Inconceivable! (19 page)

“See how boring the life of a prince is?” He finished his wine and handed it to the only flight attendant on our private plane.

“Hardly.” After passing off my empty glass, I held the photos in my hand relishing the novelty of it―most pictures I encountered existed as pixels on a screen not as tangible artifacts of daily life. “I’m impressed you figured out how to develop the film.”

“There are a few perks that come with being a member of the royal family.”

“A secret dark room in the basement of the palace, for instance?”

“I can’t say. I’m sworn to protect state secrets.” He winked at me.

“Here’s a secret you can protect: I’m nervous about the party.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll stay together.”

A soft ding told us it was safe to leave our seats. John unfastened his seat belt, stood, and offered me his hand. “I want to show you something.”

He pulled me to the rear of the aircraft and opened one of those folding doors you typically see on an airplane lavatory. He stepped into the dark space and drew me to him, closing the door behind us. Shadows and the scent of John engulfed me. He threaded his fingers through my hair and kissed me. His lips moved to my neck; he flicked my skin with his tongue.

My arms wrapped around him, and I reached underneath his shirt, hungry to explore. Hard, undulating muscles welcomed my touch. Another hardness asserted itself, this one below the waist, unavoidable in the tight space forcing extremely close contact. Still, we didn’t have room for much except caressing and kissing, ensuring we couldn’t get too carried away.

“There’s plenty of oxygen in here, right?” I gasped.

“No idea. Just try to stay calm.”
As if.
His hands eased toward my chest, and though they stayed outside my sweater, he skimmed over my breasts. I inhaled sharply, nervous and aware of what I considered to be a major shortcoming.

“Sorry they’re so small.” I squeaked out the words between breaths that came too quickly, exposing just how turned on I was.

“Shh. You’re perfect.” I barely felt his touch through the sweater and generously padded bra.

“You don’t know that. You’ve never seen them. And anyway, this is like false advertising,” I said, taking his hands and squeezing his fingers around the bra cups. “Hang on.” I reached around to my back to undo the hooks, wiggling to the side while leaning forward to achieve enough clearance to accomplish the task in our confined quarters.

“Mind if I help?” His arms encircled me, and his hands moved under my shirt. With one twist, he finished the job. He may be a virgin, but this wasn’t his first time unhooking a bra. The cups loosened and slid up, offering easy access to my breasts.

His eager fingers and my primed flesh met beneath the threads of my cotton sweater. I moaned softly as he caressed me.

“See? I told you that bra was false advertising,” I muttered.

“Shh. Let me enjoy this.” His authoritative tone increased my pleasure. He kissed my neck while intensifying his handy work. Under the spell of his squeezing, rubbing, and gentle tugging, I hardly registered the muted ding. Then, the plane hit a pocket of air. We jostled into each other, and my knees went wobbly.

“We’d better go sit down, right?” I didn’t like to fly, and I certainly didn’t want to be bumping around a tiny closet while we ploughed through rough air.

Bang, bang
! A knock on the door, and then, “Your highness. The pilot wants everyone seated.”

“We’ll be right there.”

Another bump, harder this time, threw him against me, smooshing me into the wall. “Are you hurt?”

“No. But let’s get out of here,” I said, reaching for the door handle.

He got there first and opened it. I braced myself in the door frame and stepped into the galley.

“Wait. Turn around.” He hastily lifted the back of my shirt and fastened my bra. Trying to look presentable was probably pointless because the flight attendant and guards up front certainly knew what we were up to in the closet.

When the air smoothed out again, the flight attendant came by with small, warm towels. After she walked away, I leaned across the table between me and John. “She totally knows what we were doing back there. Do you think she’ll tell anyone?”

“Of course not. She’s been on my family’s payroll for the last decade.”

After our plane landed, we went to an expansive, tastefully decorated apartment that John’s family kept in Berlin. A maid named Jana greeted us at the door with cold drinks and homemade pastries.
Seriously, ya’ll. This isn’t helping my thighs.

We freshened up and changed into our party clothes before hopping in a convertible and tearing our way toward Potsdam. Thanks to the unseasonably warm weather, we put the top down, but there was enough wind that I had to wrap up in my coat.

