Blood Royal

by Harold Robbins

  “I don’t know—”

  “Yes, you do, I hear it in your voice. The prince has powerful friends who could set the whole thing up and make sure the local authorities don’t look too closely into the shooting. The gun she shoots him with is loaded with a blank instead of a real bullet. One of his close friends is his doctor, he was there and was the person who had the prince removed to inside the palace. They would have arranged at an earlier time for Howler to create a look-alike from spare body parts. Hell, with ears like the Prince of Wales had, it wouldn’t be hard to fool a casual onlooker. And there wouldn’t be that many casual onlookers because you’re talking about a man and his close intimates who have enormous power and influence. They can dictate exactly who gets to see the body, even during a police investigation.

  “The one flaw was Howler. They needed him, but he was uncontrollable. The Royal Protection officers guarding him may be in on the plot, or the government has stumbled on to it and is working to cover it up, to do damage control.”

  “My God, this is better than my alien abduction story.”

  “Don’t you dare try to get it printed—I’ll hound you to the grave if you do. You know, I really do like her. I’m just beginning to realize how much I have in common with her. Neither of us cared for school or did well at it, we’re both essentially high school dropouts whose first job was babysitting. We came out of dysfunctional families, ruled by dominant fathers. But in our own ways, we both became a success. She had little education, but she had love for people, especially for the underdog, and the whole world recognized it. And hell, she wasn’t that overboard in the romance department. There aren’t many women on this planet who haven’t dreamt of Prince Charming sweeping them off their feet and riding off into the sunset.

  “I’ve never met the prince, but I’ve come to have a lot of empathy for him even if he was born in a palace. In a strange way, she was right when she said, I was lucky to have been born poor. But she needed to add a caveat—I was lucky to have been born poor and had the good fortune to have wanted to better myself and the luck and drive to make it. They never had a chance. I started at the bottom and reached for the sky, they started at the top and had nowhere to go but down. Even my marriage was different than hers. I got into a bad marriage, but at least I never fooled myself into thinking that it was a fairy tale.”

  “That’s the mistake, isn’t it? Fairy tales usually are horror stories.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you ever read Cinderella? Not the modern children’s-book version or the Hollywood version, but the original tale?”

  “I don’t know, I read whatever small children read, or maybe it was a Walt Disney movie I remember.”

  “Then you’re in for a surprise if you read the original fairy tale, because it’s a real horror story. You know the business about Cinderella leaving her glass slipper at the ball and the prince coming to her house to see if it fits any of the girls? Well, the two stepsisters were members of a dysfunctional family—they had a mother that belonged with Howler, locked up in a ward for the criminally insane.

  “When the prince gave the first stepsister the slipper to try on, the mother took her into another room. The girl’s foot was too long, so they cut off the girl’s big toe so her foot would slip into it. Seeing the girl’s foot in the shoe, the prince thought she was the girl he’d danced with at the ball. But as he rode away with her on his horse, he saw blood dripping from the shoe and caught on to the fact her toe had been hacked off.”

  “My God, that’s horrible.”

  “Gets worse. He brings that sister back to the house and gives the slipper for the other stepsister to try on. The mother takes her into the other room to fit it and it turns out that she couldn’t get her heel into it.”

  “You’re not going to tell me…”

  “Right! She cut off the girl’s heel. Then the same thing happens, the prince takes her away and discovers the bleeding foot.”

  “What happens next?”

  “Cinderella lives happily ever after, but her two sisters didn’t.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “If I tell you, you’ll never believe in another fairy tale. I can tell you this—it’s worse than cutting off a toe.”

  “Is there a moral to all this? Or did you just tell it to get me sick?”

  “The moral, luv, is that there are no fairy tales, but life doesn’t have to be a horror story. They made their lives into a mess themselves. The prince and the princess were mere mortals, just like the rest of us. They didn’t want to show it, because when they did, they would disappoint us. We want them to be special, but they put their pants on one leg at a time like the rest of us. They should have just been honest with each other and the world, done their thing, and told the rest of the world to screw off.”

  Marlowe kissed him long and hard. “Dutton, when it comes to philosophy about the mysteries of life, I think you should stick to alien abduction theories.”

  When the wedding with the King’s son was to be celebrated, the two false sisters came and wanted to get into favor with Cinderella and share her good fortune.

  When the betrothed couple went to church, the elder was at the right side and the younger at the left, and the pigeons pecked out one eye from each of them.

  Afterwards as they came back, the elder was at the left, and the younger at the right, and then the pigeons pecked out the other eye from each.

  And thus, for their wickedness and falsehood, they were punished with blindness all their days.

  —CINDERELLA

  63

  Rome

  Two young women, sales clerks in a department store in the Eternal City, huddled together near a cash register and whispered to each other.

  “What a strange man that foreigner is over there at the sock rack.”

  “What’s so strange about him?”

