Wrong Number, Right Guy

by Tara Wylde

  They glance at each other and giggle, their telepathy obviously sharing some private joke.

  I reach into my purse and retrieve a manila envelope. Dante takes it and slides it across the table towards them.

  “Open it,” he says.

  They look at each other again, then at the envelope. Vito finally picks it up and opens the flap. He pulls out a sheaf of papers and the two of them look at the cover page.

  Oriana looks up at Dante.

  “I don’t understand,” she says. “These are adoption papers. I thought you were already our guardian?”

  Dante wraps an arm around my shoulder and smiles.

  “I am,” he says. “But these papers would make you my legal children. And they add Amanda to the mix. Basically, in the law’s eyes, we would be considered your mother and father.”

  Vito frowns. “So it’s just, like, a formality? I mean, we already think of you that way.”

  “Sort of,” says Dante. “But it’s also a little more important than that.”

  “What do you mean?” asks Oriana.

  “Well,” I say. “Technically, the legal children of the monarch are considered the official heirs to the Trentini fourtune. This would make it so that you’re officially first in what they call the line of succession. Basically, you’d inherit everything.”

  Their eyes widen. Oriana’s look quickly sours, though.

  “Well, Vito would, anyway,” she scowls. “I wouldn’t, because I’m a girl.”

  I reach across the table and take her hand in mine.

  “Actually, your uncle is talking to the councils about changing the constitution.”

  “What does that mean?” she asks.

  Dante smiles. “It means royal girls are equal to royal boys.

  “Yesss!” She turns to Vito and sticks out her tongue.

  He ignores her. “This is great,” he says. “Thank you. But I always just assumed we’d be the heirs anyway. How come you’re doing this now?”

  Dante and I exchange a look and a smile. I look around to the others and see the curiosity in their eyes. I think Maria may suspect, but I’m sure Carlo and Dad are in the dark.

  “You’re a smart kid, Vito,” I say, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “There is a reason we’re doing this now.”

  Dante pulls a small plastic stick from his pocket and hands it to my father. Dad peers at the pair of thin lines that cross the center of the stick for a long time before it finally dawns on him.

  He looks at me with wide eyes.

  “Is this…?” he asks in a hoarse voice.

  “A stick I peed on?” I say, grinning widely despite the tears forming in my eyes. “It sure is. Dante and I are having a baby.”

  I expect Dad to let loose with a “yahoo!” but instead he’s quiet. He comes over to me and folds me in his big arms.

  “Well that’s just about the greatest thing I ever heard,” he whispers. “Your mama would be so happy for you.”

  I hug him fiercely. “I love you, you old coot,” I whisper.

  “Love you too, pumpkin.”

  After a few moments, he stands up and looks Dante in the eye.

  “Took you long enough,” Dad says, pulling him into an embrace.

  “It wasn’t for lack of trying,” Dante says.

  Dad slaps him on the back of the head.

  “That’s my daughter you’re talkin’ about, Charming.”

  I turn to the twins. They look a bit confused, which we expected. I hope they’re happy for us.

  “What do you think?” I ask.

  “It’s brilliant!” Oriana grins. “We’re going to have a new cousin.”

  “Sister,” I say. “Or brother. Remember, you’re our children now. Or you will be, if you agree to it.”

  Vito looks on the verge of crying. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so emotional.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he says, snuffling back a tear. “Adopt us, I mean. It’s okay if you want your baby to be the heir.”

  “It’s not okay with us,” says Dante, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “You are our children. It’s time we made it official. If that’s what you want.”

  They glance at each other.

  “It’s what we want,” they say in unison.

  “Well, hot damn!” Dad barks. “Three grandkids in one day!”

  Maria gives us a hug, followed by Carlo. They cut the cake and hand out pieces on paper plates instead of antique china. No one seems to notice the difference.