It was the first time I’d been in a car with John driving. When he wasn’t shifting gears, he had his hand on my thigh, pushing up the hem of my dress and inching closer to the sweet spot that longed for his touch. But alas, he didn’t quite get there during the drive. What a tease.

Luminaries lined the driveway outside Sanssouci, their flames protesting winter’s early darkness as it enveloped the landscape. In contrast, the lights inside the palace blazed like high noon on a summer day.

“Here we go. Are you ready for this?” John asked as he threw the car into park and waited for the valets to open the doors.

“I think so.” I grabbed the bottle of wine we’d selected as a birthday gift for his cousin. “Are you sure no one’s going to photograph us or talk to the press?”

“No one here needs the money. And they’re just as sensitive as I am about reporters snooping in their private lives. We’ll be fine.”

We walked up to the massive doors and a man in a tuxedo pulled them open for us. Hyper rhythms of a lively jazz number pumped out of hidden speakers and electrified the air. It was hard to know where to look. The entryway to the palace was an elaborate foyer―airy, immaculate―a showcase for a series of portraits that lined the walls. But the people standing around in clusters were so elegant, they almost made the décor look shabby. Scattered throughout the entryway and in the ballroom just beyond, most of the women wore fashionable cocktail-length dresses in neutral colors like slate, chocolate, and muted gold. As I mentally thanked John for encouraging me to wear black, a bright-eyed woman in a short, fitted coral dress accosted us.

“John! And you must be his beloved Hatty!” Someone I’d never met threw her arms around me in a big hug. But she’d called me John’s beloved, so I liked her instantly.

“Hatty, this is my cousin, Pru.”

“It’s so nice to meet you! Happy birthday!” I presented her with the bottle of wine.

“Lovely accent! Come in! We’re just warming up!”

Without looking at the bottle, Pru handed it to a waiter who walked past us.

She linked arms with us, putting me and John on either side of her, and escorted us into a big open room with molding that looked like fancy scrollwork. The golden accents on the walls paled next to the glam groups of people scattered throughout the room talking and drinking. If I’d walked onto a movie set, the people would not have been more perfectly outfitted, coifed, and put together.

“John. Do you mind if I steal Hatty? Since Lucas hasn’t arrived, she’s going to be my date. Everyone’s dying to meet her.” Pru pushed John away and steered me in the opposite direction.

Though she’d been born in Toulene, Pru had spent most of her life in Australia, and it showed every time she spoke. So did her enthusiasm. She effervesced, and I couldn’t imagine she ever got tired. With her quick, urgent steps, she took me to a small circle of women who looked close to my age, maybe a little older.

“Attention!” Pru said, affecting a heavy French accent while softly clapping her hands. “This is Hatty.” The way she said my name made it sound like a scandal.

Faint smiles beamed back at me. With their flawless complexions, impossible curves, and over-styled hair, these women were cartoon princesses come to life. Pru ran through their names so quickly, none of them registered in my brain.

“Hatty! The American! How did you ever meet our darling John?” The redhead asked in a high-pitched, saccharine voice. I half expected her to reveal a seashell bra, pull a crab out of her purse, and start singing about crap she found in a shipwreck.

“Oh, I know how they met!” said one of the blondes, holding up her gloved hand as though she wanted a teacher to call on her. “She was modeling lingerie for a charity event, and John was in the audience!”

Dear Lord.
“Well, that’s not exactly right.” Please don’t envision me in lingerie. Let’s just not go there.

“I heard you were wearing ripped fishnets when he met you in some dark and sinister pub,” said another blonde.

“Well, you need to double check your facts.” I tried to make my voice light, like I was amused―ha, ha―and not pissed by their inaccurate information. “I did dance in a charity event a couple of years ago to raise money for a school in Ethiopia, but John wasn’t there. It’s true we met in a bar, though it wasn’t exactly dark or sinister.”

The awkwardness of the conversation pushed a trickle of sweat down the middle of my back. Where the hell was John?

Before anyone else jumped in and asked for clarification on what I wore the night we met, I asked, “What are you drinking?” I gestured to the group’s one brunette.

“
J’sais pas
! Pru, what are they serving? Something with bubbles.”

