by Holly Hart
“Enough with the decree,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Dr. Sabine has confirmed that I’m a virgin, so we’re good. I’ve got ten days to plan a royal wedding, and the prince and I have to be ready for the paparazzi tomorrow. Let’s focus on the now, okay?”
Maria finally flashes a smile with just enough apology in it. “You’re right,” she says. “I’m sorry for pulling us away from the task at hand.”
She turns to Dr. Sabine.
“Doctor, the nation is in your debt, as always.”
The old gal smiles and shakes Maria’s hand. Then she turns to me and pulls me into a fragile embrace.
“Thank you for your understanding, my dear,” she says. “And my heartfelt congratulations to you both. I know you will make Dante very happy. God knows he deserves it.”
Awww. Tears well up and threaten to spill onto her shoulder. It seems like I’m always on the verge of crying lately. I suppose that’s just part of being a bride. Even a fake one.
“Well,” Maria says with a clap of her hands. “Now that this is out of the way, you get to have some fun. It’s time for you and Dante to make your public debut.”
“What do you have planned?” I ask warily.
Her grin is just mischievous enough to make me worry.
“Wait and see,” she says. “Let’s just say your passport is about to get some stamps.”
Chapter Twenty
19. DANTE
“Can you see?” I ask. “I’m afraid the crowd is a bit thick.”
Amanda stares silently ahead for several seconds – apparently she can see. I lean down and put my lips next to her ear.
“Darling, your mouth is open.”
“Huh?” she mumbles, turning to look at me as like I suddenly appeared beside her instead of being there all day.
“Nothing,” I grin. “So? What do you think?”
She gapes at me, wide eyed.
“It’s the freaking queen of England,” she hisses, as if somehow keeping a secret from the crowd around us. “Right over there.”
“Indeed it is.”
Watching her childlike enthusiasm is the most real fun I’ve had in ages. I’ve been to the Royal Ascot horseraces here in Berkshire every year since I was a boy, and the bloom fell of that rose a long time ago. But being here today, with Amanda, is like seeing it again for the first time.
Everyone’s been buzzing behind their hands as they see us walk by – Prince Dante and his flavor of the month. If only they knew.
The men’s heads are turning so quickly that I imagine some will need neck braces tomorrow. Others will likely be getting lectures from their wives when they get home.
I can’t blame them for staring. The gorgeous cowgirl with the fiery hair and the icy eyes is utterly stunning in her curve-hugging green sundress. And she’s on my arm. No international supermodel I’ve ever escorted has gotten this kind of reaction from the noble crowd.
“Are we going to meet her?” Amanda blurts.
The naked hope in her voice makes my answer much more difficult.
“Ah, no, unfortunately,” I say, wincing. “I’m… not exactly Her Majesty’s favorite person.”
She fixes me with a look.
“And why is that?” she asks. Her tone reminds me of Maria.
Might as well come clean.
“Do you remember that… unpleasantness with Prince Harry in Las Vegas a few years ago?”
“When he was partying naked with strippers?” she asks. I can tell by her look that she’s pieced it together.
“That’s the one,” I say. “It was… sort of my fault.”
“Really?” she says, folding her arms over her chest. “And how is that, exactly?”
“In my defense, it was PR man’s idea,” I say, shoving him squarely under the bus. “It was supposed to be me in the spotlight that night. Harry was just along for the ride. But one thing led to another, I got cold feet, Harry had a few too many…”
I shrug sheepishly as she clucks her tongue and shakes her head.
“Great,” she says. “There goes my fantasy that she might show up at our wedding.”
“I’m afraid that, given the short timeline, there likely won’t be many heads of state at the ceremony,” I say. “I’m sorry, Amanda.”
She softens a bit. “It’s not your fault,” she says, taking my arm. “We’re both victims of circumstance in this. Like my dad says, can’t complain, nobody’d listen if I did.”
“I took an entire course in Buddhist philosophy at Oxford that could be summed up by that saying. Your father could have saved me three months worth of reading.”
Amanda smiles. “I hope you tell him that when you meet him next week. He’ll get a real kick out of it.”
We amble towards the railing that circles the racetrack, taking in the hustle and bustle of jockeys and trainers and others milling about with their steeds. In the stands I can see Marco, keeping a watchful eye on us but maintaining a discreet distance.
“I grew up around horses,” Amanda says, marveling at the animals. “But none of them looked like these beauties. Ours are bred for barrel racing and rounding up cows.”
“Barrel racing?” I ask. “Do you… roll barrels side by side?”
Her giggles are like music in my ears.
“No, dummy. You race your horse into an arena, then you circle around three barrels in a triangle formation, then you race back out. It’s all over in about twenty seconds.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“You better believe it,” she says. “It’ll get your heart pumping.”
Everything about you gets my heart pumping.
“I would very much like to see that someday,” I say.
“Just come out to the ranch and I can show you all sorts of things.”
Suddenly a dark cloud crosses her face.
“That’s probably not going to happen, is it?” she asks. “I can’t imagine the prince of Morova heading to Montana on an official visit.”
