Affairs of State(44)

“I shouldn’t have left you alone. I’ll sort them out.”

“There’s no need, really!” Her voice sounded too loud. Would they tell him what they’d told her? That he’d lose Whist Castle and his charity if he dared not to toe the royal party line? “I need to get dressed and throw my stuff back in my bag. And do you have the number for a taxi?”

“A taxi!” He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her tight. “There’s no way anyone but me is driving you to that airport. And it’ll be a miracle if I don’t make you deliberately miss your plane.”

“Then my partner, Scarlet, will kill me. She’s been holding down the fort by herself all week.”

“She can’t kill you if she can’t find you.” He raised a brow and mischief twinkled in his eyes again.

“She can send out a hit man. They’re good at tracking people. They can probably trace my cell phone.”

“They’d have to get past the palace guards.” He kissed her face and cheeks and lips. She shivered, hot pleasure rising inside her. “It can be handy living in a fortress.”

“I see that.” Her hands roamed over the muscle of his back. “I think I could get used to it.” It was so easy to talk to him and tease him. He never made her feel like he was a prince and she was a commoner. With him she felt they were on the same team and could take on the world together.

The alarm sounded again. She pushed him back, very reluctantly, and leaped out of bed. “Duty calls.”

“Being in the army I know all about that, so I suppose I’ll have to go along with it.”

They dressed and had a quick breakfast, then Simon drove her to Heathrow. They kissed in the car where no one could see, but he insisted on walking her into the terminal. She saw a photographer’s flash out of the corner of her eye as they said a chaste goodbye.

Move along, she wanted to say. There’s nothing to see here. She felt numb as she checked her bag and moved through customs. Would he really come to D.C. to see her? Or would the queen and Uncle Derek make him give her up and turn his attention back to his royal duties?

Somehow she had to go from the most intense and wonderful romance of her life to…nothing. Maybe she’d never see him again except on the pages of a glossy magazine. She sank into her airplane seat feeling hollow and deflated.

Until she checked her phone and discovered that she was about to finally meet her famous father.





Eight



A brief text from Liam Crowe, the head of ANS, told her the taping was scheduled for Tuesday, only two days away, and everyone at the network was scrambling to pull it together. Ariella had barely arrived home and unpacked before Francesca, Liam’s wife, came over to help her prep for the taping.

“It seems shallow to ask, but what do you think I should wear?” They both sat at her kitchen table, sipping herbal tea. Her nerves were firing like bullets. “I usually wear black but I’ve heard that doesn’t look good on video. It disappears or something. I don’t want it to vanish and leave me stark naked on national television.”

Francesca’s bold laugh filled the room. “It looks a bit flat, that’s all. But colors do usually work better. Let’s go look at your wardrobe.”

They walked into the bedroom. Ariella opened her closet door sheepishly. The apartment was old, from an era when people had maybe five to ten outfits. Her collection of clothes looked ready to burst out and start running.

“How do you find anything in here?”

“My first boss used to have a sign on her desk that read, ‘This is not a mess on my desk, it’s a wilderness of free association.’ I took it as inspiration.”

“It’s a wilderness, all right.” Still, Francesca dove boldly in and pulled out a knee-length red sheath. “Red portrays confidence.”

“That I don’t feel. I think I should go low-key.”

“You? You’re practically a princess. How about this royal blue?” She held up a matching top and skirt in an intense shade.

“I am sooo not practically a princess. Believe me. I was way out of my league with his family.”

“You met the queen?” Francesca grabbed her arm.

She nodded. “We made small talk. It was scary.” Ariella reached in for a quiet gray jacket and skirt. “How about this?”

“Way too mousy.” Francesca shoved it back. “I can’t believe you met the queen. I love her. She’s so old-fashioned.”