  Later, in our bedroom, Dante holds me tight as our sweaty skin cools in the night breeze blowing in through the window. We kept our lovemaking quiet so as not to bring down the wrath of Dad.

  “I can’t believe Carlo hugged us,” Dante says. “If I hadn’t experienced it, I never would have believed it.”

  “There’s hope for him yet,” I say, stroking his chest.

  “Did you see your dad sneaking Vito a sip of his beer?”

  I giggle. “It’s funny because he thinks we don’t know. Dad knew all my tricks when I was a kid. Now I know all of his.”

  We lie in silence for a while, listening to the frogs croaking far away on the banks of the Marias river.

  “I’m so glad they agreed to the adoption,” Dante says.

  “Me, too. I suppose we should let Renaldo know. Have him put out a news release. And about the baby; we’re past the ten-week point now.”

  “Don’t do that,” he says.

  “Do what?”

  “Dismiss what you did like it’s not important. You’re the one who insisted that we adopt them. By doing so, you essentially gave up your own child’s right to be the royal heir.”

  “So what?”

  He rolls over to face me. “So what? Do you have any idea how extraordinary that is? To give another’s child the birthright of the monarch?”

  “See, that’s what you don’t get,” I say. “Oriana and Vito are my children. That stupid paperwork just confirms what I’ve known all along. I’m not just saying that, it’s the truth.”

  He shakes his head. “If only I’d known what was behind those pale blue eyes when we first met,” he says.

  “What?” I say. “What would you have done, Mr. Prince?”

  “I would have proposed to you on the spot, royal tradition be damned.”

  “Yes, you made me wait a whole two days for it.”

  We break out in quiet giggles.

  “Nothing about our life together has been normal,” I say. “Maybe this will be a first step towards something a little more ordinary.”

  “God, I hope not,” he says. “Why on earth would I want normal when I can have what we have?”

  I snuggle into his shoulder and kiss his neck.

  “You’re right,” I whisper. “Normal is boring.”

  As we drift off to sleep, I see a flash in the clear night sky outside the window. It’s a falling star.

  I don’t make a wish.

  What would be the point?

  Part V

  Dare Me

  Four weeks to find a wife.

  No obligations. No naughty business.

  Just six months of marriage and I’m gone.

  And then I find out she's never been f*cked.

  Challenge accepted.

  237

  Lucas

  Light bounces off the polished steel of the rapier, nearly blinding me, before the scrape of steel against steel rattles in my ear.

  Shock waves of pain vibrate up my arm. Behind his mask, my opponent’s teeth flash bright white as he senses my discomfort. In a blindingly quick movement, he slashes with his wrist, the movement slamming the flat side of his weapon into my right wrist. A slightly different angle and my hand and my arm would have parted company forever.

  As it is, dumb luck and years of training are the only things that keep my fingers closed around the hilt of my weapon.

  My opponent doesn’t back down, not even for a split second. He presses his advantage, moving with c
at-like grace as his thrusts and parries his weapon, the tip of it dancing closer to my heart. My arm feels heavy, my fingers too stiff to effectively block him. If I don’t do something, and fast, his next thrust will strike its target.

  I grit my teeth.

  I should retreat, put some distance between my body and his, dance out of the way of his weapon until sensation returns to my arm and I’m able to use it properly, but I don’t.

  I can’t.

  I’ve never been the kind of guy to back down, not even when it’s in my best interest – and I’m not going to start now.

  So, instead of backing up and giving myself some space, I lunge forward, getting right up into my opponent’s face. We’re too close for either of us to use our weapons effectively, which is bad for him, but gives my arm a couple of seconds to recover.

  It won’t take long. I’ve always recovered fast.

  The sloppy grin fades from my opponent’s face. I practically hear him gritting his teeth as, too late, he attempts to brace for my charge.

  I flex my fingers. They still feel clumsy and numb, so using my weapon isn’t a viable option. So, I turn to the next best thing, my body.

