by Romy Sommer
“That’s our cue.” Max holds out his hand to Phoenix and leads her out into the royal box as the orchestra plays the opening bars of Westerwald’s national anthem. I grab us a few bottles of water from the table and follow them out.
The auditorium is breathtaking, all royal blue and gold, and an enormous chandelier hangs overhead from the gilded ceiling. The place is packed, with row upon row of seating both below us and around the walls, and the audience is on its feet, clapping, every head turned in our direction. I suck in a breath. They’re not looking at you, I remind myself.
Adam and I wait at the back of the box as Max and Phoenix pose at the front, waving to the crowd while camera flashes pop. At last they take their seats, and Adam and I sit in the stiff high-backed chairs just behind them.
The lights dim, the music swells, and the curtain rises. Tonight’s performance is Giselle, one of the classical ballets. I’m entranced by the costumes and the music and the dancing, so drawn into the story that when the curtain falls I’m in tears at the death of Giselle. I hope I haven’t smudged my make-up.
“Is that it?” I ask Adam as we head into the ballroom, where drinks have been laid out for the VIP guests.
He chuckles, helping himself to two glasses of Champagne from a passing waiter. “That was just the first act.”
I accept the glass he holds out to me, even though I don’t plan to drink it. Better than letting him drink both glasses, the way he did at the palace dinner party. Though I flush when I remember he wasn’t the one who got drunk that night.
“How can there be a second act when the title character’s dead?”
“She comes back as a spirit to save Duke Albrecht from the vengeful spirits of other betrayed maidens.”
“Why would she do that? He’s a liar and a cheat. He deserves to be punished. She would have been much better off with the simple gamekeeper.”
“But the heart wants what the heart wants,” a woman’s voice says behind me. I turn to see an older woman in a black and white evening gown, with her fair hair artfully tousled and laughter lines around her eyes. It’s the eyes that tell me who she is. They’re Adam’s eyes.
“Hello, Mum.” Adam steps forward to kiss her cheek.
For a moment I’m paralysed, trying to remember how I’m supposed to address a princess. I should have known she’d be here. Didn’t Adam tell me his mother was a patron of the ballet? I should’ve practiced curtseying in these damned heels this afternoon.
“Mum, this is Georgiana’s friend, Khara Thomas.” It takes me a moment to remember he means Phoenix. Georgiana is her birth name, but she hates it and prefers the nickname her parents gave her, though I don’t suppose it’s very royal-sounding.
He turns to me. “And this is my mother, Her Royal Highness Princess Krisztyna Eszterháza de Erdély Hatton.”
She sends him an arch look that makes me want to laugh. Instead, I curtsey, relieved when I don’t fall over and make an idiot of myself.
“Oh, don’t bother with all of that.” She waves her hand. “Just call me Krisztyna.”
I don’t think so.
Her direct gaze sweeps over me, but her smile is reassuring. It reaches all the way up to her eyes, making them crinkle, and she doesn’t look at me as if she knows my underwear is from Walmart. Those etiquette lessons must have paid off.
“Are you the reason Adam has stayed here in Westerwald so long?” she asks.
I choke. “Hardly. He’s been working with Max.”
That cool green gaze turns on Adam. I never thought I’d see him squirm, but he does now. “You did make me promise I would give serious consideration to Lajos’ offer,” he says defensively.
“I did indeed.” She turns back to me. “Are you enjoying the performance?”
Though my tongue still feels stiff and my mind is blank, I remember just enough not to give a one-word answer. “I love it! And it’s much less stuffy that I thought.”
“Oh?” She raises an elegant eyebrow.
“I mean, the audience gets so involved, clapping whenever the dancers do something amazing.”
She nods. “Yes, we like to show our appreciation. Are you enjoying your stay in Westerwald?”
I can do this. I’m having a conversation with a real live princess (Max doesn’t count as royalty as far as I’m concerned) and I’m not face-planting. “Oh, yes! Europe is just incredible. And Adam has been so helpful, taking me to see museums and art galleries.”
