“Well, when you put it that way... Actually, I think Darcy has complete faith in me. Besides which, I’m perfectly capable of fending for myself, it’s just that—”
“You’ve never had to do so.”
“But that’s not such a big deal. So I stumble around for a few days while I find my way. That’s part of the plan. Besides, I’m a grown man. What’s going to happen that can’t be fixed?”
“Your country is taken over by a marauding group of marauders?”
Adrian crossed his arms and scratched his chin, as if contemplating such an event. “Don’t see that on the horizon.”
“You get beaten up and your lunch money is stolen from you?”
“You can’t live in fear of that, now can you?”
“I dunno, no lunch money, no chocolate pudding for dessert. That would be tragic.”
“I do love my desserts.”
“Now you’re talking my language.”
His stomach growled.
“Perfect timing. I don’t suppose we can find something more substantial to eat than those microscopic tidbits of food I never got to touch tonight?” Adrian asked.
“Yeah, just wait till you see everything I’ve got in my food pantry at home. Enough to feed a small mouse. I haven’t been to the grocery store in ages. I’m pretty sure what food I have in my pantry is petrified by now. But I’ll find you something. In the meantime we’ve got to come up with a plan.”
She turned on her blinker as she arrived at her neighborhood, one of those old post-World War II communities with run-down brick ramblers sitting next to overwrought replacement homes designed by style-challenged people who thought it was a good idea to mix Tudor style with Southwestern contemporary. Nothing like a stucco wall and dying cacti (and some unwarranted optimism about the plant hardiness zone) surrounding a half-timbered home with a turret.
She pulled into her driveway and hit the garage door opener, never more thankful that her dad installed an opener for her own safety. This way she could get this hitchhiker inside without raising any local eyebrows.
“So,” she said, dusting off her hands as she ushered him inside. “Welcome to the ’burbs. It’s not exactly a palace, but it’ll have to do.”
“I don’t need a palace, you know.”
She nodded. “Good,’cause you won’t be seeing one any time in the near future, it seems. Nor any presidential suites, either.
“This,” she said, stretching out her arms as they walked into her living room, “is my ever so humble abode.”
Adrian glanced around at her cozy home. A small Christmas tree stood in a corner, looking a bit forlorn with about five ornaments dangling from it, while an overstuffed L-shaped sofa took up much of the main room. Adrian’s gaze stopped in front of the couch on the far side, where a large round hoop on a pedestal stood, with some sort of blanket stuck inside of it.
“Interesting decorator touch,” he said, nodding toward it, wondering what the use of it was.
“Oh that?” Emma pointed at a standing quilt hoop. “It’s a quilt I’m working on. It’s my relaxation. This one is really just a labor of love, nothing I ever plan to actually need.”
“Then why do you work on it?”
“My grandmother taught me how to quilt when I was just a girl. She and I made them together sometimes. This one was her idea, and she was still at it when she passed away last year.”
“I’m so sorry—”
“It’s okay,” she said. “My grandma lived a long and happy life. She was ninety when she died, and had good health up until the end.”
“So why wouldn’t you want to use this when you finish it? It must hold sentimental value.”
Emma waved her hand in the air. “It’s not that I won’t use it. It’s just that I won’t need it, technically speaking. I’m sentimental about it because it’s something we made together. But this is a particular pattern, known as a Double Wedding Ring. Grandma had hoped that it would be in my trousseau.”
“Now there’s an old-fashioned word you don’t hear much.”
”That would be my grandma, for you. She had tucked away all sorts of linens and things for when I got married. Not like I don’t have plenty of them myself. She wasn’t satisfied that I could simply stock up on dishtowels at Target whenever I needed more. So she made a slew of needleworked ones that are too beautiful to ever get dirty, truthfully. This quilt was to be her crowning glory—excuse the crown reference there.
“Anyhow, Grandma insisted that no self-respecting young woman could marry without a completed Double Wedding Ring quilt, and this is it, nearly completed,” she said. “It was her wish that I would finish it in her memory, so I’m doing that. But I have absolutely no intention whatsoever of marrying anyone, ever, so I guess I’ll just have to suck it up and use it to keep me warm on those long, lonely spinster nights.” She stooped over and pretended to be a old lady walking with a cane.
