by Holly Rayner
After a pause, Francesco ordered a bottle of wine from the server, casually addressing the fact that he’d already drank one and a half bottles that night. “In Europe, it’s how you live. You inhale wine. It’s healthy.” He winked.
“And I suppose next you’ll tell me cheese doesn’t make you fat?” Lisa laughed.
“It doesn’t. And what is this low carb diet you Americans are always on? It doesn’t make sense. Pasta is a way of being.”
Lisa rolled her eyes playfully, watching as the waiter poured her a large glass of wine. She clinked her glass with Francesco, whose dramatic toast rang in her ears.
“To tonight. To meeting you, Lisa. Thank you for encouraging me to acknowledge my own truth.”
She bowed her head slightly, sipping the dark liquid. For a moment, they sat silently, allowing the jazz club ambiance to melt over them. Lisa felt Francesco’s eyes upon her, tracing her profile. For once, her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth, too uncertain to make the first move.
“Where are you from, anyway?” Francesco asked then.
Lisa looked back up at him, suddenly shy. She sensed his words were far from a boundary she’d set between them. But she offered a single, solitary word, hoping it would help them onto a necessary path, one that would fuel him to tell her more secrets.
“Detroit,” she murmured.
“I see,” he said. “I’m assuming our childhoods were very different, then.”
“I wasn’t royalty, for one,” Lisa smiled, easing up slightly.
“Right. Of course. Sometimes, it’s difficult for me to understand other peoples’ realities; being a prince is the only life I’ve ever known.”
“You couldn’t have had a normal childhood. I’m guessing your mother and father had an arranged marriage, as well?” Lisa asked.
Francesco nodded, his eyes suddenly far away. “He was good to her. He didn’t have any choice, of course, but he ensured that she had every worldly comfort, especially as I was growing up. I don’t think my mother ever wanted to have children. But of course, she didn’t have a choice.”
“Why not?” Lisa asked, leaning closer.
“Well, my father grew up as a prince of Aluzzi. He always knew he would rule one day. My mother, by contrast, was a princess in a neighboring kingdom, and she had no love for the Aluzzi people. She wanted to remain with her brothers and sisters, especially after the crown turned power over to the people, and kings and queens were no more in her country. She hated the notion that people needed rulers. She wanted to live an ordinary life.”
“But she was married to your father before all of that happened?” Lisa asked.
Francesco nodded. “The paperwork was drawn up when she was a girl, and she was married to my father when she was 17. By the time her home kingdom became a republic, I had already been born, meaning she had a family. She was stuck.”
“That’s terrible,” Lisa murmured, imagining that feeling of being trapped, knowing that home, freedom, and family were just a few hundred miles away.
“The next few years weren’t easy for her. She had my sister, a girl who fits the ‘princess’ title far more than Princess Rose, even. A spoiled brat,” Francesco said, scoffing. “And a few years later, I became a teenager, and began to live in the public eye. It wasn’t necessarily my choice. The paparazzi. They latch onto you. They don’t let you go.”
Lisa’s stomach twisted at the words. “I see,” she said. “And what were you up to, to make the paparazzi fawn over you? Surely, there was a story there.” Her eyes twinkled. She hoped she wasn’t giving herself away.
“I’m sure you’d recognize the stories, although they were years ago,” he said. “I was something of a wild teenager, always throwing parties with models and actors and the richest of the rich. Nothing was too grand for me, especially at the time. I felt I had something to prove. I wasn’t the sweet, little prince that I’d been portrayed as when I’d been a child. I was wild. I was free. And I had more money than a god.”
Lisa felt the sarcasm beneath his last words. His sadness was deep. She felt her fingers inch toward his, yearning to touch him.
“But I didn’t really want to be famous. Not after that first year of the tabloids following my every move,” Francesco continued. “It was painful, knowing that my parents could see what the world was saying about me. I would hide away in my chambers, knowing that I was reckless, that I was ruining us all. And I couldn’t stop.”
