My Best Friend’s Royal Wedding
ROMY SOMMER

One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Romy Sommer 2020

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Romy Sommer asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780008353599

Ebook Edition © January 2020 ISBN: 9780008353582

Version: 2019-12-19

About This Book

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

About This Book

Dedication

Prologue: Khara

Chapter 1: Adam

Chapter 2: Khara

Chapter 3: Khara

Chapter 4: Adam

Chapter 5: Khara

Chapter 6: Khara

Chapter 7: Khara

Chapter 8: Adam

Chapter 9: Khara

Chapter 10: Khara

Chapter 11: Adam

Chapter 12: Adam

Chapter 13: Khara

Chapter 14: Adam

Chapter 15: Khara

Chapter 16: Khara

Chapter 17: Khara

Chapter 18: Khara

Chapter 19: Adam

Chapter 20: Khara

Chapter 21: Adam

Chapter 22: Khara

Chapter 23: Adam

Chapter 24: Khara

Chapter 25: Khara

Chapter 26: Adam

Chapter 27: Adam

Chapter 28: Adam

Chapter 29: Khara

About the Author

About the Publisher

Dedicated to the ladies of Coffee Club, who keep me sane and motivated, and who give me an excuse to drink both coffee and champagne (not that anyone ever needs an excuse for either!)

Prologue
Khara

“You’re off the floor tonight.” My boss grabs at my elbow as I slide behind the bar. “They need you upstairs in the private dining room. One of their waitresses didn’t show.”

“Why me? Surely they could use one of the regular restaurant servers?” I set the tray of dirty glasses down beside the sink and face him. “I just serve drinks.”

“Taking food orders isn’t much different from taking drinks orders, and you’re our most experienced waitress.”

I roll my eyes. ‘Most experienced’ means nothing more than ‘the loser who’s been serving drinks since the moment she was legally allowed to, and still hasn’t got out.’

“Big tippers?” I ask.

Frank shrugs. “You never can tell with the kind of guests who book the private rooms. They like to throw their money around, but when it comes to remembering the hired help …? You might get lucky, you might not.”

I really don’t want to do this. I’m comfortable here on the casino floor, where I know the score and the tips are good. My friend Phoenix would have been a much better choice, but she’s off back-packing around Europe at the moment. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second at the thought of Europe, a place that has always seemed magical but impossibly unreal. The odds of me ever doing something so impetuous are so low no bookie would risk taking that bet.

Frank tries again. “Khara, you said you wanted to move onward and upward. Maybe this will lead to a permanent promotion.” He grips my arm, his expression serious. “You know I don’t want to lose you, but you’re better than this.” He nods toward the casino floor, toward the constant ding-ding-ding of slot machines, the never-ending night, and I hear what he doesn’t say: Don’t end up like me.

“Fine. But can I get a moment to change first?” I glance down at my black tank top bearing the casino’s logo, where an over-enthusiastic gambler slopped beer on me earlier.

“Sure, just remember to keep it classy. Then get your skinny ass upstairs quick as you can. Wouldn’t want to keep Their Highnesses waiting.”

I laugh. Frank is one of the reasons I haven’t already quit this job. Only in his world would my ass be considered skinny.

In the cramped staff locker room, I strip off my top and hot pants and stuff them into my locker. There is one sure-fire way to earn tips in a casino, and dressing classy isn’t it. Luckily, I always keep a dress in the locker in case of emergencies – like an unexpected hot date. With its above-the-knee skirt and plunging neckline, the little black skater dress might not be quite the look management has in mind for its restaurant servers, but it’s classier than the other options I have stashed in there, and yet still guaranteed to get me noticed. And getting noticed is the best way to earn tips.

I hurry up the back stairs to the restaurant. While the casino floor is where the everyday tourists and slot machine addicts hang out, the upstairs restaurant is where the people with money go. It was decorated by a famous interior designer, and has a Mediterranean cuisine menu curated by a Michelin-starred chef, but to me it just looks dark and pretentious. Its only saving grace is the view over the hotel’s lush gardens. The Bellagio has its fountains, the Luxor has its pyramid, and we have our water gardens. In the seven years I’ve worked here, I’ve walked through those gardens exactly once.

The three private function rooms are separated from the restaurant by a long corridor. The restaurant manager sends me to the largest of the rooms where two burly men, who look ominously like bodyguards, flank the door. I’m scared for a moment that they’re going to frisk me, then one nods curtly and holds the door open for me. The guests are already seated. The head waiter gives me a disapproving once-over, thrusts an opened bottle of expensive Champagne into my hands, and gives me a not-so-subtle shove in my lower back to get moving.

Two things are immediately obvious. The first is that the guests aren’t much older than me, and the second is that they clearly started their party elsewhere, because they’re already pretty buzzed.

I top up their Champagne glasses, then head to the kitchen to fetch the starter platters. The first course is served on delicate white porcelain plates. Bacon-wrapped scallops, crab cakes, and jumbo shrimp. My mouth waters.

As I serve, I get the opportunity to observe the guests. Four men, three women and, judging by their accents, none of them are American. No wonder Frank called them ‘Their Highnesses’. Perhaps they are. They all sound like Prince Harry. Which one of them is the reason for the bodyguards at the door?

The men are in smart evening suits, the women wear cocktail dresses. I can’t tell designer from knock-off, but I’m pretty sure their dresses don’t come from Target.

The next course is lobster bisque with Caesar salad. My stomach rumbles and I hope no one else hears it. I haven’t eaten since that burger at Wendy’s before the start of my shift nearly eight hours ago. This is why I prefer serving drinks on the casino floor: less temptation.

“I don’t think I’m going to make it to the end of the meal,” I complain to the sous-chef as I watch him flip prime steaks in the kitchen. “Those smell so good!”

He wipes the sweat from his brow and grins. He has the warmest brown eyes imaginable, and the broad-shouldered build of an athlete – a swimmer or a wrestler maybe. “You wouldn’t say that if you were the one grilling them all night. What time do you get off?”

“Whenever that lot do.” I nod toward the dining room.

“Want to go grab something to eat at Tacos El Gordo afterward?”

I grin back. “It’s a date. I’m Khara.”

“Raúl.” He holds out his hand, then ruefully yanks it back before I can shake it. His hand is spattered with basting sauce.

With an extra sway in my hips, I push through the swing doors, balancing the tray of prime sirloin, lobster linguine, and sea bass. The food no longer looks quite as enticing. I can make it through this evening. Tacos shared with an attractive man with a sense of humor beats the fanciest dishes in the world any day.

Half my tray is empty when I feel a hand grasp my thigh. “Hey, gorgeous,” a voice slurs.

I’m not unused to being groped by customers. I should have known better than to assume these people, with their money and looks and rank, would be any different from the drunken tourists on the casino floor. I turn, icy glare in place, to look at the man whose hand is now sliding higher, under the hem of my skirt, getting way too familiar.

What else can I do? I glance at the head waiter, wondering if I’ll be fired if I make a scene. Serving on the casino floor is so much easier. There, I could slap the hand away and give a sharp retort, and no one would bat an eye. Not to mention that Security would be all over a drunk and difficult gambler in a heartbeat. But here …?

The man’s blond hair flops down over his forehead, almost into his pale blue eyes. He might have been attractive, if not for the receding chin and boyish looks. I prefer real men. The kind that work with their hands.

His too-soft hand is still sliding higher, almost at the edge of my panties now. I think I’ve just discovered the reason why none of the restaurant waitresses wanted to work this room tonight.

“Please remove your hand. Sir.” The last is an afterthought, and more for the benefit of the head waiter, who turns to eye me suspiciously, than for the pale man looking at me as if I’m nothing more than another prime steak.

“Do you know who I am?” He says it with charm and a sloppy smile that almost takes the arrogance out of his words. Almost.

“Cut it out, Nick. The waitress isn’t on the menu.” This from the dark-haired man at the end of the table. “I’m hungry and you’re holding up my food.” He sounds bored.

Blondie lets me go, and I scoot around the table to distribute the rest of the plates. When I reach the dark-haired man, he leans toward me, voice low. “I apologize for my cousin. He’s had a bit too much to drink.”

“No shit,” I reply, keeping my voice equally low. I set down his plate, the Chilean sea bass, and turn to leave, but one of the women waves for me to stop.

