Affairs of State

chapter Three

How did a prince ask a girl on a date? The question kept Ariella awake late that night. The days of messengers delivering quill-penned invitations were over. Did His Majesty email it? Or was a discreet phone call possible in this age of rampant wiretapping?

She cursed herself for wondering. If Simon called her again it would be a simple business meeting to plan his party. If he even still intended to do the fund-raiser. He probably wouldn’t want to see her again after she’d turned down his invitation to visit him in England. Which would be perfect, since the last thing she needed was more drama in her life.

But her question was answered when he showed up on her doorstep, totally undisguised and unannounced.

“Hi.” She managed, after a moment of rather stunned silence. “Would you like to come in?”

“Thank you.” His tall and broad form made her eighteenth-century doorway look small.

She glanced nervously around. Thank heaven she was a neat freak and had just put away her laundry. It was Saturday around noon and she’d been trying to decide whether to spend her afternoon looking at paintings in a museum or fondling interesting objects at a flea market. Since she hadn’t made up her mind (frigid air conditioning versus sticky D.C. summer humidity) she was dressed in jeans and a spaghetti-strap tank top. Not exactly what you’d don if you expected a prince to stop by.

“Your house is lovely.”

“Thanks. I only have the first floor. I rent it from the couple who own the upstairs. They have a separate entrance around the side. I do like it, though.” She was babbling. He was only being polite. Her tiny and rather overstuffed space must have seemed quaint and eccentric to him. “Do sit down. How did you know I’d be here?”

“I didn’t.” He eased himself into her cream loveseat. “Do you live alone?”

“Yes. I keep such crazy hours and really need my sleep when I finally have time for it. I tried living with roommates but it never worked out for long.”

“So all of these interesting things are yours?” He picked up a pocket-size nineteenth-century brass telescope she’d scored at an estate sale in Virginia.

“I’m afraid so. You can see I love to collect interesting trinkets.”

He expertly opened the piece and trained it out the window, then glanced up and his eyes met hers. Her breath stuck at the bottom of her lungs for a moment. How did he have that effect on her? She dealt with celebrities and big shots all day long and had a strict policy of treating them like the ordinary people that they were, if you ignored all those extra zeros in their bank accounts. She’d worked with royals from Sweden, Monaco and Saudi Arabia, among others, and hadn’t given a second thought to their supposedly blue blood. But somehow around Simon Worth she felt lightheaded and tongue tied as a naive schoolgirl.

“I can see you have good taste. I’ve grown up surrounded by fine things, and never had to exert myself to acquire any. It looks as if you’ve done the work of three hundred years of collectors.” He picked up a hand-painted miniature of a lady and her poodle.

“Isn’t she sweet? A client from England gave her to me to thank me for planning her wedding in Maryland. In a way I suppose I’ve stolen her from among your national treasures.”

“Perhaps she’s simply traveling for a while.” His smile melted a little piece of her. “Objects might get restless, just as people do.”

She laughed. “I sometimes wonder how they feel about being bought or sold or traded to a new person. I know that inanimate objects aren’t supposed to have feelings, but they must carry some energy from the people and places they’ve been before.”

“I know places can have their own spirit. My home at Whist Castle practically bustles with it.” He leaned forward, his eyes sparkling. “If places can have a feeling, why not things as well?”

“I’m glad you don’t think I’m a nut. I do enjoy seeking out little treasures. In fact I was thinking of ducking past any photographers and doing that this afternoon at the Eastern Market.”

“Perhaps we could go together.” He said it quite calmly, as if it wasn’t the most outlandish idea she’d every heard.

“But if people see us together…they might talk.”

“About what?” He leaned back, face calmly pleasant.

Suddenly she felt like an idiot for suggesting that people might gossip about a romance between them. Obviously that existed only in her own mind. What would a British royal be doing with her? “I’m being paranoid again. I probably think the press cares far more about me than they actually do.”

“If anyone asks, we can tell them you’re helping me source interesting items for a fund-raiser we’re planning.” He picked a pair of tiny silver sewing scissors and snipped the air with them.

