Fit for a Queen

by Nicole Burnham

  Daniela took a drink of her wine and studied him. The house wine in most restaurants was decent, but rarely memorable. This was exquisite. Even so, her focus remained on the man before her. “Then what?”

  Royce shrugged. “Then came the bad part. I questioned myself and my skills. I couldn’t remember whether the van had been parked across the street before we entered the restaurant. We would have approached the van from behind, so I wouldn’t have seen the driver. But if I’d been paying attention, I would’ve noticed that it didn’t have plates or that it was riding low on the tires because it was filled with explosives and nails. Things I’m trained to notice.”

  As he spoke, Royce’s gaze slipped toward Basia to ensure they still had privacy. On an exhale, he told Daniela, “My inattentiveness slowed the investigation. I couldn’t answer basic questions about the evening. Only a few people knew where we’d be that night, which is typical operational security. But since it’s impossible to interrogate the dead, we had no way to know for certain whether the bomber had gotten the information from within our unit or if he’d simply known we’d visited the restaurant before and staked it out on the chance we’d return. It was critical to determine whether he was part of a group or if he’d planned the attack alone.”

  Daniela ran her thumb along the edge of her glass. Even now, it was apparent that the events of that night frustrated him. “I know nothing about military operations, but from the way you describe it, it’s likely you did nothing wrong. The van may not have been there. It may have been a crime of opportunity. He wanted to blow up something, and had the means to do it. When you and your friends came into town, he had his chance.”

  Royce took a bite of his bread, then set it on the plate with a frown, realizing he’d saturated it. “Maybe, maybe not. The bottom line was that we were so hyped from the drills that afternoon that I was careless. It took months of investigation to discover that the guy was a lone wolf who’d been inspired by extremists he’d watched online. He’d scouted the neighborhood, learned soldiers had visited that particular restaurant on previous occasions, and then rigged the van himself. If he’d been working with others, more attacks could have taken place and lives lost before we figured it out. I never wanted to be responsible for a delay like that again. And we never did learn when he arrived at the restaurant…if he’d already been there watching, or if he’d heard that soldiers had come that night and decided to take action.”

  Movement in the mirror behind Royce caught Daniela’s attention. Another customer entered to pick up a meal. Judging from the way he greeted Basia, he was a regular. Daniela lowered her gaze from the mirror to Royce, who’d also been watching the exchange at the counter.

  “What does that have to do with keeping your identity from me?”

  He grinned, but it was to himself, rather than Daniela. “That night taught me to pay better attention to my surroundings and to play things close to the vest, even when I feel safe.”

  “Caution became your default.”

  “Exactly.”

  In a way, she could understand. Many aspects of her life were an open book. Others, however, she kept on lockdown to protect both her family and her heart. On the other hand, it made no sense. What horror did Royce possibly think he’d prevent by keeping her in the dark about his identity?

  Before she could ask, the waiter swished through the doors from the kitchen, a plate of lasagna in each hand. He warned them that the plates were hot, topped off their wine glasses, and offered to bring a second carafe. Daniela glanced at her glass as the waiter poured, surprised to realize she’d already consumed more than half her wine. Royce nodded, and the waiter disappeared. They remained silent until he returned, placed the fresh carafe on the table, and asked if they needed anything else. Once they were alone again, Royce’s eyes shifted to her plate, a silent invitation for her to begin her meal, then to the front of the trattoria, where another customer arrived to pick up a meal. Royce took a few bites of his lasagna but didn’t speak until the woman left with her takeaway containers.

  “I was hired by King Eduardo to redo the walls and baseboards. But that isn’t my primary task.”

  She considered him, noting the scar once more, then the seriousness of his expression. “You aren’t really a painter, are you?”

  “My painting business is completely legitimate. I started it after I was discharged from the military. However, I don’t have many clients. I use it as a cover when necessary on security tasks.”

  Daniela’s mind flew. Royce was in security?

