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“I want you to do a favor for me,” Luc said.
“I’ll do whatever I can.”
He smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that. Because I want you to give me royalty training.”
She stared at him blankly. “Excuse me?”
“I want you to teach me all the kingly things I’ll need to know.”
When she just blinked owlishly at him, he put it another way. “I’d like you to tutor me on protocol, customs and traditions of the royal family.”
“I’m sure the protocol minister would be glad to help…”
Luc cut off her words. “No way am I going to that toady fellow. I dealt with him when I first arrived at the palace and he had the effrontery to tell me not to chew gum in front of the king. What are you smiling at?”
“Your use of the word effrontery. A very regal term.”
“I don’t feel regal,” he confessed. “It feels so strange to think of King Philippe as my…father.”
“I imagine it does. I know none of this has been easy for you.”
“And it’s not going to get any easier. Which is why I need you to help me quickly learn my way about. You and no one else.”
If only that were true. If only he did need her, as a woman rather than as a friend. And if only he wasn’t the future king. And if only she were more beautiful and confident. And had bigger breasts. Hey, since she was making wishes here, she might as well wish for the entire package.
“So what do you say?” Luc asked.
“I’m honored that you’d ask me, but I truly don’t feel I’m the best person for this job.”
“I feel you are.”
“There, you’re already sounding like a king. You don’t need me.”
“You’re doing it again,” he warned her.
“Doing what?”
“Going all strange on me. All distant.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”
“Oh please.” He rolled his eyes at her. “You used to take great joy in offending me.”
“I did not!” she vehemently denied. “Name one time when I did that.”
“When I told you that men made better leaders than women and you said I was sounding like a chauvinist pig.”
“Well, you were. But that was before…”
“I want the two of us to remain as we were before.”
Which was part of the problem. He was happy with them just being friends as they’d been before, whereas she wanted so much more. And now those hopes were futile. As king, Luc had to marry someone worthy, someone who had the confidence and polish of the royal princesses, not an ugly duckling like herself. And she knew herself well enough to know that the more time she spent with Luc, the more intense her emotions for him were likely to get. Not a smart thing. And if nothing else, she was a smart woman.
“Come on, Juliet, I can’t do this without you.”
He could, of course. She knew he could. But it was impossible for her to turn away from the look of teasing pleading in his intense blue eyes. She doubted there were many women on the entire planet who could turn Luc down when he gave them that look—no matter what he wanted.
“Protocol and traditions, right?” she said briskly.
“Right. Piece of cake, right?”
“Speaking of cake, I think we’ll begin with royal meals and formal state dinners.” She kept her voice coolly efficient. If she was going to be coerced into doing this, she was going to do it her way.
“That sounds fine. There’s just one thing. I don’t want anyone knowing you’re giving me these lessons.”
“Why?” Was he ashamed of being seen with her? The thought stung like a cruel barb.
“Why? Because I don’t want anyone else knowing yet about my being the future king,” he explained. “Not until the corroborating documentation comes in. I figure we have about a week to ten days before that happens.”
“So you’re not telling Celeste that you’re the king until then?”
“That’s right. I thought you and I could get together later at night, after everyone else in the palace has gone to bed,” Luc suggested. “Would that work for you?”
Work for her? None of this worked for her. Not one single thing. Not him thinking of her as a friend, not him being king, certainly not her spending more time alone with him. But there was no changing reality. And the reality was that she had to help him. “That will be fine.” She could only hope that stating it so confidently would make it so.
Bond. Juliet Bond. That’s how she felt. As if she were participating in some sort of covert operation.
She was even wearing the appropriate clothing—black, so she wouldn’t be seen in the palace’s shadowy hallways. King Philippe had ordered a reduction in the electricity used within the palace, and had replaced the light bulbs with low-wattage models that wouldn’t need replacing for a decade.
The dim light served her purposes well. So did the fact that most of the servants had gone home to their own beds in St. Michel, leaving only a skeletal staff behind in the palace. A hundred years ago, the staff would have lived on the top floor in the servants’ quarters. But things had changed a lot in the past century.
