The Prince's Playbook

by Pamela DuMond

* * *

  An hour later I peered into the mirror. Misha rubbed mousse between his hands and dragged them through my hair. I had soft flowing layers, multi-colored highlights, and hair that bounced.

  “Wow!” Zara beamed like a kid on Christmas morning. “Now that is fabulous hair.”

  “It’s so short. I’m not sure I recognize myself.” Tears welled in my eyes. But in all honesty, I don’t think my tresses ever looked this good.

  “Amazing.” Mr. Cartwright lay on the floor with his legs propped up on a chair. “Perhaps I was wrong about you, Misha. Perhaps you are a gentleman after all. Thank you for the Percocet.”

  “Détente with you, Cartwright, means the world to me.” Misha snapped his fingers high in the air. A female assistant raced up to his station. “Escort Vivian to the back room for her next appointment.”

  “Yes, sir.” She beckoned to me.

  “What’s the next appointment?” I trailed behind her and peered over my shoulder at Zara and Mr. Cartwright.

  “It’ll be over in no time,” Zara said.

  “What does that mean?”

  * * *

  The assistant opened a door to a small room. A middle-aged brick of a woman with skin as shiny as Vaseline and perfectly groomed brows smiled at me. “My name is Griselda. Lay here.” She pointed to a table draped with a sheet.

  “Okay. I mean, yes.”

  “This won’t hurt a bit.” Griselda applied hot wax under my left eyebrow, tamped gauze onto it and ripped it off.

  I flinched.

  “Not bad, right?”

  “Nope.”

  She repeated the procedure on my right eyebrow, then held a hand mirror in front of my face.

  “Wow! Brows that even Oprah would approve of. Thank you.” I popped up off the table. “I’ll make sure Zara leaves a tip.” I reached for the doorknob but her meaty hand seized my wrist.

  “Back on the table and drop pants.”

  “Right,” I said. “Yes, I’m probably overdue down there.”

  “You’ve had a Brazilian before?”

  “Of course.” I laid back on the table and wriggled my pants down.

  “This, is a little different, liebchin. This is the Columbian.” I bit back a scream and realized why this room was located in the very back of the parlor.

  “The exfoliating facial will be cake compared to zees,” Griselda said.

  * * *

  I lay on a table and blinked as a woman in a white lab coat peered at me through a round, lit magnifying glass. “Decent complexion for a thirty-year-old.”

  “I’m twenty-one.”

  “You could have fooled me. I see blackheads around your T-spot areas.”

  “Those are freckles.”

  “Blackheads. Don’t you want to look pretty?”

  “I thought I was already pretty-ish?”

  “Perhaps to half-blind people. At Misha’s we are dedicated to helping you look pretty to the world,” she said. “You’ll feel a tiny pinch.” She leaned in and scraped a metal instrument across my nose.

  “Ouch!”

  * * *

  I hobbled out Misha’s front door onto the Oak Street sidewalk and glared at Mr. Cartwright. “Where’s Zara?”

  “She left to help Catherine. Except for your very shiny, red nose, Rudolph, you look beyond lovely.” He popped a large straw hat on my head and slipped over-sized, black Jackie-O sunglasses onto my face.

  “I may not be who you envisioned hiring. I might not be perfectly coiffed, know this year’s the Nobel Peace Prize winner, or who was indicted in the latest political scandal. But I, Vivian Marie DeRose, will be your star, your knight-tress in shining armor, your saving grace and the girl who never lets you down.”

  “We’ll see about that,” he said.

  I pulled away from him and jabbed my finger in the air toward his face. “Stop being an entitled snob. Could you at least have been an honest soldier and told me what kind of battle I was walking into?”

  He sighed. “I’m trying Vivian. This hasn’t been an easy task for anyone. Why is your hand shaking?

  “Because I haven’t eaten since seven this morning. I’m hypoglycemic and if I go too long without food I get the shakes.”

  “Oh look, there’s a Sweetie Pies frozen yogurt shop. I heard this place has the best fro-yo in Chicago.” Mr. Cartwright pushed the door open. “Ladies first. Let’s go inside and succumb to our guilty desires, yes?”

