Kitabı oku: «Once Upon A Tiara: Once Upon A Tiara / Henry Ever After», sayfa 2

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“AM AW WIDE,” the princess said.

“She’s all right,” Mrs. Grundy translated.

“I’b nod awwergick.”

“She’s not allergic.”

“Got that one,” Simon said. He’d hustled Lili into the museum to tend to her, leaving the mayor outside to marshal her forces and continue the tea party without the guest of honor. Lili had insisted, smiling a brave smile even though there were tears in her eyes.

“Here we are,” said Edward Ebelard, who was an RN at the Blue Cloud Medical Clinic and had accompanied them to Simon’s office. He held up an ice pack made from a plastic bag and two pounds of ice chips taken out of the soft-drink machine in the museum snack bar. “Stick out your tongue, dearie.” Edward was thirty, six-three, two-fifty, bearded; to compensate, he spoke like a nurse of the old school.

Lili stared up at the towering RN with big dark eyes. She looked at Simon. He shot her a thumbs-up. She gave a watery hitch of her chest, then squeezed her eyes shut and stuck out her tongue. The tip was fiery red and swollen to twice its normal size. Or at least what Simon assumed to be its normal size.

Edward tsk-tsked as he peered at the tongue, poking it with a pencil he’d liberated from the holder on Simon’s desk. He plopped the ice pack on Lili’s tongue.

Her head wobbled under the sudden weight. “There we are. That will soon take the swelling down, Princess. We’ll be better in no time.”

Mrs. Grundy grabbed the bag of ice and applied it more gingerly to the princess’s tongue. Lili whimpered softly.

“Is that all you can do?” Simon asked the RN.

Edward shrugged. “Yes. Unless she wants to go to the clinic for a shot. But you really only need that if you’re allergic.”

Lili waved a hand, the lower half of her face obscured by the lumpy bag of ice. “No shaw. No shaw.”

“No shot,” Simon and Grundy said in unison.

“She’s not awwergick,” Simon added. The princess crinkled her eyes at him.

“It will be sore for a few hours, but there should be no lasting effect,” Edward said as Simon showed him out. “I could stay, just in case. I’d be happy to. It’s not every day I have a princess for a patient.”

“I’ll handle it from here.” Simon shook Edward’s hand. “Thanks for all your help.” He lowered his voice, imagining the lewd spin the tabloid reporters could put on a story about the princess’s red, naked, swollen tongue. “If the reporters ask, you can tell them she was stung by a bee, but keep the details to yourself.”

Edward inhaled. “Of course. I do have my professional ethics, you know.”

“Indeed.”

The RN looked with reverence at the pencil in his hand, the one he’d used on the royal tongue. “Mind if I keep this?” He put it in his shirt pocket. “For a souvenir.”

“Help yourself.” Simon thanked Edward again, then closed the door behind him and turned back to Princess Lili. She sat on the couch placed against the paneled wall of his office, her head thrown back against the cushions as Mrs. Grundy applied the ice-chip pack to her open mouth. It was already melting. Droplets of water leaked onto her white lace collar, spreading in a large wet patch. There had to be a better way.

He got a paper cup and plastic spoon from over by the coffee machine in the reception area. Lili was pushing the ice pack away when he returned. “Maw howe mowf—”

“Your whole mouth is frozen,” Simon said, sitting beside her. “Let’s try this.” He scooped some of the melting ice chips into the cup and fed Lili a spoonful.

She opened her lips as obediently as a baby bird, looking at him with glistening eyes. “Thank ooh.”

“You’re welcome. Hold the ice against your tongue until it melts. Is the sting still painful?”

“Naw so much.”

“Will you be able to return to the reception, Princess?” Mrs. Grundy asked. “There are a hundred guests waiting to be greeted.”

Lili nodded dutifully.

“Give her fifteen minutes,” Simon said. He looked at the older woman, nudging her along with a head bob. “Maybe you could go and report to the mayor? I’m sure Cornelia can delay the program for another fifteen minutes.”

Mrs. Grundy glanced from one to the other, squinting a skeptical eye. “Princess?”

Lili shooed her.

She hesitated. “Rodger’s right outside if you should need his assistance.”

Simon fed Lili another spoonful of ice chips. “I’m a mild-mannered museum wonk. I assure you, the princess is safe with me.” Grundy, mollified, finally left.

Lili looked at him and smiled through the ice melting on her tongue. “They thay ith alwayth the quiet one.”

He waggled his brows, knowing no one with a cowlick and a metallic King Tut tie could ever look dangerous. “You’re talking better. Swelling going down?”

“Yeth.”

