Honeymoon With a Prince (Royal Scandals) (34 page)

And now, for the first time since his injury, he truly felt in control again.
 

He stood to his full height, then made his way through the ballroom, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries as he went.
 
As if he’d never been away.
 

His attention lit upon a group of soldiers clothed in sharp gray dress uniforms.
 
Sophia had mentioned during the parade that they were home on leave from assignments around the world and had been invited to enjoy the banquet as special guests of the king in honor of their service.
 
The group stood near the windows, taking in the massive room with its the glittering chandeliers, dozens of tables, and the string quartet playing opposite them.
 
Though the soldiers stood with confidence, he sensed they were uncomfortable with the formality of the event.
 
He could relate.
 
Watching waiters circulate with dainty appetizers on silver trays was as far from passing around field rations as a soldier could get.

He approached them, escorted them to their table, then ended up sitting down and spending so much time chatting about their service—their specialties, where they’d been stationed, personnel they knew in common—that he nearly missed the call to his own seat at the head table.
 
As he stood to take his leave, one of the soldiers, a sharp-eyed, raven-haired woman wearing ribbons indicating she’d served in Africa, circled the table and asked for a moment of his time.

She turned her face away from the group and spoke to him in low tones.
 
“Your Highness, you might be interested to know that I’m currently serving in the Central African Republic.
 
My unit is part of an international force tracking down warlords in that area.
 
I’m sure you’re aware what a problem they’ve been to the stability of the region.”

He tried to hide his surprise at her words.
 
The woman’s voice was as familiar as that of his own troops.
 
He’d heard it in his earpiece on numerous occasions and could tell from her expression that she recognized his.
 
During his time in the field, she’d kept him informed about the movements of other units in the region and provided key intelligence reports.
 

“I happen to know a few soldiers in that area,” he said.
 
“How’s progress on your mission?”

A flash of pride crossed her face.
 
“Our primary objective was met three days ago.
 
The news will make it to the mainstream media in the next few weeks.”

Meaning Matambe, the worst of the African warlords, a violent man responsible for hundreds of deaths as well as for Massimo’s own injuries, was either captured or killed.
 
He couldn’t help but reach out and shake her hand with both of his.
 
“That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time.
 
When you return, please congratulate your unit for me.”

“They’ll be honored to hear from you and to know you’re faring well.”

He gave her a heartfelt thanks for the information before she returned to her table.
 
He could hardly believe it.
 
He never thought he’d live to see the day.
 

A short time later, as the waitstaff cleared away Massimo’s salad plate, Sophia turned to him.
 
With a pointed look toward the soldiers’ table, she said, “Found your crowd, did you?
 
You looked happy there.”

“We speak the same language.”
 
The six men and two women were all smiles now, enjoying themselves as their drinks were refreshed by the palace waitstaff.
 
“We were in the middle of talking about one of the men who’d served in my unit in Antarctica when the dinner call came.
 
Hopefully I’ll be able to track them down later to finish the conversation.”

All of which was true, though it was the news from Africa that made him most satisfied.
 
Knowing that bastard warlord would never starve, kill, or torture innocent people again meant Massimo’s sacrifice hadn’t been in vain.
 
It meant thousands of people would live freer, more peaceful lives…the lives they were meant to live.

“And Madeline Lockwood?
 
I saw you walking in from the patio with her.”

“I like her.
 
She’s easy to talk to.”
 
At his sister’s smirk, he said, “Forget it.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t have to.”
 
He schooled his features to remain polite, as expected, but his tone was low.
 
“I told you.
 
No matchmaking.”

“I didn’t say you had to marry her.
 
On the other hand, dating a woman like Madeline might get you out of your funk.”

“There’s no
funk
, Sophia.”

At that moment, the waitstaff materialized at their elbows, whisking the covers from plates of freshly grilled zucchini, Moroccan couscous, and glorious-smelling rosemary chicken.
 
“In fact,” he added once the waiter behind him left, “I can tell you that even if there were a funk, I could be cured by the kitchen’s rosemary chicken.
 
It’s one of my favorites.”

“Now I know you’re in a funk.
 
I don’t know a single male who values food over females, let alone females who look like Madeline.”

He paused with his knife above his chicken.
 
“Sophia, is there something you wish to tell me about the men in your life?
 
Because I’m all ears.”

She popped a tiny bite of the chicken into her mouth, then gave him an innocent look.
 
They spent the rest of the meal bantering about the parade, Stefano’s work on transportation issues, and on Alessandro’s brief appearance during the fireworks.
 
He’d apparently chatted with Vittorio and their parents, but hadn’t found Sophia or Massimo.
 
Finally, when dessert was over, King Carlo spoke briefly about the importance of maintaining Sarcaccia’s independence and its unique traditions.
 
Then he introduced a dance performance.
 
Twenty men, each carrying massive wooden torches, filled the floor in the center of the ballroom.
 
The chandeliers overhead dimmed as drumbeats echoed through the hall.
 
The well-choreographed dance told the story of a series of battles early in Sarcaccia’s history, when the island stood fast against seafaring invaders while being denied help by the city-states on the Italian peninsula.
 
