The Prince's Playbook

by Pamela DuMond

“Sex isn’t a requirement for this job.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “The work will only last a few weeks. You’ll have to sign a confidentiality agreement. They’ll run a security check. On the flip side, the pay is lucrative. You won’t have to toil at a place like Mugshots for quite some time if you are picked for this position.”

  “You don’t want a kidney, right? I’m attached to both.”

  “No on the kidney. Can you meet us this afternoon?”

  I looked at my online bank statement again. “I’ll clear my calendar.”

  “Great. Forward your resume. I’ll text you the details. Also, I should warn you, the people I work with can be…”

  “Assholes.”

  “No.”

  “Giant assholes?”

  “No. Pearl clutchers. Wear something conservative.”

  “But you burned my boots.”

  “Ha!” he said. “See you soon.”

  I texted Lola and left her House of Bellèno’s number.

  Vivian: If I go missing forward this info to the cops.

  Lola: What are you getting yourself into?

  she texted back.

  Good question.

  An hour later I stood on the sidewalk on the curve of Lake Shore Drive and headed north. I wore a pastel skirt and jacket suit from Cheswick’s of Boston. There wasn’t a pearl clutching interviewer on the planet that wouldn’t appreciate Cheswick’s. A blister erupted on my foot from the nasty high heels I’d been forced to wear at Mugshots, so I paired my pretty outfit with pastel sneakers.

  Oak Street Beach was a narrow patch of pricey sand filled with tourists and posers and young families. Lapping onto its shores was the grand mama herself—Lake Michigan—a body of water so large she was called Great.

  I gazed up at the Drake. It was approximately twenty stories tall, majestic and reeked of old school fancy. This hotel had been around forever and was practically a Chicago institution. Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio had carved their newly wed names into the booth at the Cape Cod Room, the in-house seafood restaurant. Princess Diana stayed here on her only visit to Chicago.

  I examined the address on the printout. The interview wasn’t just taking place in the Drake, it was being conducted in a penthouse suite. Max’s associates had to be interesting, let alone have deep pockets to pay decent wages. I crossed my fingers as I jogged across the intersection.

  Perhaps the part-time job people were millionaires? Or drug dealers? Maybe they were millionaire drug-dealers with a lucrative side business selling twenty-something women into sex-slavery? But that didn’t make sense. Didn’t sex-slaver types usually deal in skinny girls with big boobs? I was far from being a twizzle-stick. I was totally over-thinking this thing. I closed my eyes, gathered my courage, crossed myself, and entered the hotel’s front doors.

  Chapter 4

  MAXIMILLIAN

  It was midday. The sun sparkled on Lake Michigan’s waters, and the tony Magnificent Mile looked immaculate from my vantage point of the Drake Hotel’s penthouse. It was a far cry from the grittier neighborhood I’d visited last night on the Southside. Smoother, slicker, not quite as earthy. But Vivian was on her way here and my heart beat a little faster at the thought.

  Oh, shut up, heart. This was business. Nothing to get excited about. Besides, her even getting the job wasn’t a slam dunk. All the proper boxes would have to be checked. Cartwright had run Vivian’s information past the agencies and she’d passed the security clearance. Next, she had to ace the interview. Once she found out what this strange affair entailed, would she even want to accept the job? It wasn’t the easiest work in the world.

  Mr. Cartwright gingerly entered the room, one hand propped on his lower back. “Lady Catherine and Zara are downstairs at the spa,” he said. “I texted and gave them an ETA on the arrival of your protégé, Your Highness.”

  “Thanks Cartwright. She’s not my protégé, yet. How’s your back?”

  “Achy. Is this the young woman procured through Mike Woodman & Associates?” He’d worked with my family for decades. Now he sat gingerly on the chair next to the desk and flipped through the piles of headshots.

  “No. Not really. Well, kind of but not in the way that you’re thinking,” I said.

  “Have you decided on an interview tactic?” Cartwright tidied the stacks of paperwork. “I assume you’re the good cop. Can I be the bad cop?”