“More ice?”

“No, thank you. Already feel like an iceberg.”

“Would that make me the Titanic?”

She blinked. “How?”

“We’ve had one encounter and already you’ve torn off a vital piece of my heart.”

She was quite fetching when she giggled—her eyes slitted, her cheeks plumped, her wide smile infectious. “Is that a line that works on American girls?”

“I wouldn’t know, being a museum wonk.” He’d never tried an idiotic line like that on a girl in his life. When it came to hitting on women, his batting average was too dismal to account. He’d even come to the conclusion that associating with the female gender was dangerous to his welfare. Too bad about the biological urges he was having more and more trouble supressing. Thoughts of swollen body parts and how they meshed kept popping into his head. Definitely not on the how-to-treat-a-princess list.

“Then you’re not married?”

He managed to cover his surprise, telling himself that she was polite, not interested. “Only to my work. The sarcophaguses—sarcophagi?—would get jealous otherwise.”

She smiled as he fed her more ice. “You’re very amusing.”

“I practiced my act special for you.”

“Ooh, I’m all damp,” she said, and for an instant he was nonplussed by the idea of damp swollen body parts, before he realized she was referring to her clothing. She peeled off the pink jacket and reached under her lace jabot to unbutton the blouse. The wet silk had gone transparent, clinging to the curves of her breasts, outlining the plunging neckline of her undergarment.

She kept unbuttoning. He pulled his gaze away, rising from the couch. “Hold on. I’ll step outside.”

“Don’t bother. We Europeans are accustomed to going topless.”

Good God! Simon risked a quick glance and saw that she was taking off her blouse entirely. He spun around, keeping his back to her, every synapse firing. Breasts! Naked! Lucky, lucky man!

Then: Bodyguard! Royal outrage! Scandal! Disgrace!

Worth it!

He clenched his hands. Naked breasts were also surely against Corny’s protocol. “Uh, Princess, I really don’t think this is—”

“Oh, it’s all right, you silly man. I was only joking with you. I’m wearing a camisole.”

He glanced over his shoulder. The camisole was soft, silky, loose-fitting. It covered about as much flesh as a tank top. The fabric tented over her round breasts, held up—rather flimsily—by narrow satin straps. Even at a glance, it was obvious that the princess possessed a nice set of erect nipples. They were properly positioned and everything.

And everything.

He tore his gaze away a second time. It had taken the Titanic hours to go down, and here he was, sunk in mere minutes. “Could you put on your jacket?” he asked the ceiling.

“It’s damp, too. Do you have a hair dryer?”

Self-consciously, he passed a hand over his hair. It was clipped close to his skull despite an excess of forehead and temple. He figured he’d be bald by the time he was forty, so why fight it? “There are hot-air hand dryers in the lavatories.”

“Would you?” she said, holding out her blouse and the pink jacket. “Please?”

He sidled closer, still not sure that he should look directly at her, as if she were the sun. The sun, with breasts that shifted beneath the silk camisole every time she moved. His brain had lost too much blood for him to think straight and maintain willpower, so it would be best if he left the room as quickly as possible.

He reached out a blind hand, hoping she’d put the items of clothing into it.

She’s royal, she’s privileged, she thinks of me as a handy servant, he told himself. A valet. There’s nothing for me to see because in her eyes I barely even count as a person.

Ha! Nice try, but no go. This princess was no snob.

“I’ll do it,” she said, standing at the same time as he reached again for the clothes.

He got a handful of breast instead.

Sliding silk. Plump, firm breast. Taut nipple.

The princess gasped.

“Sorry,” he said, whipping around and pulling his hand away as if it had been burned.

Her face had gone as pink as her tongue. “My fault.”

“No, mine. I’m clumsy.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Shouldn’t a museum wonk be good with his hands and eyes? All that detail work.”

Every detail of her breast was carved into his brain. Sparks were still shooting up his arm. “Clumsy socially,” he clarified. “I’m no good once you take me out of the museum.”

She patted his hand, and he realized it still hung in the air between them. He let it drop.

“You’re doing fine.” She sighed. “I’m the one who’s fouling everything up.”

“You couldn’t have anticipated a bee in the bouquet.”

“Maybe not, but it doesn’t matter. These things always happen to me when I make public appearances. My father won’t let me out of the castle till I’m forty if I turn this event into a fiasco.”

“You’re an adult, aren’t you? You can do as you please.”

She shook her head. “I’m twenty-two, but they still treat me like a child. Ours is a traditional, hidebound monarchy, you see, and my father became very strict after my mother died. I know he’s only worried about his responsibility to me and my sisters, seeing that we have a proper upbringing, but it’s very hard to—” Lili stopped. “Listen to me. Complaining about life in the castle. You must think I’m a spoiled brat.”

