Marrying Up (32 page)

Enjoyable! Max suddenly saw red. ‘Fantastically enjoyable,’ he drawled sarcastically. ‘First I was dragged back from England
by my parents who’ve been trying to marry me off to a succession of women in whom I’ve no interest. And who have even less
interest in me – the latest one, some girl from England, in fact, didn’t even bother to turn up. So one way or another, it’s
rather spoilt my summer.’

With that, Max turned on his polished heel and ploughed through the crowds. Barney stared after him, ablaze with excitement.
How could he not have realised? Once you put two and two together, it was obvious.

Alexa, and by extension Florrie, had not been talking rubbish after all. Maxim was the prince being prevailed upon to marry.
Here was a golden opportunity; Alexa, of course, was currently exploring another. But wasn’t that golden opportunities all
over? You waited ages for one, then two came along at once.

Barney decided Alexa had to jump horses mid-race. However successful she was being – presumably at this moment – with Bigski,
her installation as wife apparent would not be immediate. A period of consolidation would be necessary, and it would be complicated.

Snaring Max would be so much simpler. There would be no wife to get rid of – if indeed Mrs Bigski
could
be got rid of; what
was more, there would be a chateau, a title, a crown. So much more glamorous than some shady Russian fortune, and of course
infinitely more prestigious. Barney could see himself, morning-suited in the front row of the royal wedding, waiting for the
bride – his closest friend – to roll up in her carriage.

He had to find Alexa with all speed. She might be in bed with Bigski somewhere, but there was a much greater and easier chance
out here, and she was missing it!

Barney felt sweaty with panic. Of course they could always call on Maxim in Sedona. But appearing at the chateau gate like
any old tourist was an infinitely more demeaning way to meet him than at a party on equal ground. Max might refuse to see
them anyway; Barney, who for all his ambition was realistic, was under no illusions as to the lack of esteem in which he was
held by his royal acquaintance.

Maxim’s dark head, a good foot above the rest of the crowd, was at the other side of the room now, almost at the double doors
of the exit. Barney made a half-hearted dash after him, although what he planned to say or do, he had for once no clear idea.

Indeed, for someone so customarily cool-headed, he was all panic and indecision, as he saw the greatest chance of his conniving
life slipping through his fingers. He pressed on, forging his path through the crowd with sharp little jabs of the elbow,
straining to keep track of the dark head of the Prince. He had little interest in whom he shoved aside, which was why, when
he came up against a particularly difficult-to-dislodge figure, he did not immediately recognise who it was.

‘Bloody hell, Barney,’ snapped Alexa crossly. ‘Just watch who you’re pushing out of the way, will you?’

The few minutes that had just elapsed had not been the best of Alexa’s life. One minute she had been prostrate beneath the
powerful thrusts of a panting billionaire. The next all hell had broken loose as Mrs Bigski burst into the room, eyes straining
from their skull sockets, and pointed a pearl-handled gun at her husband. It was at that moment that Alexa realised she had
underestimated her rival.

She remembered with terror what Barney had said about her never walking again after this party. Kneecapping would be the least
of it; shooting her dead would be the work of a second, and another few minutes would see her stowed below, ready to be consigned
to the deep the next time
The Big One
sailed out for the day.

Those who go down to the sea in ships
. . . The words slipped into her head from nowhere. Weren’t they – or something similar – used at sailors’ funerals?

As Bigski, suddenly not very big in any sense, leapt off her, shot over to the far wall and huddled, whimpering, with his
face buried in the curtains, Alexa realised that the business of being an oligarch’s mistress, let alone his wife, was a more
complicated matter than it had first appeared.

She was lying on a million dollars in the master bedroom of a luxury yacht while a crazed-looking woman dripping in diamonds
trained a lethal weapon right between her eyes. Situations didn’t come much more complicated than that.

As neither Mr or Mrs Bigski had moved – the latter, in particular, seemed undecided what to do next – Alexa seized the initiative.
She raised herself, heart hammering, on to her knees, before the gunwoman. ‘Please don’t kill me,’ she begged histrionically.

‘Kill
you
!’ Mrs Bigski spat, waving her pistol. ‘You’re not worth it!’

