Inconceivable! Page 8

  “May I sit?” A line just above his jawbone pulsed; he held his teeth together tightly.

  I nodded and felt a lump in my throat. He had on his cap, coat, and glasses, the same disguise he wore the night we met. Seeing the frumpy get-up made me even more nervous about having this conversation. A lot had happened. I had more to lose now than I did the night we met.

  “I got your note.” He held up the napkin, looking at me expectantly.

  “Right. I just want you to know I didn’t write the story. Without my knowledge or consent, James had another intern, Paul, follow us. He saw us leave the foundation office, then he spoke to one of the patients when she left the building. Of course, he didn’t tell her that he was a reporter―and that’s terribly unethical. Then, he got the nasty quote from the assemblyman over the phone, and put the story together.” John looked at me intently, which only made my nervousness flare. “I’m really sorry about the story. I wish there was a way to fix this.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your explanation.” The hurt in his eyes didn’t disappear.

  “And I quit my internship. I can’t work for a publication that doesn’t abide by basic journalistic standards of conduct. They treated you and your family very badly. I don’t want to be a part of that.” I reached out and took his hand. “What I do want is to spend more time with you.”

  And there it was. The moment when he’d either accept me or reject me. I swallowed hard and took a deep breath, steeling myself for a possible (probable) rejection.

  He squeezed my hand. “I don’t know if this can work. You’re in a risky line of work as far as my family and I are concerned.”

  “I talked to my advisor this morning. She says she can pull some strings and find another internship for me. I’ll find out Wednesday where I’m going to work. I plan to continue working on my investigative story. But I’m not going to cover you and your family.”

  He reached over and cupped my cheek with his palm. “Still, this won’t be easy.”

  I laughed. “I don’t do easy. Just ask my parents. I turned down a full ride to the University of Missouri Journalism School because I wanted to study in Toulene.”

  “In that case, I have a proposal. How do you feel about spending some time together this weekend?”

  “Absolutely! I’m up for anything.”

  I curled my legs underneath me as I nestled into the oversized chair. Aging hipsters and university students floated through Soleil, our favorite coffeehouse, as Tilda and I sipped our drinks. We were a fixture there on Wednesday nights, our designated time to catch up since we both kept crazy schedules.

  She looked at me intently. “The way I see it, this is a win-win for John. He gets the girl and he squashes your blog. What’s not to love about this story?”

  “Tilda. Are you serious? Can’t you be a little excited for me? I’ve got a new internship and I get to spend time with John. That’s a win-win for me.”

  She grinned. “I suppose. At least now I know he can’t use you to plant stories since you’re not covering his family.”

  “Okay. Professional considerations aside, can we unleash our inner sixteen-year-olds for a minute? The prince and I are dating!” I whispered the words, scared to death someone would overhear.

  I’d signed the contract Tuesday evening when the Meinrad family attorney, Lars Franke, visited my apartment. He went over the details line by line. I was free to tell my parents and my closest friends all of whom I named in the contract: Plato, Sam, Tilda, and Sara. Lars told me the palace staff would have to run background checks on each of them before giving me clearance to share my news. Thank goodness none of them were wanted by Interpol.

  “Of course, I’m excited for you. I’m also relieved you can still work on your investigative project.” She set down her mug and rubbed her hands together. “Tell me what he’s like. I only know him as the broody prince who drops into the National Assembly building to gripe about policies his family doesn’t like.”

  Broody? I couldn’t imagine it. She had her Assemblyman Aalders-colored glasses on when she saw the prince.

  “He’s funny, actually. He’s kind of formal when he speaks, but I think it’s adorable. There’s also a lot of depth to him. Even you’d be impressed.”

  “Depth. Like how he wants to be a farmer?”

  “Oh, c’mon. I thought the same thing when I heard about his Ph.D. in environmental sciences, but he’s serious about his work. He told me about the experiments he’s doing out by the coast.”

  “You’re already defending him? His hooks are in deep.”

  “Okay. I like him. So sue me.”

  “I’m a solicitor. I could do it.”

