My Best Friend's Royal Wedding

by Romy Sommer

  The close-fitting shirt perfectly outlines his broad shoulders and tapering torso, showing off those defined pecs I had my hand on in the grotto. The man really is perfection. I sigh. Yeah, I’d like to do him.

  Phoenix sends me an amused glance, and I blush. “Did I say that out loud?”

  “You didn’t have to.” She laughs. “I’ve never known you to hold back from having a little fun if you like a guy. So why not let loose and have some harmless holiday fun with Adam?”

  Because with him it wouldn’t just be harmless fun. When the dice are so heavily loaded in one person’s favor, someone always gets hurt. I shrug, keeping my gaze on the field. “Because he’s a man whore.”

  “Less than everyone thinks.” She suddenly jumps up, clapping and cheering wildly. I’m also on my feet by the time I spot the Flagger behind the goals raise his flag to indicate a goal. From the celebratory dance Max is doing in his saddle, I assume he scored the goal.

  From an inauspicious beginning, their team have now pulled level with their opponents. The last chukka is going to be nail-biting.

  The action moves closer to us now, and the thud of horses’ hooves, the whack of the bamboo mallets against the ball, and the voices of the players and the crowd all rise together to make my heart hammer with the thrill. I’m just as gripped as the rest of the crowd, gasping, cheering, clapping.

  The scores are still neck-and-neck, with only a minute left in the game, when one of the umpires blows his whistle for a foul. Play stops instantly and the crowd grows quiet. Adam takes the penalty shot. The spectators are silent, holding their breaths. He swings his mallet. It thwacks against the ball, which flies through the air. And straight between the goalposts.

  The crowd roars, Phoenix and I are both on our feet, cheering ourselves hoarse, and the game is over.

  The men trot casually toward us. When they remove their helmets, they look tired but happy. They dismount as they draw near, then lead their horses closer. Phoenix, fearless as always, leans over the white picket fence to pat Max’s horse on its forehead, but I hang back. Up close, the horses look even bigger and I’m more than a little daunted, especially when Adam’s horse snorts and shakes its head wildly.

  “That’s my girl,” Adam croons, rubbing her forehead affectionately. She nuzzles into his hand and he laughs softly. My heart does a stupid little leap.

  Then he catches my gaze, and winks. I blush. I’d like to say it’s just the warm day and the sunshine or something, but I won’t lie. I’m blushing like a stupid, giddy teenager who has just been noticed for the first time (the only time) by the school jock. Get a grip, girl.

  “Khara, I’d like you to meet my best girl, Bonney,” he says. “Named for William Bonney.”

  “You named a girl horse after Billy the Kid?”

  “In the National Pony Society’s Stud Book, she’s listed as Wilhelmina, but that’s such an old lady name. My sister suggested Billy, but that didn’t seem right either for this beautiful girl, so I call her Bonney.” He pats the horse’s side, looking at her in a way I suspect he has never looked at any human woman.

  What is it about men who get mushy over animals, and what they do to feminine hormones? Or maybe it’s the shirt plastered to his back with sweat, which shouldn’t be sexy but absolutely is. Or the way his dark hair is tousled and all over the place. He must be the only man on the planet who can make helmet hair look sexy.

  “Want to give her a sugar lump?” He holds his hand out to me.

  Ignoring the flutter that has settled yet again in the region of my stomach, I take the sugar cube he holds out, shivering as my fingers accidentally stroke his palm. I reach toward the horse, which snuffles at my fingers, then daintily picks the sugar cube off my nervously outstretched palm with her lips.

  Braver now, I stroke her forehead and she blows softly, as if in pleasure.

  “And now you can say you’ve met your first pony,” Adam says softly.

  “This is just a pony? She’s massive!”

  “In polo, our horses are always ponies, whatever their size,” Max answers. Then he rubs his hair, which has gone dark with sweat. “I need a shower.”

  “Need help?” Phoenix asks coyly.

  He holds her gaze, his eyes darkening with desire, and I can almost see the sparks between them.