  “He’s buying a pair of socks, but he’s taking forever to do it. He doesn’t know his size or that one size fits most men, can’t make up his mind about the colors. He asked me whether he was supposed to coordinate the color of socks with his shoes or with his clothes. All this for buying a pair of socks. I wanted to ask him, is your mama still dressing you?”

  “He is a little odd. He’s looking at the price tag like he’s trying to figure out what it means. Did you notice his ears, too?”

  “Aren’t they strange? Both are bandaged, like he’s just been operated on.”

  She felt Aladár’s fingers undoing her gown, and as it fell to the floor he lifted her in his arms.

  With his mouth holding her captive, he carried her away into a glorious secret kingdom of their own where there was no pride … only a fiery, uncontrolled, ecstatic love.

  —BARBARA CARTLAND, THE PROUD PRINCESS

  A preview of

  THE

  DEVIL TO PAY

  by HAROLD ROBBINS

  AND JUNIUS PODRUG

  Now available

  From Tom Doherty Associates

  1

  Decaf Latte with Low-Fat Milk and Artificial Sweetener

  “I’ve inherited what?”

  I stared in disbelief at the man who had just told me I had come into an inheritance. Behind me, my coffee and muffin store—Café de Oro, an Urban Coffee Plantation—was in ashes … literally.

  The man was waiting as I staggered out of the rubble, choking from smoke and ash. An explosion had destroyed not only my business but my financial vision for the future. Worse than the loss of my shop and the damage to adjoining buildings, one of my employees was dead. I hardly knew the victim, a Chinese emigrant named Johnny Woo who had worked for me for a couple weeks. Not a very agreeable type, but I’m sure someone somewhere loved him.

  A leaky gas line was the probable cause, a fireman told me. I had gone into the smothering rubble against the shouts of firemen to find the cash box that held my weekend receipts and a vitally important document. I came out empty-handed except for a coating of gray-black a
sh, smoke in my eyes and lungs, and a charcoal face streaked with tears that erupted when I found out my business was gone and an employee dead.

  As I came half-blind and stunned out of the debris, this suit with a Gucci briefcase and well-fed face was waiting to tell me I came into an inheritance. A bad joke on a day my dream went up in smoke and someone died.

  “Screw off,” I said. That wasn’t the way I usually talked, although by today’s standards of thirty-one-year-old women it was pretty mild. But with my business trashed, an employee dead, and the owners of adjoining businesses no doubt already calling their attorneys to crank out lawsuits, I was in no mood for some jerk to make a joke.

  Fighting back tears, too devastated to pounce on him and his expensive gray suit with whatever force 125 pounds of angry female could muster, I brushed by him to find a taxi to get away from the smothering ruin.

  He spoke to my fleeing back. “I’m with the law firm of Kimball, Walters and Goldman. You’re walking away from a substantial inheritance.”

  “He looks like a real lawyer to me,” a fireman said. “I know; my wife’s hauled me into court plenty of times.”

  I turned and sized up the man. The fireman was right—he had the smug look of someone who wins no matter what side loses. A business lawyer, not a clever street lawyer like Johnnie Cochran or a charismatic showman like Gerry Spence, but the type who had an office in an ivory tower, billed for every breath he took, and was a master at those quiddities, quillets, and tricks Hamlet complained about.

  Tasseled cordovan loafers were the clincher. A female lawyer friend told me that along with their thousand-dollar Armani suits, male business lawyers wore tasseled loafers while criminal lawyers preferred cowboy boots.

  He approached me, a little hesitant. My knees were wobbly, my heart pounding, I needed a bath, a good cry, and a plane ticket that would take me far away from the mess my life had suddenly become. From his point of view, I suppose I looked like a slightly scorched maniac.

  “Miss Novak, we represent the Estate of Carlos Castillo. Mr. Castillo owned a coffee plantation.”

  “My shop—”

  “Yes, you called your little coffee drink store a coffee plantation. But Mr. Castillo’s business was an actual plantation.”

  “You mean a place with coffee plants—”

  “I believe coffee grows on trees.”

  “Is this a joke?”

  “I’ve tried to explain to you that—”

  “Just tell me, is this a joke?”

  “This is not a joke. Mr. Castillo passed away and left you his plantation.”

  “Left … me … his … plantation.” I let the words swish around my brain, trying to make sense of them. I didn’t know a Carlos Castillo. Or anyone who owned a coffee plantation. But I was desperate enough to clutch at what appeared to be a miracle. Or a mistake.

  “Are you sure you have the right person? My name is Nash Novak, but I may not be the only Nash Novak in the world.”

  “I would hope that you are the only Nash Novak who owns a coffee store in Seattle named Café de Oro.” He shook his head. “It’s not a mistake; the only address we were given for you was your store.” He glanced at the mess. “Former store.”

  “All right, tell me exactly what’s going on; give me the bottom line.”

  He took a step closer but stayed out of arm’s reach. “You have inherited a coffee plantation. I can understand why the news is such a surprise. We were advised that you had never met Mr. Castillo, your benefactor. My impression is that he was someone who knew of you and decided to benefit you.”

