This was something else entirely. Not only did the crystal chandeliers and marble floors of La Rocca add a level of glitz that was nowhere to be found in Uganda’s government buildings, San Rimini’s credential presentation ceremony was far more formal. It involved a slew of VIPs and their spouses in addition to the world-famous monarch.
“We’re pleased to have you at the palace, Madam Ambassador. I’m certain our countries will continue our deep friendship on your watch.” His eyes shone with sincerity, but she still wondered how much of the smile was for her and how much was out of habit, given the mass of press photographers who awaited them. But as he gave her hand the slightest squeeze, she found herself unable to tear her eyes away from his clear blue ones.
Eduardo diTalora might be a grandfather, but the man carried himself as if he were much younger. Despite having major heart surgery a few years earlier, he was every bit as fit and handsome as when she’d watched his wedding on television. Her stomach did a slow flip, the same way it had when she’d been a young teenager in braces.
Or maybe not the same. As he released her hand, she noted the textures the press could never properly capture: the fine cut of his tuxedo, the smile lines that extended from the outer corners of his eyes, and the subtle shadings of his salt-and-pepper hair. And then there was the charisma. He radiated it.
The cacophony of voices coming from the ballroom quieted in anticipation of their entrance. Claire inhaled and reminded herself that King Eduardo was a man who happened to represent a country. Not a superhero, not an icon.
He gestured toward the ballroom. “Shall we?”
Claire walked alongside him, their footsteps against the marble floor the only sound in the wide hall. The king’s guard followed several paces behind them. When they reached the ballroom doors, a tuxedoed man standing just inside the room announced, “His Highness, King Eduardo of San Rimini, and the Honorable Claire Peyton, Ambassador of the United States.”
Inside the ballroom, all stood. There was a momentary pause, then to one side of the ballroom, a group of musicians from the Royal Orchestra began to play “Guardian of the Adriatic.” She’d listened to it earlier that day to familiarize herself with the tune. Its lyrics spoke to the beauty of San Rimini and the strength of its people, united in purpose under a vigilant monarch.
“It’s a beautiful melody,” Claire whispered as they waited for the note that would signal the time for them to walk.
“I’ve always thought so,” he replied. “Most of Europe copied ‘God Save the Queen,’ which itself was copied from the French. Our composers went their own way.”
If she thought the king had charisma while they stood in the hallway, it doubled in its intensity as the music swelled and they entered the room. And she wasn’t the only one to notice. Every eye locked on the man beside her.
Eduardo cast a welcoming smile to his guests and instantly the mood became more festive, despite the formality of the moment. Claire marveled at his talent for making each of the two hundred guests feel as if he’d meant the smile specifically for them. Clearly, he’d had a lifetime of practice making a grand entrance.
“The orchestra will transition into something American and patriotic to welcome you,” he said, leaning close to her and speaking quietly as they moved through the room. “I, for one, will be grateful. As beautiful as our anthem may be, I hear it often enough to be tired of it.”
“I somehow doubt that,” she replied. “‘Hail to the Chief’ never seems to get old to American presidents or military bands.”
“Your President serves eight years at the most. That’s just enough time for the song to run its course in their heads. On the other hand, I imagine that at some point every British monarch has thought, ‘please stop asking God to save me. Your request has been heard by now.’”
“But your anthem is the perfect balance of catchy and stately. And so very San Riminian.”
“That it is.”
Claire moved slowly, smiling at the guests as she and the king circled toward the dais. She recognized several as embassy employees. Others were members of key government departments or held seats in San Rimini’s parliament. She caught sight of Karen, who gave her a discreet nod of approval that put her at ease. She was grateful to have such a reliable and capable woman on her team. As the evening wore on, Karen would move through the room, picking out the individuals Claire needed to make a point of greeting. She’d introduce herself, familiarize herself with their issues, and ensure various embassy departments were notified of anyone who wished to speak at greater length about American business interests, programs, or government policies.
It was a celebratory evening, but a working one.
Within a few minutes, everyone was seated and enjoying a selection of local specialties. Prince Antony turned out to have a dry sense of humor, which kept Claire entertained as they ate. When dinner was nearly finished, the crown prince stood to quiet the room and thank everyone for sharing in the evening’s events, then the ceremony began. Claire presented her letter of credence from the President, then King Eduardo spoke briefly about his pleasure at meeting a new ambassador before stating that he anticipated building upon U.S.-San Riminian relations.
Then it was Claire's turn. She thanked the guests for offering her a warm welcome to San Rimini, noting that the country would make a wonderful home and that she looked forward to learning all she could about its residents and their traditions. But as her eyes scanned the speech she’d written earlier that week and she said all the usual niceties about her desire to improve trade relations, address environmental concerns, and boost tourism between their two nations, her gaze lit on one word: education. That was all she’d written, a single word. Suddenly, that single word didn’t feel sufficient.
