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Authors: Tegan Wren

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BOOK: Inconceivable!
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“Imagine meeting you here.” I tried to sound contrite for spying.

“You’re getting the hang of stalking royals, aren’t you?” An intensity infused his voice and he didn’t smile.

“Hey, I was here first. Maybe you’re stalking me.”

“How much did you overhear?”

“Not much. You sounded pissed.”

“Pardon? I’ve only had water and tea today.”

Damn British slang!
“I mean you sounded upset.”

He exhaled, relaxing a little. “May I join you?” He gestured to the ground where my backpack sat slouched and several books lay open. “What could possibly interest an American journalism student back here?” He picked up one of the books.

“Just a reporting project I’m doing that has nothing to do with any of you royals.”
Thank goodness.

“Will I see you tomorrow at the airport?”

“Yes. Will I get to ask you questions afterward?”

“You can ask me anything right now.” His voice was low and he gave me a half smile, a flirty little firework that invited me to respond in kind. But there was no way I was going to pass up the chance to ask him a tough question.

“Why did your family pressure the Department of Administration to hire Hastert Construction for the project?”

“God, Hatty! Don’t you ever give it a rest?”

“Hey, we both live on-the-record lives.”

In a blur, he sprang toward me, his hand swiping across my left shoulder.

“Sorry. There was a spider on you.”

“Ick. Thanks. Occupational hazard of hanging out in old buildings.”

I peeked down at the offending creature. Spindly legs radiated from a body the size of a quarter. As I stared at the beast and scooted away from it, John took my hand and helped me up.

“Okay. That was a close call.”

“I’ll answer your questions tomorrow. All of them. Thank you for letting me interrupt your work.”

A wave of shock pulsed through my body as I realized he was still holding my hand.

“No problem. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.

He squeezed my hand before letting it go. “Tomorrow.”

stood by the mult box where the radio reporters had their recorders plugged into the sound system to capture the audio of the dedication ceremony. The guards had corralled print and radio journos into a segregated area at the back of the hangar. We still had a sightline to snap cell phone photos, but the photojournalists and videographers were up on risers in a separate area nearby. Mine was a fun bunch with their made-for-radio wardrobes and frenetic energy.

When the event ended, Grimmy McGrim, aka Limo Guard, materialized and pulled down the rope that marked our area. He motioned to the reporters to exit, and everyone did. I hung back a moment. When all the journalists were gone, he nodded, and I followed him. In the hubbub of everyone leaving, no one noticed.

He took me through a side door that led outside the hangar. A black car, maybe the same one that had picked me up Saturday, was waiting.

“Come here often?” I asked the prince as I sat beside him in the back of the car.

“Only when I want to escape the press.”

“Thanks for letting me invade your space.”

“It’s not an invasion. I invited you. We’re going to drive to the palace, and you can ask questions until we arrive. Then, I’ll have a car take you to the newsroom.”

“Thanks. Okay. First question: why did your family pressure the Department of Administration to hire Hastert Construction for this project?”

“Really? You’re going to start with that?”

I looked at him expectantly.

“You assume we pressured them. My grandmother merely sent the administrators a letter endorsing Hastert Construction because they have the strongest record of working with Turkish immigrants. We want to encourage these foreign workers to integrate into society, and employment is a big part of making that happen.”

Okay. Sounded legit. Note to self: double check his assertions.

“Your family owns part of Hastert Construction. Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“Double check your facts. No one in my immediate family owns a stake in the company. My cousin Gerhard Hohenstaufen of Germany is part owner but that hardly constitutes a conflict of interest. I stand behind my grandmother’s decision to recommend them for the project.”

“The runway project ran over budget. Twice. Why?”

“The cost of materials went up. Then, the assembly’s new wage laws took effect. Public projects are subject to the whims of the market and the assembly. I know your friend Tilda works for Assemblyman Aalders. He can’t change the wage laws and then get mad when companies that have government contracts comply with them.”

“Why continue with the project if the costs were escalating?”

“This new runway opens Toulene to countries outside Europe. We can now handle larger planes. What I’m about to say is off the record: a major airline will announce next week that it will soon offer direct flights from the U.S. to Roeselare.”

This was a big freaking deal. There had never been direct flights from the States into Toulene’s capital or any of its other cities. I always flew in and out of Brussels. More tourists would be a game-changer for the country’s economy.

“Will you give me an advance copy of the press release on the airline announcement without an embargo so I can break the story?”

“Let’s see how you do with today’s story first. If you do a fair job of explaining all sides, I’ll see what I can do. Actually, I want to offer you something even better. Saturday, I’m going to Ghent for a private gathering. Would you be interested in joining me?”

I didn’t have to think twice about my answer. I’d take any opportunity to spend time with him. Still, it struck me as odd; royals didn’t let reporters tag along just for funsies, especially when it was something private. Tilda’s warnings about him wanting to use me to plant stories rang in my ears. I’d just have to stay on guard and be careful.

glanced out the train window, watching the fields of Toulene’s farms slide by in a brown and yellow blur as we wound our way toward Ghent. John sat in a seat across from me. I had to admit he looked handsome even though a baseball cap covered his to-die-for hair. Two royal guards sat at the far end of the car. Otherwise, it was deserted.

The day after my airport runway story ran, John sent me a note complimenting my story and outlining the details of our trip to Ghent. I’d discussed the invitation with my editor, and James immediately insisted I go. The whole thing―passing notes, getting my editor’s blessing to go with the prince to Ghent―had a whiff of middle school drama.

“Tell me about yourself. What was it like growing up in Missouri?”

My stomach knotted. I hated talking about myself, especially to someone I was covering. “Why do you care about my life?”

“Why do you care about mine?”

“It’s my job. I care because readers care.”

“But I hardly think it’s fair. You know so much about me, and I know almost nothing about you. Other than the fact you think my relative’s unfortunate comb over is funny.”

I smiled and blushed, remembering the awkwardly funny conversation.

As the gentle rocking motion of the train helped me relax, I told John about my school teacher mother and my father who was an emergency room nurse.

“So you don’t have any brothers or sisters?” He sounded surprised.

“No. My mom and dad always said they liked being able to focus on me. Sometimes I do think I have a sister-size hole in my heart. Honestly though, I would’ve taken a brother, too.” I felt the pulse of a phantom pain I thought I’d tucked away in the recesses of my soul years ago.

“I’d like to have a large family. I loved growing up with a younger brother. And even though I had Henri, I wanted more siblings. I think if Mum had lived, there would’ve been a gaggle of us.”

A gaggle of kids. In photos, his mother glowed, radiating an inner light that many expectant mothers possess.

“I didn’t know her, of course, but I believe you. I imagine she would’ve had Belvoir overrun with beautiful, talented children.”

John’s earnest smile at my assessment hinted at his longing to know what might have been. Our eyes caught for a brief moment. Then, he cleared his throat, looked down, and studied his hands. His vulnerability and brief awkwardness were endearing.

BOOK: Inconceivable!
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