“The kind that works,” she said. “Father Florentine, do you have any idea where this rogue imposter lays his conniving head at night?”
“My sources last tracked him to Venice, Italy. He’s visiting his brother.”
“Do you have an address?” Esmeralda asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll need that,” Royal Nana said. “Vivian and Max—pack your overnight bags—”
“He can’t,” Vivian said. “Max has guard duty. It’s his job.”
Max shook his head. “It’s best that I defer—”
“No,” Esmeralda said. “Get it done, Max. That’s how we roll.”
“I agree,” Royal Nana said. “Your service to Bellèno is your royal duty. Esmeralda?”
“Yes, Nana?”
“Gather the ladies. I’ll have my private jet ready to go at 0700 hours.”
“Ahem.” Herr Fingerlachen interrupted, looming over her shoulder. “Not tomorrow, Your Highness. We took the jet in for servicing.”
“We did?”
“That time of the year.”
“When do we get it back?”
“Two days.” He stared into the phone and waved at us. “Good tidings, Your Highnesses!”
“Just call me Max, Herr Fingerlachen.”
Vivian sighed. “I’m not a Highness.”
“Fine. Max goes to guard duty,” Royal Nana said. “Esmeralda gathers the ladies. Fingerlachen will have the jet ready to go at 0700 hours two days from now. That will give me time to arrange for your accommodations and conduct more surveillance on this priest imposter. You’ll fly to Venice, Vivian, and track him down. Since Max can’t go, I’m sending Leo with you. You’ll handle this situation before the press definitively confirms the marriage isn’t legal.”
“What do you mean by ‘handle’?” Esmeralda asked.
“I want Vivian and Maximillian unwed, or even better never wed by this charlatan. After that, we will quickly and quietly get them married for good this time by an official member of the clergy who is accepted by the palace as well as the Royal Church of Bellèno. I’m an old lady, and this will not be the coal in my stocking. I expect this kerfuffle to be settled before Christmas, or I’ll be even more unhappy. And heads will roll.”
Chapter 5
VIVIAN
The next morning I poured two mugs of the extra strong coffee and handed one to Max. “Promise me that you’ll be careful.”
“You be careful,” he said, sipping the brew. “I’m not thrilled you’re doing this without me.”
“Ditto on that one. Who will babysit Roman?” I glanced over at our dog sprawled out on the foyer rug.
“My mom. I love you so very much, Vivian.” Max leaned in and kissed me on the lips. “Why does our relationship have to be so complicated?”
“Has it ever been simple?”
He cracked a smile. “Ha! And yet we fell in love anyhow. I fear you’re stuck with me.” He set his cup on the counter.
“Not yet, according to the Archbishop.”
“Fuck the Archbishop,” he said.
Max’s ginger hair gleamed against the khaki, green and black military colors as he shrugged on his coat. Those pants hugged his tight ass. He looked hot in his uniform and my arms tingled just looking at him. A warmth drummed in my lower abdomen and snaked its way south. “The Archbishop isn’t my type. I’d rather have hot clown sex with you.”
“Always a smartass, Mrs. Rochartè.” He pulled me toward him and kissed me thoroughly. Greedy tongue. Lush lips. Insatiable mouth. He pulled my shirt up and palmed one of my breasts, squeezing, caressing, flicking his thumb and forefinger across my nipple. It dutifully hardened under his ministrations and I found myself growing wet. “Stop,” I said. “Or I’ll make you do the scarf trick again.”
“Oh, Mrs. Rochartè.” He smiled. “I had no idea.”
I reluctantly pulled away. “You’re going to be late, Max. And then they’ll dock you and make you scrub the decks or something.”
“It’s always something.” He reached into the pocket. “That reminds me. I’ve been wanting to give you something.” He pulled out a black velvet jewelry box.
Color me intrigued. “No.” I shook my head. “Let’s do the gift giving when you get back.”
“This isn’t your Christmas present. It’s something I’ve been holding onto. With our shitty news, I don’t know, this just feels like the right time. Come on. Open it.”