“Nonsense! It’s hard to imagine you haven’t already been taken by someone,” he said.
“You’re just being chivalrous because that’s what princes are supposed to be. Thanks for the kind words, but I’m well aware that at the age of twenty-six, my chances of finding a useful mate are dwindling. And after having sampled one too many bad offerings in the men department, I’ve decided to just steer clear.”
“Look at us, both the same age, with you taking yourself out of the running, and me on the lam in fear of being forced into it. Though at the risk of defending the wrong men, we’re not all bad, you know. Maybe you shouldn’t write off the entire gender just yet.”
A loud trill sounded in Adrian’s pocket. “What the—?” He said, patting his pocket. He reached inside and pulled out his cell phone. He looked at the text message his friend had posted: Adrian—it’s me, Darcy. Listen, you might want to put some greater distance between us if you want to succeed. Pronto.
“Huh,” Adrian said.
“Trouble at the palace?”
“You might say,” he said. “Seems I’ve gotten a bit of a warning from Darcy. Thinks I need to get out of town. I don’t suppose you’d have any great ideas as to how I could do that, like now. And without any fanfare?”
Emma stared at her quilt in the hoop frame and pondered their options.
“Well...I don’t think it would be right to plunk you down on a Greyhound bus. Too much culture shock for one day for you. Can’t fly anywhere; they’d know you right away going through airport security — passport would be a dead giveaway. Hitchhiking? Too dangerous,” she said, crossing her arms and drumming her fingers on her bicep. She held up a pointer finger. “Wait a minute. I do have one place we could go, though we’d have to get in the car pretty quickly and leave while it’s dark. We can throw some cheese and crackers in a plastic bag and bring that along for you to eat. If you’re lucky maybe I can scrounge up some potato chips for dessert.”
“Sounds like a feast for a king,” he said, joking. “From what I hear about American junk food habits, I guess it’s a great way to blend in.”
“I know, not ideal. So we suffer through junk food for now, I’ll throw whatever I have in the fridge into a cooler for breakfast. And you’ll be happy once we get to our destination. Deal?”
“Deal. I suppose.”
“At least packing will be easy, being that you have no clothes along. We can worry about that when we get there.”
“You going to tell me where there is?”
“Nope. It’ll be a surprise. A good one, I promise. In the meantime let your friend know you’re in good hands.”
~*~
Darcy had to think hard to come up with a whopper that Her Majesty would swallow. It was a good thing he spent much of his formative years covering up his own bad behavior. And even better still that he could text rather than speak with her directly. He had enough of a conscience that he couldn’t feel good about lying directly to the queen: so much easier in print form.
“I’ve taken ill. I’ll be unavailable for a few days
,” he typed on Adrian’s cell phone. Ill? What kind of excuse is that? She was going to demand he fly home immediately. Or at least see some doctor endorsed by the embassy.
“My God, what’s wrong with you?” the queen replied.
“Nothing, really. No need to worry. Just a little stomach thing,” Darcy typed. Hmmm, need to incorporate the throat so he can’t talk if she tries to call. “And my throat. I think I’ve caught that thing.”
“What thing are you talking about?” she asked.
“That thing, everyone here has it,” he typed. “You can imagine, I was in such close proximity with hundreds of people, all of those germs. But now it hurts to talk and my stomach is in knots. I really just plan to take to bed for a few days.”
“I truly think you should be seen by a doctor,” Adrian’s mother typed back.
“Of course you do. You’re a mother. That’s what mothers are supposed to think. Trust me, I’m fine. Just give me a few days and I’ll be fit and fighting again.”
“Very well, but be sure that Darcy stays in touch with me so I know everything is all right. It’s a good thing your schedule is open for the next several days.”
“Thank Christ for that,” Darcy typed, thinking that was truly his own reply, not even that of Adrian’s. “Be well, Mum. Talk in a few days!”
“And then we’ll discuss Serena,” she added.
“Sorry, I’m off to sleep.”
