by S. A. Gordon
“What?”
“No, it’s too rude.”
“Try me.” She grinned too.
“Kings just wave their dicks around,” he said, then he gestured to his beer. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s the beer talking.”
“I’m not that delicate,” Caitlin said, downing the rest of her whisky. “See?”
David’s expression changed as he watched her put her glass back on the bar. “I think you are,” he said finally. “You’re delicate and strong too.” His gaze shifted down. “It’s alluring.”
Then he looked at her again and Caitlin thought she might have stopped breathing.
“Let’s order,” he said, nodding to his friend behind the bar as Caitlin inhaled at last.
CHAPTER NINE
As the plane taxied toward the terminal David looked at his fingernails—chewed down to the quick, and he hadn’t even realized he’d been doing it. He glanced over at his protection officers, who’d probably got more of a kick out of traveling in business class than he had. If this had been a private trip, David would have been paying for it and they all would have been in coach—his wealth not being an infinite resource, despite what the tabloids said. But it wasn’t a private trip—he had to come home, and therefore the British taxpayer was shouldering the cost of transporting the second in line to the throne and his PPOs.
The arrangement was that he’d pay for half of his own protection costs while he was in the USA, and he hadn’t minded that at all. There was no option for him to go without the boys, and he actually didn’t want to—he knew that their very presence helped keep the paparazzi at bay, not to mention the odd intense member of the public. They weren’t bodyguards so much as exactly what their title implied: protectors. And while David was no weakling, he knew that he could not, on his own, fend off a pack of photographers or a terrorist or a mother who was determined to introduce her daughter to him. Plus, he liked the gents. They’d been with him since he was a child; they hadn’t seemed much older than him then and that had been by design—a decision had been made that, for stability, he should have the same PPOs for as much of his life as possible. They’d been in their twenties then; they were around forty now. They were his mates, really. Stan and Mick. Outside of his sisters, no one knew him better—including his father. Sometimes the idea of that made him feel strange, if not sad. But, then, his whole life was strange. He often had the feeling of being an ordinary man living an extraordinary life, but then he wondered how he could ever think of himself as ordinary. If he was honest with himself, he didn’t know what ordinary was.
He also hadn’t minded paying for Stan and Mick to be with him on his nights out in Manhattan and his jaunts to the Hamptons and the Caribbean. When his mother died she had left him and his sisters the entirety of her substantial inherited personal wealth, figuring—correctly—that her husband wouldn’t need it. It had made David, Alix and Margaret independently wealthy and, therefore, more powerful: they could, in theory, walk away from the royal family at any time and not suffer any change in lifestyle. If anything, their lives would improve, as they could leave public duties behind, along with the public themselves and their interest in them all. They could each buy an island somewhere and never be heard of again; they could pursue a career in the arts or business or … nothing at all. David was simultaneously amused and mystified by how the behavior of courtiers, the government and his own father had changed once they’d all realized that. Alix’s whims and peccadilloes were accommodated to an almost ludicrous degree, and all because they were worried that she’d decide she didn’t need the job after all.
Ultimately, it was only duty that kept any of them there. They had all seen their cousin in Denmark decide that he didn’t want to be King and then abdicate his place in the line of succession; he had last been seen selling off some family jewels to pay for his new home and wife in Florida. So they knew that it was practically possible to leave. But what all of those worrywarts didn’t realize was that none of them wanted to leave. Alix was occasionally outrageous because she knew she could be; David also knew that she would settle down when it was required. And his duty was, he felt, to her, first and foremost. Once she became monarch, she would need him far more than she did now. Even if she married, her husband—regardless of his background—would never be able to understand her as David did.
David had decided, quite early in his youth, that he would always stand by Alix. Service to her would be, by extension, service to his country. He loved them both, fiercely, and the more Alix needed him, the more he loved her. Serving her would also be the best way he could honor his mother’s memory. Toward the end of her life, she had asked him to protect his sisters—from others in the family, from others in the court, from people who wanted more from them than they should have to give.
“People will listen to you,” she had told him, her electric blue eyes piercing him. “You are stronger than you realize. And no matter how strong Alix is, she can’t do it alone. No one can.”
“Papa will have to,” he had said, realizing that he was conceding, for the first time, that his mother would die.
She had coughed then, and shaken her head. “Papa will have Alix. She will have a lot of work to do once I …” She had turned her head away from him then, and he looked at the patches on her head where her blond hair had fallen out during treatment.
“David,” she had said, her voice suddenly steely. “Don’t let this family fall apart. I’ve worked too hard to bring you up so that you have some sense of yourselves, of the world—not just of the family.” She coughed again. “Do you understand?”
He had nodded his head and squeezed her hands tighter. “I won’t let you down,” he’d said.
Now, as the plane pulled up to the gate, David looked at his fingernails again and realized that he was not letting her down. He was home, where he was needed. When the call had come late last night after he’d returned from the bar, he hadn’t wasted a minute in organizing this flight home. His father was in hospital; both he and his sister needed him now. So did Margaret—dear little Margarita, just wanting to make everyone happy. And their country needed him. They all needed him to be the prince, not just David. Not even David. Caitlin and the promise that their lingering goodbye kiss had contained would just have to wait.
