His American Princess

by Pamela DuMond

  Now I gazed at my ‘posse.’ Leo was fierce. My ladies were fashionable and formidable. This blanket statement included Mr. Cartwright—whether he liked me calling him a lady or not—I didn’t really care at this point. I had friends, excellent backup, and our common denominator was that none of us were fond of taking prisoners.

  I reminded myself that not only was I a Chicago girl, I was part Italian. I vowed on my parents’ graves to track down this priest impersonator. I would bring him to justice, and find my loophole, as Royal Nana had insisted, if it was the last thing I ever did.

  Chapter 6

  LEOPOLD

  Walking towards the palazzo’s entrance, Esmeralda said, “You’ve got this odd look on your face, Vivian. Like you ate bad sushi or something. What are you thinking?”

  Evergreen garlands covered in twinkling holiday lights draped the archways above the hotel’s doors, and hand-blown Murano Christmas glass ornaments dangled from the archways.

  “Besides the obvious?” Vivian responded. “I can’t help but wonder what Venice has in store for me this trip. Max’s not here, so there won’t be any romance.”

  Hold yourself, back, Leo. Bite your tongue. Keep your feelings inside. Deep, deep inside. “Speak for yourself,” I said. “Venice is filled with gorgeous people just waiting to fall in love.”

  “Love. Right,” Esmeralda snorted. “Since when have you fallen in love, cousin? I thought you were more a love ‘em and leave ‘em kind of guy?”

  Then why was I in unrequited love with my brother’s girl for going on two years? “I’m so glad at least one of us knows everything about me.”

  “You two keep arguing,” Joan said, trailing on our heels. “I’m taking Vivian’s share of the romance on this trip. My ass just got pinched again. I think it was the captain. Or the bellboy. It all happened so fast.”

  “I hope it was your other cheek,” Vivian, said. “Otherwise you’ll bruise. I’ve got Rescue Remedy in my suitcase. Remind me when we get to our room.”

  “Suite,” Mr. Cartwright said. “We’re not staying at the Jolly Rancher Motel and we’re not dallying. This isn’t va-cay, ladies. We’re checking in, changing clothes, and getting down to business.”

  Esmeralda saluted him. “You run a tight ship, Captain Cartwright. Maybe Tom Hanks would play you in the movie adaptation.”

  “I don’t have a problem with that,” he said. “I’m not here to hold your hands, buy you ‘I Heart Venice’ trinkets, or take selfies with you as we feed the pigeons in the Piazza San Marco.”

  “I buy my own trinkets,” Esmeralda said.

  “Does this assignment have a code name?” I asked.

  “Mission Venice,” Mr. Cartwright said.

  “That’s boring,” Esmeralda said.

  “Practical,” Mr. Cartwright said.

  “What about Mission Serenissima?” Joan asked. “After all, the city of Venice is nicknamed Serenissima.”

  “I could go for a little ‘serene’ right about now.” Vivian gazed at a line of tired tourists at the front desk in the hotel lobby.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “I’ve been standing in line to get married. I’ve been standing in line to live my life. This sounds horribly bitchy, but the last thing I wanted to do right now is stand in another line.”

  “God, that does sound bitchy,” Esmeralda said. “And yet, strangely, I feel the same way. Except for the multiple marriage attempts.”

  I glanced at the concierge in the immaculate gray suit and lifted one hand in the air. He’d been alerted when we landed at Venice’s airport that we were en route to his hotel. He’d assured me everything would go smoothly for Vivian and our crew.

  “Follow me.” The concierge waved. “You’ve already been checked in.”

  “Disaster averted,” Esmeralda said, as we gratefully bypassed the tired-looking queue.

  “It’s the power of the correct code name,” Joan whispered. “Serenissima.”

  “I love it, Joan. No matter what craziness transpires, we will be unhurried, unworried, and serene,” Vivian said. “And we will dally if we want to dally.”