Coast clear with that one, Darcy then huddled with the bodyguards who knew, like it or not, they had to go along with the plan, or it would look as if they had lost their charge. Which they had.
Chapter Five
What I would give for that tub soak and glass of wine right about now, Emma thought as she fought to keep her eyes open on the five-hour drive to Emerald Isle. The only place she could come up with to disappear to on short notice was her parents’ beach house in North Carolina. A reasonable enough drive with an upside of listening to the tide rolling in by morning. Not a bad trade-off for missing out on the immediate joy of relaxing after a long day.
Adrian snored softly beside her as she crossed the bridge entering the island. His mouth was slightly open and a telltale trace of potato chip crumbs dusted his lips. Emma couldn’t help but think how bizarre it was to have not only a complete stranger, but actual royalty in the passenger seat of her car. Odd times we’re living in when someone who has everything wants to escape from it all and slum it with the likes of me. Go figure! And here she was taking him to the place that spoke “home” to her more than anywhere else.
How many times had she crossed over this bridge on the way to visit her grandmother, ever since she was a bitty baby? Too many to count. It was still hard to realize she’d not get to see her when she arrived. But the reality was it wasn’t her grandmother’s house anymore; it belonged to her parents, who had gutted the place last year and redecorated it. Not that the do-over was such a bad thing; it might make half a positive impression on Adrian now, versus when it looked like it was owned by a nonagenarian who hadn’t thrown anything out in fifty years.
Emma was finally pulling the car into the garage on Spinnaker Drive as dawn broke on the horizon. She nudged Adrian to wake up.
“Huh? What?” he said, disoriented, his eyes fluttering open, a trickle of drool at the corner of his mouth. Emma was pleasantly surprised to realize that he was indeed only human, when it came right down to it. Even if he was sleeping in a hand-made tuxedo that probably cost three times what her car had.
“Hurry, look, over there,” she said, pointing, as she pulled him out of the car and ushered him toward the weathered wooden walkway that cut through the dunes to the beach. Before them, lilac, mauve and crimson fingers of the day’s first light rippled across the cold December water, a sight that always took her breath away.
“Welcome to your hideaway,” she said, arms spread wide.
He spun around, assessing his new environment, and nodded his approval. “To think I feared you might squirrel me away in a below-ground bunker to keep me from being detected,” he said. “This, I could get used to.”
There was a brisk winter chill in the air, and they could see the vapor from their breath as they stood watching the sun gradually mount the sky. Emma rubbed her arms to generate warmth. “Let’s get inside and figure things out before neighbors start wondering who’s the James Bond wannabe wearing the walk-of-shame tuxedo out here.”
He looked at her and shook his head. “I’m not even gonna ask about the walk-of-shame thing. But James Bond? If only I could be so suave.”
“Suave you’ve got in spades,” Emma said. “The shoe phone, I don’t know about that. Wait, maybe that was Maxwell Smart with the shoe thing.”
“When you’re done talking in code, you want to let me know?”
“Maxwell Smart. From Get Smart. You know, it was a famous sitcom?” Emma shook her head. “You grew up in Europe, for goodness sake. It’s not as if you were raised in a small tribal village in New Guinea. Surely you had television?”
“I'm afraid I’m a pop culturally deprived Luddite when it comes to television. Mother forbade most television for us growing up. She figured if we never had it, we’d never miss it.”
“Of course you probably had court jesters to amuse you, so all things considered, your form of entertainment was far more intriguing.”
“You do realize that I didn’t grow up in a medieval fortress? Never once did I witness a man sporting colorful leotards and a buffoon-like hat with jingly bells and pointy-toed slippers tasked with juggling for his life. Now granted we might have had performers at the palace periodically, but I can assure you it was nothing terribly out of the ordinary, more like the ballet, or a pianist. In fact I can promise my mother has never even sent anyone to the gallows. That I know of.” He winked at her.
“Yeah, well, I don’t have a point of reference so I’m just taking stabs in the dark. The closest I’ve ever gotten to royalty before you has been a flame-broiled burger at Burger King. And once I won a hand of poker with a royal flush.”
