“I don’t want to find anyone else. Why are you saying these things?”
“Because we should face the facts, Morgan. This isn’t any way to have a relationship. We can’t go on like this.”
I tried to speak, but no sound came out. Having this conversation was turning me inside out. It hurt more than I could have imagined. What happened to our happy morning? Finally I forced some words. “Are you breaking up with me?”
Max opened his mouth, but before he could speak, a tap came at the door.
“It’s gotta be Hannah,” I said. My voice sounded weird, like razor-wire. Maybe because a huge lump had ballooned in my throat.
“Hang on.” Max opened the door that connected the bedroom to the lounge suite and slid inside. “We shouldn’t take any chances.”
It was then I had a moment of clarity. As horrible as it was, Max was right. Totally, utterly right.
We couldn’t keep going on this way.
I swiped my eyes with the back of my hand to clear away the tears before I opened the door. George stood in the hall, hands folded before her in the Secret Service stance.
“Hey, George. What’s up?” I hoped I looked nonchalant.
George’s face betrayed no emotion, but her eyes flicked behind me. “The Queen’s Concert at the Royal Albert Hall in a few hours. That’s what’s up. You need to start getting ready.”
The lump in my throat threatened to strangle me. “I’m, uh, not in the mood to go to the concert. Can I beg out?”
“You want me to tell the president of the United States that you don’t want to go to a concert hosted by the queen of England? A concert that is being held in your mother’s honor? Really, Morgan?”
Good point.
“You and Hannah need to be ready to go by noon. I’ll be back then with the security detail to escort you both.”
“Fine,” I muttered. “I’ll be ready.”
I shut the door on George and hurried to the lounge. “Max?”
No answer. There was another door in there that led out into the corridor. He must have slipped away.
A sense of desperation swept over me. I had to work it out with Max. I couldn’t lose him now. I had to make him understand that we belonged together.
I couldn’t nurse my hurt over the growing rift between Max and me for long, though, because Hannah burst through the door fired up with excitement. “Morg, I’ve got it!”
“Got what? By the way, George was here. We have to get ready for the concert this afternoon. We only have a couple hours.”
“Concert, schmoncert, listen! I’ve figured out a way to get Rich to talk to me!”
“Really? You going to storm Buckingham Palace or something?”
“Better.” A great big smile broke over her face. “You are going to impersonate the president and talk the queen into letting me see him.”
I paused, waiting for her to say “Psyche!”
But she didn’t.
“This is a joke, right? Too much Marmite on your toast has turned your brain to mush.”
“I’m serious, Morgan. I’ve thought through everything. I’ve still got the wig in my makeup trunk. All we need is a copy of the dress your mom bought at Harrods the other day, and we’ll be all set.”
“Hold up! Who said I was agreeing to your plan? Impersonate my mom so I can plead your cause to the queen? It’s insane!”
“Morgan.” Hannah’s face dissolved into agony. “I need to see Richard. I know you can charm the queen into relaxing the restrictions, even if only to allow us to talk for a few minutes. I need closure with him if nothing else.”
I bit my lip. Being on the edge of losing Max for good made me understand exactly how Hannah felt. Plus, Hannah had always been there for me and never, ever asked for favors as BFF of the president’s daughter.
I couldn’t let her down.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll do it. But we’re treading on thin ice here. If I get caught impersonating Mom while talking to the queen, it’ll mean scandal up the wazoo. We are risking my mom’s presidency.”
“It’s just for a few minutes with an audience of one,” Hannah promised. “I’ve got it all figured out.”
“I hope so. Or I’ll be grounded in Siberia for the rest of my life.”
Chapter Twenty-one
“Holy cow. The Secret Service isn’t messing around,” I said to George as the limo pulled around to the private entrance at the Royal Albert Hall. The security scattered throughout the round concert hall was the most insane I’d ever seen, and that was saying something. Snipers perched on the white-domed roof, concrete barriers…and probably every bobby in London’s police force shoulder to shoulder on the sidewalk. Plus the City of London’s SWAT team blocked off the surrounding streets.
