“They could have let him go, but the next morning we found him at the border.” His voice was cold and savage now. “Torn to pieces, like something animals would do. They took his head as a trophy. He was ten.”
I looked at the bodyguards. For a few brief seconds, only one of them was in view, and he was looking the other way. I threw my arms around Jagor’s chest and pulled him tight, and after a second, his massive arms encircled me and pulled me in even tighter. I knew it could only last an instant, so I poured everything I could into that hug, every ounce of love I felt, soaking it into him. Then he was gently pushing me away and we were both trying to look neutral and businesslike.
I hated it, right then – the job, the deception, the secrecy. No one should have to suffer the memories of something like that alone, for the sake of appearances. But as I watched him compose himself, as he stopped being Jagor and became the Prince, it hit me that he’d been standing on his own, his feelings screwed down and silenced, since he was a child. I imagined him standing bravely at his brother’s funeral, while a thousand cameras captured his stoic expression. Today, preparing to take the throne, he was even more alone. Except when he was with me.
It was then that I made up my mind. However crazy this was, however frustrating it was to be around him and yet not with him, I was going to damn well make it work.
***
An hour later, I had my first test. We were eating lunch out on the terrace – the Prince, his aides, two of the bodyguards and Medenko. There were no other diners within five tables of us: the hotel had cleared one entire end of the restaurant.
It was ridiculously perfect. Over the low wall we had uninterrupted views down to the sea, while an awning kept the worst of the sun off us. The seafood was freshly caught, the cutlery was the finest silver and the tablecloth was snowy white. I was in a dream, but it was broken.
If I’d been there as the Prince’s girlfriend, I would have been sitting next to him, our arms brushing every time he reached for something. If I’d been just another member of the retinue, it would have just been a pleasant meal. But I was both…and neither.
Just a few hours earlier, I’d been…I felt my face go hot at the memory. I’d been spread and moaning on his bed. And yet we had to hide it: my love for him had to be squeezed into a tiny box and only allowed out when the door was shut. I was starting to understand why mistresses grew jealous.
Something else stirred inside me, though, alongside the frustration; something I wasn’t ready for. A part of me found the whole thing a turn on. The little glances he gave me across the table. The occasional word he’d drop into the conversation that didn’t mean anything to anyone else, but snapped me right back to the embassy, or the limo. For the entire meal I sat in a heightened state, like an animal with its ears pricked up, and underneath the table I was unconsciously squeezing my thighs together, my arousal slowly turning to wetness as unspoken messages passed between us. God, would every meal be like this? I may have appreciated a mistress’ jealousy, but I also started to understand why people had affairs, beyond the obvious.
I sipped some wine while I brooded. Our glasses were never empty: I was noticing how much all of the Asterians drank, even during the day. I had to keep reminding myself to hold back: I’ve never been much of a drinker and I knew I’d be in serious trouble if I even attempted to keep up.
“Your meeting with Mr. Foreaux is at nine, Your Highness,” the female aide, told Jagor. I’d learned that her name was Ismelda. I hadn’t dared speak to her since the plane.
“I may need to talk to the English there. I’ll take Lucy.” Ismelda merely nodded. Did he actually need me or was it an excuse; and did she suspect? Jagor looked at me. “You’ll need something appropriate. Go into town this afternoon and pick something out.”
His dresser found me after lunch. “Elegant and classical,” he told me in Asterian. “The skirt should be long. A simple neckline.”
I nodded frantically, trying to remember it all. “Thank you for the new wardrobe – it’s all fantastic.”
He sniffed and regarded me. “It will suffice,” he told me. I wasn’t sure if he was being a perfectionist or if it was me that didn’t measure up. “You’ll need this.” And he pressed a credit card into my hand. White and gold. I drew my breath in sharply as I read the embossed letters.
Lucy M Snow – Aide to the Prince of Asteria.