“What is this? I can’t eat carbs.” Her voice has taken on a haughty tone, completely different from the giggly, effervescent way she spoke to her friends.

“You ordered the lobster linguine.” I keep my voice soft, polite, though it’s an effort.

“Yes, I ordered lobster. Not pasta.”

The dark-haired man laughs, a soft sound, quickly stifled. I glare at him, wishing I could do the same.

“I’ll ask the kitchen to prepare a new dish for you,” I say, forcing a smile for the woman and removing her plate.

“What’s wrong?” Raúl asks as I slam down the tray beside him.

“Damn entitled rich folks, that’s all.” I draw in a deep breath, and let it out very slowly and carefully. I need their money. I have to be able to smile when I walk back in there.

“Can you whip up something with lobster, but no linguine? She can’t eat carbs.”

“No worries.” He smiles and takes the plate from me, carrying it over to the chef.

I lean up against the wall, out of everyone’s way. The familiar sound of real people doing real work soothes my temper. These are my kind of people.

When the meal is done and I go in to clear away the dirty dishes, the porcelain plates are still half-piled with food. Our restaurant isn’t exactly famous for its large portions, and yet the young women have barely touched their food – including the specially prepared lobster.

The wastage is enough to make me want to throw the food in their faces. Instead, I keep on smiling and stack the dishes on my tray.

The head waiter circles the table once more, clearing away the empty Champagne bottles, and opening the next. Haven’t they already had more than enough to drink?

The dark-haired man looks up from studying the dessert menu. His gaze snags on me, slowly kindling. It’s a look that gets under my skin, prickly and hot with a hint of amusement, and I don’t like it at all. He is by far the best-looking man in this group. His dark hair is artfully tousled, his green-gray eyes are piercing, and his chin is definitely not weak. He exudes confidence and charm, but I’m immune. I’ve met enough of his type.

At any given moment, there are dozens of men like him in Vegas. Bachelor parties and frat boy weekends and conference groups. All with money to burn and the same attitude of entitlement. Most of them barely give me a second look, since I’m just the hired help, but those that do notice, like this one, are even worse. They seem to think that because I wear a short skirt and an apron, I’m as easily available as the drinks.

“Anyone for dessert?” I ask brightly.

The three women, all blonde, all skinny, and indistinguishable from one another, shake their heads in unison, and I hear Frank’s voice in my head. Nothing but bone – nothing to hold onto. I suppress a grin, but not quickly enough.

The dark-haired man raises an enquiring eyebrow at me; that amused look is in his eyes again, almost as if he read my thoughts. Then, “I’ll have the New York cheesecake.” He holds out the menu to me, but when I reach to take it he doesn’t let it go, teasing me. Or more likely taunting me, like a typical playground bully.

The woman to his right pouts. “But I want to go down to the casino.”

“And you will, Flora. As soon as I’ve had my dessert. Or you could go downstairs in the meantime and I’ll join you there later, once I’ve had dessert.”

Flora’s pout deepens. “But it’ll be no fun without you.”

Having observed them all evening, I completely get where she’s coming from. This dark-haired man is the one who has kept the dinner conversation flowing, deftly handled his cousin’s moods, made everyone laugh, and flirted with the ladies. He’s also the least drunk in the party. Without him, they make a deadly dull group.

Nick the Obnoxious’ eyes narrow as he looks from his cousin to me. “I know what your idea of dessert is.”

The dark-haired man merely laughs, then flashes a flirty smile at Flora. “Don’t listen to him, Flora, darling. You know I love you and only you.”

I stifle another laugh, cover it with a cough. Maybe for this week. I’d bet all my worldly goods this man says the same thing to many, many women. And because he has money, I’ll also bet these brainless model types are just queuing up to be next.

When I return to the dining room with his dessert, the room is empty except for the dark-haired man. Since the burly bodyguards disappeared along with the rest of the group, I assume he’s not the VVIP.

He takes his time, sipping the last of his Champagne, and twirling the stem of his glass. Now that the others have gone, he looks bored.

The head waiter brings the bill, and he signs it with a flourish. The tip is generous, and I breathe out a sigh of relief. Since no cash or cards change hands, they must be guests in the hotel. Not that I care.

Silently, I clear away his dessert plate and empty Champagne flute. It’s just the two of us in the room again, and I can feel his gaze burning me up. It strokes down my legs, making me feel naked. Hot, bothered, and naked.

Nervous, awkward, I nearly tip my tray and have to grab for the glass.

He laughs.

I glare.

With the bill already paid, I have nothing to lose. “Don’t you have someplace better to be?”

“When you’ve seen one casino, you’ve seen them all.”

Talk about preaching to the converted. I’ve worked in this one long enough that I’d be happy never to step foot inside another casino. And as soon as I graduate – if I ever graduate – I plan to get a job somewhere that has windows that let in real daylight.

“Throwing your money away at the tables is supposed to be thrilling,” I say. Not that I’d know. I have better things to do with my money than throw it away, but I’m desperate for him to leave. Raúl’s shift in the kitchen has already ended.

But the dark-haired foreigner merely shrugs again, and this time the movement looks weary, as if he’s not bored but tired. If being the heart and soul of this little party is so much effort, why does he bother?

“There’s more to Vegas than casinos. You could always try the Stratosphere Tower, or the Zombie Burlesque show,” I offer.

His cool green-gray eyes kindle again, wiping away that weary look. “What time do you get off work?”

Seriously? I narrow my eyes at him, but say nothing.

“You can show me what lies beyond the Strip. I can pay.”

My back stiffens. I may be almost permanently broke, but I am not for sale. “I already have a date,” I say stiffly.

He shrugs as if he doesn’t believe me. “In case you change your mind …” He smirks as he lays a room card down on the table, no longer even bothering to pretend he’s looking for a tour guide.

Anger ripples through me, white-hot. “The waitress is Not. On. The. Menu.”

Then I turn and walk out, my hands shaking so hard the glass wobbles dangerously on the tray.

Chapter 1
Adam

One year later …

As we crown the rise that separates the estate from the outside world, I see an ominous black car pull up beside the stable block and groan aloud. The sleek stretch limo with its dark-tinted windows can’t mean anything good. My horse, sensing home and her nosebag of hay, picks up her pace, but I’m less keen. Whoever is being driven in that vehicle, it’s certainly not anyone I want to see. Has my father sent someone from the office to check why I’m skiving off work again? I wonder if I should turn around and keep riding until the unwelcome visitor is gone. Riding is my one escape, my only chance to be alone, away from the stifling confines of family and work and expectations, and I resent this intrusion.

But Bonney is growing tired and needs a rub down and a rest. Unwillingly, I keep her on course. I slow her to a walk, though, reluctant to find out what this visitor wants from me. Because there is no doubt that it’s me that he – or she – wants, and I am so tired of everyone wanting things from me that I can’t give.

By the time I reach the red-brick stables, a relic of the Victorian era, a groom has already come running to take the reins. I dismount, just as the uniformed chauffeur leaning up against the vehicle moves to open the limo door. The visitor who steps out is tall and slim, grey-haired and wearing rimless glasses. I don’t recognise him, so maybe he hasn’t been sent to drag me back to the city for some mindlessly boring meeting I forgot.

“Adam Hatton?” the man asks.

I nod, otherwise ignoring him as I give Bonney the apple slices out my pocket and a pat, before relinquishing her to the hovering groom.

“My name is János Alsóvári.”

The name doesn’t ring any bells, but it’s enough to tell me where the visitor is from. Or rather who. “My uncle sent you?” I ask, stripping off my riding gloves and finally turning to face him. And that can only mean one thing: my cousin Nick has got himself into some kind of trouble again. His escapades are growing tiresome. He’s over thirty, for heaven’s sake, and well past the age when all-night parties at Mahiki, losing a small fortune gambling, or getting photographed with drunk and/or naked women should have lost its appeal. When is he ever going to grow up?

“What has Nick done now?” I ask, unable to hold back a sigh.

The visitor clears his throat. “It is my unfortunate duty to inform you that Prince Nicholas died this morning.”

I freeze in the process of removing my second glove. Maybe I heard him wrong?

But the man’s face tells me I didn’t misunderstand his words. He looks the way I feel. Tired.

“What happened?” I manage at last.

“He wrapped his roadster around a tree in the early hours.”