She looked up from the lectern, taking in the faces of the crowd. “Finally, as many of you know, I’ve come here after spending two years at the American embassy in Cairo, followed by five years working in Kampala, Uganda.” A few murmurs floated through the room, and she added, "Yes, this is quite a change. There are many in this world who face poverty that can be difficult for us to imagine while dining in this beautiful building or while enjoying our daily lives with the benefits of a stable government, one that you have worked for centuries to create and preserve here in San Rimini."
She allowed her gaze to encompass several members of parliament, then turned to look at King Eduardo. His eyes held an unexpected challenge and she had to force herself not to look away. What was it about this man? His title? His reputation? Claire had never in her life been intimidated by anyone. Her mother had been raised in a household with spotty electricity, in an area where the chance to receive a full education was beyond the reach of many families, yet her mother had succeeded in life, and she’d told her children from the day they were born to take advantage of every opportunity presented to them, and to fight hard to pursue their dreams.
Well, this was Claire’s dream.
In a level voice, she said, “Education is the key to all that San Rimini is today. King Eduardo has been a great supporter of equal access to education, as were his predecessors. That support has translated into a high standard of living for all San Riminians.”
She shifted her focus to the larger audience. “Your elected officials have also been enthusiastic supporters of your educational system. You have solid programs that begin with the youngest students, while the University of San Rimini is known around the world for its cutting-edge research and scholarly exploration. The opportunities it offers are a source of pride for many of your citizens. It is my hope that the United States can work hand in hand with San Rimini to make similar opportunities available to those who aren’t as fortunate.”
Claire paused. She itched to say more, even knowing it was a knee-jerk reaction to Sergio Ribisi telling her in no uncertain terms not to push the issue. But as she’d spoken, she’d caught a vibe from the king that made her realize she’d have better luck if she stopped now, having said jus
t enough to make her point, but without saying so much that the audience would suspect there’d already been friction between their monarch and the new American ambassador.
She glanced at her notes, found her closing paragraph on the benefits of international friendship and cooperation, and finished with it. She returned to her seat to a good deal of applause, including King Eduardo’s. However, she could tell from his body language that she’d been right to take her shot at the lectern, because she wouldn’t get another.
And with any luck, tonight’s shot wouldn’t ricochet.
Sergio Ribisi's jaw twitched as he leaned toward Eduardo and pitched his voice so others couldn’t hear. “I spoke with Ambassador Peyton before dinner, Your Highness. I apparently failed to make my point. Ambassador Cartwright would have understood. Next time, I’ll be blunt.”
King Eduardo shook his head. “It’s not a concern, Sergio. The ambassador’s speech was prepared. She may not have been comfortable going off script at the last moment. No harm done.”
He glanced across the room to where Claire Peyton spoke with a group that included his daughter Isabella and his son Marco, as well as several members of parliament and an American telecommunications executive. She appeared confident, but at ease. He had to admire her for sticking to her convictions, even if she wouldn’t get her way in the long run.
While Eduardo had liked Ambassador Cartwright personally, the man hadn’t wanted to make waves as he neared retirement, so his work had centered on uncontroversial issues. He’d relished his posh station and didn't want to risk losing it or being reassigned to a country without a beautiful, historical ambassador’s home like that provided in San Rimini, where he had easy access to theaters, fine dining, and an active social scene.
Somewhere like Uganda.
“The orchestra is preparing to play,” Sergio continued. “I’d like to follow up on something with the transportation minister before the dancing begins and it becomes difficult to speak.”
Eduardo nodded. “I know you’ll brief everyone tomorrow on how the development meeting went, but what was the overall result?”
“We have a challenge ahead of us, but I’m optimistic.”
That was music to Eduardo’s ears. Sergio didn’t express optimism unless it was warranted. “Best of luck with the transportation minister, then.”
Sergio excused himself and Eduardo took the opportunity to speak with a member of parliament he’d known for nearly twenty years. Behind the parliamentarian, one of the Royal Orchestra members signaled Prince Antony that they were ready to begin. Eduardo was grateful that Antony and Jennifer would lead the guests on the dance floor. In recent years, Eduardo did his best to avoid the dancing that was expected at so many formal events. As a widower, and as king of his country, he had to be careful about who he chose as a partner on such occasions. Someone single and high on the social ladder prompted tabloid talk that they were romantic partners. If the woman had even a hint of scandal in her past, that hit the tabloids too, with subtle digs about his judgment. The media could take pieces of a person’s life and spin them to tell a story that was the polar opposite of the truth. It galled him that a short dance and idle conversation could draw attention away from all the positive work either he or his dance partner might be doing.
As the music started, the crown prince led his wife to the dance floor. A moment later, Marco and his wife, Amanda, joined them, bringing along an American entrepreneur and her husband.
The harsh glare of the media spotlight alternated between Eduardo and his four children, but always seemed to return to him and the question of his status as a wealthy, royal widower. On nights like this, where the press scurried around the room searching more intently for gossip than for hard news, he told himself it could be worse. He could be a Windsor. The attention garnered by the arrival of a new ambassador in San Rimini was nothing when compared to formal events at Buckingham Palace.
He concluded his discussion with the parliamentarian, then turned to accept a glass of sparkling water from a passing waiter.