***
Two of the bodyguards drove me into town, silent and serious behind their sunglasses. We were in a black SUV with tinted windows: I found myself wondering if they were bulletproof, and whether we needed that sort of security.
The views got better and better: first, we were winding our way down the hill, looking out over the sea. Then, as we swept through the center, I noticed red and white stripes at the edge of the road: we were on one of the streets used for the Grand Prix, speeding around the same turns that Formula One drivers faced. If anyone else had been at the wheel, they would have been whooping it up, but the driver remained silent and impassive. I was pretty sure his name was Hahn: he was easy to remember because he had a shiny, bald head and was shorter than the rest. The other guard was Stavo: blond hair and quite good looking, in a cold sort of way.
I still needed to know more about life in Asteria. A lot more. I tried to start a conversation. “So: been with the Prince long?”
There was a pause, almost deliberately rude, as if they were debating whether it was worth their time to answer. “Five years,” answered Stavo at last. Did they resent me, or the complications I brought with me, or did they just not like change? Well, tough: if we were all going to work together, they’d have to get used to me. I made up my mind to get at least one of them to crack a smile by the end of the day.
The store was a small boutique right in the center. Hahn parked outside, on super-triple-yellow-park-here-and-die lines: one of the advantages of royalty. The store owner himself showed us inside, hung the ‘closed’ sign, locked the door and introduced us to his entire staff, who were lined up waiting for us. I was offered wine or champagne but played it safe with coffee, and for the next hour was shown a selection of gowns from designers I’d only ever read about. It was so far from my normal shopping experience, I felt a little lost. I mumbled something half out loud about which dress would work with the shoes I had. The owner reacted as if I’d slapped him. “Mademoiselle!” he gasped in horror. “We will find you whatever shoes the dress requires!”
Eventually I settled on a long blue strapless gown. I was pretty sure the neckline qualified as ‘simple’, although being strapless it felt a little perilous. The skirt was long and loose, covering me to the ankles while still showing off the curves of my hips and ass. I had a feeling Jagor would approve.
I needed a second opinion, though: and I hadn’t forgotten about my mission to get the two bodyguards to loosen up a little. When I came out of the changing room, I did a little spin and looked at Stavo and Hahn. “What do you think?” I asked.
They both nodded solemnly but neutrally. “It’s fine,” said Stavo.
I should have left it there, but something about their silence during the journey had frustrated me. “Really? Do you think it’s okay at the back?” and I turned and looked over my shoulder, showing him my ass. I’d liked to say I smiled coquettishly at him, but I can’t pull off that sort of thing – that’s Gwen territory. I gave him some sort of look, anyway.
The only reaction I got was a shrug and a “Sure” from Hahn. Neither of them seemed to be able to look me in the eye: they were shifty and almost angry. The only time I’d seen that sort of reaction before was when a straight male friend was inadvertently hit on by a guy. Even the store owner was picking up on their discomfort. I started to worry that it was me, that I was ugly or fat – why else would they be so reluctant to examine a woman in a dress?
I think that’s why I did it: I mean, this is me – I’m about as far from being an exhibitionist as it’s possible to be. I just wanted some reassurance. A p
olite comment; maybe a smile. I tried to channel Gwen and, turning to face them, leaned forward just a little. “You don’t think the neckline’s too low?”
Nothing happened and everything happened.
Stavo and Hahn didn’t move; didn’t take even a single step toward me. They didn’t say anything or shrug like before. They just…looked.
I thought they’d been looking at me before and not liking what they saw. I was wrong: they’d been half-glancing. They’d been deliberately not looking. And now they both turned their attention on me, like being pinned by two searchlights. The solemn, neutral expressions were gone. I could feel a wave of heat cross the space between us, my whole body bathed in their lust. Their gaze raked down my body, stopping at my cleavage and then continuing over my waist and hips, my ass and legs. I actually gasped and took a half-step back. The feeling was overpowering: it wasn’t anything as delicate or beautiful as being desired. It was being wanted, in the same way an animal wants food. It was basic and ugly and raw, like being punched. I wasn’t Lucy, in that second. I wasn’t the Prince’s aide. I was just a woman, pure and simple. A woman as they were seen in Asteria.
