His Majesty's Measure

by Pamela DuMond

  Chapter 17

  VIVIAN

  I stared out the helicopter window at the sharp, jagged snowy peaks below. It was well into the afternoon, and the sun was sinking toward the horizon in the French Alps. I sat huddled with Leo and the ladies in the back.

  “Major Peters’ intelligence group has discovered—” Esmeralda said.

  “Captain Sam,” he said from the front of the helicopter.

  “I’ll call you whatever you wish, luvkins,” Esmeralda said. “Captain Sam’s intelligence group has ascertained that Daira Ailey lives in Monaco now. She rents a small apartment in a working class area. She’s employed at one of their mid-list gaming establishments, Monte and Carlos’s Casino. She was photographed at Royal Friedricksburgh Cathedral the day of your wedding. We are confused as to what she was doing there. We suspect she moonlights on the side peddling information. Pads her pocketbook.”

  “I bet she pads her bra, too,” Bea said.

  “We all pad our bras,” Joan said.

  “Any sign of Helga, who was super thoughtful and nice before she tried to kill me?” I asked.

  “Negative on Daira’s homicidal mother,” Esmeralda said. “We thought we’d have video of them plotting, or at least sitting down for some hot soup and a sandwich at a Panera, but Helga’s in deep hiding.”

  “Daira was intimate with Leopold, and tried to nail Max in the sack as well,” I said.

  “Both royal Bellèno princes,” Joan said.

  “That was over a year ago,” Leo said. “Will I pay for that forever?”

  “Yes,” Esmeralda said. “We suspect Daira collected that information, then sold it to criminal sorts who were willing to pay her in exchange for her familiarity with the persons as well as their locations and routines.”

  “You mean Daira might be complicit in Maximillian’s abduction?” I shivered, all the little hairs on my arms standing up, and I wondered why in the world I’d dreamed about airplane sex when it was obvious heights and I were not a good match. I glanced down at my disco gold lame form-fitting mini dress with the matching sparkly gold CFMPs. “I look like the lead singer from that popular girl band.”

  “5th Harmony?” Bea asked.

  “Pussycat Dolls?” Joan asked.

  “Diana Ross and The Supremes,” I said. “I saw a documentary about them on Hulu.”

  “I’m wearing the same dress.” Bea opened her parka. “Except it’s purple.”

  “So am I.” Joan unbuttoned her Burberry coat and displayed her sparkly emerald green dress. She kicked her feet that were zipped up in go-go boots. “The footwear is divine.”

  Esmeralda’s shift looked exactly the same but was red. “You said the only online store that delivers in under two hours was having a clearance sale and this was all that was left,” I said.

  “Fact check,” she said. “True.”

  “You’ve got a plan?” I asked.

  The helicopter broke through the clouds and descended toward a picturesque, upscale urban city nestled on the Mediterranean coast.

  “Considering that it looks like we’re landing in Monte Carlo soon, maybe now’s the time to fill us in on it,” I said.

  “I’m closing my eyes,” Bea said, white knuckling her seatbelt. “I hate landings.”

  “I thought it best that we confront Daira on her home turf,” Esmeralda said. “Having said that, it would be awfully suspicious if the five of us, along with Captain Sam and his buddy, Mr. Hot Co-Pilot, surged up the stairwell in her apartment building and pounded on her door. I didn’t think it would be right to grab her at her doctor’s office or when she was parking in an underground garage. Those kinds of interventions fuck people up.”

  “We want her unmarked, and unharmed,” Leo said. “We want to get as much information out of her as possible.”

  “After that, we can turn her if we want,” Esmeralda said.

  “Turn her into what?” Bea asked.

  “A pumpkin,” Esmeralda said. “A double agent, you dork.”

  “A double agent with no teeth,” I added. “Because I’m still punching her in the mouth.”

  “Chill out, Vivian. You don’t need to hold onto these hurts forever,” Esmeralda said.

  “I was stood up at the altar less than twenty-four hours ago.”

  “Ah, yes, time passes so quickly,” Esmeralda said. “I examined the details of Daira’s mundane life in Monaco, and I thought it best that we waylay her in a venue that was highly trafficked. There’s less chance she’ll see us coming, because we’ll blend in.”