But he couldn’t help thinking about it. About the way she had looked at him—hoping but not hopeful—as he’d stood with her on the sidewalk outside the bar, insisting on seeing her home.
“I’ll be all right,” she had said.
“But I’m not sure I will be,” he’d replied, looking back at her with equal amounts of hopefulness.
She’d smiled, a little, and looked away from him. He’d taken his hand to her cheek and caressed it lightly. She’d shivered. And he had known, then, that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. But there was only so much he could do. The circumstances—of his life, not hers—demanded that he be circumspect. But he’d wanted to kiss her. So he had.
Standing on that sidewalk, he had let his hand slide down to cup her chin. She had lifted it, gazing at him. As their lips met they held each other’s gaze, but as he felt her lips welcoming him, enveloping him, his eyes had closed and he had lost himself in her kiss. He had forgotten who he was for those moments—those minutes that felt like hours. Then he’d heard one of his PPOs clearing his throat and David had remembered where he was. Who he was. He was a paparazzi target standing on a street, kissing a beautiful young woman.
So the kiss had ended. He had put Caitlin into a cab. And he had gone home alone to dream of her.
*
“Rita, stop sniveling,” David said playfully as his youngest sister clung to him, pressing her dripping nose into his arm.
“Sorry,” she said, sniffing loudly, “I can’t help it.”
“Are you sniveling because Papa has had a stroke, or because you’re happy to see me?”
Margaret looked up at him. “Can’t it be both?”
D
avid ruffled her hair. “Oh, poppet. It’s confusing in there, isn’t it?”
“Only when you’re away,” she said, her voice catching. “I wish you wouldn’t go away.”
“I’m back now,” he said, hugging her tightly. “And we need to get to the hospital. Where’s Alix?”
“She’s at the Palace getting some kind of briefing.”
David frowned and pulled back. “Isn’t Papa conscious?”
Margaret took a breath. “He is, but … David, he’s not himself.”
Looking at her steadily, he said, “What do you mean?”
“He’s lost … I think the doctors said cognitive function.” Her face crumpled. “His memory isn’t very good, Day. And there’s a chance they’re going to put him into an induced coma because they’re not sure how much other damage has been done.”
Neither Margaret nor Alix had called him “Day” since their mother had died. It was Margaret’s childhood nickname for him, from a time when she couldn’t pronounce both syllables in “David.” Later she had said it suited him because he made the sun come out. He’d always found that, and her, a little too sentimental when they were teenagers and she had stuck closely to him at functions when he’d really wanted to chat up any woman he could find within twenty years of his own age. Now, hearing his old nickname made tears spring to his eyes.
He hugged her again and kissed the top of her head, realizing that she’d had her hair streaked blond—knowing that she wouldn’t mind that he hadn’t noticed before. She’d always let him get away with being slack with details. He’d never appreciated before now that she’d been keeping all the details for the whole family.
“Margarita, I love you.” He kissed the top of her head again. “And we’ll get through this, whatever happens.”
“You can’t go away,” she murmured into his neck.
“I’m not planning to,” he said, but he couldn’t help thinking of the hotel room that he’d left disorganized—which he knew his father’s office would take care of—and the young woman he’d left suspended in that place between acknowledging an attraction and not following it through. He’d have to contact Caitlin, but he couldn’t right now. Right now he had to look after his little sister and then get to his big sister and find out what she needed.
As David escorted Margaret to the door, he felt a strange sensation welling in his chest. He’d last felt it as a boy—back in a time when he was starting to realize what his destiny was. The feeling was duty. And simultaneously he was pleased to find that it still lurked within him and regretful that it perhaps signaled the end of the part of his life that had been lived in relative freedom. If his father was really that sick, then his sister was effectively already the monarch—and that made him her chief counsel and supporter. It was a role they’d never spoken about him taking, but the understanding had always been there. Margaret would help too, of course, but both he and Alix knew that he would fill that role for her. Margaret needed to live whatever life she wanted to. David had always known that his would involve responsibility.
He had to get to Alix—he felt the urgency now. It was more important than anything that he see her. Their country needed her and she needed him. This, he knew, was what he had been born to do.
*
“David!” Alix cried as she opened the door of her bedroom to her brother, who stood looking between her and Jack, her personal protection officer, with a confused expression. David noticed that the other man looked sheepish—no, more than sheepish. Guilty. As he should be: Alix’s bedroom door had been closed and Jack had been behind it. No matter how close David was to Mick and Stan, they’d never been behind his closed bedroom door.
“Mr Knight,” David said, extending his hand to Jack, who grasped it in return. “A surprise to find you here.”
“Your Royal Highness,” Jack replied, bowing his head.
“Alix,” David said, moving to embrace his sister.
The Princess Royal squeezed her eyes shut as her brother seemed to engulf her in his arms, then stifled a sob as David kept hugging her.
“Darling,” David said as he ended their embrace, kissing her once on each cheek. “How are you?”