“He was drunk?”

“Of course.” The man’s expression remains neutral, but his lips press together, betraying his disapproval.

“Was anyone else injured?”

János shakes his head and I breathe out a sigh of relief. At least Nick didn’t take anyone with him. Where were his bodyguards? I rub a hand across my face, trying to process the news. I shouldn’t be surprised. The way Nick lived, hard, fast and completely without regard for anyone or anything, an early death was almost inevitable. Still, it feels as if a sledgehammer has slammed into my chest.

Nick. I saw him at the polo club just last weekend. And we’re supposed to play a match on Sunday. I know I shouldn’t be thinking of something like that right now, but I can’t help but wonder who we’ll get to replace him at such short notice. Rik’s halfway around the world in the Caribbean with his new bride, and these days Max is too busy being a prince. Everyone else I know who’s any good is already in a team.

“Your uncle requests a meeting with you. He is at the townhouse in London.”

I’d almost forgotten the visitor was still here. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

János’ lips press together again. “Now.”

“I’m hardly dressed for a meeting.” I glance down at my jeans and muddied riding boots.

“His Royal Highness requests your presence. Your attire is of no consequence.”

I shrug, and allow the man to bundle me into the limo. The chauffeur takes his seat up front. The dark glass is up between the front and back, leaving János and me alone in the back. The car pulls away, following the curve of the drive through a copse of trees and past the neo-classical mansion that’s been the Hatton family country seat for just two generations. My mobile phone and wallet are upstairs, still in the jacket of the three-piece suit I wore to work this morning, but I suppose I’ll hardly need them where we’re going.

“What does my uncle want with me?” I ask János. Though in my head the question is phrased a little less politely. After all, there’s nothing more I can do for Nick now. Unless Uncle Lajos is already planning the funeral, and wants me to get involved. But my uncle has never done anything in haste, which is why this whole mad rush seems bizarre.

Or does he hold me responsible for Nick’s death? He hasn’t held me responsible for Nick’s behaviour before, even though I’ve felt responsible.

János doesn’t answer. I want to ask how he found me. I lied and told my secretary I was meeting a client when I left the office early this morning. The groom is the only one who even knew I’d come home to my parents’ house. Lucky guess, or does my uncle have some sort of scary intelligence network at his disposal? Since I know I wouldn’t get an answer to that question, I don’t bother asking.

I lean my head back against the plush leather seat, and close my eyes. János makes a call, speaking in the dialect of my mother’s homeland, a language I’ve never really got the hang of, but even I can tell it sounds like damage control. My thoughts drift, not really settling on any one thing. I think of how proud Nick was of that damned car, and how he always drove too fast. Has my mother heard the news yet? She wasn’t home when I arrived earlier. And my sister Jemmy? She’s away on a business trip in New York, so most likely not. I hope they don’t hear of Nick’s death through the media. Though it’s unlikely they’ll grieve much. Nick burned a lot of bridges with the family these last few years.

János’ voice drones on in the background as he makes phone call after phone call. Since I barely understand half of what he’s saying, I don’t bother to listen in.

The drive from Hertfordshire into the heart of Belgravia takes over an hour, but I only open my eyes again when the car slows for the congestion of London’s narrow streets. Beyond the air-conditioned bubble of the car, the city seems to shimmer with the summer heat. I left London just a few hours ago to escape its humidity and the press of tourists. I really didn’t plan to be back so soon. I rub a hand over my eyes. The weariness that is my constant companion these days weighs even heavier on my shoulders than usual. Perhaps because now it’s more than just weariness. There’s guilt mixed in there too. I roll out the tension in my neck, but it doesn’t help.

The limo pulls to a stop outside the elegant Georgian townhouse that has been the embassy and London bolthole of the Erdély royal family since 1938, when my great-grandfather brought the family here to escape the Austrian Anschluss. Apparently it was considered an act of cowardice, and his people never forgave him, but I personally am rather grateful. My grandfather, just in his early twenties when the war started, was an outspoken critic of the Nazis and he would almost certainly have been killed if he’d stayed, and then I wouldn’t have been born. Suffocating as my life has become lately, I’m rather attached to it.

Uniformed guards swing open the gates and the car rolls forward, up the short drive to the imposing front entrance. There are no photographers at the gate so clearly the news hasn’t broken yet. It won’t take long, I’m sure. When a young playboy prince dies, it’s headline news, even if he was hereditary prince of a country most people have never even heard of. That, at least, is a small silver lining to Nick’s death – by tomorrow, there’ll be quite a few people Googling Erdély to see where the hell it is. The tiny principality sandwiched at the junction of Austria, Hungary and Slovenia is about to get famous for all the wrong reasons.

Another uniformed guard opens the limo door, and yet another holds open the front door for us. János stands back, waiting for me to enter first, so I step over the threshold into the cool, marble-floored entrance hall. I find the hall just as intimidating now as I did as a kid when we visited my grandfather here.

“His Royal Highness is in the library,” the footman at the door says over my shoulder to János. His use of English is no doubt for my benefit.

The library is a double-volumed room at the back of the house, overlooking the neat lawn where Nick and I used to play cricket. We hit a cricket ball through one of its high, stained-glass windows a lifetime ago. There’s no sign of the damage now.

My uncle, looking considerably greyer than the last time we met, stands before the window, staring out at the garden as if he isn’t really seeing it. He cradles a whiskey tumbler in his hands, though it isn’t yet noon and he’s never been a big drinker. Unlike his son.

I step further into the room and János shuts the door behind me, leaving us alone. I can’t remember when last I met my uncle alone, if ever.

“I am so sorry,” I say. The words feel inadequate, but what else does one say to a man who has just lost his only child? “How is my aunt?”

Uncle Lajos turns slowly to face me. His eyes, so similar to mine I’ve been told, are grave. “She is sleeping. We had to make her take a strong sedative.”

I nod. Aunt Sonja adored her son, blindly.

Lajos sets down the tumbler. “We spoiled him. We let him do as he pleased.”

Since a response clearly isn’t expected of me, I wait for him to get to the point.

“Nicholas was my heir,” the older man says needlessly. “Erdély will need a new crown prince.”

It seems callous to be thinking of who is next in line, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that thought hadn’t already crossed my mind during the long drive here. “Mátyás is next in line,” I answer promptly. Though my other cousin is five years younger than me, his mother was the elder sister.

“Your cousin Mátyás is cut from the same cloth as my own son. Too indulged and too self-absorbed. Erdély cannot afford any more public embarrassment.”

He looks at me intently, as if trying to look deep inside me. I choke on an intake of breath as realisation dawns. “You called me here to make me your heir? But Mátyás …”

Lajos shakes his head. “Our laws state that the Fürst of Erdély may choose his own successor, as long as his choice is a blood relative.”

I feel like a fish trying to breathe out of water. “I don’t even understand the language!” And I most certainly don’t want this! I don’t even want the job I already have. I have no idea what I want.

“You’ll learn it soon enough.” Lajos’ voice is calm but brittle.

Under any other circumstances, I would have thought my uncle was having me on. After all, grief makes people do crazy things, doesn’t it?

I’m just as indulged, just as selfish, as my cousins. Okay, so I dialled down the partying a little this last year, but I’m still not exactly princely material. I haven’t achieved anything of value with my life, and I’m hardly likely to start now. I’m not sure I even have the energy to try.

Lajos stands taller, looking very much what he is – the ruler of a nation. “You have a job in your father’s firm, and I hear that you are even good at it. You achieved a first in your MBA so you clearly have brains. You’re one of the few people Nicholas ever listened to, and you’re the least likely of my nephews to drink himself into an early grave.”

For a moment, grief etches lines into his face before he regains control of his expression. I take just a little longer to recover from the sudden slash of pain in the vicinity of my heart. Nick’s isn’t the first violent death I’ve known. It’s not the first I feel part-way responsible for either. But I can’t think of that now. “If you can choose your successor, then my sister would be a far better choice,” I manage at last.

“Jemima is an admirable young woman, and undoubtedly would make a far better ruler than either you or Mátyás, but the law is clear: only a male may inherit.”

“That’s positively archaic.”

“If you feel strongly about it, then when you are Fürst you may attempt to change the laws. I have had other battles to fight.”