I took the black box from him, and cracked open the top. My eyes widened. A lustrous antique gold ring was nestled inside the box. Its setting was narrow in the back and grew chunkier along the top where the bezels circled a round center stone that was probably a four carat diamond. “It’s gorgeous.” I glanced at my significant finger on my left hand. My pretty engagement ring with the diamonds and rubies was still there. “But where…”
“You can size it for any finger you want, or put it on a chain and make it into a necklace. It was my great grandmother’s. Leo might inherit the throne, but I get more than my share of the good family jewelry.” He took it from me and went to slip it on the fourth finger of my right hand, but I shook my head.
“Do that when you come back to me.”
He tucked it back in the box and kissed the top of my head. “I love you, Vivian. Be safe while I’m gone. Promise me you’ll be careful on this, your newest adventure. Look me in the eyes and promise me.”
“I promise. Go.”
I kept a stiff upper lip until the front gate slammed shut, then I sat down on the kitchen floor, hugged my shoulders, and cried.
Two days later Esmeralda, Joan, Leo, Mr. Cartwright and I flew to Venice in Royal Nana’s Gulfstream private jet. Cartwright was my former employer, an immaculate man—not a white hair out of place—who hovered around seventy-years-old. Now he was practically a father figure to me. A snotty, meticulous, demanding father figure. Over a year ago, he’d supervised my transformation from Vivian DeRose, Chicago cocktail waitress, to ‘Lady Catherine Fontaine’ noble lady impersonator.
I crossed my fingers that we’d track the imposter priest down and I crossed my fingers that things would be less awkward between Leo and me.
I’d left Leo high and dry over a year ago at the altar when I was impersonating Lady Catherine ‘Cici’ Fontaine. A few weeks ago he’d declared he had feelings for me. We were in Monaco tracking down clues to rescue Max. Things got dicey when he wanted to know if I’d ever had feelings for him. The same kind of feelings that I had for Max. His question was loaded. So, I did what I normally do when utterly confused—I deflected. I didn’t have time to deal with awkward feelings. Didn’t want to biopsy them like a slice of cancer cut from my stomach.
My stomach lurched a little now as we touched down at Marco Polo Airport in Venice. After we cleared customs, a porter collected our luggage and ferried it down to the adjoining waterside dock. I needed to think. Exercise always cleared my mental cobwebs, and I refused to be schlepped along with the luggage. We walked from Customs to the boat dock.
I stood, finding my balance in the wobbly water taxi as choppy waters slapped against the sides of the vessel. The chilly December wind picked up, and I pulled the sash of my cashmere coat tighter, adjusted my warm lamb’s wool scarf higher on my neck, and looked back at the airport. “Royal Nana’s jet is styling.”
“Everything she does is first class,” Leo said.
“It’s the first time I’ve flown over the Alps and didn’t feel like puking,” I said. “Color me grateful.”
“Perhaps this bodes well for our mission,” Cartwright said, smoothing a black leather gloved clad hand over his immaculate white hair.
“This trip is spur of the moment, Cartwright,” I said. “Lady Bea flew out yesterday to Crete, and I’m grateful you could fill in. How’s your back?”
“Tentative.”
“Still doing your stretches and strengtheners?”
“Funny, you don’t look like my physical therapist.”
&n
bsp; “I’m just the girl you walked down the aisle a few weeks ago during my last marriage ceremony,” I said. “In spite of your fussy grooming habits and persnickety ways, I like you. That said, I counted on you to be my lucky charm, and assumed that particular wedding was a keeper.
“Was your mojo off that day?” Leo asked.
“Don’t blame me, Vivian, for your recent bad luck in the matrimonial department,” Cartwright said. “I’m still on your team.”
“I can live with that. Father Roberto seemed so nice, a kind-hearted man of the cloth. Was there something glaringly obvious about his demeanor that I missed? Did I read him wrong?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Buck up, we’ll figure it out.”
“Vivian, have you ever been to Venice before?” Leo asked.
“Yes. I visited with Max in September for the Venice Carnival Masquerade Ball.” I closed my eyes and inhaled the salty air spiked with the scent of jet fuel and fish. It was a far cry from the dimly-lit deserted corridor at the Palazzo Delacroix in Venice that smelled of exotic perfumes and sandalwood incense. Hot memories of the wicked things Max and I did on a settee in a dark corner of that corridor flooded my brain.