Lisa paused, tracing her teeth with her tongue. “Was Princess Rose at these parties?” she asked.
“Sometimes,” he answered, his voice somber. “We both knew what our parents wanted, but we assumed we could get out of it. Sometimes, we’d get into screaming matches—each of us with our own agenda. As we grew older, she said marrying would be good for our status. Nothing has ever mattered to her more than that.” He stabbed his finger upon the table, almost in time with the jazz tune that was playing. The trumpet burst in Lisa’s ears, startling her.
“And now, the wedding,” the Prince continued. “Paparazzi are everywhere, declaring to the world that Rose and I are constantly fighting. Cue me renting out every single table in that restaurant, just to avoid them.” He bowed his head lethargically, heavy with sadness. “I don’t know what to do, Lisa. I’ve never been at such a loss.”
Lisa felt entrenched with guilt. As he spoke of the paparazzi, she began to feel disgust at her assignment. Rocco was a sleazy, ruthless man, standing in his high-rise apartment. And she was a soldier in his army.
She didn’t belong with Rocco. She loved people. She wanted to fight for goodness, for art, for truth.
She cleared her throat, the wine rushing to her head. She felt tipsy. And Francesco’s eyes were too alluring.
“Childhoods are rough,” she murmured, filling the space between them. “No matter how hard you work to escape your circumstances, it seems you never can.”
“Your circumstances in Detroit?” he asked her. His intrigue was unexpected. What interest could he have in her silly little life? And yet, she found herself forming the words.
“That’s right,” Lisa began. “I remember days when we didn’t have food on the table. My mother worked tirelessly at one factory job after another. It seemed she was always being made redundant, always going to the unemployment office, and always driving me a few minutes late to school. It was our pattern. It was our life.”
Lisa smiled sadly, diving into the depths of her past. “I’m sorry if it’s too much information, but I remember the other children making fun of me, telling me I didn’t belong with them. It was my own form of torture. It was my own form of paparazzi. And it was horrible.”
The Prince nodded, his eyes filled with understanding—although how in the world he could even understand it, even glimpse her world, was beyond Lisa. But she appreciated the way he kept his hand over hers on the table, the way he refilled her glass, the way he listened.
“And in high school, when you could begin working? Did things start to get better?”
Lisa nodded, tears beginning to brim in her eyes. “I was a waitress.”
“Just as you are today,” the Prince said, smiling. “Only at a top-tier Manhattan restaurant. See how far you’ve come.” His words were kind, but they came as a painful reminder of how much she’d lied.
She swallowed. “Yes. A waitress. And I made many friends through the restaurant. I loved them, you know. We got into so much trouble together, as 16-and 17-year-olds. But after that, I wanted to focus on getting to the city, while they wanted to focus on something else entirely.”
“What was that?”
“They wanted to focus on getting married, and on having children. And they’ve all succeeded,” she said, shrugging. “Not that I ever wanted that.”
“What did you want, Lisa?”
Francesco leaned closer, and again, Lisa could feel his breath upon her face. She licked her lips, trying to focus once more.
“Um. I want to make enough money to
go back to school. I’ve been focused on it for so long, but I don’t always know if it will happen.” She laughed to herself, trying to shrug it off, to make it seem like it didn’t matter. But the Prince sensed the seriousness of her tone.
“What do you want to do?” he asked. “At school.”
“Photography,” Lisa said, before she thought twice about it. She cursed herself inwardly, knowing that she should have prepared a lie. But she hadn’t thought she’d divulge a single secret to this man. She’d meant to dip into him, to get to the nitty-gritty of his personality and past. But here she was, pouring it all out for him.
“Oh? Do you have anything I could look at?” he asked her.
Lisa nodded half-heartedly, reaching for her phone. She’d published several images of her personal street photography on her website, which she’d set up the previous year, when she’d had a bit of cash on hand. She swept through them before stumbling upon a particular photograph from the summer before last, taken in Central Park.
