Inconceivable! Page 4

  I recognized some of the dozen or so men from yesterday’s press line at the childcare center. A scream threatened to burst from my lips as one photographer knelt down, a human obstacle between me and my car.

  Wonder how much your photo is worth. Don’t do anything stupid!

  “Excuse me,” I said, using my hands to part the group and open my car door. They moved aside without comment and I mentally gave them the middle finger.

  Pulling away from the curb, I checked my rearview mirror. No one followed me, though a couple of photographers crouched in the street snapping pictures of the back of my car. Evidently, I was important enough to stalk, but not significant enough to chase. I found comfort in this knowledge.

  Despite the unusual and disconcerting start to my day courtesy of the paparazzi, I realized the daily grind of reporting was going to feel especially dull after spending Wednesday with the prince at his palace. But the variety of assignments was one reason I loved journalism. I might interview a prince one day, and cover striking garbage collectors the next.

  When I entered the newsroom, no one so much as looked up from their computer. I sat down at my desk and opened the notes for my investigative story. Paul, another intern, came over and tossed an envelope on my desk.

  “What’s this?”

  “I don’t know. The receptionist asked me to give it to you. You’re famous now, you know,” he said over his shoulder, as he walked away.

  “Um, thanks?” I had no idea how to handle this new attention.

  I looked at the envelope; I rarely received mail at the newsroom. I rubbed the heavy, creamy paper. Nice texture. My name was written in a neat script across the front. I opened it to find a note card inside in the same handwriting.

  Dear Hatty,

  Thank you for your article on my grandmother’s early education program. I enjoyed speaking with you yesterday at Belvoir, and your article accurately reflected our discussion. Since your visit was impromptu and brief, I’d like to invite you back for a private tour of the palace. I’ll send a driver to pick you up Saturday at 9:00 a.m. at your flat.

  Sincerely,

  John

  The notecard fluttered from my hand onto the keyboard as my desk phone rang. I grabbed it.

  “Are you okay? I’ve been trying to call you since last night. Please tell me there’s a reason you didn’t call and tell me everything about your new romance with Prince John.” Tilda didn’t pause for a breath.

  “New romance? What are you talking about?” My stomach gave a restless turn.

  “Haven’t you read the other papers this morning? The Daily Scoop blog?” She sounded incredulous.

  “No. I had a late night―”

  “I bet you did!”

  “Look, I got to interview the prince, then had to come back here and crank out my story.”

  As I spoke, I typed and clicked, trying to pull up the websites for the other papers.

  I gasped. “Oh, no…” If the notecard from Prince John took my breath away, the story on the screen sucked all the oxygen out of the room. “What the heck?”

  “Looks like you’re the prince’s newest conquest.”

  Prince John Whisks Journalist Away for Romantic Tour of Palace

  By Xpress staff

  October 17, 2013

  As Prince John dashed from the Smart Start preschool Wednesday afternoon, he invited a young reporter to ride with him in his limo.

  According to a source, this was not the first time the prince had met this particular newspaper intern.

  “Someone told me they heard the prince kissed her at a bar,” said a Smart Start staffer who asked to remain anonymous.

  Xpress has learned the mystery woman is Hatty Brunelle, newsroom intern for The Morning Dispatch.

  She’s the latest in a long string of women seen in public recently with the prince who’s on the rebound after his messy split from Claire Léglise, daughter of Monaco casino magnate François Léglise.

  “Tilda. This is disastrous,” I whispered.

  “Well, is it true?”

  “What? No. Yes. Kind of.” I explained to her what happened, and how it must have looked to the other reporters as the guard pulled me into the limo with the prince.

  “Tilda. I interviewed him at Belvoir. I was very professional.” This stupid tabloid story completely stole my credibility as a reporter.

  Paul approached my desk. “James wants to see you in his office.”

  “I’ve got to go. My editor’s about to skewer me.”

  I hung up and walked into James’ office.

  “Close the door. Sit.” He spoke in the same direct tone he wanted us to use when writing our stories.