  My sequined dress sparkled from the setting sun shining into the helicopter. “Four chicks dressed in glittery mini dresses wearing platform heels and mini-boots and a well known, recognizable prince. Aside from Vegas, where would we blend in?”

  “At the Monte and Carlos Casino,” Leo said.

  “We’re going to nail Daira where she works,” Esmeralda said.

  “Aha!” I said.

  “Buckle up,” Captain Sam said from the cockpit. “We’re landing.”

  “But what are we going to do in these outfits? Are we retro cocktail waitresses?” I asked.

  “Entering a drag queen wanna-be contest?” Bea asked.

  “In a convenient stroke of bad luck, the musicians that comprise The Extremes, the popular coverage band for Ms. Diana Ross and The Supremes, all came down with a severe case of the stomach flu a few hours ago, right before their week night performance at Monte and Carlos Casino,” Esmeralda said.

  “Wait a minute.” I peered at my gold lamé platform shoes in dismay. “We’re the stand-ins for a band?”

  “Our wigs are in the duffle that I tossed in the back,” Esmeralda said. “Can you carry a tune? If not, we’ll sing over you.”

  “Yes, I can carry a tune. I was in the chorus in Brigadoon in the 7th grade. How is this even possible? Have you sung together before?”

  We descended toward a helipad at a pristine, private airport filled with upscale jets.

  “We performed together in a vocal group for a few months between the academy and university,” Joan said. “Nothing fancy. We primarily sang A capella. And on a plus note, I was Rizzo in Grease my second year in college.”

  “I’ll be the lead. I’ll be Diana!” Bea said. “I played folk music at a string of coffee shops in my late teens. I had a couple of hits on YouTube and developed a small but loyal following. I even sang backup with the band Zoe’s Toes. They only had one hit, but if you’re lucky, one is all you need these days.”

  “You weren’t lucky,” Esmeralda said as we touched down. “I played Eva Peron in the Madrid Royal Theatre’s touring company’s version of Evita. I’ll be the lead.”

  “I saw that production,” Leo said. “You were good.”

  “Thanks, cousin.”

  The co-pilot hopped out of the helicopter, ducked his head beneath the still rotating blades, and raced to open the rear door.

  “You always get to be the lead,” Bea said.

  “That’s just your perception.” Esmeralda hopped off the helicopter first. Leo followed her and held out his hand to Bea.

  “It’s not just my perception,” Bea said, climbing out.

  “Do you think Princess Charlene is still upset about the prank we pulled on her?” Joan asked, her heels hitting the tarmac.

  “No,” Esmeralda said. “She’s a fucking princess. Princesses take no prisoners. They get shit done. Vivian, grab the duffel with the wigs, ’K?”

  Chapter 18

  VIVIAN

  We didn’t want to announce ourselves with fanfare at the gaming establishment and tip our hand. No private ride for us. Esmeralda hired a cab to drive us to Monte and Carlos Casino. We stopped at a little café a few miles out for a quick bite, to touch up our makeup, and run a last-minute check of our costumes.

  I practically barricaded myself in a bathroom stall in a stupid effort to text Max.

  Vivian: Max.

  Vivian: It’s me.

  Vivian: Are you there?r />
  Vivian: Ok.

  Vivian: I’m updating U. Can’t tell U too much in case your phone’s fallen into enemy hands.

  Vivian: Truth?

  Vivian: I miss you.

  Vivian: I miss your lips on mine. Everywhere.

  Vivian: On everything.

  Vivian: I miss your smartass comments. How you make me laugh in spite of myself.

  Vivian: I pray you’re alive and well.

  Vivian: Come home to me, Max.

  I sunk my head in my hands and shoved back a sob. I didn’t want to be the fragile girl. I didn’t want to be the constant complainer. But when a chunk of your heart has been ripped out, and you walk around with a big fat hole in your chest, bleeding all over everyone and everything, it isn’t all that easy to stick a Band-aid on it and keep it under wraps.