Those battles—and Sarcaccia’s eventual triumph, despite the island’s small population and lack of assistance—sowed the seeds of its independence movement.

The drumbeats grew faster and faster, rising to a crescendo as the dancers twirled, moved to form a circle in the middle of the floor, then lit their torches in a massive flash of light.
 
One by one, the dancers peeled off from the circle and moved about the floor, spinning their torches end-over-end to the delight of the crowd.
 
Some of the dancers threw their torches in the air, nearly to the ceiling, then caught those thrown by other dancers before wielding them like swords, swooping dangerously close to each other’s heads.
 
The effect in the semi-darkened room was extraordinary.
 
They wove their way through the tables, tossing the fiery would-be weapons over the heads of the guests.
 
Two of the dancers moved beside the royal table to the applause of King Carlo and Queen Fabrizia.
 
One lit torch, then another, flew the length of the table, each passing in front of Massimo and Sophia, to be caught by the dancer at the opposite end.
 
The entire room broke into rowdy cheers as the lead dancers proceeded to juggle the torches in front of the Barrali family.

Massimo clapped just as he had all day long, during the parade, the fireworks, and the speeches, though now he had to force himself to keep his expression appreciative as his throat grew tighter and tighter.
 
The pungent scent of chemical torch fuel singed his nostrils and the heat, though mild, made his flesh crawl, as if a thousand white-hot ants were racing along his back.
 

Breathe.

Under the table, he ground his toes down in his shoes, rooting himself to the floor.
 
He would not get up.
 
He would not leave.
 
He would not let anyone see that while they enjoyed themselves, the mere act of taking in and expelling air became more and more difficult.

Then it was over.

The dancers formed a circle in the center of the floor, made a grand display of snuffing the flames, then held the still-smoking torches high before bowing to thunderous applause.
 
Massimo smiled, mirroring those around him, though his back teeth clenched so firmly he doubted a crowbar could separate them.
 
The dancers raced off the floor and out a side door, their footsteps light in contrast to the physical weight that seemed to be pressing down on Massimo’s body as the crowd clapped and sound filled the room.
 
The orchestra began to play and the king urged everyone to dance.
 
Within seconds, the clapping died down and guests crowded the space occupied by the torch dancers to spin to the lively music.

The pressure in Massimo’s chest eased, yet he couldn’t shake the odor of the torch fuel from his sinuses.
 
It seemed to fester there, wending its way to his brain.
 

“Are you planning to dance?”
 

Massimo forced a cheerful tone for his sister.
 
“Not yet.
 
I was about to take a few minutes to visit the men’s lounge.
 
You?”

“Perhaps.
 
Thought I’d call it an early night if I can get away with it.
 
It’s been a long day.”

He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.
 
As he gripped the arm of his chair to do so, he realized his fingers trembled.
 
“If I don’t get a chance to speak to you again, have a good night.”

Her look was quizzical, but she was quickly distracted by the approach of a guest.
 
Massimo nodded to his parents, then slipped out into the large hallway adjacent to the ballroom.
 
Throngs of guests filled the space.
 
Some were heading for the restrooms, others lingered in the hall in hopes of conducting conversations away from the swell of the orchestra music.
 
Massimo found himself engulfed in a mass of warm bodies.
 

There is no fire.
 
No danger.
 
You’re in the safest place in the world.
 

He spoke briefly with a friend of his father’s, then with one of his mother’s distant cousins, continuing to tell himself that his sense of unease was all in his head as he made his way down the hall.
 
But cold logic didn’t knock back the feeling.
 
When a strong hand came down on his tattered shoulder and upper back, it was a miracle Massimo stayed rooted to the floor and didn’t either jump in pain or turn and flatten the guy.
 

“Prince Massimo,” the burly man boomed.
 
A former American football player, he’d recently purchased a vacation home in Sarcaccia and was in the process of establishing a sports club for Sarcaccian teenagers.
 
“Good to see you.
 
Loved the fire dancers.
 
Haven’t seen a performance like that before.”

“Nor have I.”
 
A beat, then two, passed.
 
“What do you think they use for fuel in those?
 
Butane?
 
Kerosene?”

“Hell if I know.
 
Sure worked to keep ‘em lit while they flew through the air, though.
 
Not one of ‘em went out.
 
Why?”

“Just curious.
 
I swear I can still smell them.”

That brought forth a bellow of laughter.
 
“Eh, likely you’re smellin’ some woman’s perfume.
 
Or the alcohol on everyone’s breath, ‘cause Lord knows there’s been a lot of it tonight.
 
I don’t smell anything.”
 
The man continued to talk, but Massimo felt his smile hardening into place.
 
The chemical scent seemed more intense now, but no one around him sniffed the air or commented on it.
 
And this was a crowd who loved to comment on such things.

Massimo drew in a breath, but the stench of fuel burned through to his lungs.

Retreat.
 
Regroup.
 

With effort, he extracted himself from the football player and the surrounding knot of guests, keeping his pace unhurried as he made his way past the men’s lounge to the very end of the hall, where a pair of royal guards kept watch over the door leading to the family’s private wing.
 
A minute of quiet, maybe two, and he’d be good as new, ready to socialize again.