“Of course we don’t mess around when two heads of state and a monarch are involved,” George replied. She pressed the com button on the lapel of her suit and muttered, “Tornado’s whirling in.”
I exchanged worried looks with Hannah, who clutched a massive leather handbag holding the wig and the look-alike gown we’d quickly purchased from Harrods. I’d need to change into both in order to impersonate Mom. Hopefully we wouldn’t be searched on our way into the building, or our plan would be toast.
Pure luck gave us our first break. George scooted us around the security X-ray station set up at the entrances and whisked us down a back corridor to the box seats in the balcony.
“I need you two in place ASAP,” she said. “There’s too much going on to risk any security compromises.”
She opened the door to our box seats. Two people were already settled in the red velvet chairs.
Ugh. Trevor Eckley. And double ugh. Brittany Whittaker. How’d that happen?
“Blimey, Morgan.” Trevor rose and gave me the once-over, eyes lingering on the modest neckline of my little black dress. A faint blue bruise shadowed his nose. “You look blinding. And who is this lovely lady? Chocolate and vanilla are my favorite flavors.”
Hannah recoiled like she’d seen a snake. Well, she had, of sorts. A simple gold pendant at her throat set off the dusky rose of her designer gown, so of course she looked amazing. But “chocolate and vanilla”? Gross. “This the guy you punched out, Morgan?”
“Yeah.”
“He’d better behave or I’ll show him how we roll Davis style.”
Trevor sank back down in his chair. “You American girls certainly are touchy about compliments.”
“Don’t pay any attention to them, Trevor.” Brittany leaned into his arm and let her silky blond hair brush his cheek. She wore a ruched periwinkle number, the neckline caked with rhinestones. “I like compliments.”
Hannah’s hand squeezing my arm distracted me from barfing. “There’s Rich,” she whispered.
Below us, a scattering of applause announced that Prince Richard had entered the royal box, which was identified by an enlarged replica of a crown hanging off the edge of the balcony. Richard wore a black tux that complimented his dark good looks and made every girl in the room swoon.
“Damn,” Hannah murmured, eyes locked on him.
George leaned in from the shadows where she was discreetly stationed. “You two better sit down,” she told me, hand cupped over her earpiece. “I’ve just heard that Foxfire is on her way.”
Foxfire. Mom’s Secret Service code name. She was to meet the queen for the first time minutes before they walked on stage together and welcomed the guests to the concert.
Trevor had risen and moved to the back of the box so he could take a phone call on his mobile, leaving two seats next to Brittany vacant. “Yep, sure thing.” I hastily plopped down next to Brittany. Hannah eased herself into her chair, never taking her eyes off Richard.
“Basic black, huh, Morgan?” Brittany looked me up and down. “Kinda boring for the daughter of the president, isn’t it?”
“What?” I’d hardly paid any attention to Brittany. Nerves were eating me up as I mentally reviewed the plan to impersonate
my mother.
“Your dress. It’s boring.” She uttered each word slowly.
I’d promised Mom earlier that I’d pull back on the drama for the remainder of our trip, so I bit my tongue over the retort that Brittany’s dress looked like a reject from Paris Hilton’s closet.
“But I do like those earrings,” she continued. “Very sparkly.”
I fingered one of the crystal droplets dangling from my ear. Hannah had made them from Swarovski beads and silver wire. I loved them.
“They’d go really well with my dress, actually.”
“Mmm,” I replied. Hannah had begun to quiver in her chair as she continued to stare at Richard, and I wondered if she was holding back tears. Trevor, surprise surprise, had settled into the last vacant chair next to Hannah and picked at a hangnail, oblivious to the tension seething around him.
“I’d like to have them.”
“Have what?”
“Those earrings.”