  “Before you drag me into court, I need your fashion advice, counselor. What do you think I should pack for my weekend at the palace?”

  John’s handwritten invitation confirming our weekend together at Belvoir had arrived Tuesday, along with a dozen white calla lilies.

  “Something sweet but sexy. You want to look good if an Xpress photographer shows up.” Tilda stood, taking a final swig of her coffee. “I’ve got to go. I promised Plato and Sam I’d help them shop for their new flat. You can borrow my teal wrap dress for your palace extravaganza. But only if you agree to give me full details and most importantly, tell me if he talks politics or policy.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll tell you. And don’t even joke about a photographer showing up. If the paparazzi find out we actually are dating, I’m guessing someone will live tweet the weekend from the bushes outside the palace gates.”

  stuffed another pair of undies in my rolling duffle bag, and double checked I’d packed the nightie I just bought―cute but comfortable, playful but not overly sexy. I had no idea if John would even see it. Before zipping the bag, I nestled my gift for John among the folds of my sweater. I was eager to surprise him, but I’d have to wait for the perfect moment.

  “Goodbye, my lovelies.” I caressed the slender neck of a calla lily and poured fresh water into the vase.

  Downstairs, I looked right and left―no paparazzi!―and got into the waiting car. The photographers had better things to do on a Friday night. I did owe those obnoxious reporters a small debt of gratitude. Their work enabled me to learn more about John’s ex-girlfriend, Claire Léglise.

  After our day in Ghent, I took a Google-guided tour through Claire and John’s relationship. It’s a special kind of torture to see the guy you just started dating in photos with a woman who’s supermodel beautiful. There were snapshots of them at restaurants, on a beach, in the back of a black car. I decided to put on my blinders and block Claire from my mind. For my own sanity.

  Entering through my usual door at the side of the palace, a woman I’d never seen before greeted me. She was shorter than me but older, probably in her mid-forties.

  “Good evening, miss. I’m Astrid and I’ll take care of everything you need this weekend.” A German accent coated each word.

  She was a servant, part of the palace staff. Do I shake her hand or give a quick head nod? I settled on an awkward little wave. “It’s nice to meet you Astrid.” Growing up middle class in Missouri meant servants were as foreign a concept to me as driving on the left side of the road.

  “Follow me, miss.”

  She led me up a couple of short staircases and down a hall, stopping in front of a big brown door. Stepping inside the room, my eyes shot upward, registering the gold foil on the molded ceiling. I was a long way from the white popcorn-covered ceiling in my childhood bedroom. A wave of warmth ran through me at the sight of lively flames in the brick fireplace. A four-poster bed outfitted in pink, silky fluffiness dominated the room. While I slowly drank in the decor, noting with appreciation the bouquet of fresh stargazer lilies on the dresser, Astrid parked my duffle on top of a luggage rack. She opened the doors of a massive wardrobe.

  “You may hang your clothes here. If you need me to iron something, please leave it on the bed. Otherwise, dial 201 on the house phone. I’ll come right a
way.” She closed the door as she left.

  As I unpacked, there was a knock at the door.

  “Who’s there?”

  “May I come in?” John’s voice was muffled through the wood.

  “Of course!”

  John swooped into the room, wrapping me in his strong arms. He planted a kiss on my lips. My body responded by pressing into him to express my inappropriately intense desire. Would it be too forward to pull him down on top of me in front of the fire?

  “We’ve been apart entirely too long. Nearly six days,” he said, securing a loose lock of hair behind my left ear the same way he’d done Saturday night.

  “I missed you too.” My hands wrapped around his upper arms; I loved the firmness of his biceps.

  “So, let me tell you what I’ve got planned. Tomorrow night, we’re having dinner with Henri and my father. They both have very busy schedules over the next month, so I want you to meet them while they’re home. But for tonight, how about a casual dinner, just you and me? You can wear what you have on and we’ll eat in the breakfast room. Afterward, we’ll watch a movie.”

  “Sounds perfect. I’ve been dying to hear about your week. Since I can’t email or text, it’s kind of hard to keep up with you.” I hated the part of the contract that banned us from texting, calling, or emailing each other. Recent phone hacking scandals made it too risky. Damn you, muckrakers!

