by Jillian Dodd
How do I trust anyone when they didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth?
I call Ari to find out where he is and meet him at a designer store, where he’s doing exactly what we said we’d do when we got here—spending a boatload of cash.
“That suit looks good on you,” I tell him, admiring his tall frame in a black Prada tuxedo.
A salesgirl is fawning over him. “I told you that cut was perfect on you. It barely needs tailoring.”
“We’re going to The Casino tonight. My sister needs an amazing dress. Where would you suggest she go?”
“We have a large collection of couture evening wear just next door. Would you like me to escort her there?”
“Yes, please,” Ari says. “We don’t want her getting into too much trouble along the way.”
I roll my eyes at him and say to the salesgirl, “Just point me in the right direction. I’ll find my way later. What all did you get, Ari?”
“A couple dozen suits and shirts. Pick me out some ties. And, I know, I just bought a new wardrobe in D.C., but the climate here really requires a different weight of fabric.”
The salesgirl is nodding in agreement and probably already knows how she’s going to spend her commission.
I smile at Ari. For a guy who claims to not like shopping, he is playing his role well.
I wander around looking at ties. The store isn’t very busy. They say most people who come to experience Race Week arrive today or tomorrow, hitting the extravagant restaurants, casino, and clubs before the special events start later in the week. I’m holding up a tie to one of the suits Ari purchased when two men come through the back door. The first man is the Prince of Montrovia’s bodyguard, and the second is none other than his Royal Highness. I pretend not to notice, turning my back to them and studying the tie, then comparing it to another.
“I like the blue one the best,” a sultry voice with a sexy accent says.
I glance over my shoulder and gaze into the Prince’s dark eyes. “I was thinking the blue was a little boring.”
“Too traditional?” he asks.
“Yes, whereas this gold one is a little more exciting. Not to mention it matches one of his cars.”
“And what kind of car is that?”
“A Lamborghini Aventador.”
“And it’s gold?”
“Gold plated. Purchased from some spoiled prince somewhere.”
“Will it be in the car show?”
“I don’t think so. I mean, he’ll probably drive it there. It’s our first time here for the car show. I’m not really sure how it all works.” I tilt my head toward him and whisper, “Honestly, the car is a little flashy for my taste.”
The Prince smiles, leaning in close to me and whispering back, “What kind of cars do you like?”
“Fast ones.”
“I like fast things, too,” he says, giving me a once over. “Have you driven any fast ones?”
“I have a new car that just arrived in Montrovia, but I haven’t had the chance to get her out of the garage yet.”
“Let me guess. You would look good in something red. A Ferrari convertible, perhaps?”
“Hmmm. Afraid not. I prefer something a little more, um, challenging. Thanks for your input on the tie. I’ll be sure to tell my brother the Prince of Montrovia prefers traditional things.” He looks surprised. “What, did you think that if you came in the back door no one would recognize you? Have a good day, your Royal Highness.”
I take both ties over to the salesgirl and tell her to let Ari know that I’ll be next door trying on gowns—and I say it loudly enough for the Prince to overhear.
I’m in front of the mirror checking out the third gown I’ve tried on—a gorgeous gilded Atelier Versace—when the Prince strolls over and says, “That looks lovely on you.”
“Thank you.”
“Will you be at The Royal Montrovian Casino tonight?”
“We’re told it’s the place to be.”
He holds out two tickets. “I’m having a private party. You should wear that dress. And please, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Lorenzo Vallenta.” He holds out his hand for me to shake, but when I place my hand in his, he turns it over and kisses it. “And what is your name?”
“I’m Huntley Von Allister.”
“Huntley. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Thanks.”
The Prince narrows his eyes at me. “Will you be there?”
“At your party?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe. But I probably won’t be wearing this dress.”
“What will you be wearing?” he asks, truly looking confused. I’m pretty sure no woman has ever RSVP’d maybe to a personal invite from him.
“What I’m wearing is a surprise,” I reply, purposefully playing coy.
Back at home, I show Ari the tickets. He’s thrilled and, of course, wants to go.
“I don’t think that should be our game plan. The Prince is used to women fawning over him. A man like him needs a challenge to stay interested. He must believe I’m not interested.”
“Women,” Ari mutters, but nods his head in agreement. “So I thought we’d do dinner and then go to The Casino. Sound good?”
“Yes. We need to make friends.”
“Ellis booked us a table at—and I quote—the first hotel restaurant ever to be awarded three Michelin Stars, which it has never since lost. The ambiance is supposed to be incredible,” he says, flashing me a pic of the restaurant on his phone.
“Hmm,” I say. “What do you think? It doesn’t look like a place to meet people.”
“You’re right. It looks really stuffy.” He does a quick Internet search and comes up with a better option. “How about this place, instead? It says that its dining experience is enhanced due to an open kitchen and an elaborate counter around which we can dine.”
“I think it would be easier to meet people there. It looks fun.”
He reads more. “It also has an incredible view of the harbor, and it has one Michelin Star after only being open for three years. So, the food must be good. Alright. I’ll have Ellis get us in.”