  “No, Vivian, you won’t.” Mr. Cartwright frowned. “You can take all the time in the world when you’re a tourist. You already dallied in the hallways of Palazzo Delacroix during a Masquerade ball because you didn’t think you’d ever be caught. But trust me, eventually you will be caught, and there will be consequences.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  Chapter 7

  VIVIAN

  Mr. Cartwright sighed, unbuckled his man purse and removed a manila envelope. “Palace internet monitors discovered these images for sale online. We bought them from a rascal named ‘Steve’ from Downers Grove, Illinois, who also attended the Venice Masquerade ball in September.”

  I flipped through the array of photos of Max and me heatedly making out in the darkened corridor at the Delacroix Palazzo. All the little hairs on my arms stood up. “Oh!” Maximillian looked so freaking hot, his ginger hair tumbling into his face, his hand kneading my breast.

  How did this guy get our picture? I didn’t remember anyone else being in that hallway. Shame washed over me. We’d never gotten caught fooling around in public. We liked to play our little games. They felt sexy, innocent, and so much fun. But now? Crap, this was embarrassing.

  “We told Steve that his photos were fuzzy,” Mr. Cartwright said. “We weren’t convinced the half-naked couple in the picture was Prince Maximillian of Bellèno and his adorable fiancé Vivian DeRose, the future princess. And yet, for obvious reasons, we still wished to purchase them from him and take them off the market for a reasonable price.”

  “I’m sorry we put the palace through more trouble.” I wrung my hands.

  “You need to stop throwing caution to the wind. Be more careful about where and when you engage in your trysts,” Cartwright said.

  “I love you like a father, Mr. Cartwright. But you don’t get to tell me how to run my life.”

  “Spoken like a true daughter, Vivian. Don’t take any of this lightly. We’re assuming it’s an innocent mix up on Milton Mertz’s part. But we need a Plan B. We need to prepare for the worst, should that happen.”

  “What’s the worst?”

  “There’s a whole lot of things I can think of that could be worse. But the one I’m thinking of involves a resurrection of the Crown Affair. This whole thing reeks of a conspiracy. Embers glow and spark. We fan the small fires with more hideous press, and before you know it, we’ll be back in the game again.”

  “You’re scaring me, Cartwright.” I shivered. “I don’t want to be in the game.”

  “Good. But Vivian?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t take this lightly. If you hear ticking, at this point assume it’s a bomb.”

  We followed the Princessa’s middle-aged concierge with his thick salt and pepper hair and dressed in an impeccable black, shiny suit, down a thickly carpeted hallway with framed oil paintings of Rembrandt, Bellini, and Picasso on the walls. He pushed the call button on an old-fashioned elevator. Tiny lights above it illuminated each numbered floor. The lift finally pinged to a stop in front of us. He pulled back the black metal grate, bowed slightly, and gestured to the cage’s interior. “Signore e Signori.”

  We entered the lift decorated in pristine, gilded wallpaper. The concierge pressed the button for the penthouse. The elevator paused, then groaned as we rose toward the top floor, where it arrived with a shudder.

  The bellboy trailed behind us down the corridor whose doors were not marked with numbers. Instead every third door was named.

  The Michelangelo. The Rialto. The Calatrava. The Scalzi. And at last, The Puccini.

  “Her Royal Highness Marie Susannah Clothilde Timmel of Bellèno personally requested that you be housed in the Puccini suite,” the concierge said. “She has fond memories of staying here sixty years ago with her husband, Prince Heinrich of Bellèno, on their honeymoon. The Princes
sa even has a few original photos of them in our memory book.”

  “Get out!” I said. “I would love to see that.”

  He bowed. “That can be arranged, Duchess.”

  Mr. Cartwright frowned. “Unfortunately, that’s why we’re here. She’s not a Duch—”

  “She’s not Dutch.” Joan glared daggers at him. “Vivian’s DNA lab results confirm she’s Italian, French, German, thirteen percent Irish, and a pound of Brit. Someone ran through Russia and dropped their pants.”

  “How do you know this?” I asked.

  “Remember that time I asked you to spit into the test tube?”

  “I thought we were helping one of Beatrice’s kids with a science project.”

  “We were,” Esmeralda said. “We were also examining your DNA.”

  “Why?”

  “Bea and I started a secret Pinterest board for your and Max’s future children,” Joan said.

  “That’s so sweet!” I said.