  I keep pressing forward, invading my opponent's personal space, forcing him to scramble back, and pushing him off balance until…

  He loses his footing and crashes to the floor, spittle. Without missing a beat, I flourish my own weapon and press it to the middle of his chest.

  Now it's my turn. I can't help the grin stretches across my face.

  My vanquished opponent – who also happens to be my cousin and one of my best friends – looks up at me through his fencing mask and rolls his eyes.

  I throw him a smirk.

  “I guess I win.”

  The words still hang in the air when a flurry of activity at the side of the room catches my eye.

  “Damn-it, Lucas.” Carlos Mandolay, my fencing coach yells, storming across the room. I can practically see the storm billowing out of his ears as his face turns an unattractive shade of red.

  “How many times do we have to go over the rules before you get them through your skull?”

  I flip my mask back and hold up a hand, silencing his tirade. “I know, Carlos,” I say, grinning. “I’m undisciplined, hard-headed, and arrogant. And all of the above are making it impossible for you to do your job.”

  I know my flippant tone pisses him off even more, but I can’t help myself. When the adrenaline courses through my veins like it’s doing now,

  Carlos upper lip curls, exposing his teeth in a grin that would be perfectly at home in the middle of a horror movie. “And yet, nothing ever changes.”

  He points at my fallen cousin, who is slowly pushing himself to his feet. “I’ve never seen anything so atrocious and underhanded. I’m embarrassed to be your coach.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong.” I protest, wiping a bead of sweat from my eyes. “Roderick’s the fool who can’t stay on his feet.”

  My words trigger the desired effect. Carlos spins away from me and lights into Roderick.

  “You’re just as foolish as he is. When he advanced, why didn’t you retreat? And why the hell didn’t you press your advantage when you had the opportunity instead of playing with him?” Carlos flails his arms, the elaborate gestures driving home his point with a flourish.

  Roderick’s lips twitch. Carlos spots the movement and stomps forward until his and Roderick’s faces are just inches apart. Carlos looks more like a sports coach yelling at a referee than an elegant fencing master running one of the best Olympic-level fencing training programs in the world.

  “What, exactly, is so funny?” Carlos spits, fury emanating from his body. His arms continue to wave and point.

  Now Roderick’s shoulders shake. “It’s hard to take anyone who looks like a drunken swan trying to take flight seriously. Just sayin’.”

  If Carlos was mad before, it’s nothing compared to now. His mouth opens and closes several times before he finally manages to force his words out.

  “I don’t need to take this kind of bullshit from two cocky, spoiled, royal brats,” he screams, his words bouncing off the training strip. Everyone who had been practicing or running through exercises stops, pretending they aren’t listening. Everyone’s attention is on us.

  Then again, that’s hardly unusual…

  “There’s not a country in the world that wouldn’t hire me in an instant,” Carlos continues. His wild gaze bounces from Roderick to me and back again. Drops of spittle fly from his mouth, prompting us to step back.

  “Countries where I would have youngsters who appreciate me, who listen to me and follow my instructions. Students who don’t just say they want to win Olympic medals, but who are actually willing to put in the work it requires.”

  Carlos spins on his heel and storms towards his office. His arms continue to jerk as though he’s conducting an imaginary orchestra and we can hear him sputtering as his protestations die in the distance.

  Tim Mandalay, the assistant coach and Carlos’s son, stops in front of us and takes our sabers.

  “You know,” he says in his ever soft voice, “one of these days, the pair of you will push too far and he’ll do exactly as he says. Then where will you be?”

  “Even if he does quit,” I say as I pull my mask off my head and run a hand through my damp hair to smooth it back into place, “we’ll just find another coach.”

  Even as I say the words, a tiny concern bites at the back of my mind. And it’s not just guilt for being such an ass.

  If Carlos does quit, finding another coach of his caliber won’t be easy. The whole reason my parents, the King and Queen of Moravia, brought him into the country to coach me and the rest of my fencing team was because he was the best coach in the sport, and I refused to settle for anything less than the best.