Alexa did not need telling twice. She grabbed her dress and shot out of the room without a backward glance.

‘You scum! You trash!’ Mrs Bigski shrieked after her, although she might have been addressing her husband, who, when Alexa
left, was still on his knees at the bedside, sobbing.

Alexa shot down the corridor to find a loo to change in. She repaired herself as hurriedly as possible, then went to find
Barney.

‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ she told him. But why was he staring at her as if she were the winning ticket for the National Lottery
multimillion-pound rollover jackpot? She had failed in her quest, after all.

Barney sprang into action. ‘Bad news! On the contrary! It’s the very best!’ He was almost shoving her through the crowds.
Alexa was amazed; it was very unlike Barney to leave the scene of so much free champagne.

But here he was, physically pushing her down the corridor. ‘Why have you got money stuck to your back?’ he asked.

They had reached the shoe basket and she had to concentrate to get hers back on. The girl in charge seemed familiar with that
particular model, however, and inserted her deftly.

‘You’ve seen these before?’ Alexa asked in surprise.

‘All Mr Bigski’s ladies wear them,’ came the expressionless answer. ‘That dress, too.’

Beside her, Barney was dancing about impatiently in his slip-on loafers. ‘Come on! Quick! He’s about to get into his car!’

‘Who is?’ Alexa was staggering to her feet.

‘Prince Maxim of Sedona!’ Barney yelped. ‘Your future husband!’

‘My . . .?’

‘Heir to the Sedona throne, a chateau, a country, you name it.’ Barney’s face was close to hers; his eyes were gleaming diabolically.
‘Congratulate me,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve managed to find him. The very same spare crown prince that dear old Florrie stood up.’

Alexa’s eyes were riveted to his. Her heart was thundering, the heat rushing round her veins.

‘Where is he?
Where?
’ Her growl was animal. Visceral. There was no question of her missing this chance.

Down on the quay, Jason Snort drummed his feet in their rubber Crocs. He was bored, as well as uncomfortably hot.

It was all very well for some, he thought, casting a bitter glance at the royal driver asleep in the air-conditioned comfort
of the shining black limousine with the Sedona flag on the bonnet.

Jason had initially tried to chat to him, get some inside info. But as always with Sedona chateau staff, he had got nowhere.
The driver knew nothing about a possible new candidate for crown princess. Perhaps those rumours about Maxim’s sexuality were
true, Jason thought, before remembering that he had started the rumours himself.

Alexa was stumbling after Barney. Sheer determination, a stronger force than mere gravity, alone kept her upright. She could
see her quarry now. He was stepping on to the quayside; tall, dark and handsome in black tie.

Barney was ahead of her, racing down the gangway at a speed she had no idea he was capable of. ‘Maxim!’ he was shouting. ‘
Maxim!
’

From his position on the quayside, large hands planted on huge
knees, Jason Snort looked up. High up the dazzling, almost blinding walls of the boat, someone was shouting. Snort squinted.
A small bloke. Sounded English. A nobody; at least, nobody Snort recognised. The person he seemed to be shouting at was all
too familiar, however. Prince Maxim.

Alexa felt the breath knocked suddenly out of her. Unaccountably, and just before she could reach her longed-for goal, Barney
had come to a dead halt. Unable to stop in her shoes, Alexa cannoned into the linen jacket; rebounding violently backwards,
she grabbed the rails on either side. They felt flimsy and as if they might give way any moment. Below her, the silver water,
pooled with swirls of oil, gleamed greasily.

‘Let me past!’ She hammered desperately on Barney’s back. ‘Get the fuck out of the way!’

‘There’s a paparazzo down there,’ Barney hissed. He half turned, his eyes still trained manically on the quayside. ‘Here’s
your chance. Milk the publicity! Snog him!’

He stood aside, and let Alexa hurtle past like a greyhound out of a trap, albeit a greyhound waving its arms, tossing its
hair and shouting, ‘Maxim! Darling! Wait for me, you naughty, naughty boy!’

Snort whistled under his breath as the woman hurried, yelling, down the gangway. Legs, check. Long hair, check. Tiniest dress
he had ever seen, check; matched with the biggest heels, check. And, the biggest check of all, she was with Prince Maxim.