“The outdoor concert?”

“A mad hatter’s tea party, perhaps?” A cute dimple appeared in his left cheek. “People do expect us Brits to be eccentric, after all. You won’t actually need a reasonable explanation.”

“Well, in that case, let’s go.”

“Is there another way out of here?” He’d risen to his feet and offered his hand to her.

“You mean, besides the front door?”

He nodded. “I’m afraid I was spotted arriving here.”

“The short guy with the ponytail?”

“The very same.”

“Ugh. He’s freelance and has sold pictures of me to at least three different papers. One was a picture of me carrying two grocery bags, and somehow he managed to bribe the cashier into handing over my receipt so everyone could learn what brand of aspirin I prefer. And there isn’t another way out. I guess you’ll have to stay here forever.”

Her hand heated inside his as he helped her to her feet. He didn’t look at all put out by either the photographer or the prospect of spending the rest of his life in Apt. 1A.

“I do hate to assist these lowlifes in their trade. We’ll leave separately so there’s no picture. I’ll leave first in my car, you leave five minutes later and walk around the block. I’ll have a blue Mercedes meet you in front of the Mixto restaurant.”

“Goodness, I feel like I’m in a James Bond film.” He must have planned this. Which sent sparkles of excitement and alarm coursing through her.

“Don’t worry. I have years of experience in dodging these leeches. I think of it as an entertaining challenge.”

“I’m game. What should I bring?”

“Just yourself.”

Simon left via the front door and she rushed to the window, where she saw him get into a waiting silver SUV, which pulled away. She took a couple of minutes to fix her hair and face, and put on a light blouse and some boots, then she headed out in the opposite direction, toward the tiny restaurant as if she was just on her way to the local deli. She didn’t cast a glance at the depressing figure in his dull green jacket and faded black baseball hat, though she felt his eyes trained on her.

Simon was right. As long as they weren’t seen together, there was no picture to sell. The whole world knew he was in D.C. Everyone was already tired of pictures of her leaving for work and coming back home again. No picture, no story.

A tiny ripple of triumph put a spring in her step as she rounded the corner and spotted a blue Mercedes idling double-parked halfway down the block. The car’s rear door opened and she saw Simon’s reassuring face. Feeling like a ninja, she climbed in, and they cruised off down the block. Her heart was pounding, and she wasn’t sure if it was because of all the subterfuge, or being so close to Simon again.

“He didn’t follow you.”

“Nope. He rarely does. I think he’s too lazy. Just snaps a couple of pictures a day and hopes a story will break so he can sell them. So far his biggest coup is the day I wore my Montana Grizzlies T-shirt. They plastered that picture all over the papers right as the story about my father was breaking, as if it was proof I was his daughter or something.”

“Once you’re in the public eye people read into your every move. You learn to laugh at it.”

Up close like this she could see a slight haze of stubble on his jaw. She wondered what it would feel like against her cheek, and felt her breath quicken. She tugged her gaze out the window, where D.C. scrolled by. “We’re going in the opposite direction from the market.”

“My driver knows some antique shops in Maryland. We’ll enjoy more privacy there.” He leaned back against the seat, shirt stretching over his broad chest. “And I very much doubt any photographers will find us.”

Was this a date? It certainly felt like one. There hadn’t been any real mention of the event they were supposedly planning. And it wasn’t exactly professional of him to show up on her doorstep without warning. “Do you whisk women off in cars on a regular basis?”

He shot her a sideways glance. “No, I don’t.”

Her chest swelled a little. So she was special? She wondered if he’d prolonged his trip to see more of her. Then chastised herself for having such a vain thought. She’d better steer this conversation in a business direction. “I told Scarlet about your plans for the fund-raiser and she’s going to start work on finding the venue. How are your other fund-raising efforts going?”

“That’s an abrupt change of subject.” His tawny eyes glittered with humor. “And I’m forced to confess I haven’t made much headway. Every time I try talking about education in Africa, people’s eyes glaze over and they ask about my latest climbing expedition. I’m afraid I can never resist talking about climbing.”