“We’ve got a lot of ground to cover, don’t we?”
“We’ve got all week in which to bridge that cultural divide before I have to get back to work.”
~*~
Adrian helped Emma unload the few things she’d brought down for the week, including her quilt, which she set up in the bright living room before the hearth.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone travel with a massive blanket and huge wooden hoop before,” he said.
“I’m weird. Get used to it.”
“Duly noted.”
“So I’m going to defer to the fact that you’re my guest—and not that you’re a prince—and give you the master bedroom,” Emma volunteered.
“I’m fine sleeping in another bed. I don’t want to take up your room.”
“No worries,” she said. “Fact is, it’s not my room, anyhow. It’s my parents’ bedroom now, so I wouldn’t sleep there regardless. I just wanted to appear a martyr to score brownie points. Plus, believe me, you’d get woozy in my room.”
“And as soon as I know what brownie points are—”
“Damn, we’re gonna have to educate you on Americanisms,” she said. “I might even have to drag you to Walmart. Maybe we’ll ease you in with Target. Don’t want to break out the big guns if we don’t have to.”
“When you start speaking a language I understand maybe you can just send up a smoke signal or two?”
“How does breakfast sound?”
“Finally, the mother tongue. That I can understand completely. Truth be told, I’m famished. Anything I can do to help speed things along?”
“Those middle-of-the-night cookies I got you from the gas station weren’t enough, eh?” Emma started rifling around the kitchen to find out what food supplies were available and still edible. “Looks like between the food I brought from home and what my folks left from their last visit down here, I think we can scrape together a couple of omelets,” she s
aid, opening the freezer door. “Hallelujah. There’s bacon in here. We have ourselves a meal, my friend. Now, to put you to work.” She grabbed the package of frozen bacon and tossed it in the microwave to defrost.
Emma looked at Adrian, rumpled but still looking pretty hot in his designer tux. “We can’t have you cooking in that thing. I’d hate for you to ruin it.” She dusted car lint from the lapels.
“I’m afraid it’s all I’ve got.”
Emma stood, arms crossed, her fingernail tapping on her teeth as she pondered the dilemma. “Whatever you do, don’t apologize for that! Let me think, I can’t put you in my father’s pants. They’d be dropped to your ankles, what with his girth.” Her dad did love his desserts a bit too much. Though, hmm, perhaps not such a bad idea to have Adrian left only in his skivvies. If only she weren’t so darned responsible, dammit. “Oh, wait.” She held up her finger. “I know!”
She opened a closet door next to the kitchen and pulled an apron off a hook. It bore a human-sized photograph of Michelangelo’s Statue of David from the neck down imprinted on the apron, designed for the wearer to appear to be the famous naked statue.
“Oooooh, this is so perfect!” She held it up for his inspection. “Bought it from a street vendor in Florence as a joke for my dad. Shame he couldn’t even tie it around his belly. I knew it would come in handy one day!”
“You’re not truly going to make me wear that, are you?” Adrian nodded his head toward the thing. “Why don’t I just take off my jacket and shirt—” He began unbuttoning his cuff links and studs, and stuffed the tie, dangling from his neck, into his pocket. “Here, much better.” He slung the tuxedo jacket and shirt over a nearby chair.
He stood before Emma in nothing but his tuxedo pants, and she stood before him fairly certain her tongue was lolling from her mouth like a very hungry wolf with a fat, juicy rabbit dangled before its eyes. Clearly they had palace gyms, she thought, marveling at the definition in his abs, not simply a six-pack but something even better. A split of grand cru champagne, perhaps? Why diminish that stomach with a beer reference when you could upgrade to the good stuff? Obviously he was graced with superior genes, if that body was any indication. And plenty of warm vacations during cold winter months, probably on a very royal yacht tooling about the South Pacific, judging by the golden tone of his smooth skin. For a fleeting moment she was prepared to fling herself onto him, blaming it on a strong gust of wind maybe, even though they were indoors and that was an entirely lame excuse for her temporary lack of self control.
Something in the Heir (It's Reigning Men, #1) Page 4
