“Your Majesty? Juan Carlos, are you all right?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m fine.” Prime Minister Rivera was giving him a strange look. “Just deep in thought.”
They’d been talking about how to bring new enterprise to Alma and how the rise of the monarchy would bring in tourism. They needed to brand themselves as a free country and show the world that democracy reigned, that new visitors and new businesses were welcome to their stunning Atlantic shores.
“Actually, I have an idea as to how to draw more tourists,” Juan Carlos said.
“Really?”
Alex Ramon’s ears perked up. As the deputy prime minister of commerce, he was fully immersed in the issue. “Tell us your thoughts.”
“It’s been rumored in our family for years that our ancestors had stashed a considerable amount of artwork, sculptures and paintings on land that had fallen to ruin. Land that Tantaberra overlooked. Right before the family was deposed, they’d thought to hide the art so it wouldn’t fall into the dictator’s greedy hands.”
Juan Carlos’s mind was clicking fast. He didn’t know how true those rumors were. He’d only heard the tales while growing up; Uncle Rafael had spoken of hidden treasures the way a master storyteller would about a pirate’s bounty. It had all been exciting, the sort of thing that captured a little boy’s imagination. But the rumors had held fast and true during his adulthood, and only recently, his cousin Bella had found a hidden cache of letters at one of the family’s abandoned farms, letters that proved that he, a Salazar and not a Montoro, was the rightful heir to the throne.
“I have plans to visit the area myself and see what I can find. If it’s true, and artwork is indeed on the property, think of the story. The art could be restored, and we could have a special showing or a series of showings to bring awareness to Alma.”
“It’s genius, Your Highness,” Prime Minister Rivera said.
Others around the board table agreed.
The meeting ran long and Juan Carlos didn’t get back to the palace until six. He had just enough time to shower and dress for dinner. His pulse sped up as he thought of Portia again, of her sweetly exotic scent and the way she’d filled his body with pleasure when he was near her. She caused him to gasp and sweat and breathe hard. It wasn’t ideal. She was a hard case. She didn’t seem interested in him. And that worried him, because as far as he was concerned, she was The One.
He came down at precisely six forty-five and bumped into his new secretary at the base of the winding staircase, nearly knocking the clipboard out of her hands. “Oh, sorry, Your Highness.” She was out of breath, as if she’d been running a marathon.
“My apologies,” he said. “I’ve been preoccupied and didn’t see you.”
Alicia was redheaded, shapely and quite efficient. She wore glasses, but under those glasses were pretty, light green eyes. She’d taken on a lot, being a first hire, as there was much ground to cover. “Your seven o’clock appointment is here.”
Warmth spread through his body at the mention of his dinner date. “Princess Portia?”
“Oh, uh. No, Your Highness. I’m sorry. I don’t see Princess Portia on the books.” She studied her clipboard, going over the names. “No, you have appointments every half hour for the next few hours. I penciled in a dinner break for you at nine.”
“I thought those were on tomorrow night’s schedule.” Surely, he hadn’t been mistaken, had he? Yet he had to take Alicia at her word. He’d already come to find that she rarely if ever made mistakes. He, on the other hand, had been hypnotized by a pair of deep ocean-blue eyes and was more than distracted.
“I can’t possibly make all of those appointments.” High-ranking officials and the heads of businesses along with their wives or husbands wanted to meet the new king. It was as simple as that. It was good for commerce to know the pillars of trade in Alma, so he’d agreed to a few evening appointments. Under normal circumstances, he’d rather cut off his right arm than cancel them, but he couldn’t break a date with Portia. “See what you can do about cancelling them. Who was first on the schedule?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Rubino. The Rubinos are in the royal study. And your next appointment after that is already here, I’m afraid. They are notoriously early for every occasion, I’m told. They are waiting in the throne room.”
He ran his hands through his hair. “Fine. I’ll see them. But see what you can do about cancelling the rest.”
“Yes, Your Highness. I’ll do my best.” She bit her lower lip, her eyes downcast. “Sorry for the confusion.”
“Alicia?”
“Yes?”
“It’s not your doing. I forgot about these appointments. We’re all learning here. It’s new to all of us.”
She had ten years of experience running a duke’s household in London, coordinating parties and events with dignitaries and the royal family. She hadn’t much to learn. He was the one who had screwed up.
“Yes, Your Highness. I’ll get on those cancellations right away.”
Juan Carlos rubbed the back of his neck and headed to the study.
With luck, he could salvage the evening.
* * *
Portia had been stood up. She’d been delivered to the palace minutes before seven, only to be informed that the king had visitors and to please be patient and wait. She was shown to the dining room and shortly after, the palace chef himself had set dishes of appetizers on the table before her.
Candles were lit and soft music filtered into the room.
The only problem? Her date wasn’t here. And she wasn’t about to eat a thing until he showed. Call her stubborn.
It was after eight. She knew because her stomach refused to stop growling and finally, she’d glanced at her watch.
She’d already taken in the paintings on the walls, assessing them and noting that they weren’t up to par with usual palatial art. Oh, they were lovely pieces, but from contemporary artists. Many of them were replicas of the real thing. It was a curiosity. The monarchy stretched way beyond the years of the dictatorship. There should be older, more authentic works on the walls. But this was only one room. Maybe for security reasons, the gallery held the most valuable pieces.
After wandering the dining hall, she picked a particular patch of space near the fireplace and began pacing.
She couldn’t fault Juan Carlos. His secretary had taken the blame, explaining that she’d failed to remind the king of his visitors. She’d tried her best to cancel the meetings, but she was afraid she wasn’t as successful as she’d hoped.
But the more Portia thought about it, the more pangs of anger replaced her patience.
How long would he keep her waiting?
Travis is in a meeting. He won’t be available for hours. He’d like you to wait, though.
This isn’t the same thing, she reminded herself. Her ex-boyfriend wasn’t a king. Well, maybe the king of late-night television. And she’d fallen for him. He was funny and charming and kind. It was like a regular Cinderella story, the poor broke comedian hooks up with a real live princess. Travis was far from poor now, although he’d come from humble beginnings and the press loved their story and ate it up.
A new American fairy tale, they’d called it.
Travis had been on top of the world when they were together. Everyone loved him and thought he was worthy of a princess from an obscure little country. Only dating a supermodel would have given him more credibility.
And here she was, doing the same thing. Another American fairy tale, only this time with a real king.
Stupid