How to Catch a Prince

by Rachel Hauck

  His blue eyes traced the rim of her scoop neckline. “I’d rather talk about how a grown man wearing makeup and playing pretend gets to spend his afternoon with a beautiful American heiress.” His plastic smile and Hollywood white teeth hid things Corina could not quite discern.

  “For this afternoon, I’m a plain ole journalist.” She scanned the tables under the awning, then moved to see inside the café. Moderate-sized crowd inside and out. “Do you want to go inside or sit out here?”

  “I’ve a table all picked out.” Clive tipped his head toward a cozy spot on the far side of the café, near the street but obscured by a lush array of foliage.

  Corina followed him, weaving through the tables. The few guests sitting outside, with their heads bent together in conversation, seemed unaware of the star power among them.

  Clive whistled at a waiter, motioning for him to come over. “What’ll it be, love?” Clive said, leaning into her, holding out a wrought iron and mosaic tile chair, his breath too warm and too close.

  She leaned away, her attention on the waiter. “Latte, skim milk.”

  He turned to the young man who’d answered his beckoning. “She’ll have a latte with skim milk. I’ll have English Breakfast tea with cream, thank you, my good chap.” Clive, he flirted with everyone.

  “Right away, sir. You’re Clive Boston, aren’t you?”

  Clive sighed. “This again? No, dear lad, I’m his cousin. The more handsome cousin, but what am I to do?” He grimaced and sat in the chair opposite Corina. The waiter started to say something, then turned for the café door, shaking his head.

  “You’re bad,” Corina said.

  “Just having a bit of fun. Corina, you are more beautiful today than you were last night. That dress is amazing on you.” Clive twisted sideways in his chair and draped his arm over the back, breaking out his big cinema charm.

  He was too much. Really. Ignore him. Corina retrieved her iPad as well as a pen and paper. She’d record the interview but take notes on things that stood out to her—the atmosphere, key statements, Clive’s outfit.

  Dressed for the street, he looked more like a New England blue blood from Yale than a British-Italian actor who grew up in London’s East End.

  His khakis were crisp and pressed, his pale blue Polo, lightly starched. He wore loafers with no socks. And his rogue dark hair waved freely.

  He was a commitment phobic, skittish about domestic life, trading out his women every few years, each one younger than the last.

  Corina launched a recording app, then tapped the screen to open her questions. “I’ve been thinking all morning about how to approach this interview and—”

  “What’s the story between you and the prince?” Clive drew a cigarette from the crumpled packet he retrieved from his pants pocket and touched the end with a lighter flame. He squinted through a slither of smoke, invoking his trademark, smoldering expression.

  “We’re friends. The End.”

  “Very clever. Love, I know when a man is marking his territory, and if we’d been outdoors in the wild kingdom last night, the prince would have pummeled me.”

  “We’re just friends.” She smiled. Okay? Are you done? “I read some of the reviews of the film this morning while writing my own, and I loved what the Liberty Press said.” She read from the iPad screen. “ ‘Boston transcended his pop-icon image to become one of Europe’s most—”

  “ ‘Heroic heroes.’ Yes, love, I read the papers too. What are they teaching film critics today? Heroic heroes? What sort of drivel is that? Can a hero be unheroic?” He arched his brow, anticipating her response.

  “I suppose. If the hero is merely the protagonist. He can want to be heroic but end up failing. King Stephen I faced his fears and the insurmountable odds to defeat Henry VIII and win Brighton. He never backed down.” Corina propped her arm on the table, feeling the breeze of her words. She had to be as brave as the old king to love well. “His mission was so clear to him and nothing else seemed to matter. Not even his own life.”

  “Did I portray all of that in the film?”

  Clive appeared surprised at his own question.

  Corina smiled. “I think so, yes.”

  “Bravo me. I should get an Oscar nod. To be honest, I thought I was a bit too Scott Hunter.” Clive took a long draw from his cigarette.

  “Maybe.” She laughed. “A little.”

  Clive tapped the ashes from his cigarette. “I read up about you too, Corina Del Rey. I’m sorry about your brother. Is that the dark rainbow I see in your eyes?”

