My business really took off when the self-styled “witch queen” of Los Angeles chose me to design a gown for her annual charity Heartbeat Ball, an event that was the hottest ticket among the paranormal elite of the city, who paid thousands for tickets. The proceeds went to a variety of organizations dealing with paranormal-only illnesses like WAI Syndrome among shifters, and a blood-borne virus that killed vampires but left humans unscathed. I had donated my services, which earned me a lot of good karma and a high ranking on the paranormal-centric search engine whimsically named “Voogle.” It also turned out to be the shrewdest marketing move I’d ever made.
I was suddenly besieged by requests to make everything from high-end sexy nightwear for mortals who wanted to play Mina in some “Bride of Dracula” fantasy to a commission from a fae lord who wanted to dress like he was living in an actual fairy tale.
“I’m happy for the work,” I had told him at the time, “but can’t you just…magic…it up for yourself?”
“You mean like the fairy godmothers in Cinderella?” he asked, sounding vastly amused. “No,” he finally said. “I can cloak myself in invisibility”—and he’d demonstrated—“and I can melt into shadows, but supernatural sewing is beyond my abilities.”
I never said so to the fae lord, but in my experience, fairies aren’t really “all that” most of the time. Some can fly, some can heal, some can see the future for brief bits of time. The fae lord had one talent that was extremely useful to him, especially since the fae are notoriously bad money managers. They could grant good luck to those they favored. He bestowed that favor on me, and my business flourished. By the time the luck literally ran out, I was established and didn’t need it any more to keep going.
My mother retired from nursing and went to work for me full-time as a consultant. I sent her on buying trips all over the world because she loved to travel, and she’d return home with yards of sari silk and bolts of bark cloth and reams of exquisite antique lace made by nuns that cost a fortune. She kept our social media running with engaging posts and pictures. She seemed to be having a good time and taking on those duties freed me up to do focus on my core competencies.
On one of those buying trips my mother met a retired British diplomat who ran an art gallery on Bermuda. They hit it off instantly and after a year of texting and facetiming, they’d married and now lived in Bermuda. She still went on buying trips but had passed on most of her other duties to others in the company.
It was my stepfather Nigel who brought me into Artie’s orbit.
His father and Nigel had gone to school together, spending four years at a boarding school in Scotland. To hear Nigel tell it, the place had been a horror show full of bullying and buggery, but almost all the alumni had all gone on to bigger and better things—with Artie’s father being the most high-profile of the bunch.
Nigel was Artie’s godfather, and he always spoke fondly of him. When Nigel called me up one day to tell me his godson was in town and would like to meet me—having seen my picture in some online blog or another—of course I said yes.
I’d seen his picture online as well. He was everywhere then. He cut a dashing figure—a lean but muscular body, an angular face framed by thick dark hair and dominated by piercing brown eyes. His looks were more arresting than handsome, but he radiated an intensity that was sexy as hell.
Not wanting to seem too eager—I knew enough about him to know he always had several girls on a string—I opted out of dinner and, through Nigel, suggested drinks instead. In response, I was given a phone number that was not Artie’s but one of his people. That might have seemed strange, but I was used to the peculiarities of the super-rich. Eventually, I texted an invitation to cocktails at my favorite piano bar, assuming whoever was on the other end would pass the invitation along.
And then I almost immediately had second thoughts.
For one thing I was exhausted. I’d been burning the candle at both ends to finish my latest collection. My skin was blotchy, my nails were stubby, and my roots were a month past maintenance. But I’d said yes, so I called up Suze for a reality check because she was the one I’d been boring with my tales of romantic woe, rehashing the old complaint that all of the men I knew were either married or gay.
“Do you seriously need to be talked into a date with one of the most eligible bachelors on the planet?” Suze asked.
“I’m so tired all I want to do is go to bed,” I said.
“Invite him to join you,” she said. “From what I hear, you won’t have to worry about falling asleep.”
