by Kate Johnson
“His boss, admittedly, but he still makes a nice living. Oh. I wonder if that’s him?”
The triple garage door was opening. Xavier caught a glimpse of a low-slung, shiny red sportscar hidden inside, before a BMW X5 reversed out at speed and zoomed down the drive.
The drive they were blocking.
The X5 jerked to a halt and out leapt Marisol, in her tight white jeans and large gold earrings, hair frosted and blow-dried, nails an immaculate shell pink to match her sweater. Marisol might still be beautiful, but Xavier didn’t find her very attractive any more.
“Hey, asshole! Get out of my drive! Are you blind?”
“She seems lovely,” murmured Eliza, then to his horror she got out of the car.
“No, Eliza—” Xavier began, leaping out as one of the security officers did the same.
“Who the hell are you? Get out of my drive.”
Eliza’s smile was polite, her manners immaculate. “I’m sorry, your drive? I thought this house belonged to a Mr Bobby Kleinfelter.”
“He’s my husband,” spat Marisol.
“Like hell he is,” said Xavier, and she glared at him for a second before she realised who he was. Then she glared even harder.
“What are you doing here? Is this your car?” She looked over the luxury SUV with its bulletproof windows.
“Actually it’s mine,” said Eliza, as Xavier moved to stand beside her and the PPO stood like a stone next to the car. “Or at least, it’s been hired in my name. You must be Marisol—” she held out her hand, which Marisol recoiled from as if it might poison her.
“So you’re bringing your little girlfriends around here now, huh?” Marisol’s finger jabbed at Eliza. It bore a huge, and very ugly, ring. “Do you know who he is, honey? Do you know how he abandoned me when I was pregnant with my little miho and forced me to live in a roach-infested—”
“Pleasant courtyard apartment next door to a hairdressers,” Eliza said crisply. Her smile was still present. “And after that I believe it was a condo in South Beach? And… I may have forgotten some. Of course, those places might have been infested with cockroaches, but they weren’t quite the Dickensian slums you presented Xavier with, were they?”
Marisol looked over Eliza’s neat hair and pretty dress and said, “Who the eff is this?”
“Oh,” said Xavier, beginning to enjoy himself, “I do apologise, Marisol. Allow me to present Her Royal Highness Princess Elizabeth of Suffolk, granddaughter of the Queen of England. Eliza, this is my ex, Marisol.”
Eliza inclined her head gracefully. Marisol scoffed, but looked uncertain.
“Did I do that right?” Xavier asked Eliza.
“Very nicely done, although you should have presented her to me first, as I am the higher-ranking person.”
“Excuse me?” Marisol said, hands on hips. “High-ranking? Don’t you come here with yo—”
“Marisol, shut up,” said Xavier. He ignored her and turned to Eliza. “Did you have anything else to say, or just want to show me this?”
“This was mostly it,” she said. “I’m under the impression that your child support payments will not be reduced if she marries Mr Kleinfelter?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“But you can rest assured that Marisol’s little miho won’t be living in a roach-infested… whatever the end of that sentence is. Which I imagine will be a load off your conscience.”
Oh, it would. How had he been such an idiot? Did all his family know about this?
“Now,” said Eliza. “Shall we move on?”
Xavier nodded and realised he was beaming at her. I am so in love with you.
“Hey! Don’t you ignore me,” shouted Marisol, who had always believed she should be the centre of attention. “Yes, you! I don’t care if you are Her Majesty Princess Zelda of wherever, you don’t get to come onto my property and lie to my ex about my living arrangements.”
“That doesn’t even make—” Eliza began, and broke off as Marisol’s hand rose and came down, palm aimed flat at her face.
Xavier grabbed Eliza and swung her away. The PPO did something so fast he couldn’t even see it, that ended with Marisol on the ground, face-down, her arms twisted behind her back. Two more protection officers got out of the vehicle in front.
“Are you okay?” Xavier asked Eliza, who rolled her eyes and nodded as Marisol screamed and ranted. “Slapping people was always her favourite thing. Never shut anyone up, but gives her a reason to get into a fight and pretend she’s the wounded party.”