She glances at her son. “Has he?” Then she smiles, another warm smile that makes me feel less gauche and awkward. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, Khara. You should get my reprobate son to take you to visit Erdély some time soon too.” The arch look she sends him suggests the invitation is aimed more at him than me.
Then she gives him a quick hug, looking for a moment more like a mother than a princess, and moves off through the crowd, to do whatever it is that princesses do. I let out a long breath.
“That wasn’t so scary, was it?” Adam teases.
“It was terrifying.”
***
After the second half of the ballet, I’m still convinced Giselle would have been better off with the gamekeeper who loved her than with the fickle aristocrat who was engaged to another woman.
There’s a party in the ballroom after the show, the dancers coming in to mingle with the wealthy guests who’ve paid a fortune to be here tonight. A bar has been set up at one end of the room, and a small orchestra plays. There are quite a few people I recognize from the dinner party and the polo match, and Adam was right – now that they know my connection to Phoenix, everyone wants to be my friend. It’s flattering and tiring in equal measure.
Adam doesn’t stay glued to my side, and I suppose that’s for the best. I certainly don’t want to appear on those society pages for the wrong reasons, but it means I have to fend for myself with the Elenas of the world. And yes, Elena is here, much friendlier tonight than the last time we met.
“Is that dress Valentino or Zuhair Murad?” she gushes, air kissing my cheeks. “It’s gorgeous.”
“I don’t have a clue,” I confess.
I’m rescued by Adam’s mother, who invites me to meet the ballet dancers. Elena makes a big show of being an old friend of the princess’, but there’s a look in the older woman’s eyes, a stiffness in her shoulders, that makes me think she finds the conversation tedious. It’s the same look Adam gets in polite company.
The princess certainly doesn’t look bored when she talks to the dancers. She chats animatedly, sweeping me along with her, and it’s clear she’s passionate about the ballet. I wonder if that’s how Adam would look when he’s excited, and I realize I’ve never seen him truly passionate about anything. Nothing ever burns through that slightly amused, slightly bored façade.
With their royal duties done, Max and Phoenix take to the dance floor alongside a few other couples, twirling around in the kind of dance I’ve only ever seen on Dancing with the Stars. Then Adam joins them, dancing with a blonde who looks as groomed and as indistinguishable as that trio he was with in Vegas. But boy, can they move. Where did he learn to dance like that?
He sweeps her around the floor and they look so perfect together I feel almost ill. It’s no wonder he thought kissing me last night was a mistake – I can’t hope to compete with that.
Politely excusing myself from the dancers and the princess, I head for the bar. Just this once, I could really use a drink.
“A Negroni, please,” I say to the bartender. He mixes the Cinzano, vermouth and gin, then adds flamed orange peel. I wrinkle my nose, tempted to show him how to make it properly without the burnt orange overpowering the delicate botanicals, and have to hold myself back. That would definitely make me look like a Giselle in a world of Albrechts.
“You don’t like the drink?” Adam appears at my side just as I take my first tentative sips.
I shrug. “The barman was definitely chosen for his looks rather than his cocktail-making abilities.”
Then I turn to face him, urgently in need of an answer to something that’s been bugging me all evening. “You’re not engaged, are you? You don’t have a marriage of convenience planned to some titled heiress?” Like Albrecht.
He laughs. “I most certainly do not.”
I’ve barely had two sips of this drink, so I can’t blame this sudden tightness in my chest on alcohol. “If you’re going to be the Fürst of Erdély one day, you’ll need to marry and have an heir.”
Judging from the look of horror on his face, I’m guessing that thought hadn’t yet occurred to him. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to make my sister my heir. Sorted.”
“Is the idea of settling down with just one woman so repugnant to you?”
“You’ve met the women I know. Would you want to marry any of them?”
I laugh. “There must be at least one half-decent woman who’ll have you.”
“Phoenix is already taken, and I’m guessing you’d turn me down.”