Ellis walks into the room, bringing us each a flute of champagne.
After Ari asks him to change our dinner plans, Ellis informs us that our team has intercepted more Internet chatter, and they fully expect an assassination attempt on the Prince during Race Week.
“Was there any indication it would be hidden in a terrorist attack?” Ari inquires. “We discussed the possibility of a bomb at the Queen’s Ball.”
“No word on that. I’ll let you know if I hear anything else.” He turns to me. “We have hair and makeup specialists as part of our villa rental along with the housekeeping and kitchen staff. Would you like me to send them to your suite?”
“Yes, thank you. And I think Ari should get his hair done, too.”
Ari scowls, almost offended, but he quickly hides it. “I agree,” he says.
“I’d like to take a quick nap then get ready. If The Casino and clubs are as big of a deal as I’ve read about, people will have a late dinner then go there. Let’s plan to leave in three hours.”
Ari nods in agreement, looking like he could use a nap, too. This is a lot to deal with in a short amount of time.
Well, at least it is for me. Not only do I have to be on point with my new identity and mission, I just found out that my parents were spies and that I am probably in possession of top secret information.
I think about the note Terrance gave me. That I’m being watched by someone. More than likely that includes the keystrokes on the computer I was supplied with. If I’m going to find out what’s on that disc, I’m going to have to be careful.
I go to my room, lie down on my bed, set my alarm, and drift off while trying to come up with a plan.
At dinner, Ari and I are seated next to four rowdy British lads in town for the race, the cars, and the women. It appears everyone parties all night, sleeps until early afternoo
n, then does it all over again.
We become fast friends during our meal, and by the end we’ve moved past small talk.
“It’s our fifth year here,” one of them tells us. “We started coming when we were still chums at Oxford.”
“It’s our first time,” I admit. “What do I need to know? Like where should we go tonight?”
One of the chums raises his hand. “We volunteer to show you the ropes.”
It doesn’t hurt that I’m in a killer dress. Well, pieces of a dress.
Ari rolls his eyes at me. “I thought you were going to the Prince’s party tonight.” He says to them, “She got tickets today.”
“Bollocks,” one says.
“Boring,” one adds.
Another makes a snoring sound.
I pretend to look perplexed. “I would think there would be a lot of attractive women there.”
“Yes, but who all want to be a princess. We prefer to slum in The Casino.”
“I doubt anyone slums here,” Ari jokes.
“The Prince’s parties are small, elite, well-mannered affairs,” a tall red head who reminds me of a Weasley informs us.
“And you boys aren’t well-mannered?” I ask.
He grins. “We most definitely are not.”
The others protest, calling their friend a cad.
Ari continues, still questioning my judgment on this. “But I thought my sister wanted to meet the Prince?”
I shrug, like whatever.
“Do you gamble?” the redhead asks.
“I read up on how to play Roulette. I’d like to try that.”
“Which one? The English, American, or European French version?” the tall, good-looking guy named Wesley asks. He’s the cutest one of the bunch and my target for tonight.
“No offense to the British,” I say, holding up my hands, “but I’d like to play the European French version.”
The boys boo.
“Well, let’s finish our pints and go then, shall we?” the redhead asks.
“Sounds good to me,” Ari replies.
“Would you like a ride?” I ask the group as we depart the restaurant to find Ellis holding open the door to our limo.
“It’s just a short walk,” one of the guys argues.
“You wouldn’t say that if you were wearing these.” I pull the hem of my skirt up and show them my sky-high heels.
“Those look like they could kill a man,” Wesley teases.
You have no idea.
I grab Wesley’s hand and pull him into the limo with me. He’s loud, obnoxious, and a flirt, which fits right into my plan to get the Prince’s attention.
Because I won’t be going to his party.
The Casino is loaded with surveillance cameras, and although it is owned by a public company, the Montrovian government and the royal family hold the majority interest.
And, I’m hoping the dress I chose for tonight will attract attention—especially with the amount of money I’ll be gambling with.
MISSION:DAY FOUR
The Prince staggers into the morning room, his usual full English breakfast of sausage, bacon, eggs, broiled tomato, fried potatoes, toast, and strong coffee waiting for him.
“I don’t know how you eat all that in the morning,” Juan, his bodyguard and head of security detail says, handing him the local newspaper. “Is this her?”
The Prince studies the photo. Clearly, it’s her, and clearly, she is beautiful. And that dress. He reads the caption: Huntley Von Allister dazzles in a pink gown with an open midriff from the Michael Kors Collection.
The gown, if you can technically call it that, features a long skirt slung low on her hips in a glittering pink fabric. A matching band of fabric covers her breasts and another circles her neck.
“So, she was at The Casino but didn’t come to my party?” the Prince asks, looking bewildered.
“Apparently so, sir. If it’s any consolation, her brother showed up.”
“Why didn’t she?”
“I’m told it’s because she was winning an obscene amount at the roulette table.”
“Which kind?”
“French European. She garnered a fair amount of attention from Casino security.” He tosses a stack of photos at the Prince.