His country was at peace, he was happily productive, and though each of his four adult children lived their own lives, they’d chosen to remain under the same roof at La Rocca, allowing him to spend time with them and his three grandsons as he desired.
If he had to deal with ballrooms and dancing every so often, it was a small price to pay.
“You find something on the dance floor amusing, Your Highness? Or is there humor in the choice of music?”
He turned to see Claire Peyton standing beside him, wineglass in hand. The top of her dark head just reached his shoulder. Apparently, she'd caught him smiling to himself as he’d been lost in a moment of contemplation. “Actually, I was thinking about my children. It’s rare that we all attend the same event.”
“I understand why that would make you smile.” She looked toward the center of the floor, where Princess Isabella and her husband had joined the others. “From what I've seen, you and your wife raised four good human beings. That must have been a challenge, given the spotlight.”
“We certainly had our moments, but they’re happy, and that’s what counts. What about you? Partner? Children?”
“No. Brief marriage and divorce long ago.”
She said it plainly, as if she’d answered the question a thousand times. She likely had. She didn’t seem bothered by it.
He couldn't help but smile at her. Claire Peyton was a marked change from the previous ambassador. Her eyes sparkled as she spoke, as if she were fully engrossed in every conversation, not only with him, but with others as well. Her speech had been eloquent, the perfect length, and—he suspected—partially off the cuff, despite what he’d told Sergio. Her dark brown hair was short and professional, though it curled around her ears in a way he found sexy. On the other hand, Rich Cartwright was pushing seventy-five during his stint as ambassador, wore perpetually rumpled suits and sported a short gray buzz cut. And though Rich had exceptional diplomatic skills, Eduardo suspected Claire would be more engaged than Rich had been.
“What is it?”
His face heated at having been caught staring. It took him a second to recover. “Oh, nothing. I was wondering why you thought I might find humor in the orchestra’s selection.”
Her brows lifted at that. “Do you recognize it?”
He listened, then shook his head. “I’ve heard it before, but don’t know the name. It’s beautiful.”
“It’s called ‘Let the Rest of the World Go By.’ Willie Nelson sang a popular version. But this is a different one, an arrangement by John Barry that was featured in the movie Out of Africa.”
He looked at her in surprise. “Ah. I see why you might find the choice amusing. I doubt anyone has made the connection to your last assignment.”
“It would be a stretch. But yes, it amused me.” A soft smile hovered on her lips as she watched the musicians. “It’s actually one of my favorite pieces. Have you seen the movie?”
“Years ago. I’m afraid I don’t remember much of it.”
She took a slow sip of her wine, then said, “There’s a point in the film where the main character, Karen Blixen, is forced to sell all her belongings. Furniture, artwork, even her mother’s dishes. Everything she has collected over a lifetime in Denmark and Kenya. It was stacked outside her farmhouse one night, ready for a rummage sale the next morning. She sat in her empty house, eating dinner off the top of a packing crate.” Claire raised a hand, gesturing at an imaginary house as she spoke. “You could feel her misery and sense of failure, that this woman who’d worked so hard was about to lose the sum total of her life. Robert Redford’s character, Denys, entered the house. The sight of her gutted him. She told him that when things were bad, she tried to make them worse in her head. When she did that, she knew she could withstand anything. She asked if he would help her. When he nodded, she turned to her gramophone, which was sitting nearby, and put on this song. They danced through the empty house, then into the front
yard, through the middle of all her belongings. By the end, they were both smiling.” Claire’s own smile broadened a notch. “It was a message about valuing experiences and people over things. To focus on the moment and let the rest of the world go by. At least, that was the message I took from it.”
“You make me want to watch the movie again and pay better attention.”
“It’s one of those rare movies worth a rewatch.” She took a final sip of her wine as the song ended and the orchestra transitioned to a new tune. A waiter materialized to take her glass and offer her another. She declined, then discreetly smoothed her bright red skirt. She had a unique look. Her wide eyes were framed by dark lashes and thick brows. She had smooth olive skin and the kind of full lips that other women paid plastic surgeons scandalous amounts to copy. He wondered what her background might be—if she spoke any languages besides English, where her personal politics centered, if she had any hobbies—and told himself he'd ask Sergio tomorrow. Sergio always seemed to have that kind of information at his fingertips, and Eduardo found he wanted to know more about Claire than what had come from the briefing materials that had been prepared for him.
“Your Highness, it's probably a terrible breach of etiquette—all right, I know this is a breach of etiquette—but I have a question.”
"Of course. You may ask anything.” He set his water glass on a nearby tray as she glanced toward Isabella and Nick, who were now leaving the dance floor to talk to a group of guests.
In that moment, he knew what she was going to ask. He spoke before she could. “Madam Ambassador, were you planning to ask me to dance?"
Chapter 3
He couldn't possibly have said what she thought she heard. Could he?
“Your Highness?” Claire forced herself not to take a step back or to allow the space between her brows to crease into a frown, as she knew it frequently did when she heard something unbelievable.
To Kiss a King (Royal Scandals: San Rimini Book 6) Page 3