I tore my gaze away from Hannah to Brittany. “You’re joking, right?”
“You should know by now that I don’t joke.”
She wasn’t kidding. She was drop-dead serious.
“Forget it. I’m not giving you my earrings. No way. No how.” I was so sick of being held hostage by Brittany and her blackmail, and I had a sneaking suspicion that her extortion had given Max cold feet about me—not that I’d let Brittany find out how successful her stupid plan was in ruining my relationship with Max.
Brittany pouted. “It’s a shame you aren’t in a more generous mood, Abbott. I might reconsider sending the photos I have of you and your secret boyfriend if you’d only be a little nicer.”
I ground my teeth together.
“Plus I might not tell the papers how horrible you’ve been to me this whole visit, acting like a stuck-up bitch and ditching me when I’m all alone in a foreign country. I don’t know, though…I’m sure they’d love to hear how you’ve been using your status to get special favors in London.”
“I haven’t been doing that!”
“Oh really? Come on.”
I thought about the theater district surprise I’d arranged to cheer up Hannah. When Brittany got done blabbing to the press, there was no telling what they’d think.
“Fine.” I dragged the earrings off and handed them to her. “Happy?”
She unhooked her rhinestone dangles off her ears and slid mine on. “Getting there.”
Hannah finally seemed to come out of her Prince Richard–induced coma. We nodded to each other. Time to put Operation Meet the Queen into play.
Hannah leaned toward Brittany and said in a confidential tone, “Hey, Brits. I think someone’s crushing on you.”
“What are you talking about, Davis?”
Hannah tilted her head meaningfully at Trevor sitting next to her. Trevor, mercifully, was checking his mobile for text messages, completely oblivious, though it might have helped if he looked a little more lovestruck. But we were improvising this part.
He’s texting his friend, Hannah mouthed to her. About you. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Hannah glanced at Trevor stealthily to make sure he was still oblivious (he was) before she continued. “He’s been asking me if you have a boyfriend.”
Brittany started preening. “I have lots of boyfriends.”
“Here’s your chance to hook up with the prime minister’s son,” I put in.
Her eyes sharpened with calculation.
“You wanna switch seats with me, Brits?” Hannah half rose.
For a split second, Brittany hesitated. Then Trevor snapped his mobile shut and let his lizard eyes drift impersonally over her before they glazed in his usual self-absorbed torpor.
That settled it. She nodded.
No sooner had she taken her seat than she hit the flirt button, giggling and tossing her hair at him. “I really like that, er, shirt you’re wearing,” she cooed. “So sophisticated.”
“Really?” Trevor pepped up a bit.
“Blue’s your color.”
Now Trevor fully woke from his stupor. “Got this little number at my favorite Savile Row haberdasher. Not everyone has an eye for quality, though. You’ve got bang-on taste. For an American.” He threw me a dark look.
Brittany giggled.
Ugh.
Once they became absorbed in out-flirting each other, Hannah and I snuck to the back of the box where George sat, arms folded. Watching us. “We, uh, need to use the bathroom,” I told her.
“Both of you? At the same time?”
“We want to leave the lovebirds alone for a while.” I thumbed over to Brittany and Trevor, who seemed to be getting cozier by the minute.
“Fine.” George rose.
“Don’t worry about coming with us,” I said quickly. “The bathroom is across the corridor and we’ll probably hang out there for a while until the concert starts. You know, to keep from gagging.” By now Brittany was practically climbing into Trevor’s lap.
George’s eyes narrowed, but she sat back down. “All right. Don’t take forever.”
I hoped it wouldn’t.
Hannah grabbed her handbag loaded with Mom’s look-alike gown and the wig. We slipped out and gently let the door to the box swing shut behind us. Well-dressed guests were making their way to their box seats, but no one paid us any attention.
“Which way to backstage, do you think?” I asked Hannah.
“No clue. Let’s start walking, we should find it soon enough.”