“You need to make your cause sexier.” Uh-oh. Just saying the word caused the temperature in the car to rise a degree or two.

He cocked a brow. “Sexy? How do I do that?”

“You focus on the elements of your organization that make people feel good about themselves. For example, with breast cancer, pink ribbons make people think about triumph and recovery. That makes them want to get out their wallets a lot more than lectures about incredible new discoveries in small cell cancer treatments. For a party I’d have pink pearls and pink roses and pink champagne. They don’t have anything at all to do with cancer, but they make people feel happy about embracing the cause.”

Forehead furrowed, he looked intrigued. “So you think I need to rebrand my charity?”

“I don’t really know enough about it. Do you have a brand or logo or imagery you use often?”

He made a wry expression. “Not at all. We simply print the name in blue on white paper. I’m beginning to see what you mean.”

“So what excites you the most about what your organization does?”

He frowned for a moment and looked straight ahead, then turned to her. “Including people in the conversation about our future. Giving them access to technology that makes them part of our world and a way to be heard in it.”

“That’s sexy. And big technology companies are a nice target market for your fund-raising. You’d certainly be speaking their language. How about ‘join the conversation’ as your marketing ploy, so you’re inviting everyone to be part of the future you imagine.”

He stared at her. “I like the way your mind works.”

She shrugged. “I brainstorm this kind of stuff all the time.”

“I had no idea party planning was so involved. I thought it was all choosing napkins and printing invitations.”

“That’s the easy part. The hard part is making each event stand out from the thousands of others taking place during the year. In your case, people would expect a prince to have a very exclusive, private dinner, so an outdoor concert rather takes people by surprise. It also creates the sense of inclusion that your charity is all about. In addition to the event’s raising money from ticket sales, it’ll get people talking and that will generate additional donations and bring in people who want to help.”

He still stared right at her, and she could almost hear his brain moving a million miles a minute. “Where have you been all my life?”

A smile crept across her mouth. “Read the papers. You can learn more about my past than I can even remember.”

He laughed. “I know that feeling. I think we have a lot in common.”

How could she feel so comfortable talking to this man from one of the great royal houses of Europe? Well, she’d never been too impressed by royalty. That probably helped in situations like this.

“That’s probably why I’ve appeared in your life to help you cope with it.”

“Destiny at work.” She swallowed. Did she really believe that some mysterious workings of fate had brought her and Simon together?

No. They were simply going to spend a pleasant afternoon looking at antiques. They’d put together a fun concert that would get people talking about World Connect. Then he’d go back to England and she’d get on with whatever her life was going to be.

What about the chemistry crackling between them right now in the back of the car? What about the way her skin heated when he leaned toward her, or her stomach swirled with strange sensations when he fixed her with that thoughtful gaze?

She was going to ignore that. So was he. No one was going to do anything they might regret. They were both grownups and far too sensible for that.

What a relief.

* * *

The driver took them to a little town called Danes Mills, where he parked behind a quaint restaurant that reminded Ariella of a British pub. The entire main street appeared to be upscale antique shops, with maybe a gift shop or bookstore for variety. Simon helped her from the car while the driver held the door. It was all very formal and majestic and made her feel like a princess. Which she wasn’t.

People did turn to look at them. She wasn’t sure if she imagined the whispers. While she knew people thought she was pretty, she didn’t have the kind of looks that demanded attention. In fact she considered herself a nondescript brunette, so she didn’t usually have to worry about standing out from the crowd. People recognized Simon, though. He was tall and broad and attracted admiration without even trying. They’d probably stare at him even if he wasn’t a well-known prince. Maybe they were turning to look at him for the same reasons she wanted to—because he was handsome and his smile could melt an iceberg.

In the first store they looked through some old paintings and drawings, all rather in need of restoration, and admired a painted cupboard. In the second, Ariella became entranced by a group of tiny snuff boxes. She loved to open them and find the tobacco smell still there, as if the owner had just finished the last pinch.

“Which is your favorite?”