Eliza looked at him incredulously, and Xavier felt pretty damn ashamed of his previous choice of woman.
“In my defence, she was very good in bed,” he said.
“I didn’t need to hear that,” Eliza moaned.
“Frigid English bitch!” Marisol yelled. The PPO calmly pressed the barrel of a pistol against her head, and Xavier knew the moment she saw what it was, because she shut right up.
“I am authorised to use deadly force against assailants of Her Highness,” the guy said calmly. Marisol whimpered.
“We may need to have a conversation about firearms laws,” Xavier told the PPO. “Let her up. Marisol,” he said, as she scrambled to her feet and dusted off her stained white jeans, “you really shouldn’t go around slapping people. You could literally have caused an international incident.”
“I don’t care, the little puta—”
“Oh, first I’m frigid, now I’m a whore?” said Eliza.
“You will care when the British government throws you in jail for assaulting a member of the Royal Family,” Xavier said. “What’s the Tower of London like this time of year?” he asked Eliza.
“Oh, not too bad, I mean it hardly ever floods and the rats are actually terribly friendly. The ravens, though, they do like a nice eyeball and if there aren’t any corpses, well…” She made a little pecking motion with her hand, looking sad, and Xavier tried not to laugh.
Marisol stared. “Wait, is she really a princess?”
Xavier shook his head in amazement. She really did live in her own little bubble.
Not that you can talk, buddy.
“Next time, Marisol, maybe do some research on whose life you’re trying to ruin,” he said, and opened the car door for Eliza. She got in, elegant as a debutante, and smiled prettily at Marisol.
“That was fun,” she said to Xavier as he took the seat at the other side.
“You’re a maniac,” he said, and leaned over to kiss her. “And I am so in love with you.”
Her smile turned almost comically into astonishment. “Oh,” she said.
“Just something to think about.”
Eliza nodded, and while her gaze stayed resolutely ahead, her hand crept into his, and a smile kept pulling at her mouth.
Chapter Nineteen
Given the traffic, they arrived at Uncle Alberto’s house about the same time as Valentina, who had been picked up at the airport by her husband. He sent Xavier a sheepish glance as he got out of the minivan.
“Hey Bill. How was Texas?”
“Uh,” said Bill, who was a terrible liar. He looked anxiously at Valli, who rolled her eyes.
“Where were you?” Xavier asked.
“Oh, I stayed with a buddy for the night, then came home and, uh, watched football for a week,” said Bill. His cheeks were red.
“Well, hey. You didn’t miss much. These little guys,” Xavier scooped up his niece as she ran towards him, “just wanted someone to bury in the sand, isn’t that right?”
She giggled, and looked shyly over his shoulder at Eliza, who smiled and waved at her.
“Gosh, there are a lot of cars here,” Eliza said, and her smile began to move into brave territory.
“Don’t worry, it’s not a huge gathering,” Xavier said, and Valli shot him a look. He shot it right back. “Come on, Princess.”
She took his hand and followed Valli’s family around the side of the house to the backyard, where only about half his family were gath
ered. In addition to Uncle Alberto’s birthday, the week also held his cousin Maria’s birthday and his nephew Aaron’s. There were balloons and banners, tables full of food, and children everywhere, jumping on inflatables and hitting each other with things. Music played, and the volume of people talking over it had gotten loud enough that Xavier cheerfully expected the neighbours to complain. Someone was cooking on a barbecue, and the remains of a piñata hung from a tree.
Valli’s son Mateo screamed, “Mommy, there’s a brinca brinca!” and raced off to the bounce house. The others followed. Valli marched into the kitchen with a covered dish, leaving Xavier to wonder where the hell she’d picked that up, and Bill made a beeline for the cooler full of beer.
Eliza stood still, eyes going wide, and then she collected herself.
“Not a huge gathering?” she said.
“No. Comparatively,” he allowed.
“There must be a hundred people here.”
“Maybe only seventy. This is small for my family.”