I suddenly understood what had been going on all afternoon. They hadn’t been being rude; they’d been being incredibly polite. They’d been clamping down on every feeling they had and studiously avoiding talking to me or looking at me, until I’d taunted them into it. Just a few seconds of that feral lust left me literally shaking: like when you go to cross the street and a truck thunders past, inches from your face. It had another effect, too. The wave of heat soaked in and coalesced deep inside me, winding straight down into my groin. I could feel myself throbbing and – God – beginning to get wet.
This was what Asteria would be like, I realized, only without the veneer of respect and disinterest. Jagor had no doubt picked these men for their ability to mingle with the outside world, to remain cool. Asterian men, who’d never even been outside the country: God, it would just be raw, unashamed lust.
As quickly as it had happened, it was gone. None of us said anything: they regained their composure, sullen and annoyed, realizing they’d made a mistake but – justly – blaming me. I told the store owner I’d take the dress and fled back into the changing room. I wanted to get out of there and back to Jagor as quickly as I could.
Chapter Five
The casino was at once both alien and strangely familiar. I’d never been to a casino before – not even Vegas, let alone somewhere like this. But I’d seen plenty of Bond movies and this place, with its marble columns, polished wood floors and chandeliers, was straight out of them.
Jagor, in tailored dinner jacket and black bow tie, looked completely at home, greeting old friends as we moved through the crowd. He seemed to be back to his old self, the revelations of that morning buried – at least for now. He took the time to introduce me: in the space of five minutes, I met three minor royals, two captains of industry and an ambassador. I smiled and tried not to stumble in the heels the dress store owner had given me. I still wasn’t sure what my purpose was that night: genuine translator, arm candy or something more – was he hoping that we’d get some time alone together? It seemed unlikely: the bodyguards were always close by.
I was still unsettled by what had happened in the dress shop. The journey back had been utterly silent. Sitting there in the back seat, watching the backs of their heads, I couldn’t stop wondering what they were thinking about: what they were imagining doing to me. I wasn’t used to men staring at me, let alone staring like that. I didn’t know when we’d be going to Asteria, but I knew I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready at all.
The casino owner greeted Jagor by the blackjack table: a seat had been reserved for him…but only one. That was fine: I was happy to stand, like the bodyguards.
“My aide will need a seat,” Jagor told the owner in passable French.
The man sitting next to Jagor was a deeply tanned man with thinning silver hair. From the amount of chips he was purchasing, he was approaching Jagor’s level of wealth. The owner gestured apologetically at him.
Jagor did something then: it was the first time I’d seen it, but I’d come to know it as The Royal Stare. It was distantly related to the modern day “You did not just say that” look, but weighted with hundreds of years of royal lineage. The social effect for the recipient was like sprinting headlong into a brick wall.
The owner reddened and hurriedly spoke with the man in English, persuading him to move. He eventually did, grumbling and glaring the whole time. When he’d gone, muttering something about the royals under his breath, Jagor gestured politely at the seat. I sat.
“I may get some bad press tomorrow,” Jagor whispered in my ear. “He owns it.”
“Owns what, Your Highness?”
“The press.”
I wanted to curl up and die: we’d antagonized a press baron, just so I could have a seat. “I would have been happy to stand, Your Highness.”
“My aide doesn’t stand,” he told me, looking deep into my eyes. I caught my breath and had to look away quickly, before the look made me do something stupid. Jagor chuckled.
I’d never played blackjack before, but the croupier was a quick teacher and Jagor enjoyed showing me. After a few practice rounds, he called for chips. They brought out his own set: gleaming metal and stamped with the royal crest. “Pressed palladium,” he told me proudly. I looked at the numbers on the chips. Each one represented $1000.
