To Kiss a King (Royal Scandals: San Rimini Book 6)

by Nicole Burnham

  Eduardo shook his head. He didn’t need to say anything. Claire knew from his expression that he understood how stressful that phase of her life had been and that he wasn’t judging her for it.

  “What did he do to your parents?”

  “He called them continuously starting the day I moved out. Told them I had taken money from him and that they should do the honorable thing and repay him. I hadn’t, of course, and they knew it. They quit answering the phone, so he sent a friend to their home in New Mexico to ask for money. The guy went away when they refused, but having someone show up on their doorstep scared them. I got a restraining order against David and my parents did the same. Thankfully, he gave up and we never heard from him again. He didn’t even show up for the divorce hearing.” She folded one leg under her and turned on the sofa so she faced Eduardo. “I felt guilty for quite a while afterward. I hated that my lapse in judgment caused grief for my parents. And deep down, I’d always thought of marriage as forever. I knew I’d made the right decision to leave, but it still felt like a personal failure. On the other hand, the experience made me both more cautious and more perceptive. Eventually, I decided that if my worst mistake in life was a poor marriage that I got out of relatively unscathed, I was doing all right.”

  He put a hand on her knee. “The story will blow over. If you had been married to him recently or he came off as credible, it’d be different. It’s obvious that he’s made foolish choices and is looking for someone to blame. Your profile makes you an easy target.”

  “And you. That’s what worries me.”

  “I’m fine. I’ve endured far worse.” He gave her knee a squeeze, then slid his hand higher before leaning in for a kiss. “Since your phone is quiet, I’ll assume that your staff thinks that you’re fine, too. Let’s watch a movie. If anything comes of the report, we’ll weather it together.”

  She sighed. “You know that this won’t be the last. Stories will come up. A former embassy employee from one of my early postings will say I was rude to them at a dinner. A citizen who had a problem getting a visa will tell a reporter I was incompetent and caused them to lose business. Some of it may even be true.”

  “You aren’t incompetent.”

  “You know what I mean, Eduardo. Every little thing, even events I can’t recall, can be weaponized.”

  “I’d say that it’s a good thing you have a knight in shining armor to defend you, but you’re far from a damsel in distress. Instead, I’ll simply say that you can trust me to listen to you and to have your back when you need me.”

  “You know, you make a fine diplomat.”

  “High compliment coming from you.”

  She gave him a kiss, then said, “Let’s watch a movie.”

  Chapter 17

  Eduardo was still scrolling through the television menu when Claire’s phone rang. They’d spent a solid ten minutes trying to find Out of Africa, but the search function kept locking up and he’d had to start over.

  She glanced at her phone. “It’s the embassy.”

  “You can use my private study.”

  “No, it’ll be John Oglethorpe. I’ll keep it brief.” She gestured toward the screen. “You live in a palace with access to a million channels. The movie has to be available somewhere. It won Best Picture.”

  He continued searching while Claire answered. Even from an arm’s length away, he could hear the voice on the other end say, “Madam Ambassador, I have the President on the line. Would you hold, please?”

  Claire stiffened. Eduardo gestured toward his study. She went, but didn’t close the door. He continued reading the endless list of available movies, but he could hear enough of the conversation to know that Claire was playing defense. Yes, she’d seen the report. She hadn’t seen David Smith in over twenty years, and that information was covered in her SF-86, which Eduardo took to be some type of security or background form. Then she was quiet for a moment. There was a, “Yes, Mr. President,” and a few words of thanks. A moment later, Claire said, “No, it isn’t a concern. If he were a member of parliament, that would be different, but in this case, there are far fewer areas where a conflict could arise. In those cases, I’m cognizant of the issues, as is he.” Another pause, and then, in a more positive tone, “There’s been good progress. I’ve locked up two and have a third on the hook. It’s just a matter of reeling him to shore. I have a phone call scheduled with the fourth on Wednesday. She’ll be the toughest, but I have a good staff and they’ve prepared persuasive arguments. I’m confident I can arrange a face to face meeting.” Another pause. Then Claire said, “I value it, as well. Thank you, Mr. President. I’ll keep you updated. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

  Claire stepped back into the room, then sagged against the wall beside the entrance to his study.

  “Sounded pleasant,” Eduardo said, allowing the sarcasm to show on his face.

  Claire laughed. “It could have been a lot worse.”

  “About David Smith?”

  “That’s what prompted it. But it sounds like he’s had me on his radar for a while. David gave him an excuse to check in.”

  “Because of me?”

  Claire gave a noncommittal shrug. “He hasn’t been in office long. The last thing he wants is any hint of scandal. I assured him we are being careful to avoid anything that can be construed as a conflict of interest. For the time being, I think I’ve allayed his concerns. It helped that we each had good news about the education initiative.”

  That was the part of the call that had piqued Eduardo’s curiosity. “Do tell.”

  She eased off the wall and nodded as she approached the sofa. “He spoke with the new ambassador in Uganda yesterday. Poland will offer financial support and teachers to the program. Latvia looks like it will come through with a similar commitment. I told him I have a good shot at convincing San Rimini. That let me end the call on a positive note.”