  A few minutes later we left Sweetie Pies and walked toward the Drake, spooning yogurt from cups.

  “If you want to terminate this job agreement just say the word,” Mr. Cartwright said. “You can walk away with a pricey makeover and a small cushion in your bank account.”

  I thought about it. My hair was already gone. I still needed the money as well as a job. At least with this gig I didn’t think I’d have to be a hooker. I shook my head. “No. I’m toughing it out. You can’t get rid of Vivian DeRose all that easily.”

  Mr. Cartwright coughed and I swear he covered a smile. “Good.”

  * * *

  And just like that, the prep days for the job flew by. Each morning I’d take the subway from Chicago’s south side to the Drake Hotel. Cici, Zara and Mr. Cartwright had determined from my progress, or lack thereof, what the current day’s teaching schedule would entail.

  Manicure-Pedicure. Tina from We-Nail-It detached my acrylics, filed and buffed what remained of my real nails, and pushed back the cuticles and gave me a sheer pink-hued polish. Very elegant. Very boring. Very royal.

  Speech lessons. I had a ‘Midwestern accent’. A nice lady named Susan taught me how to correct my “lower back vowel merger.” It wasn’t as painful as the waxing.

  Curtsies. I was nailing the curtsies.

  How to sit like a Lady. How to rise from sitting like a Lady. How to eat like a Lady.

  How to dress like a Lady. Cici and crew did not appreciate Cheswick’s of Boston. I was a little curvier than her but could still wear most of her clothes. Her shoes, however, were a different matter. I wore a size seven and a half. She wore a nine. Suddenly the Drake’s suite was piled high in Zappos boxes filled with tasteful pumps, sandals, and elegant shoes for evening wear.

  I tried on a pair of Jimmy Choos. “These work. Where are the runners?”

  “Cici doesn’t like to work out,” Zara said.

  “But I do. It’s how I deal with stress.”

  “It’s not that I don’t ‘like’ to exercise. It simply takes a lot of time, ruins my makeup, and I’m not all that fond of sweating.” Cici held out some slingbacks. “Here, try on the Stuart Weitzman’s. These are my favorites.”

  “Fine.” I slipped the strappy number onto my foot. “I’ll bring my own runners.”

  Perhaps the most embarrassing part was the… how to be naked like a European Lady. Apparently, they got naked on beaches, in spas, even stripped off in front of their royal dressers and assistants.

  Mr. Cartwright reserved a private hot tub suite at the Drake’s Spa that was upscale but still featured more modest American customs. I closed my eyes and turned my head as he and Zara stripped down in front of me. I heard splashing.

  “Ah,” he said. “The jets are soothing.”

  “Come on, Vivian,” Zara said. “After all the stress we’ve been under the mineral waters feel great.”

  I opened my eyes and saw them relaxing in the misty hot tub. The scent of eucalyptus wafted through the air.

  “Why can’t I wear a bathing suit?”

  “Do you have one on you?” Zara said.

  “Point taken.” I stripped down to my underwear, tossed my clothes onto a rack, and descended the steps into the tub.

  “Puritan,” Zara said.

  “Be nice, Zara,” Mr. Cartwright said. “This beautiful country was colonized by those brave, strong people.”

  I rose to pull my hair back. “I could get used to this.”

  Zara gawked. “Crap. We forgot to buy you decent underwear. Take care of that Cartwrigh
t.”

  “Purchase fancy panties is burned onto my list.” He sunk deeper into the waters.

  * * *

  There were the endless memorization sessions in front of the large TV. These included pictures and descriptions of Cici’s relatives and people I was supposed to know. Her dad, Lord Angus Fontaine, was insanely wealthy and looked a bit like Cary Grant. During Cici’s teen years he didn’t give her enough freedom. Now he’d mellowed and was more of a sweetheart. He was to be called Papa.

  A few onscreen instructional minutes were spent educating me about Cici’s friends. Next up were the gossips and the ne’er-do-wells—almost too many to mention. Be nice to everyone. Suspect everyone. The list was endless. So many faces and names and titles. It was impossible to memorize all of them.

  “There are a zillion people. How will I know who’s my friend and who’s out to get me?” I asked.

