The Prince's Playbook

by Pamela DuMond

  “Volunteering for Save the Environment organizations and the search for world peace. Yes, sir, I absolutely have the time and energy for a part-time summer job!”

  “World peace?”

  She nodded. “A girl can dream, sir.”

  He frowned and dropped her file onto the desk where it landed half on, half off—teetering. “I never assume, so I will ask you directly.” “Why do you want this job Miss DeRose?”

  Chapter 5

  VIVIAN

  I tried to think of something stellar to hit him with. ‘I’m broke,’ didn’t sound great. ‘I don’t want to be a prostitute,’ was a weak second. ‘I could possibly qualify as a female mud wrestler, but I feared I’d spend a fortune at the Laundromat,’ trailed in third.

  I played back the job description in my head. In all honesty, it was vague. So, I punted. “In answer to your question, Mr. Cartwright. I like older people and I’m more than capable of thinking on my feet. I know a little about football, baseball, basketball, hockey, shuffleboard, ping-pong, blackjack, and riding motorcycles. You hit the motherlode in the sports department.”

  He sniffed.

  “I’m a hard worker, determined, and I persevere. I’m loyal as long as the people I trust are loyal and forthcoming with me. I turn the other cheek twice. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me a third time—I’m done.”

  “Aha,” he said.

  “People have described me as bitchy... I mean feisty.”

  He cleared his throat. “I feel a bit parched. I’d like that Pellegrino after all.”

  I got up from the ‘settee’, open the door to the mini-fridge, grabbed a Pellegrino and unscrewed the top. “Would you like that on the rocks or straight up?”

  “On the rocks with a slice of lime, thank you.”

  I opened the ice container, plucked out a few cubes with tongs, dropped them into a glass and poured the water. Then I grabbed a lime from the fridge and chopped it quickly on a small butcher block on top of the bar. I dropped a wedge in the drink, stuck another on the glass rim and handed it to him.

  “Thank you.” He sipped.

  “Perhaps, Mr. Cartwright, you could tell me why I should want this job. “Because, no offense, you are shrouded in mystery. I don’t really know what this job is, what you’re paying, or what I need to do. And as much as I like to read mysteries and adore watching them on TV, I’m a practical girl. I’m dying to find the perfect part-time job but I’m not sure I’m up for more mysteries in my life right now.”

  He placed his drink on a coaster on a side table. “Thank you for coming here today, Miss DeRose. I am so sorry but we will not be needing your services.” He opened the door to the suite and gestured toward the hallway. “I wish you nothing but the best of luck in your future.”

  My heart sank. “But, but…”

  “We are very practical people as well. I apologize for any inconvenience this might have caused you.”

  My shoulders sagged.

  “Wait a moment.” He extracted a leather wallet from his pocket and held out a crisp one hundred-dollar bill. “I trust this will cover your travel expenses.”

  I hesitated. It made me feel like a hooker accepting a tip. But I had to keep my Uncle Florio at the Winterpark Assisted Living and also pay for my subway ride back home. I pulled it from his hand. “Thanks for the opportunity.”

  I blinked back a few tears. I had a Tupperware container of mac and cheese in the fridge, which should last me a couple of days. Maybe Subway was hiring?

  Mr. Cartwright’s phone buzzed. “Yes,” he said. “I made a calculated decision based on…” He squinted at me. “I see your point…” he winced. “Of course, I understand how stressful this has been…”

  I moved into the hallway and punched the elevator button. Okay, truth be told, I slammed it five times because this was humiliating and I had to get the hell out of here. I gazed up at the bank of elevator lights. Two cars were ascending, but they seemed to be stopping on Every. Dang. Floor. Finally, a light indicated there was a car just one story below me. I glared at its tiny beam, willed it to move, but it simply squatted there like it had all the time in the world. I pounded the elevator button with my fist.

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Ding! The doors slid open. I slipped into the tiny, pristine cubicle and pushed the ‘Lobby’ button. I slumped against the side of the upholstered cage and dropped my head in my hands.