  He turned his computer monitor around, and there was the article I just read. “What’s this?”

  “I don’t know.” I hated confrontation… when I was on the receiving end.

  “Do you know how this looks?”

  “Awful. It makes me look like a ditz who’s chasing the prince.”

  “Maybe. But it also looks like you’ve got an inside line to Belvoir. Your star at the paper’s rising. Letting him drag you into his limo may have been the best move of your career. So, do you have a special relationship with the prince?” He leaned toward me with a wink.

  “No. I met him for the first time briefly Saturday night at a bar. Then yesterday, he recognized me outside the preschool. It started raining and I was getting soaked. He had one of his guards bring me into the limo. That’s it.”

  “I don’t care how it happened. We want to give you your own blog.”

  “And what will I write about? My investigation into the environmental and health impacts of the smelter at Kortrijk?” Yes! A platform for my investigative story!

  “No. You’ll write about anything and everything involving the royal family. It will complement Heidi’s coverage. Is that a problem?” His tone dared me to disagree. I watched in horror as my personal and professional lives collided at the intersection of Big Break Boulevard and Prince Charming Way.

  “I need to think about it. Can I let you know Monday?”

  “No. We have to strike while you’re hot. Most interns would kill for this kind of break.”

  He was right, of course. But covering the royals was merely an amusing assignment. I went into journalism to take down corrupt politicians by brandishing my stick-it-to-the-man attitude. Blogging about the royals was like getting in bed with the man. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

  “If I do this new blog, can I still do my investigative story?”

  “Sure. Take a couple of hours this morning. But the blog is your priority. We want to promote it. This is going to change your life, Hatty.”

  fter leaving James’ office, I borrowed Paul’s phone and texted Tilda. I asked her to round up Plato, Sam, and Sara for drinks at Finn’s. Since it was a non-karaoke night, it wouldn’t be crowded. Full of people or not, we loved this pub precisely because it wasn’t like any of the other bars in town, most of which felt frozen with cold, modern décor and post-modern rock.

  We sat in our usual booth at the back, sipping Toulene’s famous red wine and speculating about my visit to Belvoir Saturday.

  “Do you think he’ll try to kiss you again?” Sara asked, already a bit tipsy.

  “Absolutely not. This is strictly professional, and I’m not sure he even tried to kiss me last Saturday,” I asserted.

  “Your flirt-dar’s broken. Of course, he tried to kiss you.”

  “Flirt-dar?”

  “Your flirting radar. I was sitting across the room, and I saw him lift your chin and lean in for a kiss.” Sara kissed the air with a loud smack.

  “Sara’s right. I think he’s into you, girl.” Plato’s eyebrows bounced up and down and he grinned as though he had inside knowledge.

  “You guys are crazy. This invitation to visit the palace is merely a courtesy.”

  “Perhaps. But I bet he thinks he can use you, that you’ll do whatever he asks,” Tilda said,
ever skeptical of the royal family. The daughter of Kenyan immigrants, Tilda worked for Assemblyman Hans Aalders, a majority leader in the federal legislative body.

  “Well, he can forget that, too. And they’re the most powerful family in the country. Why do they need reporters in their back pocket?”

  “Are you serious? They have a select group of reporters they use to plant stories. They think the press can sway the National Assembly and public opinion. Unfortunately, they’re right, to an extent, though my boss doesn’t care about the press. No offense, Hatty,” Tilda said.

  “None taken.”

  From the moment she heard about my encounter with the prince after my karaoke performance, Tilda questioned his motives. Even though she was a relatively recent law school grad and had only worked for the assemblyman a few months, she already had a firm grasp on the inner workings of Toulene’s political scene and how the royal family figured into it.

  I glanced across the room and saw my fellow intern Paul sitting in a booth, snapping photos of us with his smartphone. Without hesitation, I marched over to him.

  “What are you doing?” I grabbed his phone and looked at the pictures. Most of them were close-ups of me. I began deleting them.

  “Hey! That’s my phone!”