  The waiter arrived with Corina’s latte and Clive’s tea.

  “Yes, my brother had the courage of King Stephen I, I think,” Corina said, staring briefly through the leaves toward the busy side street. “But he died doing what he believed in. Fighting for freedom.”

  “Were you close?” Clive anchored his cigarette on an ashtray stand next to his chair and dropped a dollop of cream from a small silver pitcher into his tea.

  She peeled the lid from her latte, letting the hot liquid cool. “Of course. Very. We were twins.”

  “So the rumors are true. The incredibly wealthy, aristocratic Del Reys are a true, close-knit family.”

  Were. Not true any longer. “How is it,” she said, tapping a bit of sweetener into her latte, “that you keep taking over this interview, asking all the questions?”

  “Because you are interesting. I’m a bore.”

  “Not to your fans. Clive, you’ve been ‘radio-silent’ for a decade. Come on, let’s talk about you, this film, and why you are finally sitting for an interview.”

  “You know what I find interesting? You say you were friends with Prince Stephen at uni, yet I’ve never seen you with him. How did you two manage to avoid the press? You’re too tempting, love. Too gorgeous to leave alone.” Clive drummed his fingers on the table, the thin tendrils of cigarette smoke twisting upward. “Then some years pass and, wham-o, you’re on his arm for a very public, very royal, movie premier.”

  Corina tossed down her pen. “So? It happens. Friends reconnect.”

  “It’s just curious. Stephen is rather close to the chest when it comes to women.”

  “Can I quote you?” The air under the awning was warm but pleasant and the sounds of city life—engines, horns, and voices—gave the place and Clive a casual feel. “Clive Boston keeps track of Prince Stephen’s love life.”

  The actor scoffed, watching her over the edge of his teacup. “Quote whatever you like. My questions have a single purpose. I don’t want him angry with me if I ask his girlfriend to dinner.” He set down his cup, reached for his cigarette, and blew a stream of smoke upward, scenting the dew with menthol.

  “Tell you what . . .”, she said. “Let me conduct this interview and we’ll see about dinner.”

  Clive grinned. “You have yourself a deal.”

  Technically, she couldn’t call dinner with Clive a date. She was married. And last night her husband had kissed her. But dinner with Clive might be enjoyable—if she stressed they were only going as friends. When Clive let loose and forgot himself, he was funny and genuine good company.

  “The film . . .” Corina sipped her latte as she scanned her notes. “You told the Times of London that you’d never do another period film. ‘Too exhausting,’ you said.”

  “Excuse me,” a young woman said as she moved in and hovered over their table. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but . . . Clive Boston.” She exhaled all over them. “I’ve seen every one of your movies.”

  “Thank you, love.” He smiled as if she might be his one and only. “Where are you from?”

  “Ohio. Can I please take your picture?” She batted her lashes and cooed. Yeah, cooed. Corina paused the recording and crossed her arms, waiting, puttying her impatience with grace. She’d never interrupt a conversation for a picture with a celebrity. But then she had grown up with the Clive Bostons of the world dining at her father’s table.

  “Picture? But of course. What’s your na
me?” He set down his tea. “How about a selfie? Corina, love, come round. Get in the shot.”

  “I think she’d prefer just you, Clive.”

  The girl, who said her name was Brooke, hovered next to Clive and held up her phone to snap the selfie. Then he signed a wadded-up receipt she dug out of her bag and offered her several flattering compliments. She blushed, thanked him, then hurried off with a dance and a squeal.

  He narrowed his gaze at Corina, taking up his tea. “Got to keep them happy.”

  “You’re a softy.” She started the recording again.

  “Shh . . .don’t tell.”

  “So why did you do this period movie?”

  “I liked King Stephen I. Brave chap.”

  “That’s it? You liked the guy so you changed your policy?”

  “I read Aaron’s script. It spoke to me. And of course, I never miss a chance to work with Jeremiah Gonda. Guess you could say all of the pieces were there.”