  “You read my mind,” he says. Then he glances around. The crowd is slowly drifting to the pavilion where the luncheon will be served, but there are still people milling around within earshot. He sighs. “But I’ll have to take a rain check.”

  I glance at Adam and see that for once we’re thinking the same thing: what a drag it must be to be royal, and to always be on your best behavior.

  While the men head off to shower and change, Phoenix and I make our way to the big glass pavilion where the luncheon is being served. There is a carnival atmosphere away from the field: food stalls, music playing on loudspeakers, bouncy castles and other entertainments for kids.

  Inside the pavilion, the air is cool and more subdued. A uniformed waiter shows us to our seats. There are already a few people seated at our table – an older gentleman with kind twinkling eyes, his elegant wife, and the stunning woman in sage-green who opened the men’s match. The elderly gentleman, president of the polo club, introduces us. Turns out the woman in green is Amalia Lecroix, one of France’s most famous actresses. Yup, not only am I sitting at a table with royalty, but also with a movie star. In seven years working the casino floor and the occasional shift in the restaurant, I haven’t seen this many celebrities.

  Phoenix engages the elderly gentleman in conversation. I have to admit, I didn’t know she spoke French. I watch as the room slowly fills with other guests and recognize some of the people I met at the cocktail party last night. There are smiles and hugs, air kisses and laughter, as the guests drift to their seats. It feels a lot like lunch break in our high school cafeteria, but with one crucial difference: here, some of the people I met last night actually stop to greet me as they pass by. They’re not so intimidating when you get to know them.

  The tables are already full when Adam, Max and Mateo arrive in the pavilion. Heads turn as they wend their way between the tables. Three gorgeous men, all slickly dressed as if they just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren commercial. Be still, my beating heart.

  “Where’s your fourth?” Phoenix asks as they reach us.

  Max grins. “His girlfriend came with him for the weekend. Last I saw, they were making out in an empty horsebox. I don’t think we’re going to see them until after lunch.”

  “He’s young. It might not last long.” Mateo winks. He offers his hand to me again. “It is a joy to see you again, Khara. Perhaps after lunch I can tempt you to take a walk in the paddock enclosure with me?”

  There’s a wicked glint in his eyes, and I wonder if that’s supposed to be a euphemism. Then he turns to Amalia, the same suggestive smile in his eyes. “Enchanté, madame.”

  She smiles, and flutters her eyelashes.

  The club president performs the introductions again. When he introduces Adam to Amalia there’s a distinct chill in the air. Phoenix’s sharp eyes catch it, Max shakes his head, and Mateo’s eyebrows lift.

  “You slept with her?” I murmur in an undertone when Adam takes the seat beside me.

  “I don’t think much sleeping was done,” he whispers back with a swift grin. “But my memory is hazy. It was a long time ago.”

  “She still hasn’t forgiven you.”

  He grins. “She still hasn’t got over me.”

  I roll my eyes.

  His arrogance may have been a tad premature. Mateo and Amalia flirt throughout lunch, and she seems very over Adam.

  The food is gourmet, which means small portions arranged artistically on the plate. But it tastes good, and I’m even able to enjoy it. I’m getting the hang of all the cutlery, know how to fold the napkin in my lap so it faces the right way and how to hold my hand over the wine glass to say ‘No, thank you’ when the waiter com
es around to offer more, and I don’t feel so awkward making conversation. Not that I need to make much effort at conversation. Both Phoenix and Amalia are vivacious, larger-than-life personalities, and with them around I can fade quietly into the background, which is my preferred place to be.

  You’d be excused for thinking I’m an attention-seeker. After all, I have blue-ombred hair and wear hot pants to work. But those are just me being practical. Hot pants and short skirts get me bigger tips, and colored hair ensures the patrons remember who their waitress is because, let’s face it, we can all look alike, especially to gamblers, whose focus is on the slot machines rather than on the person handing them a beer.

  But I was the girl in the high school cafeteria sitting alone with my nose in a book. I wish I could do that right now, take the paperback out the bag at my feet and disappear into its pages rather than have to pretend I want to be here.