I’m well aware what those battles have been. There have been calls for Erdély to scrap its royal family since my great-grandfather’s day, and Lajos has had a hell of a job convincing the people his title is still worth something. It’s only been since his accession a couple of decades back that women have been granted the right to vote, and gay marriage was only legalised mere years ago. Lajos was instrumental in passing both pieces of legislation. The tiny principality hasn’t been in any hurry to join the twenty-first century. Yet another reason I want nothing to do with the place. I like my twenty-first century comforts.

“I haven’t been to Erdély in years! I don’t even remember the place,” I protest, aware I’m scrabbling for excuses.

“Again, that is something that is easily rectified.” My uncle reaches for the whiskey tumbler and takes a long sip. His hand shakes, betraying unexpected emotion. “I will not force you to accept this role. Mátyás will no doubt be delighted to accept, should you decline.” His lips purse together, just as János’ did earlier. Is that an Erdélian thing? “But I will ask that you at least consider my request. By law, when Nicholas’ funeral is over, I must announce my successor. We can delay the funeral by one month, but no longer. You have until then to let me know your choice.”

One month to decide my entire future? If it were that easy, sometime over this last year I would have figured out what the hell I want to do with my life. And my uncle isn’t offering me a job I can walk away from if it doesn’t work out. There’ll be no trial period if I accept.

I’m pretty sure I know already what my answer will be, and it’s a very easy decision. No, thank you. I may be bored with my current life, but I’m still rather attached to doing what I want, when I want to seriously consider one day carrying the burden of an entire country on my shoulders, for ever and ever until death us do part.

But I can’t tell him that now, not here or like this, and certainly not until I’ve figured out how to politely decline his offer.

So I shrug. “Sure. I’ll think about it.”

***

The drive back to Hertfordshire seems to take even longer. Perhaps because it’s now Friday afternoon and the mad commuter rush out to the suburbs has begun. At least I have the back of the car to myself, and the chauffeur still has the dark glass up. I need time alone to process everything. Nick being dead. That other, long ago death that sometimes still knocks the wind out of me when I remember. And my uncle’s offer.

I’ve spent a lot of time this past year trying to picture my future, and not one of those scenarios featured me being a prince. And certainly not a future ruler. Not that it bothered Nick much. He hardly ever visited Erdély because he said it was boring (by which I presume he meant there wasn’t any good gambling), and he’d never shown the least interest in being responsible for anything, but if I say yes to Lajos’ crazy offer there’s no way I’ll be treated with the same leniency. I’ll need to step up, and that’s the one thing I am really not good at doing.

But if I say no, what will I do with the next fifty plus years of my life? I went to work in the family business after uni because I’m good with numbers and have a natural flair for talking clients into trusting me with their money, but it’s pretty obvious to anyone who really knows me that my heart isn’t in it. If I’m still there in another five years, I think I’ll need a straitjacket.

If I were a better person, I guess I’d do something useful with my life, like build houses for the homeless in South America, or bring clean drinking water to villages in Africa. But I like the comforts of home far too much. I even briefly toyed with the idea of doing what my best friend Rik does these days: sail the Caribbean. But I gave him my yacht as a wedding gift, and couldn’t be bothered going shopping for another one.

And yes, I am fully aware how self-indulgent and entitled that sounds. Poor little rich boy. Has enough money to do anything he wants, but nothing appeals. Maybe being a crown prince would be a lark … But I don’t even know what the job entails. I’m an investment broker, for heaven’s sake. I could ask Max, Rik’s brother. He’s archduke of another of those tiny European principalities no one has ever heard of. But at least Westerwald has vineyards. And a city.

And thinking of Max I groan out loud. I was really looking forward to his bachelor party next week – but how will it look now if I go partying with the Archduke of Westerwald when I’m supposed to be in mourning for Nick? Though Nick would be the first person to tell me that life is for the living and to go to the damn party.

***

Even though I have my own loft apartment in the city, Hartham Manor still feels like home. It’s more than four times the size of the Belgravia townhouse I just visited, but with its mellow red brick façade and wildflower-filled gardens it feels far more welcoming. While my maternal great-grandfather ran away from his country in its time of need, my paternal great-grandfather was an East End nobody who, with nothing more than his own gumption, made himself into a somebody. He bought this stately home in his quest to move up the ranks of England’s strictly hierarchical society. Even with his big dreams of joining the aristocracy, I don’t think he imagined for even a moment that his grandson – my father – would be a respected member of the old boy network, or that he’d marry a princess. I stifle a laugh, wondering if his great-grandson will one day inherit a nation. That would have made the old man proud.

The title of Fürst of Erdély might be obscure, but for those who care about these sorts of things it’s a very ancient and noble title. Back in the Middle Ages, the title of Fürst – Imperial Prince – was given to princes who had the power to elect the next Holy Roman Emperor. Once upon a time, my mother’s ancestors literally had the power to influence European history. I may not have been to that backwater country since I was a kid, but my mother drummed Erdélian history into both me and Jemima before we were barely old enough to walk. Other kids got Jack and Jill and Humpty Dumpty, and we got medieval politics.

When I stride into the drawing room my mother is waiting for me, and I can tell from her face that she’s heard the news.

Krisztyna Eszterháza de Erdély Hatton doesn’t look like what you’d expect of a princess. There are no twinsets and pearls in her wardrobe. She’s short and plump and maternal, prefers jeans and riding boots to ballgowns, and tends to smell more like the horses she breeds than Chanel. I have absolutely no clue what drew her and my vain, Savile Row-suit-wearing father together but, whatever it was, it clearly works. They’re headed for their fortieth anniversary.

Her over-excited beagle starts to yap and dance in circles as I approach. My mother rises and holds out her hands. “You’ve been out riding?”

I squeeze her hands, then, out of habit, bend to scratch the dog’s head while she pours tea for us both from the fresh pot that is steaming gently on its silver tray – though I could do with something a great deal stronger. “I was. Until Uncle Lajos sent for me.”

She frowns as she settles back in her favourite armchair and accepts the teacup I hold out to her. “János just called with the news. Sonja must be devastated! I tried to call her, but her secretary said she was sleeping.”

“They sedated her.”

“Miklós was always so headstrong.” She always insisted on calling Nick by the name on his birth certificate, even though he hated it and even his parents called him by his Anglicised name. “And he wasn’t fit to be crown prince. He had no interest in Erdély’s culture or traditions, let alone current policy. But what will my brother do now? Mátyás is a money-grubbing leach who’ll probably sell everything of value in the country to the highest bidder. But if there isn’t an heir, then Erdély defaults back to the crown of Hungary.”

“Which hasn’t existed since Hungary came under Austrian rule in the fifteen-hundreds,” I point out, rather pleased with myself for having remembered that, and equally keen to divert her from this line of thinking.

“Exactly! What will become of us?”

I shake my head. She’s lived in the UK her entire adult life and yet still thinks of herself as Erdélian. Besides, does it really matter what happens to some tiny, backward country halfway across Europe? It could become a province of Hungary for all I care. Not that I’d say that out loud anywhere my mother can hear.

She sips her tea, then looks at me sharply. “Why did Lajos want to see you?”

Damn. I really hoped she wouldn’t ask, and she knows me too well to let me get away with a lie. I clear my throat. “He offered me the opportunity to be his successor.” Not that it’s much of an opportunity. More like a life sentence.

My mother’s eyes shine. “Yes. That would be an excellent solution. My sister won’t like it, of course, and Mátyás will be spitting mad, but that would be the sensible thing to do.”

Sensible for who? Certainly not for me! And I am no different from my cousins. I am vain and selfish enough to put my own interests ahead of Erdély’s, and I’m not going to pretend any different, not even to spare my mother’s feelings. But I choke back my retort and instead I say, “He has asked me to think about it, and to give him an answer by the time of Nick’s funeral.”

Her gaze sharpens on me and she frowns again as she senses my lack of enthusiasm. “Promise me that you will at least give his offer serious consideration.”

Shit. I really don’t want to make that promise. “I promise,” I say.

Chapter 2
Khara

“I want you to be my bridesmaid.”

“Am I experiencing déjà-vu, or is this for real?” I’m stretched out on a towel beside the local public pool, my textbook open in front of me. Though it’s a weekday and the place is pretty empty, there’s a kids’ swimming class on the go and the kids are screaming and laughing. I have to cover my other ear so I can hear my friend’s reply.