“Why not?” I ask. “As you say, I’m the prince. I make the rules, and if I want to go to Montana and see barrel racing, then by God, we’re going to Montana to see barrel racing.”
She smiles. “What about the paparazzi?”
“A little shit on their boots would do them some good,” I scowl.
Her laugh is loud and harsh and real. It draws some critical glances from a few of the blue bloods near us, but they can all go fuck themselves, as far as I’m concerned.
“Careful,” Amanda says. “Those shutterbugs are the key to our plan for this afternoon.”
I glance at my Rolex.
“Speaking of that, I wish we had more time to explore the Berkshire countryside, but it’s time to get back to the jet. Cannes is waiting on us.”
“Are you saying we need to hit the can?” she says, exploding with laughter again.
My confusion must be obvious, because she lays a hand on my arm.
“The can,” she says. “That’s another word for bathroom. Y’know? Like, ‘I gotta go to the can’?”
I can’t help but laugh myself. She thinks it’s at her joke, but it’s really at how much her innocence delights me. How can someone so steeped in royal protocol be so down to earth? The people surrounding us right now could learn a great deal from her, though none of them would ever believe that.
I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun with someone other the twins.
Marco appears and escorts us to our limousine at the front gates, which whisks us to the local airstrip, where my private Dassault Falcon jet awaits to take us to southern France.
Amanda thrills to the sensation of takeoff, just as she did when we left Morova early this morning. Something that I never gave a moment’s thought to is enough to absolutely fascinate her.
“How am I ever supposed to travel in coach again after this?” she asks, leaning back into the plush sofa that takes up nearly one entire side of the jet.
I hand her a flute of Krug’s private reser
ve champagne as I take a seat opposite her in one of the buttery leather recliners.
“Darling,” I say. “You won’t have to fly coach ever again. Remember?”
She seems startled for a moment, and I can’t help but wonder how prepared she truly is for the lifestyle she’s about to start leading.
I can only imagine what it must be like for people who have never had money and then win millions in a lottery. That would be enough of a shock.
But entering royal society? I have a difficult enough time dealing with it myself, and I was born into it. If we’re not careful, Amanda may end up being swallowed whole by the situation. The last thing I want is for her to be changed by it.
I want her just the way she is: real.
“I guess you’re right,” she says, downing her champagne in a single gulp.
I do the same. A little booze will help brace us for what’s coming in Cannes.
Cannes has been described as a “film festival with a town attached.” The people who think of it that way are cynical Hollywood types who wouldn’t know true beauty if it showed up that their pool party and started snorting lines of coke off the table.
Do I sound bitter? I have a few stories of my interactions with these kinds of people, and none of them are good.
Watching Amanda’s face as we stroll through this gem on the French Riviera is enough to make me forget about those kinds of people. I’m seeing Cannes through her eyes now, and it’s utterly beautiful.
She’s utterly beautiful.
“I can’t even take this all in,” she says, clutching my arm as we stroll past a marina chock full of luxury yachts. The June sky is cloudless and brilliant blue, the streets bustling with life.
I point out a hundred-foot Sunseeker docked nearby.
“That one is mine,” I say. “Her name is Freedom.”
But that’s going to change soon.
Her jaw drops. “Are we going to go for a ride?”
“Not today, unfortunately. But I had an idea. Since you’re in charge of the royal wedding, I was thinking perhaps I should be in charge of the honeymoon.”
She puts the pieces together instantly.
“On that?” she squeals. “Are you kidding me? We’re going to cruise the Cote d’Azur on a private yacht?”
“Of course, if you absolutely hate the idea…”
She smacks my arm. “Don’t you dare! This is like I fell asleep watching a Disney movie and now I’m dreaming my life.”
“So you’re saying I should plan for it?”
“Yes, I’m saying you should plan for it.”
She squeezes my arm more tightly and leans on me as we walk. As always, Marco follows at a discreet distance. But out of the corner of my eye, I finally see what we’ve been waiting for.
“Don’t look now,” I whisper in her ear. “Ten o’clock. Near the copse of palm trees.”
Amanda casually lets go of my arm and moves away from me, reaching out to take my hand instead. As she does, her head tilts slightly to the left.
She sees what I see: a gang of paparazzi, waiting for us to get close enough that they can start taking photos with their powerful telephoto lenses.
“Exactly where Renaldo said they would be,” I whisper, smiling.
“I have to say, I’m a little unnerved by the fact that your public relations guy can manipulate the media so easily,” she says, doing an excellent job of acting like she doesn’t know they’re there.
Renaldo is an absolute genius. He has a network of people who are willing to act as my “close friends” and feed information to the tabloids. A simple phone call yesterday was enough to spark a flurry of “tips” that notorious playboy Dante Trentini had finally found “the one.” He’s head-over-heels for this American girl, and they’re all going to get the exclusive scoop this afternoon.
We amble along for a few more minutes until we’re in the spot where Renaldo told us to stop, directly under a wide, shady palm. In his expert opinion, this will give the photographers the perfect lighting at this time of day, and it’s close enough that they don’t have to worry about losing resolution.
