A Court Gesture

by Jenny Gardiner

  “Certainly,” Luca said. “Name’s Luca. Luca Easton.” He proceeded to read his number to the man, only to be met with complete silence on the other end of the line.

  “Hello?” Luca said.

  “That number you just gave has a Monaforte country code. You aren’t by any strange chance Luca as in Prince Luca, of the royal Eastons?”

  Luca nodded, even though the man couldn’t see him. “One and the same.”

  Piers grunted into the phone loud enough that Luca had to pull it away from his ear. “You know your press office is impossible to get answers from,” he said. “I can’t tell you how many times my requests for interviews with you people has fallen on deaf ears.”

  Ugh. Luca had no interest in getting into a dispute with the man about media access to his family. This was always a touchy subject because it was so hard to gauge whether the reporters would give the Firm (the insider term for the royal family) a fair shake or come in with a predetermined agenda and crap all over them. Figuratively, of course. Guessing by the tone of this chap’s voice, likely the latter.

  “I’m so sorry you’ve had troubles,” he said, hoping that would put an end to that. But then he had a brilliant stroke of genius. “I’ll tell you what: why don’t I make it up to you by granting your reporter an exclusive. I’m still in Milan, and if she is, we could get together and talk shop a bit.” Oh, how much fun this would be, getting her into a room for a while and seeing what sparks flew.

  “You mean Larkin?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “Lovely young woman. Hard worker, no doubt. I’m sure she’d be more than happy to sit down for a one-on-one with me.”

  “I can assure you,” Piers said, “you don’t need to lift a finger on this. You tell me where and when and I’ll make sure she’s there.”

  Luca smiled to himself. “I’m sure she will be. No doubt happily so.”

  ~*~

  “What do you mean I have to do an exclusive interview with Prince Luca of Monaforte?” Larkin practically shouted into the phone when her boss called. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “What’s ridiculous about getting an exclusive with a member of the royal family of a country we cover?”

  “Well, it’s just that—”

  “It’s just that I landed you a great get and you’re going to take advantage of it and talk to the man.”

  Larkin cursed the man’s hangover. “What am I even supposed to talk to him about?”

  Piers sounded like he was about to splutter what was no doubt his third cup of black tea from his mouth onto his computer keyboard. “What do you talk to him about? What do you talk to him about? How about royal things, for starters?”

  Royal things. Great. Exactly what she was an expert on. Royal things. As if. Ugh, he was actually going to make her march on up there with hat in hand and behave apologetically and as if she hadn’t already insulted the man? Why the forced humiliation? What had she done to deserve this? Although perhaps in her heart of hearts she knew it was because she had started off on the wrong foot, and how exactly did she do that? Oh, yeah, because she was stuck at a fashion show instead of the press pool with the Pope. Not like she was even invited to that in the first place. But still.

  Larkin sighed. “Fine,” she said a little too forcefully as if she was agreeing to go on a date with her father’s boss’s son only because he was making her. “But I’m not going to like it. Not one bit.”

  Chapter Eight

  Larkin paid close attention to her GPS as her dinky, rented Fiat Panda meandered along quiet country roads through the bucolic Tuscan countryside. The exquisite beauty of the place allowed her to let her guard down long enough to be charmed by the scenery, even if she did feel like her ultimate destination was to the gallows. After overnighting in Florence, she’d picked up the tiny rental car near the train station and got an early start. The rolling pastoral hillsides boasted lush vineyards abundant with vines bearing large clusters of fat, purple grapes and groves of gnarled, decrepit olive trees; their branches, pregnant with black fruit, awaited harvest in a few weeks. Autumn was a magical place in Tuscany where springtime rains and summer heat conspired to eventually yield those classically cherished flavors of Italy come fall.