  “How’d you prepare for the role? King Stephen I lived five hundred years ago. How does one go from jetting around the world watching movies on devices that fit in the palm of your hand to being a warrior with only a sword and a gaggle of determined men?”

  Clive sipped his tea, then took a long, crackling drag from his cigarette. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you? I had that sense from the photo where the two of you were walking off together. Toward restaurant alley.”

  Corina stopped the recording and reached down for her messenger bag. “If you don’t want to do the interview—”

  “Corina, love, don’t be this way. What’s the fun of a one-sided interview?”

  “Our deal was dinner if you let me interview you. Not you interviewing me.”

  “Sorry, darling, I thought you’d ask more interesting questions. ‘How did you prepare for the role?’ The idiots from the LibP ask those sorts of things.”

  “What sort of questions do you want to answer?” She folded her arms, waiting, mentally composing her opening sentence. Clive Boston is a scoundrel.

  “Like why a man with an IQ of one fifty and a degree in astrophysics craved the stage? The limelight?”

  He had an IQ of one fifty? “Why does a man with a high IQ crave the stage?”

  “Because he wants to be loved. Approved. Applauded.”

  “Doesn’t everyone? At some level? So why acting? Why not the world of science?”

  Clive raised his tea for a drink but set it back down before taking a sip. “Because it’s fun to pretend. To be someone else.” He stared at her. “Don’t you think?”

  “Why does my relationship with Stephen interest you so much?”

  “He’s the Prince of Brighton. Love is hard to come by for princes. King Stephen I certainly worked to win his queen. Built that manor for her. Defied his council over her.”

  “Love is hard to come by for most people. True love, anyway. So is that why you’re an actor? To find true love?”

  He laughed. “Good grief, no. If anything, the stage, along with the acclaim, is an actor’s only true love. Besides, what one lacks in love one can make up in riches. The pay is fabulous.”

  She scribbled a note. Research Clive’s academic life. “So money is better than true love?”

  “No, but it’s a nice consolation prize.”

  “We have money. Lots of it. But not one red cent of the Del Rey fortune can bring back my brother.” Nor purchase her true love’s heart. “I can’t even buy the details of his death.”

  “I’m sorry, Corina. I must sound like an insensitive clod.”

  “Don’t apologize. You were just being honest. I’m the one snapping.” Their eyes met for a moment on the level plane of understanding. “So, you have an IQ of one fifty?”

  “According to the test. If you can believe those things.” The tone of his voice drifted, sounding more like an everyday man than an arrogant actor.

  “And a degree in astrophysics?”

  “Says the diploma in the bottom of my bureau drawer.” Clive jerked when his phone buzzed from his coat pocket. “Pardon me, Corina.” Walking toward the street, he talked in a low tone.

  Alone, Corina hunted for the image Clive mentioned on her iPad, starting with the Liberty Press. She searched the inside pages, but instead of finding the photo, she found an update. A press release from the King’s Office.

  Tuesday, 15 June

  12:00 p.m.

  The King’s Office responded to our request for information on the Prince of Brighton’s date from last night.

  “The Prince of Brighton is not romantically involved with the woman who attended the King Stephen I premier with him. Corina Del Rey, an American heiress and an entertainment reporter with the Beaumont Post, is merely an acquaintance.

  The prince is focused on his ankle rehabilitation, eager to return to rugby for the Premiership. “Romance is not important to me right now,” the prince said.

  The Prince of Brighton will be in attendance for the Children’s Literacy Foundation Art Auction tonight at the Galaxy.

  Corina shivered despite the respite in rain and the sun peeking under the awning. Acquaintance. She’d been demoted from lover to friend to acquaintance.

  Dismissing her at the premier was one thing. But issuing a statement?

  Clive returned and sat down, his eyes on her. “Everything all right, love? Why so serious?”

  Corina popped a smile, exchanging the LibP page for her recording app. “Peachy. And you? Hope the call was good news.”