I reach out and take Amanda by both hands, pulling her towards me. We face each other and gaze into each other’s eyes.
“Are you ready?” I ask.
“As I’ll ever be. Let’s do it.”
Before I can even think to move, she slips one arm around my waist and the other up my back to my shoulders, pulling me towards her waiting mouth.
Fifty yards away, I’m sure a dozen cameras are clicking furiously, but all I hear is the sound of the blood rushing through my ears as my heartbeat quickens. Without thinking, I wrap my arms around the small of her back and lift her so that our faces are level.
I hear a swift intake of breath from her as I do, but her lips never leave mine. Our tongues urgently explore each other’s mouths, taking me away from the world into one where Amanda and the brilliant sun overhead are the only things that exist.
Memories of our encounter in the gardens rush into my mind as blood rushes unexpectedly into my cock. Amanda obviously feels the pressure against her, because she grips my neck even more tightly. Her lips finally break with mine and she gasps a tiny “oh!” in my ear.
The feeling of her soft breasts pressing against my chest does nothing to help ease my rising erection.
“Down, boy,” she whispers in my ear. “We don’t want this turning into a porno movie.”
She’s right. I smile broadly as I set her back down on the grass beneath the palms. Her cheeks are as flushed as mine feel. She stands strategically in front of me so that the paparazzi won’t be able to snap any shots of the tent under my shorts.
“Do you think it worked?” she asks.
Good God, did it ever.
“I’m sure it did,” I say, glancing in the general direction of the gang of photogs. Their frantic movements confirm it.
“All right, then,” she says. “I guess we need to get ready for Part Two.”
Chapter Twenty-One
20. AMANDA
A friend of mine from college loves to tell the story of how her boyfriend asked the people who ran the “kiss cam” to catch him proposing to her at a Chicago Cubs game. She said it was even shown on an ESPN highlights reel.
If all goes well, my proposal will be splashed on the front page of hundreds of newspapers and websites around the world. Not that I’m keeping score or anything.
Of course, her proposal was real. I try not to think about that part.
It’s just another day in the crazy reality show that’s become my life over the past week or so. I mean, how many people get this close to the Queen of England at the Royal Ascot in the morning, then find out their honeymoon will consist of cruising the French Riviera in a hundred-foot yacht in the afternoon?
All on the arm of a prince?
“How is your bourguignon?” asks Dante, pointing his fork at my plate. We’re at a restaurant in a hotel that takes up an entire city block, surrounded by a lot of rich people, including some you’d probably recognize from last year’s Oscars.
A lot of the patrons have been casting not-so-subtle glances in our direction since we walked in. Which is what we expected.
“I’m trying to think of a word that means ‘delicious times infinity,’” I say. “I’ve had a lot of amazing meals in the last few days, but this is like something out of a dream. It can’t possibly be good for me.”
Dante has barely touched the big-headed fish on his plate. They like to serve it whole in these fancy places, so its dead eyes are staring up at me.
“How about yours?” I ask.
“What’s the word you Americans use? Meh?”
I giggle. “That about sums it up.”
My phone buzzes in my purse. Normally, I’m not one of those people who are tied to their mobiles, but it’s probably Dad.
Sure enough, the text next to his name reads: No phone calls yet.
I smile and show it to Dante, who smil
es back. I told Dad to be ready for media calls, just in case. Renaldo had his tipsters feed the reporters with my life story, so I figured I’d better give him a heads up on the off chance they track him down for comments.
This whole thing is crazy enough; having Dad along for the ride is going to make it either bizarre or hilarious. Probably both.
His phone might start to light up soon, though. It’s time for Part Two of the plan.
Dante glances around the room, looking for people who’ve set their phones on their tables. Renaldo’s people have told him that a number of photographers are actually undercover in the restaurant, ready to capture something big for the Enquirer or TMZ.
Well, they’re going to get it.
Our eyes meet and Dante raises his brows. Are you ready? that looks says.
I smile and nod, taking a deep breath. Might as well start the show.
He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and emerges with his hand closed around a small box. Inside is platinum band, topped by a ten-carat emerald-cut diamond surrounded by a dozen blue Ceylon sapphires. It belonged to Dante’s mother, Lia, and is one of the most famous engagement rings in the world.
As he gets up from his seat, my heart quickens, knowing I’m about to be wearing that ring on my finger. We didn’t even have to resize it – it’s a perfect fit.
Dante moves to the side of the table so he can kneel down in front me.
Before he can do that, everything goes to shit.
“Dante!”
I turn to see a tall woman in a dress that looks like it’s been stitched together from a dozen different quilts by a seamstress who was tripping on acid. Of course, around here, that means it probably cost upwards of fifty thousand dollars.
Her smile reveals a gap between her teeth and suddenly I recognize her: Giselle Ranette. She’s one of the top models in Europe.
And she used to go out with Dante.
“Giselle!” he says, putting on his princely smile. “Imagine seeing you here.”
She darts her head forward to give him the customary double cheek peck that we Americans find so strange.