He put a stack of twenty chips in front of me.
“Oh no,” I told him. “Your Highness, I don’t think I should…”
“More fun if we play together.”
“Your Highness, I barely know how to play!”
“You’ll be fine.”
I wasn’t.
Blackjack isn’t a complicated game to play, but you’re destined to lose unless you can count cards – which neither of us could – and you’ll lose quickly unless you know what’s called “basic strategy” - which I didn’t. I asked for cards when I should have stuck and stuck when I needed a card. I lost or busted hand after hand. Every chip that disappeared from the table ratcheted up the bill for my mistakes. That was a thousand dollars. That was another thousand dollars. That and that and that and suddenly I hadn’t lost a dress or a month’s rent: I’d lost the equivalent of a car. A crowd had gathered behind us and were ooh-ing and aw-ing at every loss. I looked up into Jagor’s eyes, terrified.
He was smiling. “Enjoying yourself?” he asked.
“Scared, Your Highness.”
“That’s your first mistake. Don’t be scared or worried: just learn the game.”
“Couldn’t we start with matchsticks, Your Highness?”
“You’ll learn faster when the stakes are higher. God, I want you.”
I jerked upright and glanced around, horrified. The bodyguards were standing a respectful distance away, but there were at least four locals close enough to have heard him. I looked back at Jagor, eyes wide.
Then I remembered we were speaking in Asterian.
“Your Highness,” I asked, a little testily, “How do you know they don’t speak Asterian?”
“No one speaks Asterian outside Asteria,” he chided. “Except librarians. Enjoy it while you can, before we get home.”
That reminded me of the dress shop again. I needed a long conversation with him before we went anywhere near Asteria. But before that, now we had some semblance of privacy, there was something else I wanted to ask. “About this morning, on the terrace…”
He was silent for a moment. “Some things should stay in the past,” he said at last. “We should be shaping our futures, instead. Making new memories.” He looked at me and his eyes were kind, even as they were pained. He wasn’t angry that he’d told me, but he wouldn’t…no, he couldn’t revisit it again. Not yet.
“Of course, Your Highness. I understand.”
He nodded gratefully and gave me one of those devilish smiles. I lit up inside and I could feel it, with
a certainty I’d never known before. I loved this man.
His phone rang. He looked sagely at the screen for a few seconds and then signaled the casino owner with a wave of his hand. He didn’t even look round; just assumed that the man would be standing ready to attend to him.
“I need to make a private phone call,” Jagor told the owner. “May I use one of your offices?”
The owner was delighted to show us into his own, wood-paneled office. It had huge windows overlooking the driveway in front of the casino. The lights were off: just a desk lamp and the moonlight from outside lighting the room.
As soon as the huge double doors had closed behind us, Jagor slipped his hands around my waist and guided me towards the owner’s desk. I squeaked as my ass bumped into the hard wood. Jagor lifted me easily to perch on the edge, my body like a doll in his hands. I could see his pecs flexing under his tight white dress shirt, his stubble gleaming in the dim light. Those green eyes skimmed down my body as they had at the embassy, what seemed like months ago. He was in full-on sex mode, like an animal that’s scented its mate, and I knew this was at least partially to do with our conversation. Forgetting the past. Making new memories.
I’d started breathing hard as soon as he touched me. “What about the phone call, Your Highness?”
“There is no phone call.”
He’d set an alarm on his phone, I realized. Wait: he hadn’t even had his phone out the entire time we’d been at the casino. He must have set it back at the hotel: he’d planned this whole thing hours ago. The thought made me unbelievably hot.
He leaned in and kissed me softly. Then hungrily, his lips exploring mine, my mouth open and panting. This man could take me from a standing start to full speed just with a touch – it was disconcerting, the power he had over me. One hand was in my hair, the warmth of it sliding deliciously along my scalp, making me tingle right down the length of my body. The other was unzipping the back of my dress.
Asteria - In Love with the Prince Page 6
