Inconceivable! (7 page)

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 family. 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.

We continued down the hall.

“We call this part of the palace ‘The Flat’ because it’s the family’s private apartment.” John opened a wide door on the right. “And this is my room.”

He’s showing me his bedroom?

I stepped into an elegant space. It had a high ceiling and green, textured wallpaper depicting several scenes. They all featured caricatures of Asian men in conical hats with long flowing beards and moustaches.

A bed covered in a shiny green comforter took up one wall. A broad, light green rug provided a dose of warmth against the hardwood floors.

I pointed to the bed. “King size?”

“What else?” He winked, and my flirt-dar kicked into high gear. He didn’t invite me to the palace as a professional courtesy. We were in his bedroom for Pete’s sake.

“That’s some serious wallpaper.”
That’s right. Take your mind off his bed.

“It is, and it’s there to stay. When your home’s a palace, it’s like living in a museum. I can’t very well tear down hand-painted silk wallpaper from China that dates back to the 18
^th
century.”

“Well, you could, but I bet you’d suffer the wrath of the Historical Preservation Division.”

There was a sunken sitting area by the windows where a golden harp gleamed in the morning sun.

“Do you play?”

“A little,” he said, not meeting my eyes.

“Would you play something for me?”

“Sure. Except this really has to be off the record.”

“Why? Afraid harp playing might ruin your playboy reputation?”

“Something like that.”

He sat on the little stool and tilted the instrument back so it rested on his shoulder. He extended his arms and fingers, and strummed the strings. The sound throbbed through the air, delicate but also seductive. The sight of his fingers plucking the strings with strength and skill gave me an unexpected twinge of desire.

I sank into a small green settee and closed my eyes. The music was beautiful, so personal. He responded as he felt the melody and chord progression push faster in some spots, and then retreat to a slower and softer sound in others. The final notes hung in the air.

“I hardly know what to say… except that’s amazing. How long have you played?”

“I started taking lessons when I was nine, after Mom died. She used to play. It’s a way for me to feel connected to her.”

This intimate revelation startled me; I suspected very few people ever saw this side of him.

“You’re very talented. Why don’t you play with the Toulene National Symphony?”

“There aren’t many things about myself that I can keep private. This is one of the few. Remember―this is off the record.” He smiled, but there was a warning in his expression.

“Yes, completely off the record. Thank you for sharing this with me.” Disarmed by his openness, I felt compelled to reveal my new assignment. “And, if we’re being honest here, then I need to tell you something. My editor at
The Morning Dispatch
is making me write a blog about you and your family.” I physically cringed, crinkling my nose and squinting my eyes against whatever reaction my news might provoke.