  I cracked a smile. “You can be both cops. You know what’s at stake as well as the delicacy of the matter. I trust your instincts. Run with this.”

  “Splendid.”

  I stood up. “I’ll be in the back room. Message me if you need anything.”

  “You’ll be listening with your ear pressed against the door.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Of course. You have the remote camera app installed on your tablet.” The phone rang and Cartwright picked up. “Yes, thank you. Send her up.”

  “Do your job.” I walked out of the living room and down the hallway. “And, Cartwright?”

  “Yes, Sir?”

  “Don’t be a snob.”

  * * *

  Being that I was Prince of Bellèno you’d think that I wouldn’t have to do much more than wave during parades, smile during the obligatory royal photo ops, kiss the cheeks of grannies who adored the royal family, and get laid by scads of willing, gorgeous women who threw themselves at my feet. Sadly, this was a more accurate job description for my brother, Leopold Edward, Bellèno’s crown prince.

  I was second fiddle, the spare not the heir, and it was only natural that Leo got first pick of everything. After all, one day he would claim the throne. That said, I did fine in my own right and had nothing to complain about. Where our roles differed was not due to birth order but natural proclivity. Leo was a sportsman, a bit of a daredevil, an ‘I’ll try anything once’ kind of guy. I, on the other hand, had a brain for solving convoluted puzzles, finding solutions for sticky situations, and therefore was my family’s designated problem solver.

  Right now, our inner circle was on pins and needles, hoping, even praying, that Leo would do the right thing and get his act together. But so far that wasn’t happening. Which is why I found myself in Chicago holed up in the penthouse of the Drake Hotel with my co-conspirators.

  I sat on the bed, leaned back, slipped in my earbuds, and watched on my tablet as Vivian paused in the hallway outside the penthouse door. The lass was fetching last night under the yellow-tinged lights at the biker bar. Sexy under the glare of the street lamp at midnight trying to wrangle off that boot. And now, awfully pretty in the glow of the crystal chandelier in the hallway through the focus of my camera.

  She ran her fingers through her long, brunette hair and tucked a few errant wisps behind her ears. She lifted her hand to knock on the thick door, then paused, and fished through her purse. She snagged a tube of lip gloss and swiped it across her full lips.

  The suite door flew open. “You must be Miss Vivian Marie DeRose.” Cartwright extended his hand.

  “Yes.” She shook it.

  “Do come in. My name is Mr. Cartwright.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Cartwright.”

  I waited for her to clear the threshold then fiddled with the app to switch to a different camera feed. Almost a metaphor for what I was attempting to do here in Chicago.

  The Crown Affair—as I had named it—was a last ditch attempt to extricate the House of Bellèno from the mess it had willingly waded into. The monarchy had invested poorly then borrowed substantial, sick amounts of money from authoritarian-governed foreign banks. Interest had compounded and loans were now coming due. There were whispers behind closed doors that the monarchy was in trouble, our nation could de-stabilize, and that there would soon be a reckoning.

  There had to be a way out of this mess and, as always, it fell on my shoulders to figure out what that entailed. I spearheaded a team of financial wizards and attempted to negotiate our loans. To no avail. One expert af
ter another informed me we were in too deep. I’d almost given up hope when I stumbled across a twisted idea that could be our lifeline out of this quagmire.

  I re-focused my attention on my tablet’s updated camera feed. Vivian stood at the living room staring out the windows. The air conditioning kept the suite at a comfortable seventy degrees, but she discretely fanned her face with one hand.

  Nerves.

  Perhaps it was best she didn’t know how nervous she should really be.

  Mr. Cartwright walked to his desk. “We’ve been on our tiptoes with excitement, eagerly anticipating your arrival.”

  “Is Max here?” Vivian asked.

  “He had to step out. I hear you are from Chicago. It’s my first visit here. A lovely town. Stunning architecture. World-class culinary adventures. A robust art scene, as well as a music mecca. The weather, however, is daunting. Might I offer you a cooling drink?”