‘Naughty Maxim! Wait for Alexa!’

Jason could hardly believe his ears.
Naughty!
Sedona’s dull-as-ditchwater Crown Prince? The paparazzo’s blood was not so much up as crashing through him in a wave. In
one well-practised movement, he was on his big red feet, fingers covering the well-worn button on top of his camera.

‘Maxim!’ screamed Alexa. ‘Maxi, darling. Not so fast! Wait for me!’

The chauffeur was asleep, Max saw as he descended the gangway. For the first time he regretted the fact that Sedona royalty
routinely went everywhere without bodyguards. There had never been thought to be a need.

Then something grabbed him. Something was suddenly strangling him. Something was on his back.

‘Hey! Get off!’

What was happening? Arms were being wound tightly round his neck. Some woman’s face was being pushed into his.

‘What are you doing?’ Max was almost too amazed to be frightened. Was this an assassination? She didn’t look like a hit man;
looming at him was long dark hair, thickly plastered lipstick and so much mascara it looked like a row of bees’ legs. He tried
to pull away as the lips now firmly stuck themselves to his.

Alongside the sound of his own struggles, Max could hear the whirring and clicking of a camera.

‘Let me go!’ he gasped, as his attacker ground her breasts against him. Then he felt her take one of his hands and place it
on her bottom.

Jason pumped his button, his heart dancing. This was better than anything he had ever dreamt of.

As the bus had roared off into the distance, Polly’s first instinct had been to run after it, screaming in fury. They had
been tricked. Their bus had been hijacked. How was she to reach Max now? Her travelling companions, on the other hand, were
having difficulty understanding what had happened. The women with their tour guides, and the men with their fanny packs and
elasticated leisure trousers, seemed to think the bus had rolled away somehow. What they were far more distressed about was
that the King of Sedona in his outdoor hot tub was not, after all, visible from the roadside.

Polly could only fume and resent the hours being wasted. She could have been in Sedona now, could have gone to the palace
and found Max. By now they could have been doing anything . . . well, one thing in particular. She closed her eyes longingly.

Things had improved once the rescue coach summoned by the bus driver swung into view round the corner; this, however, turned
out not only to be more badly ventilated than the first, but to be taking them all back to Nice. Nice! Despite all her protests,
she got nowhere; Sedona, it seemed, would have to wait for another day. Slumped angrily in the back seat, Polly had chewed
her nails and burnt with the heat, as well as the frustration of being so near to Max. And yet so far away.

She had taken the first available bus the next morning, and
was now, finally, incontrovertibly, unhijackably, here.

Arriving in Sedona Old Town, she found, wasn’t so much like stepping back in time as striding backwards over millennia. There
were no outskirts; everything was within the thick encircling city wall of pale stone and reached via the ancient shadowy
archway that pierced it. It had a fairy-tale quality, a whisper of beauties in gowns and wimples, a suggestion of handsome
knights in armour.

She walked on, enchanted, through ice-cream-coloured streets, past window ledges brimming with bright splashes of geranium,
by fountained courtyards where water splashed in the light.

Searching for the Palace, she came to what seemed to be the edge of the town. There was a park here, long and narrow, where
smooth walks led past flower beds thick with pink roses, heads heavy with marbled petals, each a scoop of raspberry ripple
particularly generous on the sauce. Did the park lead to the castle? It seemed likely. The flower beds alternated with bronzes
of mustachioed men in uniform; all called Maxim or Engelbert, Polly saw, pausing. Relatives, no doubt, although she could
see little family resemblance in their short, thickset frames.

It would not be long now. She walked on, picturing herself in the chateau, waiting by the fireplace in an echoing vaulted
hall; Max running towards her down a sweeping flight of stairs.

She pressed on through the park. The neat red trunks of pines thrust upwards either side of her, their green umbrella tops
providing an unbroken sequence of shade. Between them stretched an expanse of sea, ruched, glittering and a heavenly deep
blue; a mermaid’s party cloak. The sighing of the breeze in the pine canopy was sensuous and soothing; there was a faint scent,
a sharp, salty whiff of herbs and sea.

What a wonderful place Max lived in. She had never expected anything like this. And yet despair and impatience were starting
to twist within her. Where was the chateau?