“Goodness,” she said, and muttered something that sounded like, “St George’s Chapel can only hold 800.”
“Come and meet my mom.”
Eliza smiled gamely and followed him across the yard to his mother, who was presiding over a table full of carefully separated gifts.
“Like Sandringham at Christmas,” Eliza murmured, then, “Oh my God, we didn’t bring anything.”
“Are you kidding? I brought you. Hey Mom.”
“Xavier!” His mother smiled hopefully at him, then stopped, drew back, and narrowed her eyes. He watched her gaze go from his face, all the way down his arm to his hand, then back up Eliza’s arm to her face. Then up and down Eliza’s body.
“Mom, this is—” a heel kicked his ankle, and he said, “Eliza. This is Eliza.”
Another look up and down Eliza, who was wearing a pretty dress and sensible heels and was smiling politely.
“Eliza?” said his mother, assessingly. Xavier took a wild stab that his sisters hadn’t shared their plan with her.
“Yeah. We met in the Bahamas. Eliza, this is my mother, Isabel.”
His mother looked them both over, then nodded. “Welcome, Eliza,” she said, pronouncing the name with exaggerated care. “Would you like a drink?”
“Oh, yes, please. Whatever you have. This is a lovely party.”
A red paper cup was passed to her. Xavier got a beer, whether he wanted one or not.
“We have three birthdays this week. My brother Alberto, my niece Maria, and my grandson Aaron. We are a very close family.”
Ah. He saw what she was doing. This was one of those defensive, using-politeness-as-a-weapon things.
He had a feeling she might have picked the wrong target.
“So I can see. It’s lovely to see everyone together like this. We don’t often have gatherings like this in my family,” said Eliza, and it was only the pressure of her hand in his that betrayed her nerves.
“No. I guess you have to curtsey more,” said his mother.
“Mom.”
Eliza just said blithely, “That’s true, actually. The rules can be quite complicated.”
“Is that so?” his mother said, with her shark’s smile. You hurt my son again, it said, and I may never forgive you.
“Yes. I have to curtsey to my uncles, and their wives if they’re together, but not their wives if their husbands aren’t present.”
“What, seriously?” Xavier said, and Eliza nodded guilelessly.
“Oh, yes. Only on formal occasions, of course. My uncles outrank me, you see, being sons of the monarch, and when their wives are with them they rank equally alongside their husbands. But alone, they’re only duchesses, and a princess outranks a duchess any day of the week, so they curtsey to me.”
“And what is the husband of a princess called?” his mother asked pointedly.
“Well that’s a tricky one actually,” said Eliza, and took a thoughtful sip of her drink, smiling at a child covered in pink frosting, “but mostly we call him Nick.”
Xavier let out a bark of laughter. His mother glared at him. Sorry, Mom. But Eliza could outswim a shark any day.
“Where is your grandmother?” his mother said, and Xavier knew he’d pay for that laughter.
“Oh God, she hates me,” Eliza muttered as his mother went off determinedly.
“No, she… she’s just…”
“As defensive as my family probably will be when I take you home again,” Eliza sighed, then added crossly, “What are you smiling at?”
“You’re taking me home again?”
“Well, of course. That is where this is going, isn’t it?”
His smile widened. He slipped his arms around her and nuzzled her nose with his. “It definitely is.”
They were interrupted by his grandmother demanding, in Spanish, “So this is the girl who broke your heart?”
Xavier rested his forehead against Eliza’s for a moment before turning around, keeping his arm around her.
There are sharks, and then there’s my grandmother.
“Abuela,” he said. He contemplated complimenting her dress, then decided that would probably annoy her more. “This is Eliza, who went through an even more terrible time than I did and had her heart broken even worse than I did.”
“She spat you out of her country and kicked you back home to your mother, like a pathetic little boy.”
Right, so that was how this was going to go. “She was hurt and angry. We’ve resolved our differences.”
“Why wouldn’t she marry you? Are English girls too good for Spanish boys?”
