Keeping Her

by Holly Hart

  I sigh and run my hands down my face. This is surreal. I feel like I’m on Punk’d or some other “gotcha” show. I pray that Ashton Kutcher is going to jump out from behind on of the suits of armor that line the window wall. But I know that’s not going to happen.

  “I want to make sure I’ve got this completely straight,” I say, as if doing so will make the universe wake up to how crazy this is and somehow cancel if for me. “I have to be married by my 30th birthday, which means I have two weeks to find a woman, get engaged and plan a state wedding?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir.”

  This is ridiculous. It’s the 21st century, not the Middle Ages, or the Napoleonic Wars. I have 300-megabits-per-second wi-fi in this medieval tomb of an office, for fuck’s sake. And I’m being held hostage and my life turned upside-down because of some obscure decree that a grad student found hidden in the handle of my family sword.

  “And it’s absolutely not fake?”

  “It’s been verified – discreetly – by four royal historians, sir. It’s authentic, and if it was to end up in court, it’s my opinion that it would eventually prove legally binding. Napoleon himself created the decree specifically for Morova, because he understood the wealth and power inherent in its banking interests. It was incredibly powerful as a principality – far more so than Monaco, Malta or the others – and he wanted a loophole that would allow him to claim that wealth to fund his European conquest.

  “By adding such an obscure decree, he could either control the monarchy, or he could get rid of it altogether. Fortunately, Napoleon died before he ever used it, at least as far as we’ve been able to discern. But since the law was never repealed, it could very well still be in effect.”

  Why can’t I have a normal family history like everyone else? Grandpa was a farmer, Uncle Joe stormed the beach at Normandy. No, I have to have a three-thousand-word fucking Wikipedia entry for a family tree.

  “Why didn’t you know about this?” I snap. “If this applies to all Morovan monarchs, it must have applied to my ancestors!”

  “I can’t say what circumstances led to it being hidden in the sword’s handle, sir. But the fact remains it was, and we must follow the edict or face dire consequences.”

  I snap my fingers. “We just hide it,” I say. “Bribe the grad student and go about our business as if no one found anything. I go back to being a playboy and we all get on with our lives.”

  I know I’m clutching at straws, but I’ll do anything to make sure this doesn’t happen. I can’t be roped into this. I won’t be roped into this.

  But what’s the alternative? Lose the monarchy? I can’t let that happen.

  Carlo sighs deeply. His tall, lanky frame looks like a broken rake inside his tailored charcoal suit, his white hair swept back in a pompadour from another era.

  “Sir, you’re already on rocky ground with the Crown Council,” he says. “They disapprove of your lifestyle, and Chancellor Huber would like nothing more than an opportunity to oust you and eliminate the monarchy.”

  “And steal the family fortune,” I snarl. “Yes, I know.”

  “In this day and age, secrets rarely remain secrets for long. If it were to become public that we deliberately hid the decree, it would undoubtedly lead to the fall of the house of Trentini.”

  I jam my hands in the pockets of my suit pants and pace the exquisite Persian rug that covers the center of my office’s marble floor. I graduated from Oxford, I should be able to think my way out of this.

  Granted, I partied away most of my time there…

  But nothing is coming to mind. Carlo is right – tradition and protocol matter deeply to the Morovan people, even if there are fewer than fifty thousand of them. And Huber is a popular leader. It’s a hornet’s nest that we just can’t afford to kick.

  Pacing is starting to get on my nerves, so I wander to the window on the south wall to the dappled surface of Lake Orta below us. Isola D’ora – the Island of Gold – has been my home for almost thirty years.

  It’s also been my prison. And now, it looks like I’ll be getting a cellmate. Someone I don’t even know.

  I sigh and turn to face Carlo. I feel bad for snapping at him – he’s doing everything he can to help. But it’s not every day you get told your life is pretty much over.

  “If it’s any consolation, sir, I’m sure Maria is up to the task of making sure the wedding happens,” he says. “She’s already in the process of planning your birthday celebration. Turning it into a royal wedding should be simple enough.”