  I give in to Phoenix’s suggestion and try a Pimms and lemonade, a light and refreshing alcoholic drink, which helps settle my nerves. Adam is right. I can do this. Everyone here is just human, after all, even the actress. Up close, I can see she has lines around her eyes and her skin isn’t perfect. We’re all perfectly imperfect.

  The cheerful, lively atmosphere lasts until dessert, puffy balls of choux pastry filled with that same Chantilly cream we enjoyed last night, though this version has a delicate hazelnut flavor.

  “Is it true you are your uncle’s heir now that your cousin has died?” the club president’s wife asks Adam. The table falls silent. I wonder how much wine the woman had to drink. Doesn’t she know it’s rude to talk about money in polite company?

  “I can’t comment,” Adam replies quietly, his shoulders suddenly stiff with tension. “The announcement will only be made after the funeral.”

  “Oh, of course,” the woman says, her tone conciliatory. “Protocols must be followed.”

  The conversation resumes, but the air is changed and it doesn’t take me more than a moment to realize why. Amalia is no longer flirting with Mateo. She is so busy eyeing Adam speculatively that she doesn’t even acknowledge when Mateo leans in and whispers in her ear. No one else seems to notice, though. Max and Adam are teasing each other about the size of their horses, and Phoenix has engaged the club president and his wife with a funny story about the first time she attended a polo match. I catch Mateo’s eye across the table, and he shrugs ruefully. Then he folds his napkin in neat squares, places it on his side plate to indicate he’s leaving, and rises.

  “Pardonnez-moi,” he murmurs to Amalia and she nods and smiles at him, then he is gone, striding away across the room. He’s clearly not one to waste time on a lost cause. Silently, I applaud him.

  But then I wonder – just how big an inheritance is this that even women who know what a cad Adam is are willing to throw away their pride for a chance at it?

  Chapter 14

  Adam

  Out on the polo field, life is simple. Everything comes down to the ball, the goals and the horse beneath me. There is no time for thought or emotion, just reaction. It’s when I get off the field that everything crowds in on me again, the need to be Someone, though I’m not entirely sure who that someone is – the game-playing, the undercurrents.

  The walk from the stables into the pavilion is like walking from one world into another. In the stables, my only concern is the wellbeing of my ponies. When I’m surrounded by animals, I don’t feel a need to question who I am or whether life has meaning. I just am. Ponies have no artifice, and they don’t judge. They accept us completely, as we are.

  I look around the pavilion, at the flirting, the posturing, the jockeying for attention or position, and I feel bone-weary. Off the field, I’ve played these games my whole life and I can’t figure out why. Is it because it’s expected of me, or because without them I feel insubstantial, as if I’m nothing more than a shadow? Just a trust fund and my family name.

  I glance around the table, at the animated conversations, the polite laughter, then my gaze snags on Khara. As usual, she’s quieter than everyone else, steadier. She looks up, meets my gaze, and I smile. It’s a cliché, I know, but her eyes really are dark pools. I could lose myself in them. It’s not the colour, but the honesty in them. Here is the one person I know who doesn’t play games. She has that brashness Americans have, but it’s more than that; it’s a rawness, a sense that what you see is what you get.

  I start when I hear my name. I break Khara’s hold on me and force a smile as I turn to Amalia. “Sorry, I missed that?”

  “I was asking if you remember that party where we met? Whose party was it?” She’s twirling her hair and looking at me coyly, and it takes a great deal of effort not to roll my eyes. Not her too? What is it with all these women who want to be princesses? I blame movies and fairy tales for creating unreal expectations.

  “I have no idea,” I answer curtly.

  Amalia giggles. “It was at the yacht club in Antibes, and your cousin wanted to move the party onto a boat, so we picked one and climbed on board. And we found that bottle of Dom in the fridge, and Nick said it was as if it was there waiting for us, but then, just as we opened it, the captain arrived and threw us off.”

  I glance around the table to see who else might have heard her reminiscence. The only person paying any attention is Khara, who arches an eyebrow at me.