“You’re such a romantic,” I said.
“I’m not the one sitting in front of my TV in yoga pants and a t-shirt I picked up from a street market in Saigon.”
“I am not wearing that t-shirt,” I said. “It has a hole in it.”
“Then you’re wearing that Marvel shirt they gave away at the last San Diego Comic Con,” she said.
I didn’t say anything for a minute because of course she was right. “It’s really soft,” I finally said.
“Ha.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
I dialed up Hare Apparent, my go-to salon despite its unfortunate name, and got Sonja.
“Hi Sonja, it’s Gwen. Is there any chance Patrice could fit me in this afternoon for a touch-up?”
There was a silence as Sonja pretended to consult the appointment schedule on her iPad. Both she and I knew she had an eidetic memory and there was absolutely no need for that particular charade.
“Depends,” she said.
I sighed inwardly. This was a dance we did nearly every time I called.
“How does a burn-out rust-colored velvet shawl embellished with amber, chocolate brown, and forest green beads sound?”
‘Like half an hour of Patrice’s time.”
I tried not to sigh. “With a coordinating turban and gloves?”
Sonja made a cooing sound. I’d said the magic words. “When would you like to come in? I made an appointment for four o’clock and then put together the goody bag I’d promised Sonja as well as grabbing a couple of sample tunic tops for Kathe the shampoo goddess and Dora, who swept up. I make samples in sizes that real women cam wear, so I knew the items would fit their generous curves. I’d tip them in addition to gifting them the clothing, but I considered handing out freebies to be part of my marketing plan.
I arrived at the bar early. He was already there, along with a slightly older man he introduced as his friend, but who looked more like hired muscle though he was wearing a beautifully cut suit. The place wasn’t too crowded but even in celebrity-jaded L.A., Artie’s presence was making a stir and there were a lot of people who seemed to be holding up their phones at eye level to check their Facebook pages or whatever, as if no one could tell they were actually taking pictures. At least we were in a public place and everyone had their clothes on.
Everyone remembered that time a prince was photographed in Vegas with his junk hanging out. No one wanted that particular debacle to happen again.
He ordered a beer; I ordered a glass of red wine and we both ignored his friend Gareth, who sipped soda water and read news on his phone.
Artie was gifted at small talk—“We take classes in it,”—he admitted when we were halfway through a plate of imported cheeses and artisanal olives and our second round of drinks. Later he admitted that he had certain topics he always addressed. “We’re not supposed to discuss politics,” he said, “but I always ask women their opinions of some item that’s in the news.”
“Why?” I asked, genuinely curious to know how he went about being a “player.”
“Because people so rarely ask women what they think about things.”
I smiled. Even if it was a line, it was a good one. Our conversation progressed from the trivial and the general to the specific. I’d googled him in advance, so I’d have something to talk to him about, and we ended up comparing notes on our travels. His favorite country in the world, he told me, was New Zealand he said, p
ossibly because he’d been a little boy when he saw the Lord of the Rings movies and the place looked so magical to him.
“I can’t tell you how disappointed I was not to meet a hobbit,” he said.
‘On the other hand, you didn’t run into any orcs either.”
“Fair point,” he admitted. “Although I’ve run into a goblin or two in my time.”
“Really?” I said, because goblins are extinct in North America.
“They’re very shy, really,” he said. “They just want to be left alone to get on with their lives. Much like the rest of us.”
I liked the way he used that phrase—“the rest of us.” I knew he meant “other human beings” and not “fellow royals.” I liked him for that.
He was charming and although I was aware that a certain amount of it was calculated charm, I enjoyed being the receiving end of his attention. Artie also had the knack of making me feel like he and I were the only people in the room and that I was the most important person at the table.
When it came time to pay the bill, Artie pulled out a credit card and laid it on the table without fanfare. I’d been a little surprised because most of my research had indicated royals didn’t always use credit cards or cash. I had come prepared to cover the bill.