  “I inherited a coffee plantation. From a stranger.” I could repeat the information, but my brain was having a difficult time processing it.

  My store was in Pike Place Market, a cluster of quaint shops between First Avenue and the waterfront, overlooking Puget Sound. I stared out at the Sound, trying to get my feet under my brain. It was a gloom-and-doom morning; a haze of fog hadn’t burned off the Sound yet. Neither had the fuddle in my mind.

  I tried to deal with it logically: Someone—a stranger—died and left me a coffee plantation. A real coffee plantation, not just a name like I used on my shop. The “coffee plantation” extension of my store’s name came from the interior decorations of green plastic plants and coffee bean sacks.

  I struggled with the man’s name—Carlos Castillo. It didn’t connect. The name conjured up nothing except for the fact it sounded Spanish or Portuguese. It wasn’t possible a complete stranger would leave me an inheritance.

  But that was exactly what this lawyer with tasseled shoes was telling me.

  “This place … this plantation … what’s it worth?”

  “We haven’t been given a valuation, but one can imagine that an actual coffee plantation would be worth a significant amount of money. Millions, for all we know.”

  I nearly swooned. I know, modern women don’t swoon, but having your dreams and livelihood go up in smoke can ruin your whole day and send you back to basics. I gasped for air.

  “Are you all right?”

  I shook my head. “It’s been a bad morning, the worst in my life. Tell me about the snake.”

  “The snake?”

  “There’s always a snake in paradise, a catch, someone or something that’s going to throw cold water on winning the lottery, waiting for me to scratch the last number just to find out it’s a loser.”

  “I honestly don’t know that much about the situation. Like you, I’ve never met Mr. Castillo. We were hired through a law firm in Miami simply to notify you of the inheritance.”

  “Where’s this plantation?”

  “Colombia.”

  “Colombia? The country in South America?”

  He smirked. “The last time I looked at a globe it was a country in South America. Just below Panama, I believe.”

  “Isn’t that the place where there’s so much violence? Civil war, murder, kidnappings, the government always on the verge of being overwhelmed by drug lords and commie guerrillas?”

  “I believe there is a history of trouble in Colombia.”

  “How do I get my money?”

  “Your money?”

  “From my inheritance. Is this place going to be sold—”

  “I really know little about the situation. The firm in Miami instructed us to give you the particulars on the lawyer in Colombia who handles the estate.” He raised his eyebrows. “I understand the plantation is in the jungles of Colombia. My impression from the Miami firm is that they also know little about the situation. It appears that not all the information coming out of the country can be relied upon. They believe that you will have to go to Colombia to get the details and claim your inheritance.”

  I nodded, as if I was getting the big picture. “Okay, let me get this straight. You’re saying that a stranger has left me a coffee plantation thousands of miles from here, and in order to claim it, I have to go to one of the most dangerous places in the world?”

  He cleared his throat. “Naturally, the firm of Kimball, Walters and Goldman will expect a complete waiver, holding us harmless for any prospective detriment that might occur in claiming this inheritance.”

  “What makes you think I’d go to—”

  “Nash! You bitch! I’m going to sue your ass!”

  Vic Ferrara, the owner of the fish shop next to my coffee store, shouted and shook his fist at me. He was being restrained by two firemen. The smell of burnt cod was in the air.

  The lawyer cleared his throat again as he handed me a manila envelope. “This is the contact information for the Colombian lawyer. I suppose that once you get this, uh, fire matter cleared up with your insurance company, you can decide what you want to do about your inheritance.”

  “Insurance company?” I began laughing, not with humor but the sort of hysterical laugh I’d give if my doctor told me that he had amputated the wrong leg.

  That vitally important document in the cash box I couldn’t find in the rubble was the overdue payme
nt on my insurance policy.

  FORGE BOOKS

  BY HAROLD ROBBINS

  Blood Royal (with Junius Podrug)

  The Betrayers (with Junius Podrug)

  Heat of Passion

  Never Enough

  Never Leave Me

  The Predators

  The Secret

  Sin City

  PRAISE FOR HAROLD ROBBINS

  “Robbins’s dialogue is moving.… His people have the warmth of life.”

  —The New York Times

  “Robbins has the ability to hold his readers absorbed.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “His characters are compelling, his dialogue is dramatic, and his style is simple and straightforward.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “International settings … steamy sex scenes.”

  —Romantic Times BookReviews on The Betrayers

  “Robbins’s literary legacy remains very much alive, and his thousands of fans should experience a pleasant sense of déjà vu as they race through this latest installment.”

  —Publishers Weekly on Heat of Passion

  “Robbins’s sixth posthumous novel finds new cowriter Podrug outwriting the hormonal ghost.… Podrug’s strong, crisp style excels.”

  —Kirkus Reviews on The Betrayers

  “Robbins’s fans will not be disappointed in this latest book.”

  —Booklist on The Betrayers

  “Splendid pulp … Stunningly well-written.”