  “Wait!” A woman thrust her bejeweled arm between the doors. “Ow! God bless Bellèno!”

  The doors rebounded and I peered at two young women. A brunette stood next to Mr. Cartwright and a twenty-something, pretty, blonde woman stood in front of me. She winced and clutched her wrist.

  The doors started to slide shut again. I stuck my foot between them and they bounced off my shoe. “I’m sorry,” I said. “If you had hollered for me to hold the elevator I would have. Are you okay?”

  “I believe so,” she said.

  The humiliation was overwhelming. “I’m sorry, miss. I need to make tracks. Are you coming—”

  She latched onto my arm and yanked me out of the elevator.

  “Who are you?” I gazed at her. “And what do you want from me?”

  “I’m Lady Cici Therese Fontaine. I want to hire you to be my personal assistant for a part-time job. I’ll pay you a king’s ransom, I’ll give you a signing bonus, and I’ll throw in a makeover and wardrobe expenses. Say yes. I insist.”

  “Yes!”

  She smiled and clapped her hands excitedly. “Perfect.”

  The elevator made a low whooshing sound as it departed. I wondered what kind of part-time job I had just signed up for as I followed them back inside the penthouse living room.

  Cici peered at me like I was a delectable but doomed mouse that a cat had cornered. “We’ve been looking for someone like you for several weeks now. I reviewed your resume. I told Cartwright to interview you. You—whatever your name is—have captured my interest. Besides, Max likes you, and he’s got good taste.”

  “You know Max?”

  “Who doesn’t know Max?”

  Cici had glossy, styled blonde-highlighted hair, shiny white teeth, impossibly long eyelashes and immaculately groomed eyebrows. She looked like she could grace the screen in an animated cartoon movie.

  “How motivated are you?” she asked.

  “Very.”

  The brunette from the penthouse’s open door approached us. “Cici—let me handle this.”

  “You’re my BFF, Zara, not my mother.” Cici turned back to me. “Why did you drop out of high school?”

  “My parents died unexpectedly. It threw me.”

  She paused and bowed her head for a moment. “I lost my mother recently. I know what that feels like.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Cici, this has to be taxing,” Zara said. “I’ll take it from here.”

  “You’ll take it from here when I tell you to take it from here. Vivian, your Uncle Florio DeRose is in an institution for the mentally challenged. Does this affect your every day life?”

  “Yes. Uncle Florio was with Dad at the hospital after the motorcycle accident. He held his hand when he died. He lost it a few months later. I pay for him to live at Winterpark instead of County.”

  “I see,” she said. “That’s tough. When can you start?”

  “When do you want me to start?”

  She eyed me up and down and crinkled her nose. “You’re raw material, rough around the edges. We need to train you. Considering we have our work cut out for us, I think we should start immediately. Can you start immediately?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fabulous. Zara, make the phone call please. I need to excuse myself.” She turned and raced out of the living room.

  Zara slid her phone from her purse and hit a button. “I’d like to speak to Misha, please. Tell him Lady Zara Wentworth is calling on behalf of Lady Fontaine. No, I will not leave a message and you can only put me on hold for a
moment. He’s expecting her call.” She glanced at her diamond-encrusted watch, then back at me and frowned. “Have you ever had your eyebrows waxed?”

  “No. I read those horror stories that describe—all too graphically might I add—what happens to body parts when you over-wax them. I tweeze my brows.”

  “You do know you’re supposed to tweeze between your brows?”

  I harrumphed.

  “Can you work late tonight? She’ll pay overtime.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yes,” Zara said.

  “Yeah, we confirmed that.”

  “When speaking in the affirmative we use the word ‘Yes.’”

  “Okay,” I said.

  She shook her head. “You need to say ‘Yes.’”

  “I already said I can stay late tonight.”

  “For the love of God, say ‘Yes.’”

  “How many times do I have to say it?” I hollered, and suddenly wondered if she was hearing impaired. A wave of guilt swept over me. It was wrong and incredibly insensitive of me to yell at a young, overly-coiffed woman who was hearing impaired.