  It would explain why he arrived early, yet always stayed after she did, even on the nights she worked late. And why he’d asked so many questions about Helena Masciaretti and the Roscha sisters, questions that had gone beyond polite inquiries about whether their presence had disturbed her. And why he’d kept his identity from her.

  The lasagna, which had tasted so delicious only a moment before, thickened to clay in her mouth as she absorbed what he’d said. She forced herself to swallow the lump of pasta, wondering if she’d completely misread the royal family and their trust in her.

  “You were hired to watch Queen Aletta’s apartment.” She saw the confirmation in his eyes before he could answer, sending her heart plummeting in disappointment. “You were hired to watch me.”

  Chapter 17

  Royce noted Basia’s position to ensure she was out of earshot, then told Daniela, “Yes to the watching the apartment, but a definite no to watching you. Not in the way you think. The king trusted you to go through his late wife’s lingerie, and if that isn’t total belief in your integrity, I don’t know what is.” He took a breath, then added, “My assignment is to serve as eyes in the back of your head so you can focus on your task.”

  Daniela’s body language remained carefully neutral, but Royce didn’t miss the tentative glimmer of hope in her eyes. “All right. Why don’t you describe what your assignment is, precisely?”

  The instant she’d called him Royce he knew he’d need to explain, but having time to contemplate that explanation didn’t make it easier. He mentally braced himself. “You were informed of the thefts that took place around the time of Queen Aletta’s death and the fact they were likely an inside job.”

  Several beats passed before she said, “I was.”

  All right. This was progress. “To the king’s knowledge, the staff is unaware of those thefts. You were hired on Queen Fabrizia’s recommendation, after King Eduardo told the queen that he wished to keep the assignment out of the hands of his palace staff, but without causing a stir.”

  Royce flattened his hand on the table and slid it toward his wine until the stem was trapped between his index and middle fingers, but he kept his eyes on Daniela. “The reasoning behind my hire is similar to the reasoning behind yours. When the decision was made to open Queen Aletta’s suite, the family wanted the final layer of security to be independent, but without tipping off Chiara, Miroslav, or others on their team. Since there was no Queen Fabrizia to justify hiring an outsider, Prince Federico hatched the renovation idea, which has the added bonus of keeping the regular staff away from the king’s rooms while you’re in the suite. The fact I can actually do renovation work helped me land the job. Federico covered with the regular palace maintenance crew by assigning them to other tasks.”

  “Miroslav and Chiara Ascardi have no idea that you’re in security?”

  “No. Only the king and his children know. And now you.”

  She took a moment to absorb that, then her forehead wrinkled. “If you aren’t there to watch me, what is your job? To ensure nothing else goes missing?”

  “Yes.” He lifted one shoulder, then let it drop. “Discovering the identity of the original thief would be a bonus, but isn’t my focus. Frankly, after five years, it’s unrealistic. In the meantime, the king gets a new look for his great room. He was actually quite happy about that part of the plan.”

  She considered that. “On my first day, King Eduardo and I had a breakfast
meeting to review my duties. He said he was looking forward to having a lighter, airier great room at the same time the closet is done. He even described the paint color. He didn’t let on at all.” She cocked her head. “Do the king and Prince Federico believe that someone on the palace security team…that they might have—”

  “Stolen from the queen? No. However, someone obviously did. Someone they trusted.” He raised his glass, savoring a mouthful of the rich, dark liquid before continuing. Wherever Safina sourced her house wine, the place knew their craft. “When we met in Cancun, I told you that I’d hoped to go into military intelligence. I was afraid that if you remembered me, you’d recall that conversation and guess the real reason I was in the king’s residence.”

  “I can keep a confidence. Besides, the only person I talk to other than you and Miroslav is Prince Federico, and that’s rare.”