“Fun! Did you see the sights?” Joan asked as she peered down at us from the platform leading to the boat, one designer clad foot resting on the first rung of the stepladder.
“Hmm, let me think. The sights…”
Max’s lips sliding down my cleavage. His fingers impatiently unlacing and tugging my low-cut lace corset. Me, encouraging him by rubbing his gorgeous, hard cock through his dress pants. “Stop! We’re going to get caught.”
“We’ve never gotten caught before.” His two-day scruff of a beard scraped against the smooth, sensitive skin of my breast and I inhaled sharply.
“Yes, we have. Don’t you remember that trip to the Guggenheim?”
His tongue circled one nipple, his teeth biting then sucking as sensations coursed through my body, pleasure flooding me, my clit tingling, the V between my legs growing damper, wetter.
“I saw more than my fair share of sights, Joan. All were lovely, thank you.”
Leo handed our suitcases to the water taxi’s driver. Per Nana’s advice, I had packed a small overnighter. Mr. Cartwright traveled with his neat, compact bag and his man purse slung crosswise over his shoulder. Apparently, Joan hadn’t gotten the memo and had brought one very large French designer wheeled suitcase that would have been too big to carry on a commercial flight.
Esmeralda probably did get the memo but didn’t care as she toured with two bags: an overnighter and a trunk that was roomy enough to transport a dead body. A chill swept over me and I suddenly hoped our mission wouldn’t come to that. We’d barely survived a prior mission approximately a month ago in Monaco when we’d busted that horrible bitch Daira Ailey who was complicit in kidnapping Max on our first wedding day. No one died during that mission. Just a few bruises, too many headaches, and a 12-gauge needle to my heart.
Joan hesitated on the water taxi’s ladder.
I held out my hand to her. “Come on, get in. What’s wrong? Are you scared of water?”
“A little. And I think I strained a glute muscle.” She rubbed her right cheek with the heel of her hand. “I jumped a foot when the Customs officer pinched my ass.”
“If you pulled a glute from getting squeezed by that tiny man with the impish smile, you need to get pinched more frequently and build up tolerance,” Esmeralda said.
“Come on, Joanie,” Leo said, also holding out his hand. “I’ll help you.”
“Have you heard of the #MeToo movement? Americans call that sexual harassment, you know,” Joan said as we helped her into the water taxi.
“Italians call that life,” Esmeralda said.
Joan stumbled, nearly toppling Esmeralda, but Leo and I grabbed onto her.
He brushed up against me and I glanced up at him. He stared at me the same way he had in that small café back in Monaco. Direct, curious, formidable, hot. His eyes were demanding. My stomach flip-flopped and I couldn’t believe we were back here again on the corner of dangerous and forbidden.
Ignore, ignore, ignore, Vivian, and this will go away. This will be tucked into its little corner, completely out of sight, where it will die on the vine from lack of attention.
“Buon Giorno bella signore.” The driver backed the boat out of the slip and taxied out of the harbor into the choppier waters of the Adriatic Sea. “E’ un viaggio d’ affair o di piacere?”
“Entrambi,” Esmeralda said.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“He wanted to know if we were visiting for business or pleasure. She told him, both.” Joan tugged her scarf higher on her neck. “It’s awfully chilly on the Adriatic this time of year. Why didn’t we take a car?”
“Because we always take cars,” Esmeralda said. “The winds might be brisk but journeying by boat to Venice is so much more fun.”
“Think of it as an adventure,” Leo said.
Mr. Cartwright shivered. “It would be if the cold, wet air wasn’t seeping into my bones.”
“Thank your lucky stars your bones still feel something,” Esmeralda said. “That means you’re alive and kicking. Considering your complexion is opalescent on a good day, I was beginning to wonder.”
“Take a seat inside the cabin, Cartwright,” Leo said. “It will be warmer.”
“But then I won’t have the best views of our arrival into bella Venezia.”
“You can’t have everything,” Joan said. “I learned that one a long time ago.”
“But you can still try,” Leo said.