“For real. Big white dress, cathedral, the whole nine yards.”

I have to pinch myself. My friend Phoenix is married to a prince. About to marry a prince. I’m one of only three people other than the happy couple who know that they married in secret a year ago and this big royal wedding is just for show. It’s a long story – the kind that can only happen right here in Vegas.

“Let me get this straight: you want me – a waitress who still lives with her mother in a double wide – to be your bridesmaid at a royal wedding?”

Phoenix’s chuckle doesn’t sound at all princess-like. “Of course I want you to share this moment with me. You were there for me first time round, and you should be there this time round. The only difference is that this time you’ll need a passport.”

Yeah, sure. As if a royal wedding is going to be anything like the quickie Vegas chapel wedding Phoenix and Max had first time round. For one thing, I don’t think any cathedral will allow glitter guns.

Luckily, the crackle of the long distance call (or is it my cheap, bottom-of-the-range cell phone?) masks the fact that my laughter is really hysteria. I am so not the kind of girl who should be a bridesmaid at a royal wedding. I’ve never been outside the state of Nevada, let alone out the country. I don’t even own a passport.

“It’s all taken care of,” Phoenix says. “We have an embassy in DC. They’ll help you get a passport, visa and sort your travel arrangements. The invitation’s for you and your brother, since you were both there to witness our first wedding. And his girlfriend, of course.”

“Calvin won’t come. The baby’s due around then, and he won’t travel without Aliya. But he’ll be so thrilled to be invited.” Certainly more thrilled than I feel right now. Nope, the emotion I’m feeling is terror.

“Just you then. Come spend the rest of the summer, until school starts. You’ll love it here! Westerwald is unlike anything you can imagine.”

She’s told me a lot about the little fairy tale kingdom tucked in between France and Germany, a place of castles and vineyards and rivers, and I’ve dreamed of one day seeing it for myself. I just didn’t think ‘one day’ would come so soon. Or ever.

“I can’t take all that time off work,” I protest. “Frank’s a sweetheart, but he’ll never be able to hold my job open that long.” And I can’t afford to lose this job. I still have a final semester’s tuition to pay for, and every day I spend in Westerwald will be a day I won’t be earning.

“You won’t need to work. We’ll take care of everything while you’re here, and I promise you won’t need to worry about your tuition when you get back home.”

My back stiffens. “I won’t take your charity.”

On the other end of the line, Phoenix huffs out an exasperated breath. “Don’t be an idiot. This isn’t charity. This is me, needing your help to get through what is going to be the biggest and most nerve-racking month of my life. I need you here, and I’ll do anything to make that happen. Please, Khara. For me?”

Even though I only knew her a few months before she met Max and traveled to Europe, Phoenix is the closest friend I’ve ever had. I’d jump through a ring of fire for her.

“How many other bridesmaids will there be?” I ask. If it’s a royal wedding, surely there’ll be a big entourage. Maybe I won’t stand out so much if I can hide in a crowd.

But when was I ever that lucky? “It’s a European-style wedding,” she says. “One bridesmaid, one best man, a couple of flower girls. We want to keep it simple and classy.”

Classy. I choke on that word. My idea of class is paper napkins. “This really isn’t a good idea. Isn’t there a duchess or something you could ask?”

“You can’t seriously turn down an all-expenses-paid trip to Europe and free board in a palace, now, can you?” Phoenix continues. “Consider it an educational experience.”

I press my eyes shut. Her invitation is tempting. So tempting. But … whoever heard of a royal bridesmaid with blue hair?

“Think of it this way: one whole month away from your mother,” she says.

And that right there is all the argument I need. “Okay. But I’m still paying my own tuition.”

***

Love is a lie we tell ourselves. It’s really nothing more than chemistry. That tremor we feel when we meet someone’s gaze and think ‘This is it’? Yup, that’s just hormones. What it really means is that we’re looking at a guy and thinking ‘Yeah, I’d like to do him’ – and then, to make ourselves feel less slutty, we tell ourselves we’re in love.

But I’ve never been one to lie to myself. So in this moment I’m looking at the best man and thinking ‘Yeah, I’d like to do him.’

You can call me slutty if you like. I don’t care. At least I’m honest.

He hasn’t seen me yet, which is just as well, since I wasn’t expecting company and I’m not wearing any make-up. What I am wearing is a ratty old Vegas 51s sweatshirt and tracksuit pants. It might be summer, but Europe is chilly compared to Nevada, and this palace’s heating system must be at least two hundred years old. The creaks and groans of the pipes at least make me feel a little less like I’m inside a Disney fairy tale.

Unlike all the other girls I grew up with, I never wanted to live a fairy tale life. I never dreamed of fame and fortune; all I ever wanted was to belong right where I am. I believe in honest hard work, not glass slippers and fairy godmothers. Besides, I’ve seen what chasing unrealistic dreams does to people. No, my dream isn’t to live in some draughty palace with a prince, but rather a three-bedroom bungalow in the suburbs with its own yard and a garage, with an honest, steady, dependable man. And don’t tell me men like that don’t exist, because they do. Men like my stepfather and my brother. And like Max.

The two men on the level below me move to sit in armchairs close to the empty fireplace – high-backed leather armchairs, the kind I’ve only ever seen in the movies. Behind them is a glassed-in wall of old-fashioned books, all in matching sets, which look as if they’re just for show.

I’m up in the gallery, a carpeted walkway above their heads which circles the enormous high-ceilinged library. Phoenix suggested I look here for entertainment if the jet lag kept me awake and since my body has no idea what time it is and clearly doesn’t want to sleep, here I am. And she was right – these books hidden from public view are definitely more my kind of books. They look just like the shelves in my favorite second-hand bookshop.

Neither of the men has looked up and noticed I’m here, and I plan to keep it that way. I crouch down behind the wooden railing and edge over a little so I can see them better. The back of Max’s armchair is turned to me so all I can see of him is his fair hair catching the low yellow light. That same light falls directly onto the man seated in the armchair across from him. The best man.

He looks vaguely familiar, like a TV actor you know you’ve seen before but can’t quite place. Thick dark hair that I’m sure would be curly if he let it grow longer, strong cheekbones, and a pointed chin sporting two days’ worth of scruff. He’s wearing a black leather jacket that makes him look like a biker rather than a stockbroker, or whatever it is Phoenix told me he does. She spent much of the drive between the airport and the palace telling me about him, but I have to admit that as soon as I realized he was one of those spoiled trust-fund types I tuned out. I am so done with entitled men and their groping hands. Looking at him now, though, I wish I’d paid a little more attention. After all, I’m young and single and a girl has needs.

“Have you made a decision yet?” Max asks.

His best man shrugs, slinging one leg casually over the other. “What’s there to decide? I don’t want the responsibility. My life would have to change, and I rather like things exactly as they are right now – easy, commitment-free, and no one else to think about except myself.”

And just like that he stops being sexy. I don’t care how good he looks in a leather jacket – or out of it. Any man who shirks his responsibilities so he can keep having fun isn’t worth a dime in my book.

“How did your family take the news?” Max asks.

The best man looks down, as if he’s concentrating hard on swirling the golden liquid around in his tumbler. “I haven’t told them yet.” Then he glances up at Max. “I was kind of hoping I could lie low here with you in Westerwald until after the wedding.”

And a coward to boot. Seriously not a sexy look on any man.

He leans forward, his elbow on his knee. “But I’ll also understand if you no longer want me as your best man. With all the media speculation since Nick’s death, it might detract attention from your wedding. Wouldn’t one of your brothers be better for the job?”

“Hmm, talk about Hobson’s Choice: my mother’s bastard or my father’s bastard? Either way, the press would be savage. Thanks for the offer, but you’re still my safest bet.”

I grin. Yup, Westerwald’s royal family takes dysfunctional to a whole other level. Makes mine look almost normal.

“Who would have thought I’d ever be considered a safe choice?” The best man sprawls back in his armchair, oozing the kind of self-assurance I only wish I had.

Max laughs. “Yeah, well, I asked the Duke of Cambridge but he was busy, so you’ll have to do.”

“Any hot bridesmaids to sweeten the deal? That’s supposed to be a perk of being best man, isn’t it?”

I shrink back into the shadows. This is definitely not a conversation I want to be caught eavesdropping on.