  Zara ground her teeth and spoke into her phone. “Tell Misha it’s Lady Zara calling. It’s in regards to the situation they discussed last week. The one where Cici promised to pay him twice his going rate. Yes, dear. We will see him in twenty… what do you mean he can’t see us for two hours?” She jabbed her thumb into her temple and grimaced. “Fine. We’ll see him in two hours. Tell Misha I’m not as nice as Cici. He’d better be giving us his A game or I’ll be spilling all on the royal circuit. And this time it will be about who really wore the tiara or what riding the polo ponies hard really means.” She hung up and massaged her temples. “Good help is hard to find.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, it is.” This was my opportunity to impress upon Max’s friends that I would not be simply good help, I would be great. I was not only hard-working but I was also a take-charge kind of girl who would go the extra mile. “Why don’t we work on something else before we meet Misha?” I said. “I could get you all something to drink and then we could do one of those tasks that always needs to be done. I know—clean out Cici’s purse.”

  She arched one eyebrow. “Good idea. How long have you walked like a football player?”

  I smiled. “That wasn’t an easy gait to learn.”

  “I imagine not.”

  “I had to toughen up a bit after my parents died. I didn’t want guys thinking they could take advantage of me. I watched a shit ton of football games and imitated the linebackers until I had it down.”

  “Kudos. Unfortunately, you can’t walk like a gorilla if you’re to successfully assist Cici.”

  “Gorilla?”

  “Cartwright?”

  “Yes, Lady Zara,” he said.

  “We’re conducting our first lesson with Cici’s new assistant. I require a larger room than this claustrophobic hotel suite. Ideas?”

  “Absolutely. Let me make a few calls.”

  “Splendid. Bring the feather duster.”

  “What exactly does this part-time job entail?” I asked.

  Chapter 6

  MAXIMILLIAN

  I sat in the back of the large ballroom in a darkened corner and checked my watch.

  It was a little after two p.m. The Drake’s Grand Ballroom was filled with round tables draped in white linen tablecloths in preparation for a later event. An aisle cut down the middle of the room with a few steps leading to a stage. Cici sat on one side of the walkway. Her feet were up on a folding chair. She texted furiously, a frown on her pretty face. Zara sat next to her, while Cartwright stood on the opposite side of the aisle holding a pink feather duster.

  Vivian dabbed her brow with the hem of her shirt and marched down the walkway for the twentieth time. “I guess once you learn how to walk like a linebacker you’ll always walk like a linebacker,” she said.

  “Similar to cigarette smoking and crack cocaine, it’s a tough habit to break,” Mr. Cartwright said.

  “Try it again, Vivian,” Zara said.

  “I don’t know what you want. Maybe you could give me a demo?”

  Cici sighed loudly. Zara leaned over and rubbed her arm.

  Cartwright paced a few steps toward Vivian. “And once again, it falls on me.”

  Vivian pointed to the center aisle. “Your red carpet awaits.”

  He sucked in his stomach, held his head high and strolled down the walkway. “Imagine you are walking down an aisle at a royal court. There are important people, even a few celebrities gathered for a posh, news-worthy event.”

  “How important?” Vivian asked.

  “Dukes, Duchesses, a couple of Earls, someone from Dancing with the Stars and perhaps a member of Britain’s Royal Family.

  “Like Prince Harry? He’s hot. But he’s off the market.”

  “He and Max could be twins,” Zara said.

  Mr. Cartwright clutched his lower back. “You can imagine Prince Harry is in the audience if that helps you walk more lady-like.”

  Better. She could imagine I was in the audience. That would suit me just fine. Cartwright and Cici had told me to keep a low profile. Let them train Vivian. Perhaps they sensed I was attracted to her and this was their way of reducing temptation. Come here, come here, delectable mouse. Prince Maximillian Cristoph Rochartè wants to play with you.

  “We’re just beginning your training, Vivian, but it’s critical you learn these lessons,” Cartwright said. “The people in your future audience are judgmental, gossipy, and pretentious. They smile widely with their pearly-white capped teeth while they examine your every move, hoping and praying you will commit a giant faux pas that they can gossip about to their friends.”