  “Sure,” I say, trying to keep my anger in check. “I’m the one with the easy job. All I have to do is find a wife. In two weeks. How hard can it possibly be?”

  Carlo levels a look at me that I suppose normal people would probably associate with a school principal. I was educated by private tutors, so I can only imagine.

  “Your Highness,” he intones. “Now is the time to stop complaining and start planning. You do have a reputation as being somewhat irresponsible – a sudden marriage is not outside the realm of possibility. And as much as we would like to convince ourselves otherwise, most people are willing to suspend disbelief when it comes to royal marriages. As long as we maintain the illusion of the fairytale, the reality doesn’t really matter.”

  He’s right. My parents fought all the time – they loved each other, sure, but they were definitely not the idyllic couple everyone saw at the public functions. In fact, I’m pretty sure their marriage was arranged, at least partially, to solidify the family banking interests against attack from the National Council.

  Basically, Carlo is reminding me that I live by a set of rules that don’t apply to normal people. Reinforcing the fact that I live at arms’ length from the rest of the human race.

  I sigh. That’s not news; why am I treating it like it is? Yet another bizarre twist in a life that’s been full of them, and I’m not even thirty yet. I need to accept it and move on. There isn’t time for anything else.

  “So,” I say with a sardonic grin. “Anything else I need to know before I go out and find my princess bride in the next two weeks and try to pass her off as a legitimate love interest?”

  Carlo looks down at his folded hands and clears his throat. Shit. That can’t be good.

  “Carlo?”

  “There is one more stipulation, sir,” he says, avoiding eye contact. “And I’m afraid it’s a bit of a, shall we say… unique challenge.”

  “What could possibly be more of a challenge than finding a wife in two weeks?” I ask, goggling at him.

  “Sir… she, uh. She has to be a…”

  “A what? Blonde? Catholic? Taylor Swift fan? Spit it out, man.”

  He lowers his voice to a whisper.

  “She has to be a virgin, sir.”

  I’m sure every single person in the entire 100,000-square-foot castle hears the words I say next, loud and clear.

  Chapter One Hundred Forty-Six

  2. AMANDA

  “GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!”

  “Gah!”

  Every nerve in my body ignites at the same time as the shout rings out from the prince’s office. It makes me drop my tea, dumping Orange Pekoe all over the blue satin blouse I bought specifically for meeting with him. Meanwhile, the cup and saucer tumble to the stone floor and shatter into a thousand jagged shards.

  Awesome, I groan inwardly. Just fucking perfect. Way to make that first impression, Amanda.

  I can’t believe this is happening – any of this, not just spilling my tea and making a fool of myself.

  A month ago I was on a sabbatical in Malta, poring over old documents in a dusty library vault to research my dissertation. Now I’m in a palace on Isola D’ora, the most beautiful place on the face of the planet, and standing outside the office of Prince Dante of Morova, the hottest royal bachelor on the face of the planet.

  And my new boss. Sort of, anyway.

  Now, here I am soaked to the skin with tea and standing over two obliterated pieces o
f bone china that have probably been in the prince’s family since before the Renaissance. Thank God the tea went tepid while I was talking to my new friend Maria, or I’d have blisters forming on my chest right now, as well.

  I must look a sight because Maria rushes over to see if I’m okay. She grabs a napkin off the silver service tray and starts dabbing at my blouse.

  “Are you hurt?” she asks, looking me over like a protective mother. Not surprising, given her years as a de facto nanny to the prince’s niece and nephew, Oriana and Vito.

  “Just what little pride I had when I came in,” I say with a half-grin. “I hope the prince wasn’t directing that at me.”

  She takes my arms and looks me in the eye. Maria is a stunning woman, the epitome of Northern Italian beauty: burnished oak hair, honey skin, sea-blue eyes. Me, on the other hand? My mom’s Irish roots might as well be a neon sign on my head: red hair, a complexion like coconut milk, and pale blue eyes that look more like faded jeans than Maria’s startling sapphire ones.