“Only one bridesmaid, and yes, she’s hot, but she’s not your type.”

I make myself even smaller, which is about the size I feel. No, I don’t suppose a girl like me would in any way be considered the right type for a man like him.

“One is all I need,” the best man says. “And I don’t have a type.” Even from here, I can see he’s smirking. The expression makes him look even more familiar, as if I’ve seen that expression before.

Max chuckles. “Good luck with that. Khara will have your balls and eat them for breakfast. And I hate to be the one to break the news to you, but you do have a type: easy.”

I’m not sure whether to be flattered that my best friend’s husband doesn’t think I’m easy, or insulted that he thinks I’m a ball-breaker.

“The women I date only look easy because no woman can resist my charm.” The best man takes a sip from his tumbler and smiles. Forget self-confidence. What he’s oozing is arrogance. And right now the only thing I want to do to him is smack that smirk right off his face. The white-hot anger that rises up in me reminds me where I’ve seen him before, of that other time when he made me feel small and insignificant, as if I was nothing more than an object, something that could easily be his for the taking. He has even less chance with me now than he did a year ago.

Slowly, I unclench my fists. I really don’t want to hear any more of this conversation. I’ll have to do without a book to read tonight. As silently as I can, I creep away toward the narrow door in the wall of books that will lead me out into the upstairs corridor. I leave the door open behind me. I don’t want to give away my presence with squeaking hinges.

I may be leaving without the bedtime read I came looking for, but I’m still glad I came looking. I wasn’t expecting this wedding to be a picnic, but at least now I’ve been forewarned of one danger.

Chapter 3
Khara

When I wake I have to pinch myself. I still can’t believe the last few days weren’t just a dream. The three flights I had to take to get here were thrilling and scary in equal measure, but those emotions were nothing compared to the joy of seeing Phoenix when I got off that last plane. I admit, there were tears. She hasn’t changed a bit, still that same warm, friendly person I knew when we worked together in the casino bar, not a princessy air or grace in sight. Then there was the luxury car ride through a town that looks like something out of a picture book, even if the sky was gray and overcast and threatening to rain. This palace is something else too! Phoenix gave me a tour that made my head spin – breathtaking state rooms, the royal family’s private apartments, guest rooms that look like they belong in the pages of a Condé Nast magazine, and an entire wing of offices.

“Sometimes it feels more like living in an office building, with people coming and going all the time, and official government meetings,” Phoenix told me. “Our real home is the castle in Waldburg where we usually spend weekends. You’ll get to spend some time there after the wedding.” She said it so casually, like everyone has a medieval castle as a weekend holiday home.

We had to skip a tour of the gardens (yeah, there’s more than one!) as it started to rain, but that’s just as well since my head was already about to explode.

And then this room! I really have stepped into a fairy tale. Any moment now I expect a fairy godmother to appear and offer me a magical ballgown. My guest room is massive, big enough to fit two sofas, a writing desk, a dresser, an antique cabinet which I discovered last night conceals a flat-screen TV, and enough floor space left over for me to waltz in, if I knew how to waltz.

The bed isn’t one of those fairy tale canopied ones with drapes, but it’s still super-impressive: solid, with wooden bedposts topped with giant carved acorns. Compared to the single bed which is all I can fit into my room back home, it’s big enough to throw a party in, and feels like sleeping on a cloud. I really must remember to ask Phoenix what thread count these bedsheets are.

I stretch, looking around the room, absorbing every detail just in case this is a dream and I wake up back in the same bedroom I’ve slept in the last thirty years. The walls are papered with a simple pattern of broad stripes in pale green and cream. No paintings or decoration, but on the ledge above the white-painted fireplace are two porcelain figurines of dancing couples. I slide out of bed and cross the cool, patterned parquet floor to the windows, pulling back the floral drapes that feel like silk under my fingers. The windows on this side of the palace are bigger, Phoenix explained last night, because they overlook the royal family’s private garden, so this wing has more privacy than all the others.

There’s a window seat and everything, so I settle on it, resting my chin on my knees as I look out at the colorful flowerbeds below. The private garden is four times the size of the yard I dream of having one day, and it’s surrounded by a red brick wall that must be at least ten feet high. Beyond the wall is a park with trees, and then the roofs of the town, catching and reflecting the slanting morning sunlight. I itch to go exploring. This is Europe, full of history and culture and architecture that Vegas, with all its attempts to copy it, could never hope to achieve.

I would have loved to study history and art in college, but they’re just not practical for a career unless you plan to be an underpaid teacher, so I’m studying accountancy and finance. With those majors I at least have a shot of getting an office job with a steady paycheck, regular hours, and windows. You might think that’s not particularly ambitious, but trust me, for some of us that’s ambitious enough.

But here, for the next few weeks, I plan to indulge in all the art and history I can. For one month I will live the fairy tale.

My cell phone alarm buzzes, startling me out of my contemplation of the view. It’s time to get dressed and go downstairs – and just like that the bubble pops and I’m no longer in fairyland. I’m in the harsh reality of a world I’m completely unprepared for and not at all ready to face.

***

Remember how I said I’d jump through a ring of fire for Phoenix? Well, that’s exactly how it feels when I come down for breakfast.

“Jeans and tee shirts are fine,” Phoenix assured me over dinner in their apartment last night, but when a servant finally points me in the direction of the breakfast room I baulk in the doorway. I’m almost blinded by the silverware. And there are more porcelain plates and crystal glasses on the dining table than I’ve washed in my entire life. Did I mention that before I was old enough to serve drinks, my previous job was washing plates in a restaurant kitchen?

The room is big enough to fit a highly polished wooden dining table that could seat at least twenty. But it’s not just the size of the room that’s impressive. The walls are painted plain ivory-white and when I look up I realize that the ceiling is painted like the Sistine Chapel. At least, what I imagine the Sistine Chapel looks like, since I’ve only ever seen pictures during a long-ago art class. Blue sky, clouds, and frolicking gods and goddesses.

I hover in the doorway until Phoenix turns her head and spots me. So does everyone else in the room, and there’s rather a lot of them. They all look like they’re dressed for a Vogue fashion shoot. Phoenix is the only other person in the room wearing jeans.

“Did you sleep well?” she asks, her ready smile lighting up her face as I walk in.

“Not really. I guess it’s going to take my body clock another day to adjust.”

“You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten. Breakfast’s on the sideboard.” I have no clue what a sideboard is, but she waves toward a buffet at the far end of the room, where a heavily pregnant woman is dishing up scrambled eggs and bacon onto an empty plate.

“Hi, I’m Rebekah,” the woman says, smiling at me in welcome as I tentatively approach the buffet. “I’m Claus’ wife.” She nods at the fair-haired man seated beside Max at the head of the table. I was introduced to Claus yesterday. He’s Max’s Steward – whatever that means – and one of the main organizers of the royal wedding. Both men greet me, then their blond heads bend together again to pore over paperwork.

I’ve heard about Rebekah from Phoenix. She was Phoenix’s boss when she first arrived in Westerwald, and they’re still good friends. I can see why. Rebekah has a kind, open face, smiling eyes, and a scattering of freckles across her nose, which make her look younger than she probably is.

Taking my cue from her, I head to the side table and pick up a plate then serve myself from the buffet. The chafing dishes look tarnished enough to be real silver, and the range of choice is almost as good as the casino’s breakfast buffet. This is certainly a world away from my usual bowl of cornflakes eaten at the faux-granite counter in my mom’s tiny kitchenette.

Once I’ve dished up, I take my plate to the table, choosing the seat next to Phoenix. I set my plate down, sit, and then stare bewildered at the array of cutlery before me. I’ve only ever eaten with one knife and one fork. This place setting has four of each. Does it matter which one I use? Oh God, of course it does.

And there are real cloth napkins.

How the hell did I think I could do this? I can’t even get through breakfast without making it obvious I’m nothing more than a hick from Hicksville.

Trailer park trash.

If anyone dares say that to my face I’ll claw their eyes out with my bare hands. Even if it is true. Not that trailer parks are as bad as their reputation. I’ve lived in one my entire life and let me tell you, it’s a whole lot better place to grow up than many other places I’ve seen. But I also know on which rung of the social ladder it places me, and it sure isn’t the one I’ve woken up on today.