  So I sucked it up and pretended it wasn’t a big deal. After all, I was known for being a trooper. I’d handled my fair share of trauma. My parents had died in a motorcycle accident. My uncle had a nervous breakdown and lived in assisted living because he was too fragile to live life on his own.

  I loved my uncle. I might have weak moments. I might break down when I find myself in an exceptionally rough spot. But I never wanted to be too fragile to live life my way.

  There was a knock on the bathroom door. “You okay in there?” Joan asked.

  “Of course, I’m fine.” I sucked my feelings in a bit harder, like a tourist wearing a bikini on an exotic beach. I concentrated and willed all the stabby wounds to go invisible for a bit. I inhaled, exhaled, and recited my mantra, ‘Get shit done, Vivian.’ I exited the stall.

  I leaned into the bathroom mirror, dabbed on powder, and wondered how Max was doing. Had he eaten? Was he warm enough? Was he injured? Was he alive? If anyone had touched a fucking hair on Max’s head I I’d be out for their blood.

  I might have been a kind person, but when someone or something I loved was taken from me, I was not the girl to sit back and do nothing. Whoever stole my Maximillian could stuff it up their collective asses, because, trust me, I’d be coming for them.

  I’d get my beloved Max back. I’d cover him in kisses. I’d fuck him silly. And then I’d exact revenge on the assholes, the lying, dirty, horrible, entitled people that had separated us. The powdering of my face that started as pat-pat-pat now bordered on violent, and wrath leaked out of every pore. I needed to back off or I’d bruise from all my pent-up rage.

  I took a deep breath and counted backwards from five in an attempt to dial back my anger. I cracked my knuckles, then swiped the crimson lipstick that Bea had chosen for our group ‘look’ across my lips. Costume: Styling. Hair and Makeup: Sassy. Attitude: I was here, right? “You coming?” I asked Bea who was still futzing with her makeup.

  “I glued on my false eyelashes wrong. One’s poking me in the eyeball.” She tugged on the lash, blinking.

  “Rip them off. Start over.”

  “I can’t. No time. I’ll have regular lashes and no one will believe I’m an actual performer. Give me a minute.”

  “I’ll wait for you outside.” I exited the bathroom. Jesus Christ, could we just get this show on the road, nail this Daira chick, and be done with this craziness? This numbing, soul-sucking sadness?

  When I realized sorrow had been scribbled all over me like a toddler run amuck with a marker filled with indelible ink, sorrow stained my brain. Sorrow graffitied across my heart. Sorrow bore into my bones, like too many gray days in a never-ending midwestern winter.

  “I am done. Fuck this shit,” I said, and promptly collided with Leo, face planting into the shoulder of his white dress shirt.

  “Fuck what shit?” Leo grasped my arm and steadied me.

  “You know what shit,” I said. I don’t know why, but the firmness of his hand on my bare arm felt solid. It felt like I was being held again. Taken seriously. Protected.

  The steel bands that had rusted shut around my heart scraped, screeched, and ripped open. I burst out crying. The world plummeted around me, disintegrating like I’d slipped and fallen into a spitting volcano. I surrendered to falling. I surrendered to the sadness. Considering my reaction was tardy—once started—I couldn’t stop. Sniffles blew into snot bubbles, and escalated into puddles pouring down my cheeks.

  “Fuck being stood up. Fuck wondering where Max is. Fuck not knowing if he’s okay.”

  “Right.” Leo’s hand traveled to my face. He wiped my tears away with one finger. His touch was comforting, warm, and somewhat enticing.

  “And now we’re in fucking Monaco, where I have fond memories of doing naughty, ridiculous, fun things with my friends.” I sniffled and slobbered like an over-stimulated St. Bernard. “But no. Now we’re here because Max is gone and who the fuck knows if we’ll ever get him back? And everyone’s acting like it’s no big deal. Like even if we get him back—if I get him back—that things will return to normal.”

  “Your friends know you are devastated,” Leo said. “And no one wants you to feel more hurt than you already are.”

  “They’re sweet people with kind, honest souls,” I said. “What if Max vanished because of something I did? What if it really is my fault? I’m not up to par. Maybe he didn’t want to marry me. Perhaps the code on the note was really, at the end of the day, a kiss-off letter. Max simply got cold feet.”