  As she drove, occasionally Larkin suffered the impatient motorcyclist bearing down on her meager bumper (the Panda seemingly a few sheets of fiberglass and stainless steel more than a tricycle with an engine), only to watch in horror as the driver passed her on the sharp, hairpin turns. She couldn’t understand this daredevil driving in Italy. Maybe they were in a hurry to behold even more sublime views around each corner, but she opted, instead, to drive like a granny on her way to church in the hope of arriving intact. No doubt, it made those behind her crazy mad, but that was fine—she was in no hurry to get to her destination. She was going to treasure the ride since she so dreaded the encounter she would have once she arrived at this Cantine Marchesi Romeo place she was told she had to go to. Probably some dingy old crap restaurant that he was making her meet him at just to further humiliate her.

  After about an hour, a magnificent Italian palazzo came into view high atop a hill, and she soon approached the sign belonging to said palatial estate: Cantine Marchesi Romeo. Dingy, crap restaurant, indeed.

  She entered the estate through an iron double gate and ascended a long, narrow, cypress-lined, pebbled driveway, taking in the breathtaking Tuscan views between the trees as she drove. The driveway ended in a spectacular Italian garden with symmetrically patterned beds of brilliantly colored flowers and ornamental grasses and a massive sandstone basin that looked like you could have a giant pool party in it. Just beyond that was the sprawling, butter-yellow manor house. The intoxicating scent of roses greeted Larkin as she exited her embarrassingly diminutive vehicle, which could comfortably have fit a couple of times in that sandstone basin in the garden.

  For a few minutes, she stood before the Renaissance-era palace, admiring its dramatic double-ramp staircase to the main level, debating whether to mount the right side or the left. She went right and arrived at an open-air loggia filled with statues of Bacchus and other Roman party-going types. Clearly, Cantine Marchesi Romeo wasn’t a little Airbnb getaway... This place was built to intimidate, and it had achieved its primary goal. She wondered if this was part of the hoity-toity Prince Luca’s vast holdings.

  As she reached the entryway, a butler greeted her and led her through a grand hallway, which was filled with paintings, busts, and other statuary. It was a little overwhelming. She followed him up a wide staircase, down a lengthy hallway, and out onto a second-floor stone terrace that boasted a breathtaking view of the Chianti region.

  “It’s called the Dell’orologio,” a voice said as she turned to follow the source of the sound. “It means the clock’s terrace. What do you think?”

  There, before her was none other than Luca, standing with arms spread wide, dressed casually in a pair of impossibly perfect-fitting jeans and a black cashmere sweater with a crisp, white T beneath it. His blue eyes twinkled and a stubborn tuft of wavy black hair hung over his left eye, making him look a little mischievous. The dirty, rat fink prince who didn’t tell her he was a prince so that she could make a complete and utter fool in front of the man looked too damned handsome for his own good, darn it. She gave him a cursory nod.

  “Please,” he said, this time extending his hand out to her, protocol be damned. “Allow me to introduce myself again. Luca’s my name.”

  She pursed her lips, not sure if he was taunting her with his official introduction or if he really was trying to clarify who he was.

  She gave him a nod and extended her hand with some reluctance. “I think you know who I am, then.” As her hand touched his, she felt a very uncomfortable sensation of warmth and belonging that made her pull back quickly. What the hell was that all about?

  “Larkin, was it?” he said, reading from her press pass, which he’d pulled from his back pocket. “Larkin Mallory.
Reporter, International Chronicle.”

  “One and the same,” she said. “So what’s the deal with this forced interview then?”

  Luca lifted an eyebrow. “Forced?”

  She frowned. “I wasn’t given an option to conduct this,” she said. “Piers said I’d be fired if I didn’t show up.”

  It was Luca’s turn to frown. “I apologize for that,” he said. “I certainly didn’t want to jeopardize your career. It seemed as if he really wanted to land an interview with someone in my family, so I’d hoped it would earn you some brownie points. Besides, I merely wanted to have a chance to clarify things between us.”

  Her brows furrowed. “I don’t think anything needed to be clarified,” she said. “So if that’s what this is all about, well, thanks, but I’ll be going now.” She turned as if to walk back into the house and down the steps.