Phoenix has already finished her meal and further down the table Max’s private secretary, the press secretary, and the Master of the Household are so engrossed in conversation that they’ve barely touched their food. I was introduced to them all yesterday, but in the haze of jet lag from my first ever airplane flight I forgot their names as quickly as I was told them.

I’m still contemplating the cutlery when it’s as if a breeze stirs the air in the room and I feel rather than hear someone enter behind me. I know straight away who it is, and have to force myself not to turn around to look. My back stiffens.

The best man drops a light kiss on Phoenix’s cheek. “Hello, gorgeous!”

“Hello, charmer.” She smiles warmly back at him, and I’ll admit to being more than a little surprised. Phoenix is usually a really good judge of character.

Then he turns his attention on me, and for a moment I freeze. He gives me the once-over and smiles. I remember that smile. Full of heat and stripping me naked, as it did back in that private room at the casino. Will he recognize me? But of course he doesn’t. Not even a flicker of recognition. And why would he? Men like him don’t remember the hired help. I’m probably one of a thousand servers who’ve waited on him in the last year, one of a thousand women he no doubt invited to his bed without even asking for a name. And I didn’t have this rather distinctive turquoise ombre on my hair a year ago. His gaze takes in the striking effect of my hair, and his smile turns to a cheeky grin. “You must be the bridesmaid.”

“Khara,” I correct, not smiling back.

He doesn’t seem to notice my frosty attitude. “I’m Adam Hatton. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” The way he says the word pleasure makes my skin prickle. And not in an entirely bad way, though I’d never give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Phoenix sit straighter like a bloodhound, or a shark scenting blood in the water.

When Rebekah joins us I am so grateful for the interruption I could hug her. Adam circles the table to give her a quick kiss too. “You’re looking good. Positively glowing.”

She beams up at him and I roll my eyes. Then he steals a slice of crispy bacon off her plate and with another jaunty smile heads to the buffet to serve himself. I let out a breath I wasn’t aware I was holding.

Rebekah sits across from us, lowering herself into the seat as if her pregnant belly weighs a ton. She has my sympathy. I suffered through a couple of pregnancies with my neighbor Carly before she followed her latest husband to Ohio.

As relaxed and comfortable as if she were eating in her own home, Rebekah unfolds her napkin and spreads it across her lap. I copy her. Note to self: don’t tuck the napkin in your shirt like a bib.

Then she picks up one of the forks beside her plate, and I do the same.

I manage a few mouthfuls before Adam is back, sliding into the empty seat to my left, not-so-accidentally brushing his thigh against mine, and for a moment an honest-to-goodness thrill shudders through me before I shift away. But he pays me no attention as he goes straight for the correct fork. Rich people make it look so easy. For the record, it’s not, when you have no clue what you’re doing and you’re terrified of screwing up and making your best friend look bad.

This may well be the best breakfast I’ve ever eaten, but it tastes like cardboard in my mouth since I’m so busy concentrating on what to do, how to sit, how to hold my fork, while at the same time trying to completely ignore the man sitting right beside me. Which isn’t easy. He smells heavenly. I mean, I have never met a man who smells like this before. If I had to give it a name, I’d say he smelled like pure male hotness. Not the sweat of manual labor, or kitchen grease, or the scent of after-shave, but a clean, crisp, heady, manly smell that makes me want to squeeze my thighs together.

Please, please don’t let Phoenix notice that my hormones are having a field day.

Thank heavens she has other concerns. She leans on the dining table, cupping her chin in one hand while she studies the typed schedule she holds in the other. “This morning I have a meeting with the Department of Internal Affairs to discuss the final housing and security arrangements for the visiting dignitaries, then in the afternoon we have your dress fitting to fit you with your outfits for the wedding, then—”

“Outfits?” I interrupt. “As in plural? Surely I only need one bridesmaid dress?”

She shakes her head. “Church weddings aren’t legally binding here, due to the whole separation of church and state thing, so we have a civil wedding the day before the big church wedding. You’ll need a separate outfit for that. Then you’ll need a dress for the gala dinner that night, and another for the ball after the church wedding.”

I swallow, choking on a piece of scrambled egg. Adam thumps me on my back, which doesn’t help.

“And to think the …” This time I pretend to choke because I was about to say ‘And to think the last time you got married you wanted to do it in jeans’. I was the one who had to convince her to wear a dress that time. But I don’t know if anyone else at this table knows they’re already married, so I drown the words with a gulp of water from Phoenix’s glass.

On the plus side, my coughing fit attracts the attention of a maid in a navy and white uniform who brings a pot of coffee to our end of the table, and I’m no longer the focus of everyone’s attention. She fills all our cups, blushing when Adam thanks her.

Phoenix looks back at her schedule. “This evening we’re hosting a dinner party.” She flicks to the next page. “Then tomorrow we have your photo sitting—”

“My what?”

“The palace will be making the official announcement of the bridal party in the papers the day after, so we need to get you some official portraits that can go out to the press. Unless you already have a picture you’d like to send out to the papers?”

I swallow the lump in my throat, drowning it down with a gulp of hot, black coffee. She knows very well I don’t. I hate having my picture taken.

This is my last chance to back out then, before my name and my life go public. Before Phoenix becomes a laughing stock for choosing me as her bridesmaid. “Can’t Rebekah be your bridesmaid instead?”

The others laugh.

“Can you imagine me waddling down the aisle?” Rebekah asks. “Besides, I don’t think they make bridesmaid dresses in tent size.”

You’d be surprised. The first time Carly married she was already heavily pregnant.

I change the subject away from weddings and me being on public display not just once, which I’ve sort of come to terms with, but a gazillion times over the next few weeks. “I was wondering – what thread count are your sheets?”

Beside me, Adam makes a noise as if he’s suppressing a laugh, and Rebekah’s eyes go wide. My face flames. I said something wrong, didn’t I?

Phoenix doesn’t bat an eyelid, though. “I have no idea. But I’ll ask the housekeeper and get back to you.”

I need another subject change. Stat. “Can we ask your secretary to schedule some time in your diary so you can give me a grand tour of this town?”

Phoenix frowns at her schedule. “Things aren’t usually this crazy. It’s just all the wedding arrangements … But we’ve got a girls’ day scheduled for Thursday. I was thinking of a spa day, but I guess we could do some sightseeing instead.”

I was joking about having to book time in her diary, but Thursday … “That’s two whole days away!”

I’m not usually this needy, I promise. It’s just that days off are rare in my life, and even when I do get a day off I spend it running errands, or doing chores, or studying, and I have no idea what I’m going to do to keep busy while the only person I know in this town is in meetings …

I swallow down my panic and manage a smile. “Then maybe I can go out exploring on my own.” I say it bravely, though I don’t feel very brave. Do the people in Westerwald even speak English?

Phoenix eyes me skeptically. She knows I’m not big on adventure, and wandering around a strange place on my own will most definitely be the biggest adventure of my life.

“It’s not much fun getting lost in a foreign city.” Her expression is wistful, though. After her impetuous secret marriage to Max last summer, she ran out on him to backpack around Europe on her own. Or he ran out on her – the jury’s still out on that one. It’s kind of like the whole Ross and Rachel ‘they were on a break’ thing.

But that’s Phoenix, not me. She thrives on adventure, while stepping outside my comfort zone is my idea of hell on earth. It’s one of the reasons I still live with my mother, even though she drives me batshit crazy.

“I’m sure we can find someone on the palace staff who can take you out and show you the sights,” Phoenix says, but she sounds doubtful.

“I’ll take her.”

I jump at the sound of Adam’s voice, far too close to my ear for comfort. He’s talking to Phoenix, but the purr in his voice suggests his words aren’t meant for her.

Phoenix claps her hands. “That’s a great idea. You can go out this morning and see a bit of the city while I’m in my meeting.”

I open my mouth to argue, then shut it again. Firstly, because I know from past experience that she’ll win any argument we have and secondly, because she’s paying for my whole damned trip. What kind of ungrateful friend would I be to insist someone else give me a guided tour, when every member of staff is no doubt frantically preparing for the royal wedding?

“Thank you – that would be lovely.” I even manage a smile. But getting lost alone in a foreign city no longer seems like the most dangerous way to spend the day.