  “That’s my face! Stop it.” I slammed his phone onto the table. “Look, you idiot. I’m not the story. The royals are. Didn’t you hear? James wants me to blog about them. So leave me alone.” I turned and walked back to my table.

  “Who the hell’s that?” Plato inquired. As a graduate student, fellow American, and occasional DJ-for-hire, Plato knew lots of 20-somethings in Roeselare, and he was always shocked when we ran into someone he didn’t recognize.

  “Paul. Another intern at the Dispatch.”

  “You’re such a badass. I hope the real paparazzi does try to come after you. You’ll kill ‘em.” Plato didn’t know about my lack of badassery when I’d gone toe-to-toe with the photographers outside my apartment building that morning.

  I looked back at Paul sitting by himself. He was glaring at me and I mouthed the word douchebag.

  “Look, I’ve been around John at several poker games,” Plato said. “He’s very chill. I don’t think he wants to seduce you. His reputation for dating a lot of women is totally overblown. And I don’t think he wants to use you to influence the legislative process. You guys are overthinking it. Back me up here, Sam.”

  “Oui. I agree. Hatty, you will be brilliant Saturday. He may give you another exclusive interview.” Sam gave me his sweet smile. He was always the nicest man in the room.

  “Sam? Can’t you forget this Plato guy and run away with me?” I teased.

  “Yes, to hell with Plato and the prince! We’ll live in my medieval castle, grow our own grapes, and make wine.” He punctuated his proposal by kissing the length of my arm. Flitting around a vineyard with a handsome gay man sounded kind of awesome.

  “Well, no matter what Prince John’s true intentions are, there’s the little matter of my wardrobe, and what I’m going to wear Saturday. Tilda? Sara?”

  “Would love to help, but I’ve got a date Friday night.” Sara pressed her palms in the air in her favorite raise-the-roof gesture.

  “Is it with what’s-his-name? The one who’s supposed to be a royal cousin three times removed?” Plato threw back the last of his drink.

  “The very one,” Sara said, standing from our table. “I’ve got to get home. The coffee fiends start beating down the door at 6:00 a.m., and I’ve got to be there to open. Hatty, I’m completely jealous you get to see your hottie prince again. Tell him your friend is dating his cousin-in-law on his dead mother’s side.”

  “Will do. I’d better head out, too. Tilda, don’t abandon me on the fashion front. I don’t want a tragedy on my hands come Saturday morning.”

  “I always come to the rescue. I’ll stop by your apartment tomorrow night.”

  As I walked with Sara down the sidewalk, anticipation swelled in my chest. What did I expect to happen Saturday at the palace? I had no idea.

  ven though the world knew I was the reporter the prince whisked away in the limo on Wednesday, the paparazzi’s interest faded quickly. After a couple of the photographers decided to trail me Friday to the newsroom, coffeehouse, and back to my apartment, they saw just how dull the life of an intern was. By that evening, there were no more photographers hanging around my building. They had prettier people to photograph.

  When Tilda came to my apartment Friday night, she suggested I wear my crisp, indigo jeans, a green V-neck sweater, and brown boots for my palace visit. She knew all about the complex I had stemming from a comment Jenny Marshall made sophomore year of high school: she said the clothes I wore made me look dudely.

  Saturday morning precisely at nine, I walked to the street and met the nondescript black car that pulled up in front of my apartment building with no fanfare, fuss, or flash of cameras.

  The driver got out and opened the door. I slid across the smooth leather of the back seat. Deep breathing helped me combat my nerves as we drove out of my suburb and into the capital city. We pulled into the same gate I’d entered the last time I was here.

  A tall man with impeccable posture met me when I stepped out of the car. “Good morning, Miss. I’m Mr. Vermeulen. May I get your coat before I take you to the prince?”

  I slid off my heavy jacket as I stood under an awning, trying to place his accent. Definitely not from Toulene. Belgium, maybe?

  I handed him the riding clothes I wore home Wednesday. I’d washed them twice and taken great care with folding them. “I had to borrow these, and wanted to return them.”

  “Thank you, Miss.”