  “Why would they want to do that?” she asked.

  “You dropped out of high school early. Do you remember the lunchroom?”

  “Yeah,” Vivian said.

  “Yes,” Zara said.

  “Yes.”

  “These people are the high school bitchy girls but on steroids. Your every move, each nuance needs to be as pristine as possible. Watch me.” He minced down the aisle. “You sashay through public places like a moving airport walkway is under your pretty, delicate feet.”

  “Size seven and a half,” she said. “Delicate.”

  “Every step you take is elegant. You radiate wide-eyed innocence and virginal bliss.” He walked down the aisle and despite his bad back—for a few seconds—he moved so smoothly it appeared like he was skating.

  Cici and Zara whispered to each other.

  “Go,” Zara said. “I’ve got this.” She stood up and hustled toward the ballroom’s exit.

  “You all right, Cici?” I asked from my darkened corner.

  She jumped. “I didn’t even know you were here.”

  “Blending in with banquet chairs is one of my super powers.”

  “I’m all right, thanks for asking. Please excuse me.” She hurried out of the room.

  “Try the walk again, Vivian,” Cartwright said. “Middle-aged women weep when they see you.” He mimed wiping tears away. “Older women want to kiss your blushing cheeks and press you to their bosoms.” He stooped over like a crone with a bad spine, winced, and placed a hand on his lower back.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mr. Cartwright,” she said. “But you totally pull off the old lady thing.”

  “I fear my bad disc slipped again.”

  “Oh! Lie on the floor,” she said. “I’ll walk on your back. I took a course in Thai massage.”

  I smiled and wondered what would happen if I lay down and she walked, naked, on top of me.

  “Thank you very much, but my shirt is custom made, and I’m not sure it would survive,” Cartwright said. “Keep walking. Remember, girls your age either want to be your BFF or rip your eyeballs out. But you are the epitome of sweet and kind and to the manner born.”

  She walked down that aisle, and damn if she didn’t nail it. Elegant. Sexy. Understated. Hot.

 
Royal walk – check.

  “Splendid!” Cartwright collapsed into a seat as she practically floated past him. “I dare any gossipmonger to say one harsh word about your ladylike walking skills. Try the royal wave.”

  She raised her hand and waved to the pretend audience. “Why am I gliding? Why are people going to care about me? What exactly does this job entail?”

  * * *

  I slipped out of the ballroom while they rehearsed royal waves and returned to the back room at the penthouse. Now I watched with my app in the back room as they sat in front of the large TV in the living room.

  Zara punched a few buttons on the TV’s remote.

  “This man is your primary focus as well as the main reason I am hiring you,” Cici said. “His name is Leopold Edward George Rochartè the Third.”

  Vivian leaned forward and peered at the image of my brother on the screen. Leo could pass for a younger, brunette version of Brad Pitt.

  “That’s a lot of names,” she said. “He could be a model for an Italian men’s cologne, designer underwear, or grace the cover of a romance novel. He’s hot.”

  Icicles made of jealousy stabbed my stomach. Leo was good looking. Got his fair share. Lived his privileged life very, very well. I needed Vivian to get this job. but yet here were these unexpected, uncomfortable feelings, poking up, making a fuss, like that weird uncle at a family event. The one no one ever wanted to invite because he might do something uncouth.

  “Yes,” Zara said. “Leo’s also a hot property in the global search for every woman who wants to marry a prince.”

  “He’s a prince?”

  “Yes. Leopold is Prince of Bellèno. First in line to the throne,” Cici said.

  “What exactly is Bellèno?” she asked.

  “A small country in Europe, tucked between France, Italy, and Switzerland in the Alps.” Cartwright said.

  “I’ve hired you for a lot of reasons, Vivian,” Cici said. “First, I need you to travel to Bellèno and keep Prince Leopold interested in me for ten days until I can return there. My trip home has been delayed due to circumstances not completely under my control.”