At the door of the bar, I started to say goodnight, but Arthur looked around the near-empty parking lot and asked me which of the remaining vehicles was mine.
I had taken an Uber to the bar since I knew I’d be drinking, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to accept a ride in the rented BMW Artie was using as transportation, especially since Gareth would be driving.
It didn’t even seem awkward when we arrived at the driveway of the house I rented, and Artie got out of the car to walk me to the door.
I didn’t know the protocol for ending a date with a royal, but at my door, Artie bent down to kiss me. He was a very good kisser.
“Did you take classes in that?” I asked him.
“Practiced on a pillow,” he said.
“Practice makes perfect,” I said. I glanced at Gareth, who was leaning against the driver’s door of the BMW, having a smoke, pretending not to watch what was going on beneath my porch light.
“Would you like to come in?” I asked.
I took him to bed that night and by morning half the paparazzi in Los Angeles were hanging out on the sidewalk hoping to catch a glimpse of him and the “mystery woman” he’d spent the night with.
“Welcome to the circus,” Artie said, and then just to give the photographers a show, he pulled me out onto the balcony and kissed me.
TMZ was the first to “out” me, which really wasn’t that much of a coup considering that I am the face of my own fashion house and my photograph is splashed on billboards all over Los Angeles, including one that’s right across from their offices on Jefferson Boulevard.
A day later, there wasn’t a person in the English-speaking universe who didn’t know that I was dating Prince Arthur David Louis Charles Pendragon of England, prince of the realm and second in line to the throne after he elder sister Anna.
Chapter 2
Artie was a good time and the next six months were a lot of fun, even though at times the protocol governing our relationship was annoying. The events we could attend together, but not sit together like any other couple were the worst. But it’s not as if we were joined at the hip. I had my work and he had his, and we made something of a game out of outsmarting the photographers and meeting in out of the way places when no one was looking.
Photographers regularly staked out my mother and Nigel’s home in Bermuda, hoping to catch a shot of me visiting with the prince. It was easier in Los Angeles in some ways because the natives never bothered us. Sometimes we’d get a nod from someone to indicate they’d recognized us, but it was mostly tourists who’d approach us and ask us for selfies. Which, I learned, were not allowed.
Because of course they weren’t.
“It’s for security reasons,” Gareth explained to me one day as he was driving me to an appointment with a buyer. Gareth was in charge of Artie’s security team, and therefore mine as well. Once I’d gotten to know him, I found I liked him very much. He was a battled-tested veteran who’d killed a man to rescue the woman he loved from captivity. He had recently married his lady—her name was Lyonesse—and chafed at being away from her so long. He could have pulled rank and gone home to Camelot, but he was the kind of man who had the word “duty” engraved on his soul. Suze was particularly intrigued by him. “I like a man with scars,” she’d told me more than once.
“Next time you’re in England, I’ll have you over for tea,” I said. “All the guys Artie hangs with have scars. They’re all ex-SAS or Royal Marines. They’re so fit it’s scary.”
“I’m not easily scared,” she said.
I broached the subject of setting Suze up with one of Gareth’s mates and he laughed. “Your friend Suze scares me,” he said, so nothing ever came of it. Suze was just about the only person I knew—outside of my mother—who didn’t want to know the dirty details of what Artie was like in bed.
Even having my hair done left me open to an inquisition.
“How’s the sex?” Patrice wanted to know. I just smiled. “They say he’s hung like a horse,” he continued.
“I am not going to talk about Artie’s penis,” I said.
“You’re no fun at all,” Patrice said, yanking a comb through my hair a little harder than necessary.
Arthur and I were apart a lot, but we were together a lot too.
He invited me to move into a charming cottage on the castle’s grounds. We managed to pull off the move without anyone in the press finding out, and spent a blissful weekend alone there, with no prying eyes.