  “You only need to remember the important persons,” Cici said. “The rest you’ll feel out. Get a sense of who they are. Then you’ll have to wing it. Cartwright or I will be with you twenty four – seven or just a quick text away.”

  Zara hit the remote and an image of a handsome older man with salt and pepper hair appeared on the flatscreen mounted on the wall. “This is the King of Bellèno—Frederick Wilhelm Gustave Rochartè the Fourteenth. He speaks his mind, runs a tight ship, but is regarded to be a fair man.”

  “Got it.” The man who resembled a younger Harrison Ford was the King. “Curtsey?”

  “Definitely curtsey,” Cici said. “Next.”

  Zara clicked the remote. A photo of a pretty, blonde, middle-aged woman hugging three Labrador Retrievers popped up.

  “She looks familiar,” I said.

  “Thirty years ago, Cheree Dussair was a beautiful actress poised for stardom. But she dropped out of Hollywood to marry Frederick,” Mr. Cartwright said.

  “Queen Cheree adores her children and is obsessed with Labrador Retrievers,” Cici said.

  “Curtsey?”

  “Definitely curtsey,” Zara said. “You can also earn her favor by doing or saying anything nice about a Labrador.”

  “Get to the good stuff,” Cici said.

  Zara clicked the remote and an image of Prince Leopold Edward George Rochartè the Third—he of the wide shoulders and sexy smile appeared. My eyes widened, and I had to admit my heart beat a little faster. “Curtsey?”

  “Technically we’re all supposed to curtsey. But he needs to see you—I mean me—as his equal. I might bend the knee, but I do it subtly. And I never show him deference. I do need you to flirt with him, Vivian, but when push comes to shove—”

  “And there will be ‘shove,’” Zara said.

  “Which is another reason I hired you.” Cici wagged her finger at me. “You need the work but you’re not a working girl. So, when he tries to get you in the sack—”

  “A prince is going to try and get me in the sack?”

  Mr. Cartwright nodded. “There will be sack attempts.”

  “You can’t give into him, Vivian. You won’t give into him,” Zara said. “You’ll simply leave him wanting more.”

  I watched the screen as a video popped up of Leo playing rugby with his mates while girls swooned on the sidelines, batting their eyes, tossing him articles of clothing, flashing skin.

  “Prince Leopold’s family and mine are in the process of sealing a business deal. Just keep him interested in me for ten days tops, while I complete pressing business and a few personal matters in the States,” Cici said.

  “Please don’t take this the wrong way. I don’t sleep around. My V-card was punched by one guy not all that long ago and he’s out of the picture. But I need to know what I’m getting into. Have you all, you know, done it?”

  Cici shook her head. “We have not. Although I do believe he’s done it with just about every other girl that he’s met. Yes, we’ve made out on several occasions a very long time ago, and he’s quite the kisser. Takes your breath away if I remember correctly. But if I can resist, so can you.”

  I stared at Leo’s wide, defined muscular shoulders, his thick, gorgeous hair and his sexy smirk. The sweetness on his face as he kissed that little girl’s cheek. The kindness when he held that older lady’s hand. The intensity in his eyes when he kicked a soccer ball. He was hot. He wasn’t as hot as Max. “I’ll do it Cici. I’ll keep him interested in you and I won’t succumb.”

  “Perfect,” she said. “Thank you. Next slide, Zara.”

  “My only concern is that there’s so much to remember…”

  Max’s image came on the screen.

  Max.

  Beautiful Max. Cleft in his jaw. Determined eyes.

  Funny Max.

  Impossibly smart Max.

  How I’d avoided sleeping with him the last week was a mystery. It’s not because I didn’t want to. Trust me, I wanted to. I told him ‘No’ every night after every dinner when he asked to come up to my apartment. I’d be all by myself as I watched his car leave, turn the corner and disappear into the summer night. I’d look around my hovel and ask myself why I just didn’t let him inside? We were past that awkward phase where it would be a random one-nighter with a stranger. But there were so many things I was not sure of.

  One. I wasn’t sure I wanted him seeing my place. It could practically fit inside a shoebox. He’d know exactly how poor I was and that gave me pause. Two. If I let him in the door, I’d let him in my heart. And then my bra, my pants, and eventually my new fancy panties. It felt inevitable if I let him inside. Danger. Hot Ginger alert.