  “I trust you.” He held a hand palm out, hoping his tone conveyed his sincerity. “I discussed the situation with Prince Federico and told him it’d be easier if you didn’t have to pretend that I’m only at the palace to paint. I still believe that, which is why I wanted to explain it to you rather than apologize, and to do it away from the palace. Miroslav is good at his job. So is Chiara Ascardi. They’re trained to spot atypical behavior. One odd look or wrong word is all it would take for them to suspect there’s more to my position than meets the eye. It’s already unusual that the royal family hired someone from the outside rather than have maintenance handle the job. I don’t want anyone to dig deeper into my background than was necessary for me to get the clearance to paint.”

  The sound of the restaurant door had Daniela looking in the mirror. A teenager entered, a helmet dangling from his arm by its chin strap. He and Basia exchanged small talk until the waiter emerged from the kitchen with two large bags. Basia looked inside, repeated a long order, then handed one of the bags to the teen.

  “He’s a regular,” Royce said, his voice low. “He works at the tourist bureau after school and picks up dinner for his family every so often.”

  “That’s a lot to carry on a motorcycle.”

  “Try a scooter with a milk crate on the back. He’s the oldest of seven kids. Does well in school, works hard, and manages to balance everything without getting harried.”

  Daniela’s gaze dropped from the mirror to him. “How do you know all this? Basia?”

  He was tempted to nod and leave it at that, but knew she’d want the full story. “She introduced us once when we were both waiting for orders. We started talking.”

  The teen squinted into the darkness, recognized Royce, and raised a hand in greeting. Royce returned the wave before Basia followed the teen out the door, each of them carrying one bag, presumably to load it onto his scooter. To Daniela, Royce said, “I tutor him every so often.”

  “You do? What subject?” There was surprise in her voice, but it wasn’t disbelief. More like approval. It shouldn’t matter to him, but it did. He liked it.

  “Physics. Not so much tutoring, I guess, as meeting with him to go over his classwork. He’s applying to university and that’s the one subject that’s been a challenge for him. It helps him to brainstorm back and forth as he’s working through his lab write-ups and studying for exams. It’s how I know he works hard and doesn’t get flustered.”

  “Good traits.” She paused a moment. “You obviously like working with him. And you like physics?”

  “Love it,” he admitted. “Studying it again after a few years away from a classroom has been good for my brain.”

  “You can enjoy it for the sake of enjoying it. No tests.”

  “Exactly.”

  An awkwardness settled between them. Royce took a few more bites of his meal, trying to concentrate on the food rather than the woman across the table. He’d chosen Trattoria Safina for more than one reason. First, for practicality, as tourists usually opted to patronize one of the larger restaurants with its menu mounted on either the front window or a sidewalk stand, rather than enter the smaller place with no obvious signage, no ability to peek inside, and no posted menu. Second, though, was the food. Since returning to San Rimini, Royce had sampled nearly every dish on offer at Safina’s, including the full rotation of specials. They’d all been superb. But despite his efforts to focus on the flavors and textures tonight, the awkwardness remained, at least on his part.

  Daniela took a sip of her wine, then set it on the table. As he watched her align the glass with her knife, he said, “You never get harried, either.”

  Her eyes rolled toward her forehead. “I’m permanently harried. I organize the life of one of the most well-known women on the planet. If someone put my job description in writing, it would say, ‘take on a mountain of stress so Queen Fabrizia doesn’t.’ I try hard not to show it.”

  “Then you’re good at faking it. Have you always been this way? So calm? Able to make order of a chaotic world?”

  She shrugged off the compliment—and the question—then her expression turned serious.

  “Look, Royce, I don’t like that you kept your identity from me. It’s hard not to be insulted. But I understand why you made that choice. You’re trying to do your job, just as I’m trying to do mine. If it makes you feel better, I’m more than able to fake it with Miroslav or anyone else who comes through the residence.”

  “I imagine you are.” He stabbed a chunk of his lasagna. “I did notify Prince Federico about tonight’s dinner and the reason for it. So he knows you know. All the same, given that the palace walls have ears—”

  “I won’t discuss it.” She waited until he’d taken another bite of pasta to add, “I assume you chose this spot so we could speak freely?”