“I’m not sure.” She pressed a finger to her lips. “The silver one has such delicate engraving, and I love the colors on this enameled one. But I think I like this black one best.” She picked up a shiny black box. She wasn’t even sure what it was made from. Possibly something insubstantial like papier-mâché. It had a delicate painting of a girl standing under a tree that must have been painted with the world’s tiniest brush.

He took it from her, which surprised her. She grew even more surprised when he handed it to the shop owner—who had to be roused from some old books he was sorting through—and paid for it. After the shopkeeper had wrapped it in tissue and deposited it in a tiny brown paper shopping bag, Simon handed it back to her. “For you.”

She blinked. “I didn’t mean for you to buy it.”

“I know. I wanted to.”

“I don’t think a man has ever given me a snuff box before.” She kept her voice hushed, not wanting to convey any impression of romance to the store owner.

“You can’t accuse me of being clichéd, at least.” That infectious smile again. She found her own mouth curving up. Surely there was no harm in the gift. It wasn’t terribly expensive, just a sweet gesture. “I notice you like miniature paintings. I saw several at your flat.” He opened the shop door and they stepped out into the sunlight.

“I do. A perfect world in microcosm. And just for one person at a time to look at and enjoy. Maybe it’s the opposite of my parties where everyone must have a good time all at once.”

“You keep giving me a new perspective on things I take for granted.” He smiled. “Our driver, David, tells me there’s a state park near here. What do you say we take a picnic lunch there?”

“That sounds great.”

It was lucky she agreed because David had already been given orders somehow. The car was piled high with white deli bags and a newly bought cooler containing chilled drinks. She was so used to creating fairy-tale meals for other people that it was rather bizarre to have someone else pulling all the strings. All she had to do was enjoy.

David drove them into the park, past several battlefield sites, to the bank of a winding river. He spread a pretty French provincial patterned cloth—which must have been a rather expensive purchase back in Danes Mill—and unpacked the deli bags filled with gourmet salads.

Ariella settled onto the cloth and Simon poured her a sparkling glass of champagne. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this pampered.” They helped themselves to a warm tortellini salad and a crisp slaw of carrot and beetroot with a sesame seed dressing.

“You deserve it. You’ve been under a lot of pressure lately and it’s time for you to let off some steam.”

She sighed, and they sipped their champagne. Not surprisingly, it was very good. “Is your life like this every day?”

“If only.” That intoxicating smile again. “My life is usually far more prosaic.”

The driver had tactfully vanished, and they were all alone beside the rushing stream. Tiny yellow flowers bloomed along the banks, and the rich mossy smell of the trees and the soil soothed her frazzled nerves. “I used to wish my life would go back to normal, but if this is the new normal, I’m not complaining.” She looked up at him and spoke with sudden conviction. “And I intend to meet both my birth parents.” Her confidence had grown since she met Simon. “It’s too big an opportunity to waste. Sure, I’m scared, but the potential reward is worth the risk.”

“Fantastic. I’m glad you’ve come to that conclusion. I thought you would. Have you managed to make contact with your mother?”

“I wrote to her but I haven’t heard back yet. It’s so odd that I don’t even know what she looks like. All I’ve seen is her high school yearbook photo from the year she got pregnant with me.”

“What did she look like then?”

“Young, sweet, sort of shy. She had a terrible hairstyle. It was the 1980s after all.”

He laughed. “I bet she’s a lot more nervous than you are.”

“She has good reason to be apprehensive. She’s the only one who could be accused of doing anything wrong here. She says she didn’t tell my father about me because she didn’t want to prevent him from going off to college, but surely he could have made his own decisions about how to handle it. After all, if he can manage to become president of the United States, I think he could probably handle supporting a family while taking his classes.”

“You’re right. I’d be devastated if I got a girl pregnant and she didn’t tell me.”

Her eyes widened. Sometimes Simon was shockingly frank. He hadn’t even looked up from his plate, and was busy munching on some arugula. “Is that something you have to worry about a lot? I mean, any child you had would be in line to the throne.”

“Believe me, I’ve heard that over and over again since I was old enough to understand. My grandmother, the queen, would prefer that none of us date at all. If she had her own way we’d all be safely tucked away in arranged marriages by age twenty.”