We started making our way down the big circular corridor. Since we were one flight up on the Grand Tier, we dropped down a couple flights of stairs, figuring that access to backstage would be on the ground floor, level with the stage. Our feet didn’t make a sound on the plush magenta carpet.
“Bingo,” I said to Hannah. Next to an exit light, we found an artists-only door. We eased it open to reveal a dingy corridor loaded with banged-up trunks, dinged orchestra cases, and exposed air ducts.
“This was way easier than I thought it would be,” I began.
Then I heard a soft cough behind me. I turned.
“So you were just going to the bathroom?” George shook her head. “It’s not good to lie to your Secret Service agent, Morgan. Makes me not trust you.”
“Uhhh…”
“In fact, it makes me wonder what you’re up to and what your friend has in that handbag.”
Busted!
George looked so scary right now. No way would I be able to talk my way out of this one.
Chapter Twenty-two
“We, er, got lost?” I offered.
“Don’t insult my intelligence,” George said. “Make this easy on both of us and come clean, Morgan.”
Tell my Secret Service agent that I’d planned on impersonating the president of the United States so I could plead with the queen of England to let my best friend date her grandson? Riiight. “Honestly, we got lost.”
“I can help you,” she said unexpectedly.
Hannah and I stared at each other. Help us?
“It’ll be much better if we were on the same side instead of you sneaking around and me having to cover your tracks for you. It’s getting exhausting.”
“You’ve been covering my tracks?” I echoed, stunned.
“How do you think you and Max have been able to see each other so much? I put him on the Secret Service access list at the hotel. Max is a good agent, he might be able to breach the bubble once in a while, but he’s not that good.”
My Secret Service agent had been helping me see Max all this time? Could. Not. Process.
“Let’s tell her, Morgan,” Hannah said. “We’re wasting time.”
I bit my lip, calculating. How much more trouble could I get in? Besides, Hannah was right. We were wasting time.
So I gave George the bare-bones outline of what Hannah and I hoped to accomplish, and as I was telling her, it sounded more nuts than ever. “Still want to help us with our crazy plan?”
George displayed remarkabl
e self-control given what she’d just heard. “I didn’t think it’d be that crazy.”
Impressive.
“We need to get to the queen,” I said. “ASAP.”
“This way.” George led us down a stairwell. We passed by a desk with a security checkpoint. I tensed, but George flashed her ID and we were waved through. We wandered around the musty hallways until we emerged into an area just to the left of the main stage.
“Now what?” George asked.
“We need a place where Morgan can change,” Hannah said.
“Wait here.”
George disappeared. “Do you think she’s ratting us out?” Hannah asked.
“I don’t think so. If she wanted to, she would have put the kibosh on the whole thing earlier.” But really I had no idea. Maybe George was right this minute spilling the beans to my mother. I started breaking out at the thought of the consequences, so I just stopped thinking about it. Seemed easier to go with the flow at this point.
George returned more quickly than I thought she would. “There’s a vacant dressing room off stage left. At least, I think it’s vacant. There’s no makeup or costumes in it, just a bunch of sound cables.”
Hannah gave a cheer. “Great! It should only take a couple minutes to get Morgan ready.”
George stood guard outside the dressing room door while I hurried into the semiwrinkled gown. Hannah eased the bob wig over my head. “No time for wig glue or bobby pins,” she muttered. “Just don’t move your head around.”
“Uh…okay. Do you have the earrings?”
Hannah handed me a pair of cubic zirconia studs that looked exactly like Mom’s trademark one-carat diamond studs.
Hannah swiped some low-key lip color over my lips and a little mascara over my lashes, and stood back to survey her handiwork. “Ferosh,” she pronounced. “In a presidential way, of course.”
Of course. If you could call wearing a staid blue gown with a modest amount of beads along the collar and a bob-style wig ferocious.
Secrets of a First Daughter Page 11