“No…”

“You do. Admit it.”

“I don’t know you well enough to judge.”

She looked at him with bright, inquisitive eyes, her clothing clutched to her chest. “Now that you’ve touched my breast, you practically have to take me on a date.”

His eyeballs were on the verge of popping out and rolling across the floor like marbles. “A date?”

“The hot dogs,” she said. “You promised.”

He hesitated. “Would I get to touch the other breast?”

For a moment, she looked as stunned as he. Her mouth dropped open—the sight of the tender, red, swollen tip of her tongue made him feel curiously protective—and then she burst into laughter.

He shook his head, relieved by her reaction, but still appalled at himself. “I can’t believe I just said that to Her Serene Highness of Grunberg.”

She lowered the hand she’d clapped over her mouth. “Honestly, I’m glad you did.”

His brow went up.

“I didn’t mean…not because of…” Her lashes fluttered. “Or maybe I did.” She cozied up to him, one hand tucked into the crook of his arm. “You see, this is my first time out on my own. It’s my chance to assert my independence. I was hoping to meet a dashing American playboy, but perhaps you’ll do.”

He was feeling pretty good, up until the last several words. They made him snap to attention.

He’d do, as a means to an end.

Story of his life. From Valerie Wingate to Paula Manthey, the grad student who’d faked a romantic interest in hopes of securing herself a cushy position on his team of researchers, women would far rather use him than amuse him. They saw him as a social misfit, an egghead scholar desperate enough to accept any female advance, whatever its motive. Sometimes, he even thought that way about himself. Which was why he was better off spending all his time with museum artifacts. Women were a species not even a man with an advanced degree could understand.

And Princess Buttercup was potentially more trouble than all the rest put together.

He’d take her for hot dogs if she insisted, but he’d definitely be ignoring the annoying little zings of his heartstrings.

Because if he didn’t, the beautiful young princess would soon be playing him like a violin. Just like all the rest.

“WOULD YOU LIKE to see the tiara?” Simon asked, after she’d dried her blouse and jacket and he’d met her outside his jumble of an office. They were returning to the outdoors reception. The museum was spacious and silent. Their footsteps echoed as they descended a wide stone staircase to the double-height first-floor entrance hall. Large arched openings on either side led to the exhibition rooms. Everything but the exhibits themselves was new and clean and shining. Lili was accustomed to old and crumbling and venerable.

Worrying the tip of her sore tongue against her teeth, she stopped in the center of a design inlaid on the marble floor. She’d said or done the wrong thing, back in the office. Suddenly Simon had lost his irreverence. He was being stiff and formal with her, like all the rest.

Certainly, they’d been too familiar. If she’d seen what had happened, Mrs. Grundy would have gone into a stuffy British form of apoplexy and probably have put Lili on the next plane home. But Lili hadn’t come to America to play it safe. She’d come for an adventure.

She tossed her head at Simon. “Why not?”

“This way, Princess,” he said, his fingers nearly, but not quite, touching her elbow.

She practiced her royally reserved face as they walked through a room lined with glass cases. Placed on velvet and satin backdrops, lit by subtle spotlights, all the finest pieces from the royal jewels of the Brunner monarchy were on display. Despite her position, Lili seldom had the opportunity to examine the jewels. On formal occasions, the three sisters might be allowed to wear one of the valuable pieces, but that was rare. She wasn’t particularly interested, either. Who wanted to be draped in history so valuable and weighty you had to be escorted by six guards and armed with an emergency panic button?

“It’s in here,” Simon said, exchanging a word with a uniformed security guard before entering a second, smaller room. A case with a glass dome had been set up in the center of the room to capitalize on the “Ah!” factor.

Despite her training, Lili wasn’t very skilled at curtailing her natural reactions. When she saw the famous tiara, nestled on a hillock of watered blue satin, she stopped and gave the obligatory exclamation.

Simon shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. He looked pleased with himself. “It’s something, isn’t it?”

Lili was in awe, as well as ah. “Yes, it’s something.”

“Have a closer look.”

She approached slowly. She’d seen the bridal tiara only twice before, at similar exhibitions in London and Spitzenstein, their capital city. Both times, she’d been a child, enchanted by the story of the long-ago prince who had so loved his betrothed, he’d commissioned the greatest jeweler in all the land to create a bridal tiara with the Vargas diamond, a gem of somewhat mysterious origins, as its centerpiece. Ever since, the tiara was only worn at royal weddings. Each new Brunner bride was given the honor, including Lili’s American grandmother, Adelaide, a simple country girl from Blue Cloud, Pennsylvania, who had married the crown prince of Grunberg exactly fifty years ago.