  He led me into the palace, and through the hallways and stairs I’d last traversed with John. Mr. Vermeulen walked at a much more reasonable pace, I noted. I recognized our destination at once, and smiled as John met me at the door to the red room with all the paintings.

  The potential for awkwardness flashed in my mind only for a moment―whether to shake his hand or just nod or (gulp) hug him.

  “Good morning, Hatty! How are you doing?” He was positively beaming as he wrapped his arms around me in a bear hug, making me feel like a long lost royal cousin rather than a journalist. With his body pressed against mine, warmth radiated down to my toes. Having his arms squeezing me felt scrumptious. I inhaled deeply, catching that mixture of mint, soap, and aftershave, the Holy Trinity of sexy man scent.

  “I’m good. Thank you for doing all this.” I waved my hands around. Stop the gawky arm movements!

  “It’s my pleasure. I’m sorry I didn’t get to show you around Wednesday. This is the least I can do after you wrote such a lovely story.”

  “Thank you.” Ugh. It wasn’t meant to be a “lovely” story. I tried to write a straightforward account of our interview, the parts that were on the record anyway.

  “Walk with me.”

  We took a leisurely pace, strolling along the closest wall. I stopped to examine the paintings up close.

  “This room is where we hold our annual Winter’s Feast, and it’s also hosted a couple of royal weddings.” He sounded like a tour guide giving the usual spiel.

  The solemn eyes of the men and women in the portraits seemed to gaze collectively at a point in the distance, as though straining for a glimpse into the future.

  “They look so serious. Do you ever wonder what made them laugh?”

  “No. I’ve never thought about it before. What do you suppose made Great Aunt Helena up there unfreeze her frown?”

  “Maybe she laughed at the desperation reflected in Uncle Comb Over’s hairstyle.” I pointed to the man in the portrait next to her. “I bet she gave him grief about it when he posed for the artist. Maybe she said, ‘Why don’t you just take it all off? You’re not fooling anyone, you know!’” I laughed. And snorted.

  Then, I froze. John wasn’t laughing.

  “Hatty. That’s Uncle Gustav, a German count who married into the fa
mily. He died of an infectious disease that thinned his hair.”

  “Oh, gosh. I’m so sorry. I had no idea. It was stupid of me to say…”

  John’s laughter interrupted me. He pointed at my apologetic face and said, “Now that’s funny.”

  I gently punched him on the arm. “I thought you were serious!”

  We both laughed unrestrained like a couple of kids. In that unguarded moment, our laughter swirling together, my eyes met his. A current of attraction passed between us, charging the air, and I saw his eyes open wider to acknowledge it.

  He cleared his throat and looked up at the portraits. “You’ve certainly imparted a new level of humanity to these stoic faces. I’m not sure I’ll ever look at them the same way.”

  He was still smiling when he turned to face me. “Hatty, all of today is off the record. I mean, you’re not on the clock. So, this isn’t about work. Agreed?”

  Dang it! I’d hoped to find a story for my blog during today’s visit. Even though it wasn’t the kind of journalism I wanted to do, I did want to give it my best shot.

  “Yes. It’s off the record.” Sigh.

  “Excellent. Let’s keep moving.”

  We walked out of the Regents Room and up a wooden staircase.

  We stood at the start of a long hallway. Farther down on the left, light poured into an open area with an overstuffed couch. We walked toward it, and I saw it wasn’t just a single window that lit up the sitting area. One entire wall was made of glass, so you could sit and drink in the view. A flat screen larger than any I’d ever seen was mounted on one of the other walls. Heavy drapes hung at the edges of the window, ready to shut out the light for anyone who wanted to watch television.

  “When we’re home, this is where my dad, my brother, and I spend a decent amount of time.”

  “I can see why. What an amazing view.”

  The entire western end of the capital city sprawled out from our feet. Close to the palace and just beneath us was a massive lawn where a handful of peacocks preened, despite the cold. Beyond the palace grounds were three blocks of government buildings followed by houses that seemed to huddle together along each block. They all had the same steeply sloped roofs that were popular in Toulene.