“Damn right I would.”
He removes the glass from my hand, takes a long sip and pulls a face. “You’re right. It doesn’t taste quite right. Would you like to dance?”
“No, thanks. I can’t dance.”
“Everyone can dance.”
“Sure, bouncing around in a nightclub, but not like that.” I wave at the dance floor, where Max and Phoenix are now partnered with Giselle and Albrecht. “I thought this kind of dancing only existed in movies.”
“We’ll need to remedy that, since there’ll be ‘this kind’ of dancing at the wedding reception.” He holds his hand out to me in invitation and I take a step back, out of his reach.
“No way! I am not going out there and making a fool of myself in public.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Do you even have to ask?”
He looks pained. “Okay, I’ll let you off the hook for tonight, but I want you in the palace ballroom at nine o’clock tomorrow morning for your first ballroom dance lesson. And I’m not taking no for an answer.”
“Fine.” I know I sound like a moody teenager, but dancing might just be even scarier than learning to make small talk. At least conversation doesn’t require bodily contact.
Chapter 17
Khara
Life slows down in the palace on weekends. Since this is their last weekend before the arrival of Max’s relatives and the madness of the wedding, Phoenix and Max take off for the castle upriver at Waldburg, to visit with Claus and Rebekah, and ride their bikes in the countryside. They deserve time alone after the hectic few weeks they’ve had, but I wish I was going with them. Anything would be better than dance lessons with a man who should come with a health warning: liable to cause heart flutters and irrational thinking.
Nevertheless, I ask the maid who brings me breakfast to show me to the ballroom, where Adam is ready and waiting. On the plus side, we’re left completely alone, so no one is around to witness how often I get breathless when I’m in his arms. Or how often I step on his feet, or move in the wrong direction.
“I clearly don’t know what I’m doing,” I moan. I must have inherited my dance ability from my father rather than my mother, whose first job in Vegas was as a showgirl, before she fell pregnant with Calvin.
“You need to trust me!” Adam throws up his hands in exasperation. “Stop trying to plan the steps ahead of time and let me lead.”
“Let me dance barefoot, at least,” I beg.
He shakes his head. “You can’t take off your shoes at every ball you attend.”
“It’s only one ball. Are you sure I have to do this?”
He pulls a sheet of paper from his pocket and I see it’s another of the palace’s typed schedules, but this time it’s a list of dances. Geez, even the wedding reception is scheduled down to the last minute.
After Phoenix and Max have their first dance, they’re supposed to dance with their parents. Since both of Phoenix’s parents are dead, she’ll dance with his grandfather, and he’ll dance with his mother. That’s when Adam and I are supposed to join them. Then I’m supposed to dance with Max’s grandfather, while Adam partners Max’s mother. I scrunch up my nose. We’re going to be on that dance floor for at least ten minutes with only two other couples and an audience of over three hundred invited guests. Please remind me why I agreed to be Phoenix’s bridesmaid?
Adam holds out his hand to me again, and when I place mine in it he pulls me up against him. He settles one hand on my lower back and holds my other hand.
“Just keep looking at me,” he says. “Not at your feet.”
He starts up his MP3 player again, and we start to move. I do what he says, keeping my eyes on his, and surprisingly it works. I get so lost in his gaze that I lose the ability to control my feet. His hand is firm on my lower back, guiding me as we sweep around the ballroom. When the song ends, he stops moving. I feel dizzy, and I don’t think it’s from dancing.
“See,” he says triumphantly. “When you stop trying to direct everything and go with the flow, you dance really well.”
I’m exhausted by the time we break for lunch. Not that it’s much of a break. We eat alone in the breakfast room, with only a maid serving us rather than the terrifying butler, but Adam insists we observe all the correct table manners for a formal dinner. There’s so much to remember – the correct distance to sit from the table (two hands’ width), the correct place to lay a napkin or a fork to send a message to the servers, the correct way to use cutlery so they don’t clink against the plates or cups.