  Luca held up his hands. “But aren’t you supposed to conduct an interview?”

  “I just don’t think that will be necessary. I should be going now.”

  But she knew she couldn’t leave. No interview meant the wrath of Piers, and she wasn’t sure if he truly meant it about firing her but she didn’t want to test the waters, given his mental state of late.

  “So let’s just get this interview out of the way. Afterward, I can take you on a tour of the tenuta, the estate, and we can stop in the cantine, okay?” He hoped a little wine in the cellars might finally loosen her up.

  Larkin glanced around. She had to admit her curiosity had gotten the better of her about this place. Who could come to a sprawling country estate like this and not want to at least kick the tires, give it a little test drive?

  She shrugged, wanting to appear ambivalent despite herself. “Fine, but then I need to leave. Deal?”

  Luca squinted and nodded almost imperceptibly. “Deal it is.”

  Chapter Nine

  Luca couldn’t recall ever meeting someone quite as intractable as this one. She’d basically shunned him from start to finish and he was starting to take it personally. But why did she? He discreetly held his hand to his mouth and breathed into his palm, taking a sniff. Didn’t detect any foul aroma. But who knew? Maybe she had an overly acute sense of smell. So if it wasn’t his breath, then what? All he’d done was try to be nice to her. He’d reached out to help her get into Ciao, Bella when he saw her struggling. But why would that put her off? Damn, this woman was a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.

  He decided he’d just keep his cool and slowly try to erode her defenses all the while attempting to understand this vexing creature.

  He ushered her into Sandro’s private suite of offices where they’d have no interruptions. Luca extended his arm, offering her a seat on the sleek black Italian leather sofa then handing her a bottle of San Benedetto water as he opened one for himself. He settled in on the other side of the seat, keeping a respectful distance so that she didn’t lunge at him in rage or something. He didn’t know what she might be capable of, given her seemingly mercurial temperament.

  Larkin pulled out a reporter’s notebook and a pen and flipped open to a page on which she had taken notes. Clearly, she was prepared for this meeting.

  Crossing one leg over the other, Luca stretched his arm casually across the back of the sofa. “So,” he said, stealing a glance at her, noticing from this angle he could just make out that she had an actual figure despite her usual plain, brown paper bag-type outfit. Damn. The girl had a pretty nice rack on her. What with her dowdy fashion style, it had, until this point, been impossible to tell. “What is it you’d like to ask me?”

  She cleared her throat, adjusted her glasses, tucked her blond hair behind her ears, and started firing questions at him. “Clearly,” she said, spreading her arm out to demonstrate the type of environment to which he’d become accustomed, “you lead a life of privilege, gallivanting around the globe, doing whatever you please. What’s it like not having to work, having no responsibilities, not a care to be had? And do you feel guilty about that when there is so much deprivation in the world?”

  Luca scrunched his brows and squinted his eyes. Huh. She didn’t even wait a polite minute to bring out the high-powered weaponry. Evidently, this was not going to be one of those softball interviews. No wonder the press office put off responding to her boss’s interview requests.

  He took a deep breath. “So, that’s what this is about, then?” he said. “You have some antiroyal thing? Some ax to grind against the ‘haves’ on behalf of the ‘have-nots’?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you implied it.”

  “Perhaps you inferred it. A little elitist guilt, perhaps?”

  Luca uncrossed and recrossed his legs. He was worried that at this rate, squirming would soon ensue. He chuckled. “Elitist guilt, then? Funny, the question smacks a bit of some reverse discrimination. Like maybe you’ve predetermined me to be someone I’m not.”

  “So you’re not rich?”

  He shook his head. “Me, personally? Not exactly,” he said. “Of course, there is family wealth. How could there not be considering my family has ruled our country for hundreds of years. But most of that is tied up with the state itself. And while what liquid assets there are will eventually be disbursed and split amongst my siblings someday, until then, I rely upon the largesse of my family.”

  “Right. You’re rich.”