His eyes had that glint in them. I could practically see what he was thinking. Sex. He was thinking about having sex and he was thinking about having sex with me. That made me nervous.
“Right.” Mr. Cartwright lurched down the steps into the boat’s interior. “I’m pouring myself a Bellini. Join me should your bones need warming.”
An hour later, my ladies had abandoned me for the warmth of the cabin and Mr. Cartwright’s Champagne cocktails. Along with the driver, Leo and I stayed on top, tucked into the hug of a red leather seat, my hands jammed in my pockets. The boat churned through the waters of the Grand Canal. “I forgot how beautiful it was,” I said.
“Sinking, crumbling, and yet it’s always gorgeous,” Leo said.
Renaissance, Classic, and Baroque-style buildings four to eight stories tall lined the waterway, adjoining docks leading to them with all manner of boats secured to their piers. Clunky, modern waterbuses, water taxis, and quaint old-fashioned gondolas occupied by tourists snapping pics with their smart phones motored past us in both directions.
“The San Marco Princessa Palazzo,” I said, recognizing the famous five-star hotel in the near distance.
“Our home away from home,” Leo said.
The eight-story hotel was a washed out pink and appeared more weathered in real life than on the internet: almost as if the facility had slipped in status, delicately dropping half a star. But as Royal Nana had once told me, age snuck up on the best of us, and thankfully beauty was in the eye of the beholder.
The Princessa had been Royal Nana’s first pick. Through the mist of wintery weather the hotel’s tiny balconies were framed by shutters and barnacle shells clung to the wood pilings that made up its dock.
The driver turned off the boat’s engine and scrambled with ropes to secure the vessel to the landing. “Benvenuti a San Marco Princessa Palazzo!” He hopped onto the pier and extended his hand to me.
“Thank you.” I held onto his calloused palm and took that big, first step onto the weathered planks.
Esmeralda accepted the help of a middle-aged concierge and climbed from the boat onto the dock. “Grazie mille.”
Joan stared at the pier from the boat, her knees knocking. “Hello! Could someone give me a little help, please?”
“I’ll help,” Leo said.
“Yes, but you’re down here and I need to get
up there.”
“I’ll hold onto you down here as you climb up there,” he said.
“Deal.” She held his hand and nervously climbed the thin stairs.
The bellman leaned down and held out his hand.
“I don’t know why this makes me so nervous,” Joan said, taking it. “It’s just a little water. What’s there to be scared of other than falling under the boat, knocking one’s head, and nearly drowning because no one saw you go under?” She stepped onto the dock and stared down, as if landing here had been questionable. “Thank you,” she said.
“You are beautiful,” the bellman said in Italian.
“You are too kind.” She blushed.
“Your skin is so white. Your hair so red.”
“Winning hearts, Joanie!” Leo said.
“Oh.” She stared at her feet. “Oh.”
I gazed up at our new digs, and bit my lip. Here we were in gorgeous Venice, home to artists and celebrities, architects, and scoundrels. It dawned on me that this was the perfect city for a priest impersonator to hide.
I was a girl who desperately needed to get unwed before I could re-marry for the first time. Why was this so complicated? Milton Mertz, priest impersonator, could re-invent himself as anybody doing almost anything here. How could we track him down, let alone coerce him to sign the affidavit that Royal Nana insisted I wrangle from him?
Leo climbed out of the boat, his dark hair brushing his collar, all muscles and grace. In the reflections of light off the murky water, I could see traces of Max in his face. Suddenly, I felt defeated before we’d even begun to fight. Like I’d given blood twice in the same day, or someone had let all the air out of my tires. I wasn’t a defeatist. I’d experienced my fair share of hard times, the worst being losing both my parents in a motorcycle crash. That crushed my soul. Brought me to my knees every night. And I prayed to God or whomever was in charge of this crazy thing called life to please get me through the soul-sucking loss.
Getting over that very dark time hadn’t been easy. I’d worked a wide variety of menial and difficult part-time jobs. I’d endured more than my fair share of being demeaned, belittled, and undermined, let alone underestimated. And yet, somehow, maybe the prayers worked, or my Karma had turned around. Not quite sure how, but I made it.
His American Princess Page 4