  “Dante can be a real ass sometimes,” she grumbles. “But trust me, he wasn’t talking to you.”

  She calls the prince by his first name. I wonder if maybe they’re involved? Maria has been his secretary for years, although the title doesn’t do her job justice. She’s a hell of a lot more than a receptionist. I can’t help but wonder if she’s more than just a family friend, too.

  I’m not going to ask her, though. That would be incredibly rude, especially since Maria is the one who plucked me out of obscurity and gave me a job that’s going to establish my career and probably guarantee my PhD. Not to mention pay me enough to give Dad some substantial help with the ranch’s finances.

  Assuming I survive this meeting, of course.

  “Although I am curious about what set him off,” she continues, trying to erase the tea with some seltzer, and soaking me even more in the process. “He can be volatile at times, but he rarely forgets his manners like that. He’s had a lifetime of programming on how to act, after all.”

  I wish I had training on how to act. Talking to my professors is difficult enough for me, let alone someone like Prince Dante. He’s the full-meal deal: tall, rich, charming, a reputation as a bad boy. Sorry, but as far as I’m concerned, Harry is a distant second in the hot royal bachelor department.

  Yeah, as if I have a shot with either one of them. How could Dante resist a charming compliment like “the full-meal deal”? Every last bit of my Montana cattle ranch upbringing shines through in that one.

  “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not you,” says Maria. Her efforts have left me sopping, but at least the stain is gone.

  “Thank you so much,” I say, but my relief is short-lived: looking down, I see that my breasts are on full display against the satin. I might as well be in a wet tee-shirt contest.

  What else could go wrong?

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” says a male voice from behind me.

  My heart hammers in my chest as I turn reflexively to see a gorgeous man enter the room through the arched doorway. It’s Dante’s cousin, Emilio – I recognize him from my studies, and, of course, the rolling news coverage of Dante’s social life. Emilio is usually somewhere in the background, all blond curls and dimples and Michael Phelps bod. He’s no Dante, but I wouldn’t kick him out of my bed for eating crackers.

  Really sophisticated, Amanda. Witty lines like that will get you a managerial position at Chicken Shack in no time!

  And how would I know what it’s like to kick a man out of my bed? I’ve never even had a man in my bed.

  His dreamy eyes meet mine, then drop to my soaked chest, and I feel hot blood coursing into my cheeks. To his credit, he immediately looks over at Maria, giving me time to cross my arms. Thank God.

  “Maria,” he says warmly, taking her hand. “Sounds like he’s in a mood?”

  “Yes, we’re not sure what the problem is,” she says with a thin smile. I’m horrified when I realize that she’s going to introduce me to him, when all I really want to do is turn invisible and press myself against the wall until everyone leaves.

  Maria waves a hand in my direction, obviously embarrassed by my situation but bound by protocol and good manners to go through with it. If anyone understands that, it’s me, unfortunately.

  “Prince Emilio Steiger, this is Amanda Sparks, from America. I’ve hired her to oversee Dante’s 30th birthday celebration.”

  My eyes go wide as I contemplate taking my arms away from my chest to shake his hand. Instead, he saves me the shame and gallantly bows from the waist in my direction.

  “A great pleasure, Ms. Sparks,” he says with a radiant smile. “I’m sure you’re doing an excellent job. Maria has quite a reputation for discovering talent.”

  “You’re only saying that because it’s true,” says Maria. “I actually came upon Amanda quite by accident – she was working with another graduate student who needed to meet with Carlo for some reason. Amanda and I got to talking, and it turns out she’s an expert in European royal protocol.”

  I never did find out what was so important that my friend Peter had to talk to Prince Dante’s chief counsel. All I know is he was studying the Trentini family’s ceremonial sword, and suddenly he was wild-eyed, phoning around like crazy, trying to set up a meeting.

  Of course, once Maria offered me the job of planning the prince’s royal birthday gala, I kind of stopped caring about Peter. In fact, I haven’t seen him since. Granted, the past several days have been a bit of a whirlwind.