  “Understand that in my capacity within the Monafortian monarchy, I spend many, many hours working tirelessly on behalf of my nation.”

  “For which you are paid handsomely, no?”

  “For which I receive a stipend.”

  “And said stipend keeps you in more than, say, McDonald’s hamburgers for supper.”

  Luca ran his fingers through his hair. God, she was insufferable. What an unpleasant creature she’d turned out to be. “So you’d rather we show up at events wearing hoodies and sweatpants and eating French fries? Would that make you more satisfied?”

  “No need to get uppity.”

  “Me? Uppity?” he took a swig of his water, wishing instead he had something substantially stronger to ingest.

  “So is it then considered part of your ‘capacity’ within the monarchy,” she continued, making air quotes for emphasis, “to sleep around as you do?”

  Luca had barely started to swallow when he heard that question and spat a mouthful of water all over the table in front of him. He was glad at least it didn’t go on the sofa, as Sandro would have killed him, spoiling his primo furniture.

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “From what I hear you never have to do the begging,” she said, pulling out some articles that she’d tucked into her notebook from various tabloids and laying them out on the sofa between them for his perusal. Each story showed him squiring yet another beautiful woman. In some, he was caught in a tight embrace, in others, he was kissing, and still others showed women making contact with him in an intimate way, such as stroking his thigh while seated next to him at a performance.

  “Is it really your business what I do with my personal life?”

  She tipped her head forward as if to say “come on, don’t think I’m stupid.”

  “Come on,” she said. “Don’t think I’m stupid. This type of thing is as old as the hills: rich man exploiting his power and wealth against innocent young women.”

  If he had a tie on, he’d have to loosen it. He was getting awfully hot under the collar. “Are you barking mad?” he said. “I don’t think I should dignify your intrusive questions with responses but I feel the need to defend myself against this assault on my character. If you think for one second those are innocent young women—”

  “Oh, so you go after the women then? Blame the victim, is it?”

  “If you’d at least let me finish talking,” he said, his voice elevating several octaves. He felt as if his eyes were about to bug out of his head. “There are no victims here. We are all consenting adults. And by all, I don’t mean countless numbers. I mea
n a few.”

  “Don’t you think it’s particularly irresponsible sleeping around like a hyperactive tomcat, spreading diseases like Johnny Appleseed scattering his seeds?” she said. “Sounds to me as if you’re a veritable Typhoid Mary. Or at the very least, a manwhore. You choose.”

  Luca stood up and began to pace, trying hard to tamp down his anger. “Manwhore? Typhoid Mary?” he sputtered, barely stifling his outrage. “Who the hell are you to presume that what you read about me is factual? And who the bloody hell is Johnny Appleseed and why don’t you go write a bloated, false exposé on him instead of me?”

  “You ever hear the phrase ‘where there’s smoke, there’s fire’?”

  “You ever hear the phrase, ‘don’t believe everything you read’?” he said. “And while we’re at it, you ever hear the phrase ‘mind your own bloody damned business’?”

  Silence descended upon the room as Larkin scribbled furiously on her notepad. Luca wondered what lies she was scratching out on her poison pen to repeat to the world, her sources clearly the most unreliable ones, what with articles from such sleazy publications as Blitz! spread out before him.

  On the one hand, sure, he’d had his fair share of hookups since that little ego blow from Eleanor. How could he not, if only to try to bolster his self-esteem after it had been shaken so badly? But on the other hand, even he recognized now that being a player no longer felt like a particularly mature way of handling heartbreak. Meanwhile, each scenario from the images she’d thrust before him as “evidence” was a complete misinterpretation anyhow.

  He began to bolster his defenses, preparing to pelt her with facts like a gathering storm pummels passersby with its wrath. “I’ll have you know”—he grabbed her photographic “proof” of his sleaze and thrust the images before her face—“that I never slept with a one of these women. Not a one of them. Manwhore my ass.” He crumpled the pictures and threw them to the ground with emphasis.