  “Yes, I know him already. Max.”

  “Of course, you do,” Cici said. “All the pretty girls know Prince Maximillian Cristoph Rochartè. He’s the reason we were lucky enough to find you.”

  “Excuse me—Prince?”

  “Yes, Vivian,” Zara said. “You two are already on a first name basis. You only need to call him Your Royal Highness at soirees, or royal events.

  “Royal Highness?” I squeaked.

  “You called?” Max walked in the room. “I’ve tracked down a most excellent place for dinner tonight.”

  “You can’t be fraternizing when you return to Bellèno, you know,” Zara said. “And that includes nightly dinners.”

  “But we’re not in Bellèno are we?” Max said. “Is the lovely Vivian off work for the night?”

  “Yes,” Cici said. “Bring her back in one piece. We have more work to do.”

  Chapter 8

  MAXIMILLIAN

  I spent my days putting together high stakes business deals. She spent hers training as a princess impersonator. At the end of each day we both needed to unwind. For close to ten days we fell into a routine of going out to eat every night. We alternated cuisines and venues.

  Hot dogs at the White Sox game—her pick. I attended my first baseball game, learned about the 7th inning stretch and kissed Vivian for the first time.

  Tapas at Café Segovia in Old Town—my pick. I told her about my family’s bloodline going back to Spanish, Portuguese and German royalty. She confided that when her parents died in a motorcycle crash she wasn’t sure how she was going to make it.

  Cheeseburgers at Billy Goat Tavern on Lake Street—her pick.

  I looked at the plastic wrapped menu. “What should I get here?”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “No.”

  “‘Cheeseburger, cheeseburger, cheeseburger, no fries. Chips,’” she said. “Saturday Night Live. John Belushi. Do you live under a rock in Bellèno?”

  “No,” I said and laughed for the first time in ages. “You make me happy, Vivian. I haven’t felt this happy in a long time.”

  “Good. As long as I don’t have to teach you everything.”

  My driver parked a block and a half away to give me privacy as I walked Vivian to her apartment. There were no stars in the sky this muggy night. Just heat. Desire. Want.

  “Vivian, are you going to ask me in tonight, love?” I tilted my head to bett
er stare at her ass when she bent forward and wiggled her key in the door of her walk up.

  “Not tonight, Prince Maximillian.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and smiled.

  “Stop calling me that. It sounds ridiculous falling from your lips.”

  “You prefer I call you Hot Ginger Prince?”

  I was torn between tackling her and tickling her, or tackling her and fucking her. But I was an adult. I could restrain myself. I could show a modicum of decency, although try telling that to my perpetually hard cock. “I will kill you if you call me Hot Ginger Prince.”

  “Hot Ginger Prince it is. Night.” She giggled and closed the door firmly behind her.

  For ten nights I went back to my suite and beat off in the shower. I imagined her naked, wet, squeezing her beautiful breasts together, saying, “I want you to come on my chest, Hot Ginger Prince.”

  And I’d say, “I’m going to fuck your pretty tits. And then I’m going to bend you forward and fuck you so hard you’ll forget all those ridiculous words for good, Vivian. I’ll make you climax over and over until you promise to never call me Hot Ginger Prince ever again.”

  In my fantasy she laughed and said, “Game on.” And after worshipping her tits with my cock, I bent her forward and grasped her hips. I pulled her ass in the air, teasing her clit with a finger or two, then rubbed my length back and forth against her moist pussy until she moaned, the heat almost too much to restrain for the both of us. She begged, “Please, Max, please put your dick inside of me, now. Fill me. Fuck me. Make me see stars.”

  Check. Check. Check. In my dreams.

  One night we went for breakfast at Ann Svenson’s, a Swedish diner that baked homemade cinnamon rolls with icing drizzled on top. Her pick. One bite and my eyes rolled back into my head.

  “Admit it,” she said. “That’s an orgasm on a bun.”

  I waggled my eyebrows. “I’ll show you an orgasm on a bum.”

  “Not on a bum, Prince Sex on the Brain. A bun.”

  “Let’s do both and then make up our minds. I already know which I’d prefer.”