  “Water’s perfect. Thanks. But you don’t have to wait on me. I’ll help myself.” She walked a few feet to the bar, bent forward, and opened the mini-fridge.

  God she had a great ass.

  “Can I get you something?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  She pulled out a Pellegrino and poured a glass. She sipped.

  Cartwright plucked a file off the desk. “Sit. I insist.”

  She took a seat next to the window.

  “We reviewed your resume. It’s a little thin. On the flip side your criminal record is clean which is a must for us—”

  “I knew that.”

  “Or you wouldn’t be perched on that settee right now.”

  She glanced down. “You mean the love seat?”

  “The settee.”

  “The small couch?”

  “The small couch, which is also called a settee.”

  “Why don’t you tell me a little more about this job?” She squared her shoulders and jutted her chin out.

  Feisty attitude – Check.

  Back in Bellèno I’d been racking my brain for weeks trying to figure out how to solve the crown’s dilemma. How could we procure sufficient money and transfer that quickly enough to save the monarchy’s lands, properties, investments, and buy a reprieve? One rainy afternoon I took a break from the tedious financial plotting and planning, and relaxed with Daisy and Flora, two of my favorite fuck buddies.

  There was nothing like a threesome with two gorgeous girls, being up to your balls in tits and ass, wet lips, dirty kisses, four hands that caressed every inch of my body and got me off in ways that left us all out of breath. Afterwards, we collapsed in a sweaty pile of entwined legs and arms on my bed, until a pesky banker messaged me repeatedly, interrupting all the fun.

  I reluctantly pulled myself away from the girls only to take more bad news—a developer was trying to buy my father’s home town and turn it into a tourist trap. Ugh. My shoulders hiked back up to my ears. I got off the line and glanced over at my girls who were still lying in bed, oohing and aahing, pointing and clicking on a tablet that they shared.

  “I pinned Max on my Marrying a Royal Pinterest board over two years ago and we just spent another Saturday afternoon together,” Daisy said.

  “It’s the power of intention,” Flora nodded.

  “What’s a ‘Marrying a Royal board?” I asked.

  “Come back to bed and take a peek.” Flora beckoned.

  The social media app was covered in boards stuffed with photos of real life princes and men much handsomer than any noble men I knew. “This guy isn’t a royal.” I tapped the screen.

  “He should be,” Daisy said.

  “He’s an underwear model,” Flora said.

  “That doesn’t make him nobility.”

  “But we wish he was because then we could marry him, too,” Daisy said. “Everybody wants to fantasize about their life as a royal. Especially commoners. We have boards for the royal palaces.”

  “Summer as well as winter,” Flora said. “Look. Here’s my Royal Wedding board.”

  “Look at my Royal Jewelry board,” Daisy said.

  “He was already looking at mine. Why do you have to be so pushy?” Flora said. “Prince Maximillian doesn’t know all the fantasizing that goes on about marrying nobility.”

  “I know it sounds lovely, but marrying a royal is actually a lot of work,” I said.

  “No one cares, love. What planet have you been living on?” Daisy leaned in and trailed kisses down my neck.

  “Planet Royal,” Flora said, dropping her lips to my bare abs, working her tongue lower.

  I sighed. I could get use to this. Right. I already was.

  “There’s even a bigger fantasy about marrying a prince. Everyone and their mother dreams about marrying a prince,” Daisy said.

  And bam, it hit me. I could marry myself off to a titled young woman who was dying to become a princess. A noble woman with a sizeable dowry in the form of a parent who was a billionaire. Garner a huge influx of cash and save the day. How hard could this be? I racked my brain trying to think of the perfect young lady. I asked around at the usual parties, a few polo matches, the casinos, and boiled it down to three names. Then I hit the motherlode with Lady Catherine ‘Cici’ Fontaine.

  Cici was the daughter of the Lord Angus Fontaine, a billionaire with holdings in Franzenbanke. Everyone on the royal circuit knew that his recently deceased wife, Lady Mimsy Fontaine, had desperately wanted her daughter to become a princess one day. She’d sent Cici on the same social circuit as many of the young, titled pretties. I snooped around the usual social media photos sites and noted Lady Mimsy had dozens of royally-themed boards stuffed with royal wedding gowns and finery, jewelry, castles with moats.