  He nodded. Once he’d come clean, he’d hoped they could relax over dinner. Sink into the atmosphere, maybe talk about her life since Cancun. About music and movies and other topics that had nothing to do with the palace. But her forehead remained furrowed and she seemed leery of revealing anything personal, an observation he filed away for later as she continued to check the mirror for approaching waitstaff.

  “Something on your mind?” he prodded.

  “I haven’t had the chance to mention it to Prince Federico yet.” Her jaw tightened for a split second before her eyes locked with his. “I came across something this afternoon that may be useful to you. I’m no expert, but I’m certain that at least one of the queen’s handbags is counterfeit. I suspect others may be, as well as a scarf and two pairs of shoes. I’m doing research and making discreet inquiries.”

  The revelation grabbed his attention like the sound of an unexpected gunshot. He couldn’t pinpoint what or how, but this, he knew, could be something.

  Not wishing to influence her, he kept his reaction to a raised brow. “Given the number of outfits required for the royal family’s engagements, I suppose it’s no surprise a few fakes sneak into their wardrobes.”

  “Nothing sneaks into their wardrobes,” she insisted. As he ate, Daniela explained that the royal family obtained most of their clothing through private appointments with fashion designers and personal shoppers. “The odds of a counterfeit item making its way into a royal wardrobe would be like the odds of winning the lottery,” she told him. “I spent the afternoon trying to figure out how it might happen. The only possibility might be if Queen Aletta spotted an item either online or while out in public, then asked an assistant to make the purchase. I’ve done that for Fabrizia a few times. For instance, a few months ago, we were on the way to an event in downtown Cateri. The car was waiting at a red light, and she noticed a pair of reading glasses in the window display at a mom and pop optometry shop. I went back to the store the next day, checked the price, and she asked me to make the purchase, but without anyone knowing it was for her. A fake could sneak into the queen’s closet that way. Say a store is duped into buying a counterfeit item by a distributor, or a customer buys the real thing, then comes back later and returns a fake for a refund and the salesperson doesn’t notice the switch. But, as
I said, that’s like the lottery.”

  “You don’t think that’s possible with this handbag?”

  “No. Members of the royal family receive press coverage for the events they attend and for what happens in their private lives, but what they wear also draws a lot of attention. Entire websites and publications are devoted to royal fashion. Handbags are a huge focus.” Daniela bent her elbow so her forearm was parallel to the table, then tapped her sleeve. “Their location makes them prominent in photographs. Just last week, a Spanish princess attended church carrying a new bag. It sold out in a matter of hours. Demand for that designer’s other bags skyrocketed. Fabrizia knows this, which is why she’s careful in her choices. As am I, on her behalf. Aletta and her staff would’ve been no different. It would’ve been a public relations nightmare if she’d been photographed carrying a counterfeit bag. It sounds petty, given what’s going on in the world, but it’s an occurrence that would make the news.”

  He couldn’t keep the skepticism from his voice. “What? A headline screaming that the queen is cheap?”

  She shook her head. “The real issue is economic. Designers would be incensed and rightly so. They’d say she was setting an example, giving the impression that carrying fake merchandise is socially acceptable. They’d feel the need to defend their pricing and the quality of their materials and workmanship. They’d argue that the queen undermines the very laws that protect their creative efforts by looking the other way when copycats steal their designs and make a profit.”

  Behind Daniela, three customers arrived at once to pick up orders. Royce sat back, considering. “You’re certain this handbag is counterfeit?”

  “I talked to an expert at the design house today—keeping the questions general, of course—but I learned that the stitching on the handle is the wrong color. Close, but wrong. The bag’s lining is also wrong. The pattern is correct, so it’s acceptable to the eye, but when I compared it to the lining of two other bags in the queen’s collection from that same designer, I could feel the difference. It’s rougher. A cheaper material.”