  “Not my proudest moment,” I murmur so only she can hear. That bottle of Champagne cost fifteen thousand quid, and I had to pay about the same again to persuade the captain not to press charges.

  I’m relieved to see that, with the luncheon over, most of the VIP guests are drifting back towards the field for the afternoon match. Max, as the highest titled guest at this event, has been invited to open the mixed men’s and women’s event by tossing in the opening ball, so he and Phoenix rise to leave too. I still have a full glass of a rather superb Loire Valley Chenin Blanc, and am in no hurry to join them – and I’m rather relieved to have a quiet moment in the emptying pavilion – until Amalia slips into the empty seat to my left.

  Khara is rising too, to follow Max and Phoenix. I reach out and grab her arm. “Please don’t leave,” I mouth at her, nodding as subtly as I can in Amalia’s direction. I don’t want to be alone with her. I may say – or do – something I later regret.

  Khara sighs, but slides back into her seat on my right.

  “I have missed you.” Amalia lays her hand on my arm in a gesture I’ve used many times myself. It’s the initial contact that says ‘Hello, I’m interested’. “We had fun together.” Her voice is heavy with suggestion as her elegant manicured hand strokes down my arm in sexual invitation. “And we can have fun again.”

  She’s a good actress, with the awards to prove it, and she’s an even better seductress. A few weeks ago I might have gone along with her act without a second thought, but with Khara seated beside me, radiating disapproval, I find it much easier to think with my brain rather than my other head. I shift away so that Amalia’s hand falls from my arm. “I thought it was Mateo you wanted to have fun with?”

  “Mateo is very charming, but he isn’t you.”

  I open my mouth to respond, but Khara beats me to it. “You do know Adam never comes back for seconds, don’t you?” She sounds cool and amused, and I have to give her credit for that. Most women would have made a line like that sound bitchy.

  Amalia turns wide, surprised eyes on Khara, as if only now realising she’s there. “Who are you?”

  “No one.”

  That she certainly is not. I wrap my arm around her and pull her closer before I turn back to Amalia with a bright smile. “Haven’t you heard? Khara’s my girlfriend.”

  I expect Khara to stiffen and try to pull away, as she did that time I used her as a shield against Elena. But she surprises me. She leans closer and slides her hand possessively along my thigh.

  Amalia looks back at me, employing her trademark pout. In the past, it was that pout that did it for me. Now I feel absolutely nothing.
Well, not nothing. I’m feeling a hell of a lot, but it’s all concentrated in my groin, and on the spot where Khara’s hand rests against my thigh.

  “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone,” Amalia says.

  “Clearly I am.” I trap Khara’s hand with my free one, determined to keep it where it is. My trousers already feel tight enough. If she so much as moves an inch, my stirring arousal is not only going to be uncomfortable, it’s also going to be obvious.

  Amalia’s beautiful almond eyes narrow. “Are you sure?” She turns to Khara. “Because with Adam you’re only his girlfriend if you last long enough for it to make the papers. If the press don’t know about it, you’re nothing more than a shag.”

  My temper is starting to fray at the edges, a rare occurrence. As if sensing my dangerous mood, Khara gives me a sharp pinch between the ribs, out of Amalia’s line of sight, but I can’t resist one more dig. “You and I both know the papers don’t know everything. I’m pretty sure they haven’t heard about your rather interesting little fetish.”

  Amalia pales. With a toss of dark, silky hair, she rises and walks away, back ramrod-straight. Okay, maybe that last comment was uncalled for.

  “For a moment there I thought I was protecting you from an obvious gold-digger, but now I’m not so sure who needed protecting. Geez, but you’re mean.” Khara shifts away from me.

  I rub my head, still not letting go of her hand which is trapped beneath my other. “I’ve had about as much as I can take of women kissing up to me because of my family name or my family’s fortune.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Poor little rich boy,” she mocks, pulling her hand out of my grip. “If you didn’t exploit your name and fortune to get into women’s pants in the first place, maybe you’d have better luck.”