  All of the other top-rated coaches were working with their own national teams and it would have taken more than just coaxing to convince them to leave and come to Moravia.

  Besides, for all that I struggle to resist getting under his skin, the truth is I like Carlos.

  And more importantly, the odds of me capturing a gold medal at the upcoming Summer Games - and redeeming myself for the tiny – but fatal - mistake that had ended in my crashing out of the last Olympics with the bronze while Roderick wore the silver and Moravia, which had been the favored fencing team going into the Games, yielded the top spot on the podium to Monaco.

  Freaking Monaco!

  Even now, the taste on the back of my tongue is bitter. I made a vow to myself back then, and I haven’t forgotten. I refuse to let anything mess up my plans for redeeming myself at the next Olympics.

  I’ll win the gold this time, no matter what it takes.

  “I’ll apologize. Smooth his feathers.”

  I hand Tim my mask and walk towards Carlos’ office. My mind searches for the right combination of words that will prove I’m genuinely sorry for being such a difficult student to teach, which I am-both difficult and genuinely sorry. Sometimes my arrogance gets the best of me. Someday, I’ll curb it, I hope

  But I don’t make it two steps before Roderick’s hand clamps onto my shoulder.

  “Not so fast.” My cousin says, shaking his head. “You don’t want to walk into Carlos’ office and pull your ‘I’m royalty but have decided to lower myself to acquiescing to your wishes bullshit right now’.”

  I glance at Tim.

  “Roddie’s right,” Tim agrees.

  “Dad’s about as mad as he can get right now and I don’t think there’s anything you can say that will make things better at the moment. You might even push him over the edge and he really will decide to quit. You know, he thinks of you guys practically as family. You shouldn’t push him so hard…”

  “You’re right,” I groan.

  Roderick crosses his arms and stares at me with dancing eyes. I recognize that look. He’s getting ready to throw down a gauntlet.

  “I think it’s time we d
iscussed what the hell just happened.”

  “We fenced. I advanced. You fell down like some novice.”

  Roderick’s eyes flash at the word novice. It’s a deliberate slight. Roderick and I started fencing at the exact same age and are evenly matched, though I tend to win more matches than he does.

  “You tripped me. And now, not only is Carlos pissed at both of us, but I’ve got a bruised ass.” He glances at Tim. “You saw what happened. Back me up.”

  Tim holds up his hands, his palms turned towards us. “Hey man, if you think I’m getting involved in this argument, you’re nuts. I know better.”

  “I never touched you,” I remind him. “You fell.”

  “It’s still your fault.”

  This is so typical of Roderick. My cousin is a good guy, but he hates taking the blame for his mistakes. I understand. I’m the same way. You kind of have to be growing up in a family like ours.

  Luckily, I don’t make many mistakes. It's usually a non-issue.

  Except for one time. At the Olympics. The biggest mistake of my life, on the biggest stage, and worse - it’s one that I can only blame on myself.

  I don’t know if Roderick reads my thoughts on my face, or if he simply knows me so well that he’s able to anticipate them.

  All I know for sure is that his next words confirm that he’s thinking about the previous Summer Games – and specifically, how I behaved during them.

  He crosses his arms and stares at me. I can practically see the wheels turning in his head. I don’t know exactly what he’s thinking – but I’ve got a feeling it’s nothing good. For me, that is.

  “Tim,” he finally says, “your dad’s about as mad at us as he’s ever been, wouldn’t you say?”

  Our long-suffering assistant coach – and friend – blows out a heavy sigh. He’s never been crazy about getting dragged into Roderick’s and my disputes. “Yes.”

  “And this most recent blow-up, it’s about more than just today’s incident, wouldn’t you say?”

  I can tell Tim is starting to follow Roderick’s train of thought. His eyes narrow as he tries to anticipate what’s coming next.