“It’s beautiful.” A delicately wrought construction of platinum and many tiny diamonds in addition to the spectacular center gem, the tiara was truly a work of art. Lili walked slowly around the case, looking at the piece from all angles. There was a thick velvet rope set up to keep onlookers out of touching distance, but that was mainly a psychological barrier.

She gave a little laugh. “How’s security?”

Simon’s face grew even more serious. He motioned around the dimly lit room. Lili realized that there were two more security guards, positioned in shadowed niches. “The case is alarmed, as well,” he explained. “Breathe upon the glass—it’s shatterproof, of course—and the entire museum will go into lockdown mode, alarms blaring.”

“I see how you were able to persuade my father to let the royal jewels out of the country for their first American exhibition.”

“Our museum is state of the art,” Simon said with pride.

“It’s new?”

“Brand-new. Cornelia Applewhite’s family provided a large portion of the funding, hence the unwieldy name.”

“I wonder what my grandmother would have thought about being celebrated in such a way.” Oversized blowup portraits of Princess Adelaide had been placed here and there as decoration. She’d been a beautiful, kind and graceful woman, but not one who’d enjoyed the spotlight, a vestige of her humble Pennsylvania origins. She had passed away from illness at sixty-one, when Lili was only six, followed in death three years later by her daughter-in-law, who’d perished in the skiing-vacation tragedy. All of Grunberg had mourned the losses.

“Blue Cloud is very proud of Princess Adelaide,” Simon said. “She’s their one claim to fame. The town officials are hoping that a museum dedicated to her memory will pull in the tourists.”

Lili understood. Her country was in much the same position. Her father’s advisors had even mentioned how beneficial a royal wedding would be to the economy. “And what about you?”

“Me?”

“How did you come to be the curator? Are you a scholar of royalty?”

“Not in particular. My field of specialty was—is—Egyptology.”

Simon had put on a second pair of wire-framed glasses, but they did not disguise the evasive shift of his eyes. Lili grew more curious. “Then why are you here in Blue Cloud…?”

“It’s a fine job.” He pulled his hands out of his pockets and tucked in the gaudy gold-and-blue King Tut tie. “Should we return to the reception?”

“There are many things we should do,” she answered in all solemnity. “Are you an eat-all-your-vegetables kind of guy?”

“No, I’m a burrito-takeout kind of guy.”

“When was the last time you had hot dogs?”

“Wednesday.”

“Is this evening too soon to have them again?”

“Tonight? Are princesses allowed to run away from their responsibilities on a whim? Don’t you have a shedjul to keep?”

“Mrs. Grundy has one. I don’t.”

“And the responsibilities?”

Lili sighed. “You are an eat-all-your-vegetables kind of guy.”

“I can’t be responsible for—”

She cocked her head. “I’m responsible for myself!”

“Then why do you have a bodyguard and a—What is Mrs. Grundy? Your baby-sitter?”

“Close,” Lili said, feeling a tiny bit snippety. “She’s my nanny.”

Simon put out his hands, as if he’d been knocked off balance. The velvet rope swung. “Your nanny?”

“She was my nanny. Now she’s my traveling companion.”

“You have a nanny.”

“No. She’s my social secretary.”

“A nanny.”

Lili narrowed her eyes. Had she thought Simon was amusing? He wasn’t. He was irritating. “My lady-in-waiting.”

“Jeez,” he said, running a hand through his mouse-colored hair. It was too short to stand up on end, except for the strands of the cowlick where his part ended in a swirl that showed a little too much scalp. “You live in a fairy tale.”

“I am a princess. I have a certain duty to my homeland. An image to maintain.” Regardless of her yearnings to be free.

“It’s difficult for Americans to conceive of such a thing. We’re an independent, egalitarian society.”

“I know. That’s why I was so excited to come here. There’s so much I want to see and do and taste and touch—” She stopped suddenly. If that was so, why she was wasting time with a self-described museum wonk? The adventure of her lifetime wasn’t in here, among the static displays. Artifacts might satisfy Simon Tremayne, but they’d never be enough for her.

“Don’t bother yourself about the hot dogs,” she said, giving him a brisk pat on the arm as she moved past him. “I’ll find my own way to them.” Her heels tap-tap-tapped across the polished floors as she hurried away.

“Wait,” Simon called, catching up. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t take you.” He held open the wide front door for her and she swept through with her head held high, as befitted a woman of royal blood.