“I’ll bet she did.” He rifles through them. “She’s beaming, gorgeous, and looks fiercely competitive. You can see the seriousness in her eyes. The security camera was positioned as such to take beautiful photos of her.” Towards the end of the stack, he notices a tall, good-looking man kissing her in celebration.
Then escorting her out of The Casino, they leave together.
He lays the photos down with a bit of a huff. “Who is the guy?”
“Wesley Windsor, British playboy.”
“Royal?”
Juan looks at his notes. “Seventeenth in line for the throne. Grandson of the Queen’s daughter.”
He studies the photos some more. “It’s almost as if she knew where the cameras were and knew I would see these photographs.”
Juan chuckles. “Just for you, huh? The photos were made from the surveillance videos.”
“Can I please get a Bloody Mary?” the Prince says, causing a staff member to scurry away.
“Hangover, sir? You’d think by now you would have learned,” Juan teases.
“Merda.”
“Now now, Lorenzo,” the Queen scolds, joining the pair at the table. She picks up a photo. “Very pretty. Is she a suspected terrorist or something?”
“Why would you think that?” Lorenzo asks.
“There are an awful lot of photos of one girl.” His mother laughs. “Although, she does look pretty spectacular in that dress.”
Juan replies with a grin. “Well, we can’t be too careful, Your Highness. You know the chatter our clandestine forces have been hearing.”
“You’d think they’d have better things to do than research a pretty girl who looks harmless.”
“If you were trying to kill your son, wouldn’t you hire someone who looks like she does to do it?”
The Queen shakes her head. “An assassin wouldn’t wear pink.” She looks closer and tilts her head. “I’ve seen this girl before. Just the other day. Where was it?” She taps her finger against her chin, thinking. “I know,” she says, grabbing her iPad and typing. “Here it is!” She turns the screen toward the Prince.
He sees another photo of Huntley Von Allister looking stunning, wearing a red gown and dancing with someone he knows.
I wake up to the sounds of the ocean only to have it be overrun with rap music—a loud, angry Detroit version—blaring from the courtyard.
I step out onto the Juliet balcony that overlooks the villa’s courtyard and see Ari shirtless by the pool, doing yoga. I study his form as he calmly holds a plank pose, his muscles tight for a long while before his arms finally start to shake. He holds the pose for a few more beats then pops up, sprints across the courtyard, and beats the crap out of a portable punching bag—his odd workout a combination of zen and badass.
I study my brother some more. I was right. He’s fully fit, toned, and perfectly muscled. He should be shirtless more often.
I close the door, shutting out the noise, and walk out into the living portion of my suite to find the file I asked for yesterday on my table along with a continental breakfast.
I pluck up the file, pour myself a glass of orange juice, wrap a napkin around a chocolate croissant, and make my way out to the veranda overlooking the Montrovian Harbor.
I savor a bite of the croissant before opening the folder. Inside I find just a single sheet of paper.
Aristotle, or Ari, is apparently his real name. Real last name: Bradford.
Mother passed away from breast cancer. Father was a four-star general stationed at the Pentagon, who died in a traffic accident. Ari went to military school, where they discovered talents in weaponry and hand-to-hand combat. He holds the school’s long-range sniper record and was their boxing champion.
> I can see why they chose him for this mission. Not only is he qualified, but with his family all gone, it would be easy to change his birth records and create adoption papers. And wham, bam, Ari is the long lost son of a billionaire.
I turn the sheet of paper over, where Ellis has added a handwritten note.
Six months ago, Ari was pulled from his elite school and trained as a covert agent.
Which I find interesting. CIA training is typically a year-long program and for those who are at least twenty-six years old.
I’m distracted from the brief when a text pops up on my phone.
AirForceTwo: You owe me a pizza . . . and a shirt.
I look down at my choice of pajamas and smile. But I don’t reply. If Daniel wants his shirt back, he’ll have to come to Montrovia and get it. I glance at the clock, knowing I need to work out and then get ready for the pool party Ari and I are having today.
Apparently, when you win big at the roulette table in a barely-there dress and have a smoking hot brother, everyone wants to be your friend.
“Looks like you win,” Ari says, elbowing me and nodding toward the entrance to the courtyard.
“Well, isn’t this a precarious situation? My hot-as-hell hookup hands me the Prince on a silver platter. I couldn’t have planned it better if I had planned it.” I elbow Ari back. “Oh wait, I did.”
I watch as Daniel enters the courtyard with the Prince of Montrovia. Next to the Prince is a man with a discreet earbud and alert eyes. He’s the same guard who was with the Prince in the clothing store. I’m sure the outside of the villa is surrounded by agents, but the fact that there is only one in here is the first flaw I see in his security protocol.
The Prince doesn’t approach me right away. He’s too busy being swarmed by people who either know him or want to.
Daniel, on the other hand, walks straight over to me. I’m dressed in a bikini, but the way he looks at me makes me feel like I’m standing here naked.
“You crashing my party?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest like I’m mad at him for being here.