“Have they tried to pair you up with anyone?”

“Oh, it never stops.” His eyes were smiling. “They’re constantly digging up blushing blue-blood virgins and inviting them to palace tea parties.”

“But so far none of them has piqued your interest.” She nibbled on a crisp green bean.

“Oh, several of them have piqued my interest.” He chuckled. “But not in the way Grandmama was hoping, I’m afraid. And luckily, I haven’t gotten any of them pregnant, either.”

“You’re shocking me.”

“Why? You don’t think a prince has feelings like any other man?”

“Well…” She bit her lip. “Of course I know you do, it’s just…”

“You can’t believe I’m talking about it out loud when I should be much more subtle and surreptitious?” He raised a brow. His dimple was showing. “My family hates how blunt I am. I can’t stand beating around the bush. Heaven knows I do enough of it when I’m out in public, so in private I prefer to speak my mind. Don’t be too shocked.”

“I’ll try not to be.” She smiled. His candor was refreshing. He was so different from what she’d expected. It was disarming and intriguing and she had a hard time maintaining her own cool reserve around him.

“How did we start talking about me? I was asking about your mother. Didn’t you say she lives in Ireland?”

“When she wrote to me there was an address on the inside of the letter. A post office box in Kilkenney, Ireland. She must have rented it so no one would find out where she lived. I haven’t told anyone she wrote to me, except my closest friends. I told her I’d like to meet her and I’m willing to travel to Ireland if she needs me to.”

“How will you do that without taking the international press corps with you?”

“I’m cunning when I need to be.” She smiled mysteriously. “And it’s always a good idea to do some location scouting for a big wedding, or something.”

“Your profession lends itself to international travel. I’m forced by circumstance to do most of my travel in the British Commonwealth.”

“The countries that were in the former empire?”

“Exactly. Lucky thing it was big and had so many interesting countries.” He grinned, looking disarmingly boyish. “How did your mother end up in Ireland, anyway? I thought she was from Montana.”

“I don’t entirely know. I think she met an Irish man after she gave me up for adoption. Hopefully I’ll find out the details once we meet.”

“I’m sure she’s missed you far more than you know.”

She drew in a shaky breath. “I don’t know. She might have other children. She didn’t say. She didn’t mention anything about wanting to meet me.”

“She’s probably nervous that you don’t want to meet her. She did abandon you, after all.”

“I told her in my letter that I have no hard feelings and that I had the best childhood anyone could want. I said it would mean so much to me if I could meet her.”

“Has she responded?”

“Not yet.” A sudden chill made her shiver. She put down her plate. “What if she doesn’t?”

He smiled. “She will. I can feel it.”

“Psychic, are you?” She sipped her champagne. The slight buzz it gave her was soothing, given the tense topic of conversation. “I wish I had your confidence.”

“You do. You just don’t know it yet.” He sipped his champagne. “Let’s see how cold this water is.” He stood and walked to the bank, where the river rushed by only about a foot below. Before she had time to join him, he’d removed his shoes and socks, rolled up the leg of his dark slacks, and slid his feet into the water. “Cold.”

“Is it really? It must be from an underground spring.” The summer afternoon was downright balmy. Her own toes itched to dip into the sparkling depths. She sat on the bank next to him and slipped off her shoes. Her jeans were tight-fitting so she could barely roll them up at all, but she managed to get them above her ankles. Then she dangled her feet down the bank until the water lapped against her toes. “Ooh, that feels good.”

Tentative, she slid her feet beneath the surface. The chill of the water contrasted with the warm throb of intimacy that pulsed between them, helped by the glass of champagne. Her shoulder bumped gently against his, then she felt his arm slide around her waist. It felt as natural as the cool clear water splashing against her ankles.

Now his torso almost touched hers, and they seemed to be growing closer by slow degrees. His rich masculine scent tugged at her senses. She could see the pale stubble on his chin, and the sparkle of light in his eyes—they were hazel up close—and then she couldn’t see at all because her eyes shut and she found herself kissing him.