“I’m sure I’ll manage on my own.” She looked over the animated crowd, the men in light-colored summer-weight suits, the women in hats and pretty dresses. A few of them had actually worn white gloves. Not even Amelia expected to put Lili in white gloves. “Perhaps I’ll find a dashing playboy among the guests to act as my escort.”

Simon muttered a response, but the mayor had spotted them and was shouting a hello, her arms in semaphore mode. Lili waved back.

“There’ll probably be a reception line,” Simon said, sounding as though he dreaded it as much as she. “Is your tongue up to it?”

“I won’t be kissing any babies.” She poked it out at him.

“Still swollen. Does it hurt?”

“Thum.” She closed her lips. “It hurts, but the ice helped a lot. Thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome.”

She studied his cockeyed face. One brow was tilted higher than the other, his high-bridged nose was crooked, his lips were lopsided. Even the glasses sat slightly canted. But there was something about him—the warmth in his eyes, the smile creases that ran from his nose to his mouth—that made him attractive. He was the kind of man who wasn’t exciting, but who was strong and capable and quirky and kind. It would never be dull, talking to him. It might even be interesting to kiss him….

“If you’re recovered, Princess,” Mrs. Grundy said, from several steps away, “your public is waiting.”

“May we begin the introductions?” Mayor Apple-white intoned with a bit of an edgy chuckle. “The cakes are cut and the tea leaves are suitably steeped.”

Lili winked at Simon as she turned away. She gracefully descended the steps, her throbbing tongue curled against the roof of her mouth, her smile dutifully intact. The guests responded with a smattering of applause.

“Stay away from the flower beds,” she heard Simon say as the mayor swept her into the eager, pressing crowd.

SIMON DREADED this part of his job. There were curators who developed a slick schmooze, who knew how to curry favor with the right people to secure grants and gifts for their institutions. He couldn’t even identify the right people from the wrong, though anyone from Cornelia Applewhite’s lengthy guest list was a good bet. If it wasn’t for Corny’s exclusive Platinum Patron list, Simon would have raised no more cash than a pauper on the street.

Basically, he’d lucked into the Royal Jewels of Grunberg exhibition. A friend from grad school knew a translator who knew an attaché to the Swiss ambassador who oversaw the tiny neighboring principality. It hadn’t hurt that a couple of Princess Adelaide’s Blue Cloud cousins still lived on the family farm, either. Corny had worked the two old ladies like a bagpipe, huffing and puffing over the honor and privilege of the new museum hosting the exhibition on the fiftieth anniversary of Princess Adelaide’s marriage until whatever influence the Wolf sisters had with the royal family was brought to bear.

However it had happened, securing the go-ahead from the palace had been a coup for Simon. One he sorely needed, considering the ignominious past that had landed him here in the first place. He’d been “asked” to leave his previous job—his dream job—after he’d let the wrong woman cloud his judgment. Sticky-fingered Traylor Bickett had been the last straw in a short lineup of users masquerading as girlfriends. He’d promised himself never to be so gullible again. Unfortunately, all but one of his subsequent job applications had been refused.

Which was why he was stuck here. Curating an exhibit that was a royal pain.

The security setup was a nightmare, blowing his budget right off the start because he’d had to overcompensate for the previous mistake: one tiny scarab stolen from under his nose. Given Simon’s track record, the Grunberg officials had insisted on tripling normal security. Luckily, Corny had hosted a Platinum Patron party and persuaded her wealthy friends to pull out their checkbooks. With the influx of funds, Simon had been able to correct glitches in the system and hire another guard.

Even so, there were a thousand details to handle before the official grand opening tomorrow afternoon. The last thing Simon needed was to become preoccupied with the visiting princess.

Yet here he stood, drinking strong tea and popping tiny frosted cakes by the handful, watching as Lili greeted guest after guest after guest. Her smile never wavered. But it was a professional smile. Already he could tell the difference between it and the naughty little twitch of her lips that preceded her mischievous moments. For now, she was on her best behavior.

Alas.

Simon scanned the crowd. Socially inept or not, even he recognized that the party could use some livening up. He supposed it was proceeding exactly as the mayor had envisioned. That was the trouble. Corny prided herself on her old-world stodginess.

Lili’s laughter drew Simon’s attention. Darned if she wasn’t up on her toes, reaching a hand to the top of an overgrown young man’s lofty head. The Tower lowered his chin obediently. Her hand sank into his thick, curly hair. Thick? It was as dense as a jungle. The guy had twice as much hair as he needed. He could donate half of it to Charles Barkley and have enough left over to weave himself a hair shirt.

Simon edged closer. What was Lili doing?