The photo was of a three-year-old boy, leaning heavily against a bench, a sucker in his mouth. The sunlight glinted on his hat, which was crooked on his blond curls. He looked awkward, lost. And yet: his mother’s hands were wrapped around his shoulders from above, locking him into place.
“This is it,” she whispered, gesturing. “My favorite shot.”
Francesco took a moment to really look at it: to admire the colors, the positioning, the perspective. “You have real talent, Lisa,” he told her with sincerity. “I can’t say I’ve seen anything quite like this before. And trust me. Many, many people across the world have taken my picture.” He winked at her.
Lisa’s face turned bright pink. She smiled, accepting his compliment.
“Seriously. I think you have to go to school for this. If you don’t ever share your amazing eye with the world? That would be a travesty.”
“I don’t quite know what to say,” she whispered.
“Just keep doing it,” he told her, as another jazz tune filled their ears. “Don’t make excuses to yourself. The world is filled with people who give up and give in. Including myself, if I don’t call this wedding off.”
“You should call it off,” Lisa breathed, not thinking. “You have to.”
“Then we both know what we have to do, now, don’t we?” Francesco laughed, hailing the server. “Now, how about some cocktails? I’m feeling far too excited for wine. And they have some of the best cocktails I’ve ever had.” His gaze landed on a nearby waiter. “Server? Two Fitzgeralds please. And a plate of olives, bread and cheese. We’ve hardly had anything to eat, and I have a sense that this is going to be a long, interesting night.”
Lisa fell into easy conversation with the Prince, realizing that she was flirting and giggling like a schoolgirl. As two hours dripped to three, Francesco leaned toward her and whispered into her ear, his breath hot.
“Why don’t we get out of here?” he asked.
And Lisa found herself following him, almost as if her entire life had been leading to this dramatic precipice—as she flung off everything she knew, and followed this dream man.
Chapter 6
Lisa found herself tucked in the backseat of Francesco’s limousine, pushing away thoughts that the driver had probably recognized her leaving the jazz club on the Prince’s arm. Her brain hummed with drink, and her body seemed to operate with a singular need to be held, to be touched, to be seen—and only by Francesco.
“Back home, sir?” Sergio’s voice boomed to the backseat.
And Francesco said yes, before turning his eyes back to Lisa, and tipping his face toward her, brushing her lips with his.
Their kiss was tentative, yet filled with passion. Lisa wrapped her arms around his neck, inhaling his scent. They were connected, without memory of a time when they hadn’t known each other. They fizzled with stories and secrets. And they had no need for anyone else.
The limousine stopped in downtown Manhattan. Francesco told Sergio he didn’t need him for the rest of the night, and he opened the door, allowing Lisa to exit onto the sidewalk, her eyes bright in the effervescent city lights.
She accepted Francesco’s arm once more, and they entered the lavish foyer, the doorman dressed in an immaculate suit, tilting his round hat toward them. “Sir. Ma’am. Good evening.” He pressed the elevator button, assessing Lisa, the outsider. But, like a good doorman, he made no mention that she wasn’t the woman the Prince had left with earlier in the night. He was no paparazzo. He was invisible.
The elevator was covered with floor-to-ceiling mirrors that perfectly reflected the passionate kisses they shared. They eased into each other’s bodies once more, relishing the privacy of the four walls. Lisa lifted her tongue to his, slipping it along his lip, and sighing deeply. She had never been held so tight.
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open to reveal the penthouse suite—the place Francesco called home during his New York visits. The moment the view registered, Lisa’s jaw dropped. The stark contrast of this place to her one-bedroom apartment gave her momentary pause.
But Francesco gave her a coaxing smile and placed his fingers at the small of her back, nudging her forward. “Make yourself at home.”
Lisa giggled as she entered, slipping her shoes from her feet and trotting toward the broad windows, which gave a stunning view of the city below. Lights sparkled; countless windows, all across the city.
She and the Prince were tucked away in their own little world, safe from the autumn wind.