She tried to imagine any of the royal women she was researching sneaking down the hallway toward the Crystal Ballroom to meet the future king. Only one kind of woman did that. A royal mistress. Not that a royal mistress would ever have been caught dead wearing the tailored black slacks and black long-sleeved T-shirt she was presently wearing. Or rubber-soled shoes so her footsteps would be quiet in the marble corridors. Not the sexiest of outfits.
As often happened, Juliet was so caught up in her own thoughts she didn’t realize anyone was in front of her until she almost ran smack into him.
At least she didn’t shriek in surprise. Instead she emitted a startled oomph.
A pair of male arms circled her waist. But even before they did so, she knew it was Luc. Her nose was buried in his shirtfront and she could smell the citrus scent of his soap.
He, too, had changed from his normal working attire. Instead he was wearing the most deliciously silky shirt in a midnight blue that brought out the color of his eyes. She noticed that the minute she looked up. She also noticed the fact that he was smiling at her. Little crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes.
She’d once spent several hours trying to pinpoint the exact blue of his eyes. She’d even gone so far as to check out a color chart in an old watercolor set from her boarding school days.
She’d been younger then. And foolish.
Foolish enough to believe a man like him might come to have feelings for a girl like her. But now the man was about to become a king, leaving her even further behind.
“Nice outfit,” Luc was saying with a grin. “All you need is some face camouflage and you’d be ready for a covert op.”
“Since there are no jungles in St. Michel or in the palace, I didn’t see the point in wearing camouflage. It’s not as though we were rendezvousing in the Palm Room,” she noted tartly, not appreciating his comments about her clothes.
“I’d never find you in all those palms and ferns in there. Besides, it’s too easy for someone to spy on us.”
“Now who’s sounding like James Bond?” she countered mockingly.
“I already told you that I don’t want anyone else knowing about our meetings.”
“And I still say you’d be better off having the protocol minister assist you in this matter.”
“Now don’t go getting all prissy on me, it’s not that I’m ashamed to be seen with you or anything. That’s not what you’re thinking, is it?” Luc demanded, studying her face. “Because you’re dead wrong.”
“If you say so, your majesty.”
He glared at her. “None of that fancy talk.”
“You’re going to have to get used to it,” she firmly informed him. “So you might as well start now.”
“Not with you.”
“Yes, with me. At any official function, you’re going to have to be comfortable with the way others treat you. And they will treat you differently. You must learn to be comfortable with that.”
“Or learn to be a damn good actor,” he muttered.
“Which will no doubt come in handy as well,” she briskly agreed. “Now, one of the royal rules is that no one is to speak to you unless spoken to. I can foresee that this will be a problem since you’re so closemouthed.”
“I am not closemouthed. See?” He pursed his open lips at her.
She was immediately distracted by his actions and by the sensual outline of his mouth—the sculpted curve of his upper lip, the seductive fullness of his lower one. There was little doubt that most women would be fascinated by his smile, fascinated by him…period. Even without the title of king. Without any title at all. Without anything at all.
Oh my. She raised her hands to her cheeks. Concentrate, she fiercely ordered herself. And not on him! On protocol. Which certainly precluded her having fantasies about him. Focus on protocol. What were you saying? Oh yes, you were telling him that he was closemouthed, no, don’t look at his lips again. Stay focused.
“You must learn to speak first and initiate a conversation,” she continued as if nothing had happened. “Go ahead. Pretend I’ve just walked into the royal dining room for an official function. What do you say?”
“Whaaatsuuup?” he drawled, like those American beer commercials they saw on satellite television.
She stifled a laugh and attempted to give him a reprimanding look worthy of Mrs. Friesen, the headmistress at her boarding school. Mrs. Friesen was the queen of reprimanding looks.
He lifted a brow. “What’s wrong? Not appropriate?”
“Not appropriate,” she agreed.
“Do I know you in this scenario? Are you an old friend or someone I’ve never seen before?”