Pru grabbed a flute as a waiter passed by and handed it to me.

“
Merci
.” I drank it the way I used to down cold glasses of lemonade on hot Missouri afternoons.

“Hatty! You drink like an American!” Soft laughter rippled around the circle.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Where’s John?” A surge of panic gurgled up in my throat as I scanned the room.

“Oh, who knows? He hates these soirées. Come. You’re in high demand.” Pru linked arms with me again.

For a full hour, she took me from group to group and introduced me as the “hard drinking American” despite the fact I’d had only the initial few gulps of wine. Still, her guests, some of whom were clearly a bit tipsy, fussed over me. Several peppered me with questions. When I answered them, they looked bored, so I quickly came up with brief responses to move us through the formalities. The whole time, I tried and failed to get a visual on John.

I grabbed Pru’s arm when we were between groups. “Where’s the powder room?”

“The what?”

“
Toilette
?”

She led me out of the ballroom through a side door. We stepped into an open area. She pointed to the right.

“Over there. I’ll wait for you inside.” She headed into the ballroom.

I pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the ante room where there was a large, rectangular ottoman-type-thing positioned in front of a brightly lit mirror. I walked into the next area where there were walled off stalls with floor-to-ceiling doors. Europeans like their bathrooms small and private.

When I was done, I washed my hands and perched uncomfortably on the edge of the ottoman in front of the mirror to check my make-up. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another woman sit at the other end.

“Are you Hatty?”

I turned to look at her. Of all the impeccably dressed people I’d seen, this woman took the cake and the plate it was sitting on. She must’ve stepped into Sanssouci right off the pages of
Vogue
. Brilliant white teeth gleamed from between red, glistening lips. Flawless skin was set against dark, smooth hair. A square neckline plunged low and tight, plumping up the tops of her breasts into supple mounds.

“Yes. I’m Hatty Brunelle.” There was uncertainty in my voice. I knew I hadn’t met this woman―I’d remember her perfection for the rest of my life. Still, she looked very familiar.

“John was right. You’re cute, even if you are unrefined.”

“I don’t think we’ve met,” I said, offering a smile, despite her unkind words.

“No. We haven’t, but John told me all about you. I’m Claire.” She leaned over the ottoman and extended her hand.

“Léglise?”

“
Oui
. It’s so nice to meet you.”

It was the hair. In all the online photos I’d seen, she had blonde locks instead of brown.
Maybe she lost her peroxide and toothbrush.

“
Enchanté
,” I said weakly, squeezing her hand. A hyper awareness of my shortcomings made me want to smooth my dress, fluff my hair, and check for lipstick on my teeth. “I’m sorry. Did you say you and John were talking?”

“I bumped into him right after you two arrived. I found a quiet little spot for us to have a
tête-à-tête
and plied him with liquor. Now, he’s ready to have a good time. You know how much he hates these parties, even if he does adore all the attention he gets.”

“How lovely to meet you. And thank you for ensuring John had a few drinks. I like how that makes him more handsy.” I raised my arms and lightly bounced on the ottoman, as though testing its give. “If he keeps drinking, maybe we’ll come in here for a quickie later. You know how much he loves the no-pants dance. Excuse me.” I stood, grabbed my small purse, and left the ante room.

My heart raced and my breathing came in heavy huffs. I didn’t give a damn who was next on Pru’s must-meet list. I’d just met the most important person in the entire place.

Not caring what other people might think, I slung open the big doors to the hall. I walked over to a chair in the corner, kicked off my shoes, and stood on it. Aha. John was over by the cartoon princesses. They’d migrated to the other side of the room, but they were still all together, the sisterhood of the traveling implants. As John talked, he prompted small outbursts of polite laughter from the group.

“So, people from the Ozarks really don’t wear shoes.”

I looked down and gasped. A man with shiny dark hair held out his hand. He was at least fifteen years older than me. Golly, he was hot. He had the refinement men acquire with age and experience; he looked utterly at ease and relaxed.

I placed my hand in his and stepped down. His other arm wrapped around my waist firmly, with complete command of the situation, as though he routinely wrangled barefoot gals off chairs in fancy ballrooms. Planting my feet on the floor, I had to look up to see his chiseled features.