  Things have had to move quickly; Maria told me she didn’t know until last week whether Dante would even be in Morova for his birthday. She finally had to read him the riot act – well, as much as a chief of staff can with a prince – and tell him his adoring public expected him to be there.

  “That sounds perfect,” Emilio says to me, making sure to keep his eyes on mine. “I’m sure you’re aware of how much Morovans love their protocol and traditions. Typical bankers, I suppose. And the Swiss influence, of course – precision is everything.”

  I am aware of all that. I’ve read that Dante is actually seen by many of the principality’s citizens as being a bit too… Italian for their tastes. Passionate and intense, as opposed to reserved and polite, like his cousin. Emilio’s mother, Duchess Isabella, is the sister of Dante’s mother. She’s half-Swiss, and Isabella’s husband was full-Swiss, so Emilio ended up looking more Nordic than Mediterranean.

  This is the kind of thing you learn in my field of study. It’s a party a minute, I tell ya. But hey, it got me this job – assuming my meeting with the prince goes well and I don’t do anything to blow it. My blouse drying up would be a step in the right direction at this point.

  Of course, that doesn’t happen, because the very next moment, the office door comes flying open and Prince Dante crashes right into me, wet tits and all.

  Chapter One Hundred Forty-Seven

  3. DANTE

  That’s what I get for losing my temper – I run headlong into some poor woman who happens to be standing in my way. I should have been looking where I was going, not glaring back at Carlo, as I walked through the door.

  “Oh!” she yelps as we make contact. She’s solid enough that I don’t knock her straight to the floor, but I’m a pretty big guy, so I send her reeling backwards. But before she goes, my pecs get a very personal, very wet introduction to her breasts through the thin silk of my shirt.

  As she recovers her footing, my eyes can’t help but wander over those breasts, perfectly delineated under the wet satin. But those blue globes quickly give way to the pale clarity of her sky-blue eyes. I’ve never seen such a shade, like the lagoon of a white sand beach under a blazing tropical sun.

  Suddenly her face goes nearly as red as her stunning hair, and her arms quickly cross over her chest. I’ve embarrassed her.

  Good work, Your Highness. How very princely of you.

  “Amanda!”

  Maria rushes to the woman – obviously named Amanda – and lay
s a concerned hand on her shoulder.

  “Are you all right?” Maria asks.

  “Yes,” says Amanda. “I’m so sorry, that was very clumsy of me.”

  My stomach sinks as Maria’s fiery eyes turn to me.

  “Don’t be silly,” she says with a glare. “It was entirely the prince’s fault. Isn’t that right, Your Highness?”

  My manners finally kick in and I rush to fill the gap between us. I take Amanda’s hand, careful not to pull her folded arm away from her breasts. The breasts I suddenly want very much to see again…

  Stop it! You’re a prince, for God’s sake!

  “Of course it is,” I say, pressing my lips against the back of her hand. “Please forgive me. Are you all right? Should I call someone to attend to you?”

  Amanda’s cheeks glow even redder in contrast to her porcelain skin.

  “I’m fine,” she says with a forced smile. “They grow us tough down in Montana.”

  Her eyes widen as if she’s shocked by her own words.

  “Well,” I say, locking my eyes on her ethereal blue ones. “If there are more like you there, I very much look forward to visiting Montana one day.”

  Smooth. The funny thing is, I didn’t even think about it before I said it. Either I’m so well trained at this that I do it automatically, or I actually meant it.

  What does it say about my lifestyle that I don’t even know the difference between the two anymore? In any case, Maria seems to approve, so that much is all right with the world.

  “Well, since you’ve already met, I suppose I should introduce you,” Maria says with a chuckle. “Prince Dante, this is Amanda Sparks. She’s the protocol expert in charge of planning your birthday celebration. We discussed her hiring last week.”

  We did?

  “Of course,” I say. “How could I possibly forget? I’m very pleased to have you at the helm of such an important event. Maria told me you’re extremely talented.”

  I assume she did, anyway. I can’t be expected to remember every single thing Maria tells me. I do recall her saying I had to be there; if I wasn’t, she’d make sure they never found my body.