“You don’t know me,” Juliet replied.
“Are you from St. Michel?” Luc asked.
“No.”
“Then I’d ask you who were, where you’re from, what you’re doing in St. Michel…Now what’s wrong?” he demanded as she sighed and shook her head.
“I said to initiate a conversation, not to interrogate me.”
He arched one dark brow at her. “There’s a difference?”
“Yes, there’s a difference.”
“You’re talking to a man who spent eight years in Interpol before coming here to be Head of Security. I’m much better at interrogations than I am at conversations.”
“You don’t seem to have that trouble with me,” Juliet pointed out. “You and I have had some wonderful conversations.”
“You’re different.”
She wanted to ask him how she was different, but he answered before she could do so.
“You’re a friend,” Luc said.
As she’d suspected. She knew he only saw her as a friend and nothing more than that. Get used to it and get over it.
“How would you speak to a stranger?” she said.
“The way I just told you.”
Juliet sighed. Changing his many years of Interpol training was clearly not going to happen overnight. “All right, we’ll come back to conversation later. For now, let’s concentrate on royal protocol. As our monarch, you and the highest-ranking foreign dignitary will walk into the dining room together. Your respective spouses will walk behind you.”
“So which role are you playing?”
“Excuse me?”
“Are you the foreign dignitary or my spouse?”
While the thought of being Luc’s spouse made her insides melt, the thought of being the king’s spouse made her stomach clench. “I’m a foreign dignitary.”
“Fine. That means you walk into the room beside me, right?”
She nodded.
“Should I offer you my arm?” Luc asked.
“That’s not necessary, no.” She didn’t want him touching her any more than was absolutely required. Which should be no touching at all.
“It’s a little dark in here, isn’t it?” Luc noted as they entered farther into the large room.
Juliet reached over to turn on the switch controlling the porcelain hand-painted chandelier. While nowhere near as grand as any of the ones in the Crystal Ballroom, this exquisite one-of-a-kind piece had been a gift from Queen Victoria. But the main focus in the room, aside from the series of Rembrandts hanging on the wall, was the huge table that seated forty easily.
She gestured for him to sit at the table before taking the seat beside him. “Normally the footmen would take care of our chairs, pulling them out and pushing them back in. As you can see, earlier this afternoon I laid out two place settings as if this were a formal dinner.”
“There’s enough silverware here to choke a horse.”
“As the king, you shouldn’t say anything about choking a horse,” she chastised him. “It could be taken out of context and spread around the tabloids. Next thing you know, you’re being portrayed as someone who is cruel to animals. You can ride, can’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“A horse. You can ride a horse, can’t you?”
“Yes, although I haven’t ridden a lot in the past year or so.”
“Then we should stop by the stable for a brush-up lesson. But back to the dinner. You probably attended some formal functions while you were at Cambridge.”
“Not really, no. As a university student, I drank a lot of Guinness and ate a lot of curry, the hotter the better.”
“Really? Why?”
He shrugged a little self-consciously. “It’s a macho thing.”
The idea of Luc trying to prove his machismo brought to mind more forbidden images of decidedly sensual ways in which he could demonstrate his manhood. Images filled her mind of wickedly tempting options that had him plying her with kisses hotter than any curry. That made her nervous, and, as she did whenever she was nervous, she started talking. “Usually royals stay away from spicy things.” She almost tripped over her own tongue as another chapter of images flashed into her mind—Luc and spicy things. Luc as a spicy thing. “Um, I heard that garlic, spaghetti, tomato sauce and shellfish have been banned from the menu when the Queen of England pays an official visit to Italy. And the media has an unwritten rule never to photograph or film her while she’s eating. The press has a similar rule here. Blackberries and summer raspberries are also off most royal menus, since having tiny seeds stuck in one’s teeth would disfigure a royal smile. Fish and meat are served without bones to avoid a possible choking hazard, as once befell our dowager queen in her younger days. A similar incident occurred with the Queen Mum, Queen Elizabeth’s mother, I believe.”
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