“I can’t do this!” I moan, sinking my head down onto the empty placemat after the sorbet course has been removed – which I’ve now learned is a palate cleanser rather than dessert. “Please let this week be over.”
Adam takes pity on me and gives me the afternoon off. I curl up on my bed, determined to finish the Faye Kellerman mystery I’m reading. My eyes grow heavier, until I’m suddenly startled awake by a loud knocking on the door. The room is dark, illuminated only by a shaft of pale blue moonlight. I fumble my way to the door. It’s Adam. Of course.
And he’s dressed in jeans and a plain black shirt. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in jeans.
I rub my eyes. “Am I late for dinner?”
“Nope. I gave the staff the night off. I’m taking you out on the town tonight.”
“Just promise me no bars.”
He arches an eyebrow, and I groan. But I give in. I’d rather be in a crowded place, with loud music and lots of other people, than alone in this very big, very empty palace with Adam.
***
Neustadt is as magical by night as it is by day. There are bars and restaurants everywhere, with lights and music and laughter. The shops stay open late, there are food and craft beer stalls on the street corners and the sidewalk cafés are full. We wander along the river, stopping at a food truck for a dinner of döner kebabs and local weissbier which we eat sitting on the stone balustrade of a bridge as the tour boats pass beneath us, lit up with multi-colored lights.
The bar Adam takes me to is the Landmark Café. It looks very different at night, with electric-blue light reflecting off the brushed-steel bar. There’s live music, and people are dancing out on the terrace overlooking the river. We find an empty sofa in a corner of the bar, and Adam orders us the Landmark’s signature blue cocktail. It’s not as sweet as it looks, and I drink it down rather quicker than I should.
By the second drink, I let him cajole me onto the dance floor. The music is fast-paced and loud, making conversation impossible. This is my kind of dancing, gyrating to a beat rather than having to think about where to place my feet. The music is new to me, with German lyrics and a beat made for dancing. It pulses through me, in time with the swirling light. The dance floor is packed and we’re pushed close together, our bodies swaying in rhythm, thighs and hips and arms touching until my hormones are drunk on the sensation.
By the third drink, I can’t remember why I didn’t want to be alone with Adam
tonight. In fact, I really, really want to get him alone. Because the things I want him to do to me can’t be done in a very public bar.
He calls for a palace car to fetch us home, and I don’t argue. I want this. I want him. I really, really want him. Those fancy blue drinks clearly cause amnesia, because I can’t remember a single reason why I ever thought being just another notch on Adam Hatton’s bedpost was a bad thing.
In the back of the car, with the dark glass separating us from the driver up front, I lay my hand on Adam’s thigh. He doesn’t push it away. Instead, he lays his hand over mine, trapping my palm against his leg. His long fingers intertwine with mine, and his thumb brushes the back of my hand until my whole body is a molten mess. We sit like that for a long time, as the streets blur past, until the car slides between the massive palace gates and rounds the building towards the private entrance.
He only lets go of my hand when we climb out the car, but when I stumble, my low heel snagging in the loose gravel, he catches me, wrapping a strong arm around my waist, his fingers warm against the bare skin between the top of my jeans and the sparkly sequinned crop tank top I’m wearing.
Yes! The warmth and strength of his hand against my skin promises pure pleasure.
His hand stays there, all the way past the sleepy security officer who opens the front door to us, all the way up the stairs and to my bedroom door.
But when I open the door and hold it wide in invitation, his hand falls away and he doesn’t step across the threshold.
“Do you want to come in?” I ask, draping myself against the door like a provocative silver screen siren.
He clears his throat. “That wouldn’t be a good idea. Just friends, remember?”
Friends. Right.
“I’ll meet you in the ballroom at nine.” Then he turns and strides away down the corridor toward his own room. I shut the door and throw my purse at it. Lip gloss, tissues, and my phone rain down as the bag bursts open. I sag to the floor and sink my head into my hands. How is it possible that a man with a reputation like his didn’t take advantage when it was offered to him?