  “I had a good week. I’ll tell you all about it at dinner. I’m going to go so you can get settled.” He took a deep breath. “What do you put on your hair? I love the way it smells.”

  “It’s a new shampoo. It’s called whatever’s-on-sale-this-month-at-Boots.” What else would you expect from a working girl who buys toiletries at the corner pharmacy?

  “I’ll send Astrid back in thirty minutes to walk you down to the breakfast room. Unless you think you can find it yourself?”

  “Are you kidding me? I have a horrible sense of direction. I could end up wandering through the subterranean tunnels to another country.”

  Before we sat down to eat dinner, John took me into the kitchen and introduced me to the two cooks and the footmen who would serve our food. Mr. Vermeulen was there. I found out he’s John’s valet, which has nothing to do with parking cars.

  During our meal, John and I talked about our week. I gave him the scoop on the hour I spent packing up my things in The Morning Dispatch newsroom (awkward), the conversation with my advisor at school (reassuring), and my new internship at Les Valenciennes, one of the alternative weeklies (game on).

  “What kind of reporting will you do for Les Valenciennes?” He moved the asparagus around his plate.

  Telling him about my investigative story felt like the journalist’s equivalent of showing a little ankle; I didn’t want to give away all my secrets on our first date.

  “I’m going to finish my story on the possibility the lead smelter near Kortrijk is making people sick. Some professors from the Royal University are doing the research. They’re testing soil samples, analyzing health data, looking for patterns, clusters. I keep tabs on their work and I’m in the process of interviewing neighbors who have chronic conditions. As long as I write an in-depth story that gets published, I get internship credit and can graduate in May.”

  “Do you feel this jeopardizes our courtship in any way? Les Valenciennes opposes the monarchy.” A biting edge made his voice angry.

  “Of course not. Whatever they say on their editorial page is completely separate from my story. Look, I gave up a full ride at the oldest journalism school in the United States to move here and study under Europe’s best journalism professors, so this internship is extremely important to me. And this is my big story.”

  John scooted his chair, and took a sip of wine.

  I fidgeted with my napkin. “I hope you aren’t going to tell me I can’t write this one story while I’m dating you. Because I’m going to write it. I thought I could do an internship as long as I’m not covering you and your family.” The fact I had to defend any part of my educational experience irked me.

  “Hatty, you’re free to do whatever you want. But don’t violate your agreement with us. It’s not in your best interest. I’m just asking you to be careful.” He tightened the grip on his fork and knife.

  “I will be.” I had no idea why he was being so uptight about my internship, but I needed to diffuse the tension. “Look, I don’t want to do anything to ruin this. I’m just starting to believe you might actually like me.”

  “Of course I like you. A courtship isn’t something to do on a whim. That’s why I care a great deal about your internship and how it might impact our relationship.”

  As we moved on to lighter topics, it was easy to imagine we were a normal couple, that the people bringing out food and clearing dishes were servers in a restaurant, not palace staff.

  After dinner, we walked upstairs to The Flat where we crashed on the big comfy couch. Someone had repositioned it so we were facing the massive flat screen on the wall, rather than the huge windows that dominated the sitting area.

  “What’ll it be, my dear?” he said with a forced Ozarks accent.

  I giggled. “Well, how about a classic?” I said, trying my best to mimic the way people in Toulene speak English.

  “Wait a minute. I was going for an American southern accent. What are you doing?”

  “Umm. A Toulenian accent?”

  “How, exactly, do you characterize the way my people speak?”

  “It’s weird. Like a British accent, but with a pinch of French nasality.”

  “Okay. Clearly, I need to schedule a history lesson during one of our dates. It might enlighten you on why we speak the way we do.” He flipped through the movies that were available for streaming. “How about Charade?”

  “Sure. That’s an oldie, but goodie.”

  “Maybe you can learn something about French accents,” he said with a wink.