  “I told them your DNA results might help better visualize what they’d look like.” Esmeralda said.

  “Find better pics to pin on the secret board,” Joan said. “We’re visual creatures after all.”

  “Keep imagining. We’re not having kids anytime soon.” I paced around the suite, wanting to get on with it. Wanting to track down the guy who had falsely married me so I could get my life back. The ceilings in the penthouse were tall and arched, a mural with angels and half naked people painted high above us. I took in their cavorting, and doubted they’d be all that critical that Max and I had fooled around in a public corridor at a masked ball.

  The bellboy carried our luggage into the three bedrooms, in between his furtive puppy-eyed glances at Joan. “Bellissima,” he whispered.

  “Stop!” she said.

  “This place is amazing.” I strode to the main window that opened onto the balcony and took in the view of the Grand Canal. I saw St. Mark’s on the right, but my eye was drawn to a small, weathered motorboat in the near distance. A tall man, wearing a long raincoat and hat stood in the boat, peering up at our hotel through binoculars. His focus flitted between windows until he focused right on me.

  I startled. Who was he? Why was he sitting in his boat, braving the cold breeze in the middle of Venice’s Grand Canal staring up at our hotel? “Check out this guy in the boat outside our window.” I dug through my purse, searching for my phone.

  Leo and the ladies walked to the window. “He pulled his hat lower on his head,” Leo said.

  “He’s motoring away,” Joan said.

  “Do you recognize him?” Esmeralda asked.

  I shook my head. “Can’t tell.”

  “You can’t worry about some random guy. I’m famished,” Joan said. “Where can we grab a quick lunch? Good food, nothing fancy.”

  I aimed my phone at the man through the window, but his back was toward me and the small boat puttered away. A dog stared back at me from the vessel. “Hey, did anyone else see the dog in that boat?”

  “Trattoria Positano is in walking distance,” the concierge said. “Might I assist you with anything else?”

  “We’re good,” Mr. Cartwright said. He eased himself onto the floor and sighed.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Kind of.” He lay on his back, brought his knees in close to his chest, and gave them a squeeze.

  “Regarding privacy concerns,” the concierge said. “The hotel windows have a protective reflective covering that deflects paparazzi cameras. That is, unless you open them. We cannot protect the air. Pick up the phone or text us, and we will be at your disposal.”

  “Grazie,” Esmeralda said and tipped him.

  The concierge was true to his word and dropped off an old scrapbook of Princessa memorabilia. After lunch I flipped through its pages and found Royal Nana’s honeymoon pictures from sixty years ago. I perused photos of her and Heinrich, both young and beautiful, standing on their balcony of the same Puccini suite, staring love struck into each other’s eyes.

  I couldn’t help but think of Max. Right now, we should have been enjoying the beginnings of married life. We should have been decorating our tree, fussing with a lamb roast, or a turkey dinner with all the fixings for Royal Nana. Or planning a cocktail party for a few of our friends at the new townhouse overlooking Tiefencastle Park.

  But no. I couldn’t be with my Maximillian. He was somewhere—I didn’t know where— stationed on National guard duty. Doing manly things in uniform with helicopters and rescue missions. Dear God, he looked so hot in a uniform. I probably would have fucked him if I was a 1950’s housewife in central Illinois and he had shown up on my door delivering the milk. ‘Yes, Mr. Milkman, I’d love two quarts of the non-homogenized full fat milk to go with your extra serving of pleasuring me sinfully on my kitchen table. Come back tomorrow, please.’

  “You look a million miles away, Vivian,” Leo said.

  I gave my brain a shake. I was here in Venice ready to reclaim my marriage eligibility. I couldn’t wait to track down Father Roberto or Milton Mertz—whatever the poser’s name was—wrangle a confession out of him and find my loophole. I stared at Mr. Cartwright lying on the cushy carpeting of our suite, one leg high in the air, his arms clasped around it as he gingerly stretched his hamstring muscles. “Do you need an ice pack, Mr. Cartwright? Ibuprofen? Do you want to rest and we’ll come back for you?”

  “No, Vivian.”

  “Then chop chop. No dallying.”