  “You really think you’ll line up the support?”

  She gestured for the remote. “Give me that. I’ll search.”

  As she changed screens, she said, “I have Barrata and Galli for certain. Luciano Festa is wavering, but Mark Rosenburg is meeting with him this week. Mark’s good. He’ll convince Festa.”

  “And Selvaggi?”

  “Still working on her. On the other hand, do you know Ana Maria Marotti?”

  “I know the name, but haven’t met her. She’s new to parliament.”

  “Mark recommended we get her support, too. She’s young and has a degree in education. Marotti is on board. When you introduce that legislation, she’s the ideal person to speak to the generation of teachers we most want involved.”

  “You’re that confident you’ll get Selvaggi?”

  She grinned and leaned into him. “Let’s say that I’m optimistic. However, I have a real gripe about your movie selections. Look at this.”

  A movie poster showing Meryl Streep and Robert Redford sitting on a grassy hill occupied the left side of the screen. On the right was a notation that the film was unavailable at this time.

  “So much for being an all-powerful king,” she teased.

  “Never said I was all powerful. You’re confusing me with The Wizard of Oz.”

  “You’re a hell of a lot sexier than the Wizard.”

  “I should hope so.” He snuggled her closer, then pressed a kiss to her head. The thought there’s no place like home fluttered through his brain. Claire made him feel at home.

  “Want to watch it?” she asked, raising the remote and scrolling until she found The Wizard of Oz. “I haven’t seen it in years. We’ll get Out of Africa another way. Soon.”

  He held her tighter and said, “Follow the yellow brick road.”

  On Monday morning, Luisa waited at the bottom of the stairs as usual. And, as usual, she handed Eduardo his schedule for the week as they walked from the residential wing to his office.

  Before she could inquire about his morning workout, he said, “I have a question for you, Luisa.”


  She raised a brow.

  “Why is it that I can’t get Out of Africa on the television in my apartment? Is there someone you can call?”

  “I’ll check and get back to you, Your Highness. I’m sure there’s a way to do it. I believe it won Best Picture.”

  “It did, and I would appreciate that. Now, in answer to the question I know you are dying to ask, today was all about sprints.”

  Luisa’s expression turned to one of astonishment. “She had you run? You should be in a good mood, then.”

  “Not at all. You see, I’m all about endurance. The long haul. Short and explosive has never suited me. I’d much rather run at a steady pace for an hour than do a twenty-minute series of all-out sprints.”

  They passed a series of windows that looked onto the garden. Princess Isabella sat on a large blanket on the ground, her legs tucked beneath her as she read to a group of preschool-aged children. A gaggle of parents wielding their phones stood in a semicircle behind the children and took photos. A reporter and photographer were off to the side, covering the event in a more understated fashion than the excited adults.

  Isabella sensed movement behind the windows and paused in her reading, then pointed out the king to the children. The parents’ phones went upward as if on marionette strings as the children waved. Eduardo waved back, then continued walking with Luisa. As one, the adults’ phones swung to their previous positions.

  “Princess Isabella is hosting a fairy tale story hour for participants in an early education program,” Luisa explained. “She has another session this afternoon, then two scheduled for tomorrow with groups from other schools.”

  “Nick is working on a research project about the medieval origins of fairy tales. He plans to teach a course on the subject next semester.”

  “He’ll still teach his medieval art course, won’t he? I have a niece at the University of San Rimini who is hoping to take it.”

  “I believe so. The course does fill, though, so if you’d like me to put in a word—”

  “Oh, no,” Luisa said, waving off the favor. “She told me that Professor Black is good at getting students into his classes off the waitlist as long as they attend the first week or two of class. Now, as to Greta and the sprints—”

  “You were supposed to forget that topic.”

  “When do I forget anything? As to Greta and the sprints, my guess is that she’s testing your aerobic capacity versus your anaerobic capacity. It’s good to have a balance. Sprints require more muscle.”

  Eduardo cast a suspicious look at his assistant. “She told you to say that.”

  “Not in those exact words.”

  “I feel plotted against. Monarchs develop a sixth sense for that. You should tread carefully.”

  Luisa merely shrugged. “Think of it as a metaphor for your duties. As a king, your position is one that requires endurance above all else. You’re in it for the long haul, but the ability to sprint now and then serves you well.”

  “Did Greta tell you that, too, hoping I’d embrace sprint work?”

  “Oh, no. That was all mine.”

  “The next time I’m forced to suffer through sprints, I’ll be sure to keep it in mind.” As they approached the office, he said, “I may need an entire pot of coffee this morning.”

  “I’ll be quick with the refills, then.”

  He began the meeting as soon as Luisa returned with his coffee. Sergio started with a report on a new parliamentary initiative to shore up the San Rimini Emergency Trust, a fund instituted to help in times of natural disasters. The measure was overdue, so Eduardo was glad to hear it was moving forward. Sergio promised to include the details in the king’s briefing book so he could read about it after the meeting.