“It doesn’t matter about me,” she said, her voice strangled. “It matters about Papa.”
David nodded. “Yes, it does. But it matters about you, too, as I think you know.”
He turned around and looked at Jack, who was now standing closer to the door.
“Should Mr Knight be here?” he said as he turned back to Alix.
“God, David, do you need to be so imperious?” she snapped. “His name is Jack and he’s hardly the help.”
David merely raised his eyebrows.
“I should go, sir, yes,” Jack said. “Your Royal Highnesses.” He bowed his head and left the room, softly closing the door behind him.
“Are you sleeping with him?” David said after several seconds had passed.
“David! How could you?” Alex sniffled and walked to a side table that held a box of tissues.
“How could I? Darling, how could you?”
“You …” She blew her nose. “You shag models.”
“I don’t understand the comparison,” he said, frowning. “Apart from which, you’ve just tacitly admitted that you are, in fact, sleeping with your protection officer.”
Alix looked at him fiercely. “How can you judge me for sleeping with a policeman when you have sex with professional clothes hangers?”
“Who said I was judging you?” David kept his voice even. “I’m merely trying to point out that it’s unwise. For him. If you’re found out, you’ll get to keep your job, princess—but he won’t get to keep his.” He sighed and crossed his arms. “That’s why I only have sex with people who don’t have to worry about losing their jobs. Plus, I’ve never once been assigned a female protection officer.”
Alix sniffed. “That’s because Papa knew you’d try to have sex with them.” She smiled weakly. “In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure you wouldn’t try it with the men.”
“Oh, really?” David chuckled. “Well, some of them have been very attractive. But Mick and Stan only have eyes for each other, I think you’ll find.”
“Oooh! Gossip!” Alix brightened. “Is that true?”
“Indeed. It’s why they’re so easy to travel with—neither one of them complains about being so far from home. Plus, they look out for each other.” He shrugged. “It’s kind of a Spartan Army thing, I guess.”
“That’s so sweet,” Alix said, pouting.
David looked at her with fondness. “You’re such a romantic.” Then he glowered. “So I can understand the appeal of Jack for you. But it’s very risky, darling. And you know I only want what’s best for you.”
“That’s not true,” Alix said sharply.
“What do you mean?”
“If you wanted what’s best for me you’d never leave this country.”
David’s face softened and he took her hand. “You sound like Margarita.”
“Yes, well, we are forced to spend so much time together—as you’re not around—that we are growing alike. This, too, is your fault.” She stood suddenly and wiped her eyes.
“Have you seen Papa yet?” she said.
“No. I wanted to see you first.”
Alix nodded, then held out her hand. “Help me get ready? Then we’ll go. A late-night visit should mean no cameras.”
David kissed the back of her hand. “You are my liege, Majesty.”
Alix looked startled. “Don’t say that. It’s bad luck.”
With that, David stood. “Perhaps. But it will be true one day.”
CHAPTER TEN
Caitlin glanced at her phone for what was definitely the twentieth time that morning. And most likely the two-hundredth time since she had seen David on Monday night. Now it was Wednesday morning. As he’d kissed her goodnight he had looked her in the eye—and looked like he had really meant it when he’d said, “You will see me very soon, I p
romise.” Then he’d kissed her again and said, “I’ll call you.”
She resisted every single impulse to call him; she had been resisting them for over a day now—because she knew that if he said he’d call her, she should let him. All the women’s magazines and the novels and the rom-coms and her friends would say so. Wouldn’t they? Or was that the old way of doing things? What was the deal now? This year? This month? This day? She wished she could ask someone—Lisa, especially—but she didn’t want to tell anyone about David. Not even Lisa. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her. She just didn’t want to share it with anyone else yet. Whatever it was. Probably nothing, as it turned out. Nothing at all now that she hadn’t heard from him.
Just stop it. It’s only been one day, said the rational part of her brain.
A bit more than a day, said the even more rational part of her brain—the part that realistically assessed her chances with him and found them wanting. You’re not his type, this part of her brain said. You’re not a model. You’re not glamorous. And you don’t fit into his world.
That was the thing, though—she had never fit into anyone else’s world, and consequently she fit into everyone’s. She had always been able to adapt to her circumstances—to perceive what was required and act accordingly—because she had no particular attachment to a certain way of being. It wasn’t that she was malleable—more that she was curious. And she’d grown up not fitting in. At school she’d been the nerdy academic one when everyone around her had either not cared about school or pretended not to care about school—whichever, the effect was the same. And most of the school had played sports or been obsessed with the high school football team. Or they’d surfed. Oh, how they’d surfed. The joke was that if the surf was good at lunchtime, half the school wouldn’t be seen again until the next day. Except it wasn’t a joke. It had meant, though, that Caitlin received quite a bit more of the teachers’ attention in the afternoons, and she’d made the most of it. Social networks told her what most of her classmates were doing now: still surfing, and not much else. She knew that living on the east coast, in New York City, far from a good break, was something most of them could never understand, let alone contemplate. So she was safe here. She wouldn’t bump into them. There would be no mutual friends.
