebastian started yelling.
“Alexandra,” Sebastian snarled after the door clicked shut. “What possessed you to charter our jet to bring that girl over here? What kind of insanity is this? We must distance ourselves from the entire mess, but now you’ve decided to fly that tramp to this city? At least tell me you’ll interview her elsewhere.”
An evil smile curled on her lips, “Yes, father, I am. She will be interviewed here, in the palace, and you’re going to love what I have in store for her.”
Sebastian crossed his arms over his ample gut, frowning. “Alexandra, this is not what we should be doing. Plan your wedding and forget this girl. You only want to rub her face in your victory, when it should be beneath you.”
Alexandra tossed her long black hair over her shoulder and stood a little straighter. She was not about to allow her father or anyone else dictate what she would do, and she hated that he could read her so well.
She reached for a news clipping Adrienne found yesterday and held it out to him. “Father, the media is calling her the darling, the ‘one who got away,’ because she has the stupid grandfather connection. And you’re certainly not in a position to lecture me. Many of your business practices would make us all look like villains if they were ever made public.” Alexandra narrowed her eyes, “We all will benefit from having our images polished, and this girl is the one to do it for us.”
Sebastian knew all too well what the media already said about him and his business practices: Substandard working conditions, endless hours, workers stuck in freezing warehouses, and dying on the job. Since no one but the local media ever paid attention to him, he didn’t much care how he was viewed. He made money, which was all that mattered.
But perhaps his daughter had a point, though her decision to hire the girl to help her was misguided and would not end well.
Sebastian threw his hands up. “Whatever, Alexandra. But remember you are marrying into a royal family, so you will need think bigger.”
Alex brushed her hair back off her shoulder again with a lift of her perfect eyebrows. “I am thinking bigger, Papa.”
chapter 13
“This can’t possibly be right!” Emma insisted as her bags were quickly loaded into the waiting sedan. “I am only on a stopover here.”
“Ma’am,” the driver began, “I’m sorry, but this is your stop. I beg you, please get into the car.”
The driver seemed nervous, and rightfully so. Emma had been throwing a fit since the moment they began carting her bags off the plane.
“Please, ma’am, get in the car. We’re going to be late, and the mistress gets very angry when I arrive late.” The driver was still holding her door, and Emma could see how nervous he was. There had to be a reasonable explanation. Maybe it was no more than an odd, random coincidence that whomever she was meeting also happened to be in Belgium.
Grudgingly, she got in and, clearly relieved, the driver closed her door.
Once he was behind the wheel, Emma asked, “Where are we going, anyway?”
She heard the locks click on the door and the engine roar to life. The car started moving before the driver said, “The palace, ma’am.”
For a moment Em thought she heard wrong. The palace? He had to be kidding!
“Sir, I demand to be let out of this car.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I cannot. It would mean my job.”
Emma pulled her phone out and shot off a text to Peyton: Time to call in the cavalry. Turns out my client is at the Royal Palace in Belgium. Really?
Peyton must have been sitting on top of her phone, because she responded almost immediately: It’s Peter! He wants to sweep you off your feet.
Doubtful. Catching the first flight I can out of here, but right now I’m being held hostage in the back of a car. The driver must think I’m nuts.
Emma reread her cousin’s text. There was no way this was Peter’s doing. He was much too classy to pull this kind of stunt. But now she was headed to the palace, and it was very likely she would see him. Emma’s stomach knotted, and she had to struggle to get a complete breath.
Crap. Peter.
The trip from the Brussels Airport to the royal palace didn’t take long, and before she could figure out how to escape from a moving vehicle, they were already turning onto the main road leading to the palace entrance. Jumping from a moving car was probably not the best move anyway.
The official royal palace was in Brussels proper, but the actual royal residence was located outside of Brussels in Laeken. The sedan pulled up to an elaborate and imposing black and gold gate spanning the entire width of the entryway. Eight lamps sat atop the ornate gate, with crowns resting on top of each.
For some reason the gate triggered a radical shift in her perspective. This was royalty. Peter was a Prince, soon to be King, and this was his home, this was where he’d grown up. Off in the distance, at the end of a long, long driveway, she could see the palace.