I traveled for work. He traveled for duty and we planned our itineraries, so they’d intersect as often as possible. Traveling with a royal was addictive. I never had to sit in the idle seat of coach. And Gareth, or one of his team, was always there to expedite things. There was no waiting in lines for check-in. There was no taking off of shoes. Even when we traveled by commercial airline, the way was paved for us.
I admit, I got used to that pretty fast.
And it wasn’t just in foreign countries.
When I mentioned I wanted to see a Georgia O’Keefe exhibit at the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art, my beau arranged for me to be treated to a private tour . He and Gareth hadn’t been nearly as interested in the paintings as I was but both of them were fascinated by the tar pits next door and the sculpture of a mastodon mother whose baby was trapped in the pit.
“I expected the pit to be bigger,” Gareth had said to me, “not just a sticky patch in the ground.” He was also surprised that you could see the landmark from the buses that ran up and down Wilshire Boulevard. “The primordial and the present” he said, which I thought sounded very poetic. Gareth definitely had hidden depths. That observation had led the two men into a discussion of global warming, and to Artie’s specific and well-thought-out ideas for greening the planet. Gareth asked me about sourcing the fabrics I used in my designs, surprising me with his knowledge of the ins and outs of “fast fashion” and how seriously it’s polluting the planet.
“And half of it ends up in landfills,” he said. “Just mounds and mounds and mounds of clothes.”
I could feel the weight of his disapproval. “If it makes you feel any better,” I said, “I don’t use cotton anymore.” And I was arrogant enough to think that my clothes probably had more of an afterlife than most. I’d seen them on sites like Poshmark and Etsy being recycled in what I thought of as “the circle of style.”
We were in Los Angeles during Pride Week and Artie ended up being an unofficial Grand Marshal of the parade, which made Gareth crazy. “It’s a security nightmare,” he complained, but Artie wouldn’t listen. Parade goers swarmed him and flirted madly with him and Artie rolled with it, secure enough in his masculinity to flirt back.
He was having fun and
it was infectious. That was the operative word for our relationship then, fun.
He grew a beard and we went to Paris, visiting places incognito until we accidentally photobombed a tourist couple in front of the Eiffel Tower and she recognized me. Even cities that were limiting tourism were happy to welcome us. Or at least him, and we spent time in Barcelona, admiring Gaudi’s cathedral and the beautiful city wall. Plus, it wasn’t all travel and parties. There were plenty of nights when we just stayed in. Arthur would cook for me—simple things mostly, like fish and broiled veggies—but he turned out to be a dessert genius. The first time he made a cake for me, I was convinced he was trying to pass off something he’d bought in a shop. It wasn’t just that it tasted good, it was a concoction that would have won any round of a British baking show.
“Where did you learn how to do this?”
“I had a crush on the royal pastry chef when I was a kid and asked her if she’d teach me the basics.”
I looked at the cake, which was decorated to look like a shopping bag with the Chez Cherie logo and “tissue paper” spilling out the top. “That’s not basic,” I said.
“I took advanced lessons,” he said, waggling his eyebrows up and down like an old-time comic.
“If this prince thing doesn’t work out, maybe you could open your own cupcake place,” I said. “I hear there’s big money in cupcakes.”
He took his obligations as a royal seriously, but he had a sense of humor about himself that endeared him to people. He wasn’t afraid to pose in a goofy hat or with unpredictable animals or even more unpredictable children. Even people who were anti-royalist were charmed by him and everywhere he visited, he left behind people who `were happy to have met him and wouldn’t mind hosting him again. While his older sister Anna was under intense pressure to conform to all the protocol and traditions, Artie was able to live a more normal life, relatively speaking. So long as he didn’t kill someone while driving drunk or say something that suggested he was involved in politics, he was left to pursue interests outside the royal box. The press and public preferred their fun-loving prince to his super-serious older sister, who was known for her good works rather than her sparkling personality. Interacting with the public was hard for her, whereas it was Archie’s bread and meat. He was a typical charming Aquarius.
Playing With Fire Page 124