  I Googled images of Catherine. Checked social media. She was a pretty girl, a smart girl. I could marry her and take one for the team. I had a stiff drink that night and contacted her with my proposal. Would she be interested in becoming Princess of Bellèno?

  She hemmed and hawed and took a day to think about it. She rang back and said, yes, she was up for the job. Her father, Lord Angus Fontaine, would not only secure our loans with his fortune and put in a good word with his business associates. There were just two small problems.

  Her mother had no fantasies about Cici marrying any old prince. I was the spare to the throne and that would not do. Lady Mimsy had always wanted her daughter to marry the crown prince. I bit the bullet and offered up my brother Leopold. I’d find a way to talk him into this.

  Problem number two: Cici needed to delay for a few weeks. She had pressing, personal business in the States that needed to be wrapped up before she could return to Bellèno. But I remained undaunted. All we needed was to find someone to fill in for Cici for three weeks. Keep the ball rolling. Let the banks think we had this covered. And we’d be good.

  Cici had been absent from Bellèno for a few years, leaving after her mom died to earn her Master’s degree at a small Catholic college in Chicago. I just needed to find someone who could pass for her. Someone who could fool the royal sycophants, the bankers. Fool those nearest and dearest to her.

  I re-focused my attention on Vivian.

  “Tell me more about this job, please,” she said.

  “It’s similar to a personal assistant position,” Cartwright said. “We are looking for a twenty-something young woman, blond, or willing to become blond for this job’s duration. Medium height. Average weight. Pretty. Can think on her feet.”

  “I could do highlights,” Vivian said.

  “A thorough trim would be in order as well.”

  “Go on,” Vivian said.

  “You must like older people. You are comfortable with them. Engage. You are not a huge partier, but can sip Champagne or enjoy a hearty lager. You are not addicted to drugs or alcohol. You have a high school degree and preferably advanced degrees and/or are working toward that goal. Willing to travel for the job. Must be presentable.”

  “I have my GED. I’m getting undergrad credits so I could apply to nursing school.
I can knock back a few with the guys. Being a cocktail waitress at Mugshots definitely trained me to think on my feet,” Vivian said. “Older people? They have stories, experiences, and for the most part are so much more interesting than people my age. Unfortunately, traveling makes me nervous. What do you mean by ‘presentable?’”

  “We can work on that,” he said.

  “Don’t be a snob, Cartwright,” I whispered to the screen.

  “What are the job requirements?” Vivian asked.

  “You must possess excellent people skills. You can improvise, aka ‘roll with the punches.’ If you act or ever become an actress, you can never list this job on your reel or resume.”

  “I played Rizzo in Grease my sophomore year in high school. People told me I wasn’t half bad,” she said.

  “You need to be ‘sports friendly.’ This means you have a rudimentary knowledge of a variety of sports.”

  “Football: The Chicago Bears. Hockey: The Chicago Blackhawks. Soccer: I don’t care. Baseball: The Chicago White Sox.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “What about the Cubs?”

  “They had their moment.”

  “It would be ideal if you spoke a foreign language but this not a requirement.”

  “Hola my mejor amiga! Comò estàs? Quieres nachos y cervezas frías esta noche?”

  Mr. Cartwright was taking this good cop/bad cop thing seriously.

  “Vivian Marie DeRose,” Mr. Cartwright said. “You were an A student in high school but dropped out at the tender age of seventeen before the end of your junior year. You earned your GED when you were eighteen. You’re currently enrolled at Columbia Technical Academy pursuing a career as a licensed nurse practitioner. Is this correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have time for a part-time summer job?”

  I pulled the tablet closer and watched her bite her lip. Could she survive without a part-time job?

  “Absolutely, Mr. Cartwright. I’m not taking any pre-req courses this summer as I decided to focus on…”

  Make it good, Vivian. I silently cheered her on.