  After that, Sergio flipped to a new page of notes. “Now for the not-so-good news. The staff teams working on the Strada il Teatro project are meeting increased resistance from the casino owners and the Grand Prix organizers. Both groups know we’re on a tight timeline and they’re trying to work that to their advantage. However, the bigger issue is the drop in your favorability numbers. We have every other group in line, even the Central District Historical Society. But if your numbers go any lower, everyone is going to think they have room to renegotiate.”

  “What are the latest poll numbers?”

  “You’ve dropped from a high of seventy-seven percent to around sixty-one. That’s still a very good number, Your Highness, but the trajectory is concerning.”

  Eduardo felt the shift in the room, though his senior staff were all careful not to show it.

  “What else? Give it to me straight.”

  “San Rimini Today did a piece on Claire Peyton early last week. The usual biographical information, a bit about her time in Uganda, and a description of the work she’s done since arriving in San Rimini. It was mostly favorable and had a sidebar about a medical research exchange that took place recently between San Rimini and the United States. However, when a television network did street interviews asking citizens what they thought of the article, most hadn’t read it. Instead, they were quick to offer opinions on whether or not you should be dating her. A few wondered whether there could be a conflict of interest, but most said that they couldn’t imagine anyone taking Aletta’s place. Those interviews were shown repeatedly on Wednesday. That spurred a Thursday morning talk show on a different network into an hour-long discussion on whether Claire should be made a queen if you were to marry.”

  Sergio gave one of his eyes a brisk rub as he spoke, as if trying to wipe away an exhausting weekend. “Our latest poll was taken on the same Wednesday that the street interviews were broadcast, and the numbers didn’t reflect whether the respondent had seen the coverage because the pollsters didn’t know to ask. However, the talk show hadn’t yet aired, nor had the weekend story about the ambassador’s ex-husband. I assume you saw it?”

  “I did.”

  “That could also change the numbers.”

  Eduardo appreciated that Sergio was careful not to say that his popularity would take another hit, though they all knew it.

  “I can handle all of this in the briefing room today,” Zeno said. “The story on Claire’s ex-husband shouldn’t get much traction. He’s not credible and that’s obvious even to frequent tabloid readers. The rest I’ll dismiss just as I do other speculation about your private life.”

  Sergio nodded along as Zeno spoke, then said, “On the bright side, we have less than a month before we hand off the plan to parliament. There’s only so much that can affect your numbers in that time.”

  “You’re saying that it’s a race to the finish.”

  Sergio gave a tilt of the head. “The goal is to maintain. If that can be done, we’re fine. Parliament will leap on a plan that has unified support and is backed by a monarch with sixty-one percent favorability. They want this deal done, too, but can’t take a personal risk if they’re facing election. We’re making it as easy as possible for them with minimal political fallout.”

  On a deep breath, he added, “Thankfully, we don’t have to worry about the deal you made with the ambassador. I understand that she has Barrata and Galli on board, but she’s still working on Festa. To our knowledge, she hasn’t even met with Selvaggi. If she doesn’t have Selvaggi, you’re under no obligation to introduce her education plan. Keeping our focus on the Strada sends a strong message about your priorities to everyone involved.”

  Eduardo remained silent. He wasn’t going to tell Sergio about Festa, or about the fact that Claire had a phone call scheduled with Selvaggi. The information had been shared in private. Besides, Sergio was right. As long as Claire didn’t have Selvaggi on board before the Strada proposal went to parliament, they wouldn’t have to deal with it.

  Luisa entered to top off everyone’s coffee as Sergio wrapped up, then Zeno asked about a few unrelated issues for the morning press briefing. Margaret had reports on work Prince Antony and his wife had completed for the San Riminian Scholarship fund and a follow
-up on Eduardo’s Our Place appearance several weeks earlier, then she handed him materials she’d prepared for an upcoming event to support research projects at Royal Memorial Hospital.

  He thanked her and slid the papers into his briefing binder. As if on cue, Sergio sucked in his lower lip and Zeno looked at the floor.

  “I hate to ask, given the expressions on your faces, but is there anything else before we wrap?”

  Margaret’s face split into a grin, but it was Zeno who cleared his throat. “Yes, Your Highness. I am afraid we have a Code Orange.”

  Sergio turned away, trying to contain his laughter. Code Orange was their office term for occasions when they were forced to deal with human imperfection and the resulting media spin. The most memorable had occurred during Marco and Amanda’s wedding. Federico’s sons were caught on live television chewing gum in the pews when gum was famously forbidden in the centuries-old Duomo. When the grinning boys spit the gum into their palms, traded, then popped the wads back into their mouths, the nation’s collective gasp of amused revulsion was nearly audible.

  Comedians around the world had a field day on their late-night shows. Even serious news programs aired the scene in the final minutes of their broadcasts, claiming it was, “a moment to lighten your day.”

  Code Orange situations were often ridiculous, but needed to be addressed, lest their coverage detract from the business of state. In the case of the boys, Zeno told the exuberant palace press corps that all parents experienced such indignities with their children and that the boys were now keenly aware of the importance of protecting historical sites.