  “He didn’t,” Leo said, and ministered to my other eye.

  He wiped my tears away and for some reason my twisted insides calmed, like he’d put an ice pack on all those damaged emotions.

  “You can’t know that. Only Max knows that.”

  “But I do know that, Vi. Max would be a fool to leave you. My brother is no fool.”

  “You are kind. You give me hope, Leo. I collided into you and now I’ve gone and sobbed all over you like a snot-nosed toddler. I’m sorry. Very sorry. Are you okay?”

  “I’ll live.”

  “Good.” I took a breath. Maybe my first normal full breath of the day. “Hey—my wig feels off. Did I screw up my wig?”

  “Yup. The wig, you can wrangle back on.” He looked down. “The lipstick pressed into my shirt is a different matter.”

  Chapter 19

  LEOPOLD

  Vi borrowed a clean, wet rag from the waitress and pressed it repeatedly on the lipstick stain on my shoulder. She was very earnest about the whole thing, and incredibly apologetic. She was also undeniably hot.

  “Leo, I’m sorry,” she said. “That was a klutzy move on my part. Things could have been worse. If I’d exited a second earlier I might have taken your eye out.”

  I glanced down at her. The wig. The ridiculous outfit. Nothing could take away from how pretty she was. Vi was funny, smart, her own person, and not a suck up. Nothing could deflect my attention from her pretty eyes, the determined set of her mouth. A mouth I’d dreamed about claiming for almost a year now.

  Regrettably, nothing could ease my unrelenting, undying interest in her. The way my heart beat a little faster when she walked into a room. The way my eyes widened when she tucked a lock of hair behind one ear. They way my cock twitched when I caught a glimpse of her thigh when she smoothed her skirt down her legs.

  If Vi had been anyone else’s girl other than Max’s—I would have made a move.

  Take that back. Not a move.

  A thousand moves.

  I would have pushed boundaries.

  Slowly.

  Insistently.

  Relentlessly.

  I’d have penetrated her impenetrability. I’d have etched myself into her soul. I would have chipped away at her resolve until she was mine.

  Until I asked her, ‘Are you mine, Vi?’

  And she’d answer, ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  “What shall I do with you?’ I’d circle around her in a hallway like this one, touching her face, her hair, her lips.

  ‘Whatever you wish, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Very well, then.’ I’d peel off her clothes starting with her top. When all that remained was her whi
te lace underwear, I’d skim my hands over her tits confined in the bra. Feel her nipples harden under my touch, her breath coming a little quicker. I’d rake my fingers through her hair with one hand, pull her head back just a bit, and flick her front hook bra open with the other hand.

  I’d cup one full breast, then pinch the nipple. Her cheeks would flush with color. I’d kiss her mouth, claim it, dart my tongue inside, nibble at her lips before making my way to her neck. I’d feather kisses down her chest, her stomach, until I arrived at the V between her legs. “I want to hear you say you’re mine, Vi. Say it.” I’d lick her stomach, my hand dropping, pressing between her legs, finding wetness. Lovely wetness.

  “I’m yours,” she’d say.

  I’d run one hand through her folds. She’d moan and wriggle under my touch until I found the sweet spot, toying with her until she gasped. “Say it again, Vi. Say it again and I’ll do what you want me to do.”

  “I’m yours, Leo,” she’d say.

  I’d bury my face in her pussy, one hand fondling a beautiful, full breast, and pinching a taut nipple. She’d inhale sharply, her pelvis rising. My hand would reach, grasp the curve of her hip, play with her clit with the scruff on my chin, my tongue exploring. She’d taste of honesty, wildness, sweetness, and hope. I’d get her off with my lips, teeth, tongue, scruff on my face, until she came in shudders around me, her fingers entwined in my hair.

  Heaven. Vi was my heaven.

  Vi was a feast for a future King.

  But she wasn’t just anyone’s girl.

  She was my brother’s.

  Vi was forbidden.

  The angel on my shoulder crossed himself. “You are screwed for life, Leo, if you act on your feelings. You will burn in hell, my friend. Plenty of other lovely lasses out there.”