The gate opened slowly, and as the driver drove the sedan through it, she remembered something: This wasn’t the first time she’d been here.
A memory began to drift in. She was a child, and she was with her grandparents. She remembered the gate clearly, because she played on it. With Peter. She also remembered Christophe, although she didn’t recall seeing much of him.
How could she have forgotten? Oh, yes. It was about the time her mother decided to run off to become famous, and she had to grow up in a hurry to take care of her father, who was completely distraught. Until he left, too, of course.
The car pulled up in front of the palace when Emma realized another thing. This was also the palace she saw when she visited her past life as Anna-Maria. Where she and Fitz had loved, raised their children, lived their lives, and eventually died.
The sedan door opened and Emma stepped out, hands shaking and heart slamming. An imposing front door, even bigger than the one at Peter’s house in the Hamptons, opened, and a slight woman with short-cropped blond hair emerged, holding a folder.
When she was closer, Emma could see the severe look on her face. There was no messing with this one, and when she spoke, Em recognized her as the person she’d spoken to, who had presumably arranged this trip.
Well, now it was time for her to unarrange it.
“Welcome to the palace.” The woman reached the bottom of the stairs and held out her hand, but did not offer a smile or her name. In fact, her “welcome” was about as warm and inviting as a tax audit.
Emma shook her hand and said, “There’s been a terrible misunderstanding. I am unable to handle this project. If you’ll be so kind as to arrange immediate transportation home, I would appreciate it.”
The woman looked as if she’d been slapped. “I will do no such thing. You must first meet with your possible client before you turn this down. It is simply good business, no?”
Her tone was condescending, and Emma disliked her intensely.
“What is your name?” Emma demanded.
The woman blinked, as if no one ever asked her that. “Excuse me?”
“Your name. You do have one, don’t you?” Emma threw out in an equally condescending tone, and she saw a tiny flicker on the woman’s face, as if she was bracing herself to go toe-to-toe with her.
“Adrienne is my name.”
Emma took a breath. “Adrienne, let me be clear. I do not wish to meet whomever hired me, for reasons I am sure you are well aware of, and I don’t appreciate being railroaded into coming here, either.”
The door to the palace opened again, and through it stepped a woman with long, j
et-black hair and a curvaceous figure. She wore a tightly fitted red dress that set off every aspect of her body. As she approached, Emma started to feel more and more out of place. And frumpy. Despite wearing one of her best suits, she might as well have been wearing yoga pants and an old T-shirt. The woman was stunning.
“Emmeline, I presume?” The woman elegantly descended the stairs and approached Emma, but did not offer her hand. Her accent wasn’t Belgian or French, or anything else Em could place.
Em nodded, “Yes, and you are?”
“I am Alexandra Dalca, Peter’s fiancée.” She emphasized the word fiancée, and Em cursed her transparency as she felt the blood drain from her face.
So this was the woman Peter had been promised to. Quite possibly one of the most beautiful women she’d ever seen, and not at all the short, fat, hairy Romanian woman Emma hoped she would be. A feeling blasted through her, but she wasn’t sure whether it was white-hot jealousy or panic. Maybe a little of both. She cursed herself for not even looking at their engagement pictures online.
Now what Emma needed was to get the hell out of there—to separate herself from what could only be horrible mistake.
When Em did not speak, Alexandra said, “Let’s go inside so we can discuss our work together.”
Now Em was getting mad. Really, really mad. She’d flown all the way out here for what? A snotty, condescending joke? This woman couldn’t possibly be serious about hiring her. Surely she knew she and Peter had…
“Ms. Avery, are you still with us?” Alexandra had a bite to her voice and managed to sound both condescending and dismissive at the same time.
Emma finally found her own voice, although it was hoarse. “I can’t take this job, as you well know.”
“Of course you can. Now let’s go inside. I don’t want to do this here.”
Emma felt her face redden, because Alexandra was truly, deeply pissing her off, “I don’t want to do this anywhere, Ms. Dalca. This is not the right job for me, and I’m sure you know exactly why.”
A Royal Affair Series: Book 1, 2, and 3: A paranormal, time travel, royal romance Page 13