  “Just a friend,” Clive said. “Wanting a favor. Asking if I’d attend the Children’s Literacy Foundation Art Auction this evening. I said, ‘Why not?’ Guess we can do dinner another night. Say, Corina,”—Clive covered her hand with his—“are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes.” She exhaled. “As my granny used to say, ‘I’m right as rain.’ ”

  TWENTY

  Foot elevated on the stool, his skin blue from drowning his ankle in a bucket of ice, Stephen scrolled through his mental diary, making note of the days ahead, a swath of sun blanketing his office windows.

  The light thawed his cold bones though a hardened lacquer baked around his heart. He’d spent the ice session numbing his feelings for Corina.

  Last night’s kiss left him jammed up, and tossing and turning through the night. Just as he’d drift away, he’d hear her voice—“Babe . . .”—and feel her touch. Then he’d pop wide awake, wanting her.

  At 3:00 a.m., he remanded himself to the media room and watched the film of the summer internationals sent over by Coach Stuart.

  Around 5:00 a.m., he fell asleep and dreamt of nothing. Just the way he liked it.

  “Sir?” Robert popped into the room. “Teatime.”

  “Good man.” Stephen lowered his foot and massaged the blood back into his toes. His ankle always felt strong after the ice. But when his blood warmed, the weaknesses surfaced and his limp returned.

  Robert trolleyed in the tea cart, setting up by the chairs. “You’re all arranged for the art auction tonight, sir. The limousine will pull round at seven forty-five. Shall you dress at seven fifteen?”

  “That’s fine.” Stephen popped a chocolate biscuit in his mouth. He expected the butler-valet-aide to exit, but when he turned, the man stood by the door. “What is it?”

  “Your brother is on his way.”

  “Now? Did he say why?”

  “No, only asked if you were on the premises.” Robert backed out of the room.

  Wonder what he wants? He couldn’t be upset at the morning photos. He was on board with Stephen attending the premier with Corina. Which, when Stephen thought on it, was rather odd.

  “Get her to sign the annulment papers,” he’d said. Whilst his actions said, “Be with her.”

  Stephen was glad the kiss happened after midnight, in the shadows, without the probing eye of the press. Impulse could indeed be his very good friend. He’d not kissed a woman in a very long time. Five and a half years to be exact. When Corina kissed
him good-bye.

  “I’ll go.” Tears streamed down her face. “But I don’t understand.”

  Silence. If he opened his mouth, he’d break. Tell her the truth. He had to remove her from his life.

  “Tell me, do you not love me?”

  “Corina . . .” He propped against the wall as she stood by the open door. Otherwise, he’d sink to the floor in a huddled mess.

  “Then can you at least kiss me?” She brushed her hand over his chest, moving into him. Passion fired through him.

  When her lips touched his, he remained stiff and unyielding. Cold.

  Stephen pinched the memory and sipped his tea, searching for the telly remote. Wonder what Madeline and Hyacinth have to say this afternoon? The telly was already tuned to their station.

  “Madeline,” Hyacinth said, aiming the front page of the LibP at the camera, “this was all the scuttlebutt this morning, the prince with this gorgeous American, Corina Del Rey.”

  “Who tweeted our show Friday afternoon, yet he sat right here, denying anything between them.”

  “Hold on, Mads. That’s the beauty of broadcasting live.” Hyacinth held up a blue piece of paper. “The King’s Office released a statement this afternoon, confirming Prince Stephen is not romantically linked with Corina Del Rey.” She sat back with a face and posture that said she didn’t believe a word of it.

  “Oh, ladies, please, move on. What about your bloke Clive Boston?” Stephen talked to the TV. Talked to his heart. “Last week you couldn’t get enough of him.”

  “Hy, you don’t believe it?” Madeline reached for the paper. “I mean it’s official, from the King’s Office.”

  “I think they’re just trying to get us off their scent.”

  “Ooh, you think there’s a scent?” Madeline leaned toward Hy, releasing the paper to float through the air. The audience applauded, agreeing.

  “There’s a scent all right. And it’s wearing American perfume.”

  Hyacinth and Madeline launched into a debate about their prince, the most eligible bachelor in Brighton, probably the world, and, ladies, they were losing him to an American.