Xavier made himself sound calm and conciliatory. “Abuela, we were going to get married. We suffered a personal tragedy, and no, neither of us wants to talk about it. It’s pretty painful and it’s not,” he added more loudly, for the benefit of their attentive audience, “anyone else’s business.”
“She dragged your name through the mud. In public. All over the world.”
“No, Abuela, that was the press. Eliza and I are just fine.”
She eyed Eliza distrustfully. The whole discussion had gone on in Spanish, the subject of it looking between him and his grandmother with increasingly visible anxiety.
“Perhaps I should go,” she suggested quietly, beginning to remove her hand from his, but he held fast.
“No, we should both go. Give my best to Alberto, Maria and Aaron,” said Xavier, and put down his beer. Eliza didn’t need this. He didn’t need this.
“Gracias por su hospitalidad. Siento haberle hecho daño. No fue mi intención. Espero que volvamos a reunirnos,” Eliza said, inclining her head gracefully, and they had just turned to leave when Abuela’s voice came from behind them.
“You are prettier than your pictures.”
She’d spoken in English. She very rarely spoke English. Belatedly, Xavier realised Eliza had spoken in Spanish. Not great Spanish, but enough to give his family pause that she might have understood them.
Eliza turned back, said, “Gracias. Adios,” and began walking away, her back ramrod straight.
“You should have some cake. The pink one is good,” said Abuela, and when Xavier looked back at her, there was a twinkle in her eye.
“Abuela,” he said, exasperated, and she winked at him. “Also, Eliza? You don’t speak Spanish!” Was every woman here playing him?
“Not very well,” she admitted, “but I’ve made some progress since I first tried.”
She was amazing. Xavier cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. “I am absolutely crazy about you,” he said.
“I’m quite crazy about you, too.”
He wanted to tell her more, to explain how he really felt, and take her away somewhere private so they could, well, do stuff he couldn’t exactly do in front of his family, but after Abuela appeared to have accepted Eliza, everyone else wanted to get to know her.
“His first wife hurt him,” said Xavier’s mother, glaring daggers at Eliza.
“Marisol? Yes. She
’s… quite something, isn’t she?”
His mother muttered something he hoped the children didn’t hear. Abuela said it louder.
“I quite agree,” said Eliza, and that got a laugh.
“You hurt him again, we commit treason and make it look like an accident, you hear?” said his mother, smiling.
“Mom!” Eliza’s bodyguards were in hearing distance.
“It’s all right, Xavi.” Eliza smiled at his family. “I’m very glad to see how much your family cares abut you.” She took a sip of her drink and added in an undertone, “Besides, my grandmother does sort of own an army.”
Little girls rushed up to curtsey. The boys pretended to fight dragons, or maybe Darth Vader, it wasn’t clear. One cousin wanted to know if she lived in the Disney Castle.
“No honey, that’s in Orlando,” said Xavier’s mother. She handed Eliza some cake. “Princess Elizabeth lives in Buckingham Palace.”
He saw Eliza begin to correct her, then check herself.
“Is it true you have to ask the Queen’s permission to marry?” asked Anita, who appeared to have been glomming Wikipedia.
“Yes. But she’s never said no,” said Eliza, her smile reasonably convincing.
“How come when Prince Jamie got married, his wife didn’t become a princess?”
“Because Princess is a title you have to be born to. She could be known as Princess Jamie of Cambridge, but that’s not very elegant, is it?”
“But his mom is a princess?”
“Aunt Louisa?” She said it without really thinking, and the familiarity caused a gasp. “Not really. She’s the Princess of Wales, but that’s only because her husband is the Prince of Wales. On her own, she might be referred to as Louisa, Princess of Wales, but never actually Princess Louisa.”
“Right, so that isn’t confusing at all,” said Xavier, who was beginning to think he’d need to write this all on his palm if—when—he met the more senior members of Eliza’s family.
Valentina asked slyly, “What would Xavier be when you get married?”
“Valli,” he said, but Eliza simply shrugged, and said, “Oh, that would be a matter for the Privy Council,” which as far as he knew was actually true.