  I took one of the accent pillows and threw it at him, prompting John to reach over and pull me closer. As the movie started, I nestled into him. Astrid came by with sodas and small bowls of lightly salted popcorn. She pulled the heavy drapes over the windows before turning out the lights, leaving us bathed in the TV’s glow.

  About twenty minutes into the movie, John started massaging my neck and asked, “Are you cold?”

  I was freezing, but before I answered, he moved me aside and retrieved a blanket from a chest on the other side of the room.

  When he came back, he sat down and spread the lush folds of fabric over me as I cozied up beside him again. Those arms of his… so sturdy, strong. Our bodies bent and adjusted so we literally fit together.

  My eyes widened when I felt his warm hands slide against the bare skin at my waist, inching a little higher. He leaned close to my ear. “Do you mind?” His voice was low and husky.

  “No.” I shifted slightly and my skin tingled as his touch skimmed along my lower rib cage before moving over the curves of my chest. Getting felt up by the prince on our first date? Yes, please.

  “Your skin’s beautiful. It’s flawless.” His hands explored underneath my shirt but they didn’t go past the barrier of my bra.

  “Flawless? No one’s ever used that word to describe anything about me.” I tried to make my breathing sound normal.

  “That’s a shame because it definitely applies.”

  Suddenly, his hands gripped my body, and he hoisted me onto his lap, facing him. Through his sweatpants, I felt the biggest compliment I’d ever gotten.

  He took my face in his hands, kissing me, pushing my lips apart with his tongue. Both of us took ragged breaths, and I savored the taste of him―no mint this time, just John. The tentativeness of our first two kisses was gone. In the dark glow from the TV, we unleashed whatever secrets made us click, and it was magical. I reached down to pull my shirt over my head.

  “Hatty. Stop.” He spoke gently and squeezed my hands to hold them in place.

  I froze. What the heck? Horror and c
onfusion. Had I completely misread where this was going?

  “We can’t.”

  “Of course not.” I slid off his lap and stretched the bottom of my shirt down. Total humiliation consumed me. I swallowed hard.

  “Hatty. Look at me.” He took my chin in his hand and pulled my face toward his. “This is not how it’s going to happen. If our relationship progresses, then we’ll find ourselves in many positions to do this kind of thing.”

  I couldn’t help it. A big fat tear slid down my cheek. I hated myself for letting that tear escape. It screamed, I’m pitiful! I wiped it away roughly with my hand.

  “I want you. I think you can tell I really want you. But I’m committed to my wife, whoever she may be, because that act is our most sacred duty to the people of Toulene. It’s how this family survives.” His words pierced my heart. He put the responsibility of his position, the seriousness of sex, and the commitment of marriage into a beautiful package and tied it with a bow. And it wasn’t my gift to open.

  “I understand. But you make sex sound like a public event rather than an intimate affair.”

  “Tell me: how would you feel if you knew I’d slept with Claire? We were very nearly engaged. Aren’t you glad we didn’t take that step?”

  “So, are you a…”

  “A virgin? Yes. I’m sure you know about the royals from other countries who fathered children out of wedlock, creating horrible scandals that rocked their countries and, worst of all, the children who had no say in the matter. They became pawns for people wanting to blackmail the royal families. I can’t entrust that part of myself to any woman but my wife.”

  I didn’t meet his eyes. My heart’s brisk thuds reverberated through my chest. “Then, that makes me feel damaged.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you going to make me say it? I slept with Jack.” Then I added in a small voice, “I guess that’s a deal breaker for you, huh?”

  I rubbed my forehead at the disclosure of such a personal detail. And the guilt returned right on cue. I did, after all, grow up in the Bible-loving corner of Missouri. My intimate encounters with Jack were also fraught with disappointment because they quickly went from hot lust-and-thrust to just sex, and never evolved into lovemaking. I took the blame for the fast fizzle, and convinced myself our lackluster sex life spawned his infidelity. Didn’t European men get famously bored with their girlfriends and wives? When our relationship began, I was the virgin. I’d always felt it was evident to Jack I had no idea what I was doing. Remembering all the pain wound up in my experiences with my ex pricked my eyes and brought out a fresh tear.