“What do you think?” Francesco asked, appearing at her side. “I had the place decorated by one of Aluzzi’s top designers.”
The living room was a perfect marriage of modernity and tradition, offering sleek furniture and bright, bold, Mediterranean colors. Tapestries hung on the walls, along with several Roman-looking paintings, which complimented the trendy lamps and modern coffee tables strewn throughout. She felt breathless, unable to put her impression into words.
“Wow,” she finally breathed, feeling foolish. “I’ve never seen anything so—”
Francesco nodded, cupping her chin with his hands. “I knew you’d like it. You, with your artistic eye.”
He leaned toward her, then, and kissed her once more, wrapping her close. Lisa’s vision of the oranges and bright reds of his apartment fled from her eyes. She didn’t need them any longer.
He lifted her, drawing her legs up over his arms, and carried her to his bedroom, with its California king-sized bed, its lamps with their soft, romantic glow. He laid her upon the comforter, gazing lustfully at her, before diving into her neck and kissing her, tracing his finger over her shoulders and down the length of her torso.
They undressed each other. They fell into each other’s arms and made love beneath the sheets, there in that room. Trust mixed with sexual passion. In Lisa’s mind, the emotion edged dangerously close to love.
And, as Lisa’s eyelids fluttered, and she drifted toward sleep, all thoughts of Rocco and of ruining this intelligent, beautiful man for the sake of a few bucks, fled from her. Francesco’s breath came easily as he inhaled and exhaled, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She couldn’t have dreamed of a better day of her life.
And despite Francesco’s very different upbringing, his sense of the world was rather similar to her own. They were soldiers, fighting through expectations and resentments. But together, they were allowed moments of sheer pleasure. And that was beautiful.
Chapter 7
Sunlight draped in the wide window in the Prince’s bedroom, highlighting the gleam of Lisa’s blond hair and articulating the strong, Roman nose of Francesco, who snored ever so slightly in his sleep. Lisa’s eyes opened easily, hopeful in the brightness of this new morning and new reality. Despite having only had a few hours of sleep, she felt strong, sensual, and ready to take on the world.
As she shifted beneath the covers, Francesco awoke and turned toward her, the warmth of him folding over her. She wrapped her arms around his chest and pressed
herself into him, kissing him hungrily. The moment she broke away from him, she wrapped her legs around his waist, whispering to him.
“I can’t believe I met you.”
“I feel the same way.”
“I never want to leave your bed,” she whispered.
“Then don’t. I’ll mandate it. I’m a prince, after all.”
“And your power extends to the United States?” she asked.
“If I say it does,” he said playfully, kissing her nose. “Why not?”
“You pompous Aluzzians,” she said, laughing. “I can’t trust you as far as I can throw you. Which isn’t far. Look at these hulking muscles.”
She strapped her fingers over his bicep, unable to wrap her hand around it. She squeezed as he flexed, giggling. “It’s almost like you have the power to go all night long. And maybe all day, if you feel like it.” She peered into his eyes, daring him to forget that the rest of the world existed, for just a few hours longer.
“What else would I do today?” he asked. “If not assess every single inch of your body? I need to make sure that you’re fit for travel. I want to take you all over the world, to show you some of the most beautiful sights. Have you been to Fiji?”
“Fiji?” Lisa laughed. “I haven’t left the East Coast since I got here. Just the occasional drive back to Detroit, when I can scrape the funds together.”
“Would I like Detroit?” the Prince asked her. “Are there more people like you there?”
“Sorry, sir. There’s no one else quite like me,” Lisa said, her voice faux-cocky. She lifted from him, then, stretching languidly. “I don’t even know what day it is. Or what time.”
“You’re back at the Matador later?” he asked her.
Lisa blinked rapidly, trying to remember what in the world the “Matador” was. In a moment, the memory trickled back: her pretending to be a waitress, meeting the Prince, diving into a night of raucous pleasure with him, and imagining it would never end. Was this the ending? Was this question—an affirmation of the distance between them—the final straw?