  “Let’s get a move on. I need to get my life back. But first…” I dug through my bag and handed Joan a tube of homeopathic anti-bruising ointment. “Slap some of that on where you were pinched. What’s next on the agenda?”

  “Shopping,” Esmeralda said.

  “No. We’re on Mission Serenissima,” I said. “This trip isn’t va-cay.”

  “There’s always time for shopping,” Joan said.

  “Something pricey,” Mr. Cartwright said and rolled onto his side, pushing himself up to his knees. “Something beautiful, and pricy that you ladies must have.”

  Chapter 8

  LEOPOLD

  We climbed out of a small water taxi onto a narrow dock covered in glass shards. I stared up at a graffiti-covered building, and spotted a rat just yards from us, scurrying down into the water. “Not the best neighborhood in the world.”

  Vivian hesitated. “Maybe we should be shopping in a better zip code.”

  “We’re not here for the ambience,” Mr. Cartwright said.

  “Got it.” Vi kicked away a few soggy fliers that clung to her shoe. “Lucky for you all, I took a self-defense course a few years ago.”

  I smiled. She could try those moves on me. I’d counter with a kiss on the lips. Her cheeks would flush, she’d chew on her lower chip and say, ‘Oh, Leo, I don’t think we should be doing this.’

  ‘It’s okay, Vi,’ I’d say, pulling her flush against me. Her full breasts would push up against my chest, I would drop one of my hands to her waist, before sliding it lower and grasping her ass. ‘I’m just going to teach you a few new moves.’

  “Vivian, did you learn Krav Maga?” Joan asked.

  “Nah. Self-Defense 101 at a community college. We watched The Karate Kid and then copied the ‘Wax on and Wax off’ moves for the rest of the afternoon.”

  “I feel safer already, Miyagi,” Esmeralda said. “Why are there so many broken bottles down here? It’s downright dangerous. Where have you brought us, Mr. Cartwright?”

  “Ball gown shopping. It’s necessary for your next mission that commences tomorrow tonight.” Mr. Cartwright rang the bell of a varnished black door on a four story, narrow, building that appeared like it might crumble into the canal sometime soon.

  “What’s the mission?” Vivian glanced around.

  “The opera,” Cartwright said. “We’re attending Teatro La Fenice di Venezia. Amahl and the Night Visitors.”

  “I checked out this performance on line months ago,” I said, “but the tickets were already sold o
ut.”

  “Nana’s friend, Duchess Edith of Friedricksburg, is a platinum-level patron of the Venice opera house,” Esmeralda said.

  “I bet Nana called in a favor,” I said.

  “And boom! The old girls’ network activates.” Esmeralda said. “We’ll be occupying her booth tomorrow night, compliments of Royal Nana’s frenemy.”

  “Honestly, the only thing I want to be doing is tracking down the poser,” Vivian said. “This opera thing feels like we’re dallying.”

  “We’re not,” Mr. Cartwright said. “The tenor in tomorrow’s performance is Milton Mertz’s half brother, Andrea Mertzolio.”

  “Andrea’s singing the role of one of the king tonight, a decided bump up from his usual parts.”

  “Milton and his brother are very close,” Mr. Cartwright said. “He’ll probably be in the audience cheering him on. If we’re lucky, we can apprehend him at the opera, coerce him to confess and sign a statement, and Mission Serenissma will be complete.”

  Vi’s hand flew to her chest. “I’ll be free to marry Max.”

  “That you will,” Cartwright said.

  My stomach dropped and my heart twisted. I knew this was what Vivian wanted and I was wrong for wishing this wouldn’t happen. I was entertaining thoughts that made me a shitty brother but I couldn’t make them go away. I had tried. And tried again.

  Cartwright pressed his hand on the doorbell again and glanced at Esmeralda. “I thought you said Gareth Trent was expecting us?”

  “He sleeps late.”

  “It’s 2 p.m.”

  “He’s an artist. That’s like 6 a.m. our time.” Esmeralda leaned back and cupped her hands to her mouth. “Get your lazy ass out of bed, Gareth! I’ve come to collect the ball gowns you promised Cartwright, and my black Moroccan leather tote. I want it all now.”