Chapter 4
Adam

When I come down the back stairs from the guest wing, Khara is already waiting at the private entrance, seated on an uncomfortable-looking antique bench just inside the door. She’s still dressed as she was at breakfast, in jeans that fit her like a glove and a cropped tank top that leaves her midriff bare. I’ve seen plenty of bare female flesh in my life, but somehow that tantalising glimpse of tanned skin gets my pulse racing with a thrill I haven’t felt in a long while. It’s good to feel alive again.

She’s holding a book open in her lap, but paying no attention to it as she chats to the footman stationed at the door. As I cross the vestibule to join her, she turns her head and frowns. Not the usual reaction I get from women when they see me, which is frustrating and challenging in equal measure.

“Please get someone to bring my car round from the garage.” I hold out my car keys to the footman.

Khara hops off the bench. “There’s no need for that. We can walk.” She waves her Frommer’s guide at me. “The guidebook says all the major attractions are within a few miles’ radius of the palace.”

“Exactly – we could be walking a few miles.” Most women I know, with the possible exception of my sister, who is exceptional in everything she does, object to walking any distance further than the block between Harrods and Harvey Nichols.

But then Khara’s scuffed sneakers are more suited to walking than the high heels most women I know wear. Not that she needs heels. Even in flat shoes she only has to tilt her head a little to look up at me.

“Okay, let’s go then,” I say, offering her my arm. She looks at it as if it’s poisoned, so I shrug and let her precede me through the door.

It turns out that, unlike Khara’s sneakers, my leather brogues aren’t made for walking. By the time we’ve toured Neustadt’s historic town centre, visiting the baroque cathedral, the city hall, the opera house, and the national museum, my feet are killing me, and it’s taking all my effort not to let her see me wince. While acting like a wimp is most certainly not part of my seduction plan, the need to pretend I’m fine is seriously hampering my ability to flirt. Or maybe I’m just rusty. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve had to work this hard to get a woman’s attention. Usually a grin and a flutter of eyelashes does it. Or a flash of my credit card.

As we traipse through one historical building after another, I initiate Stage One in my seduction repertoire: laying the groundwork. This first stage is about getting the woman to feel comfortable enough to relax and be open to more. Standing close, but not too close that she’ll feel threatened, opening doors for her, paying her an honest compliment, appearing interested in everything she says, making eye contact.

Those last two are harder than usual. Khara barely says a word, and seems to find her Frommer’s guide way more fascinating than me. She doesn’t stop moving, as if she’s determined to work her way through the entire guidebook in one morning – which might actually be possible, since it’s the shortest guidebook ever printed. Westerwald is not a very big nation and its capital, Neustadt, would fit into Greater London five times over. Though Westerwald is still triple the size of Erdély – I checked on Google. I doubt that Frommer’s have ever bothered to print a guidebook for Erdély.

Khara shows genuine interest in everything she sees, and it’s almost as if she’s trying to absorb everything, store it up in her memory, with a single-minded focus that excludes everything else – including me. But I can’t help wondering if there’s something more to her over-enthusiastic sightseeing – could it be an attempt to avoid me?

Which must mean I’m already having an effect on her. So maybe it’s time to step up to Stage Two: touch. A light hand on the bare skin of her lower back, a brush of an arm, moving in a little closer to whisper in her ear.

But every time I step closer, she steps away. Every time I touch her, she shrugs me off.

The last time a woman shut me down like this even though she was clearly attracted … I screw up my face, trying to recapture that memory, but that evening was a bit of a blur, and over-shadowed by me taking a fist in the face for Nick in a brawl over a bad poker hand. Didn’t Max tell me that Phoenix and Khara met in Vegas? Maybe it’s just Vegas women who are my Achilles heel.

I’m a heartbeat away from giving up, deciding that maybe she doesn’t want my advances and I’m just being a dick, but then I catch her swift intake of breath as I brush against her. Sure, it could be a sign of discomfort, but then I spot her blush as she turns away. A woman doesn’t blush if she wants nothing to do with you.

I can work with that. I can turn ‘interested but won’t admit it’ into ‘I want you right now, any way I can get you.’

Though maybe not right now. “When I offered to play tour guide, I envisioned a Champagne cruise along the river where we could see the sights without actually having to visit any of them,” I groan as we step out of the dark interior of the smaller Church of St Boniface into blinding sunlight. I’m also not sure who the tour guide is here. Turns out Frommer’s has an extensive section on the church’s eighteenth century frescoes while I didn’t even know this church existed.

Khara smiles, perhaps for the first time all morning, but it looks too saccharine-sweet to be real. “Feel free to go back to the palace. It looks like I’ll be able to manage this town on my own. It seems everyone here speaks English after all.”

“I know all the best bars in this city, and most of the nightclubs,” I offer, injecting as much humour into my smile as my aching feet will allow.

She rolls her eyes. “I didn’t travel halfway around the world to see the inside of yet another bar. Aren’t you even the slightest bit interested in history or art?”

Would she be more interested if I told her my ancestors used to make history, and were patrons to some of Europe’s most famous artists and composers? I’m not really willing to find out because I suspect I might know the answer, and my ego has already been bruised enough by her lack of interest.

“I promised Phoenix I’d show you around the city, so that’s what I’m going to do.” Even if it kills me, which, if my feet are anything to go by, might just be possible.

“And you always keep your promises?” Khara scoffs, a look in her eyes that seems to pierce right into me.

Her words are a lance, striking me in the open wound that Nick’s death reopened. I promised my mother I’d consider her brother’s offer, and instead I’m doing everything I can to avoid thinking about it. I promised Nick I would keep him out of trouble. I promised my best friend Charlie that I’d always be there for him. I failed them all.

I lift my chin. “I need a drink,” I say, though my jaw is clenched so tight I’m surprised I manage to get the words out. “The Landmark Café has got to be in that damned guidebook.”

She looks at me as if I’m a bug she wants to squish, then reopens the guidebook. “Yes, here it is. It’s part of the Beaux-Arts Guildhall, which houses the tapestry museum.”

I draw the line at tapestries. “Great, you can look at tapestries and I’ll drink.” It’s close enough to midday for drinking to be acceptable.

I’ve barely had a few sips of one of the Landmark Café’s electric-blue signature cocktails when Khara rejoins me, looking disgruntled. “The tapestry museum’s closed,” she announces, sliding into the seat across from me.

“Thank God for that.” I reach across the table and tug the guidebook out of her hand. “Because now we’re going to see this city my way.”

“As long as there are no bars,” she warns.

“Sweetheart, we’re sitting in Neustadt’s most famous bar right now.”

She glares at me, clearly not liking that epithet, then looks around as if seeing the place for the first time. “There’s so much light!”

The Landmark Café is housed in a glass box overhanging the river that bisects the city. At night, this place buzzes with loud music, neon light, and Neustadt’s young and trendy, but it’s not one of those bars that looks seedy in daylight, and there is rather a lot of daylight in here. Sunlight reflects off the silver surface of the river, throwing dancing patterns against the glass ceiling. I lean forward, dropping my voice seductively. “The Guildhall was built in the eighteenth century, over the foundations of an earlier, older Guildhall. This conservatory is said to have been a precursor to London’s Crystal Palace.” I straighten up. “Is that what you want to hear?”

She licks her lips and for a second her expression of indifference cracks, proving she’s not as unaffected as she appears and that I was – sadly – right that the way to this woman’s heart is through ancient history. I grin, and just like that her disinterested expression is back.

“Since this bar is also famous for its lunch menu, we’ll grab a bite here before we carry on our tour.” I wave for the waiter. And that’ll give my feet a chance to recover before we make the long walk to the bridal boutique for her dress fitting.

The waiter brings our menus, which are printed in French, German and the local Westerwald dialect. Khara studies the menu, and I can almost feel her anxiety mounting across the table.

“Shall I order?” I ask.

She nods and hands back the menu to the waiter, giving him an unconsciously flirty smile, the kind I’ve been trying to get out of her all morning. I barely glance at my own menu before I place the order. In perfect French. Okay, I’m showing off a little. But a man’s got to use every weapon in his arsenal.

I still don’t earn a smile.

“So tell me how you met Phoenix,” I prompt as soon as the waiter heads to the kitchen.

Khara shrugs, looking out of the tall windows towards the river. “We worked together for a while when she lived in Vegas.”

Phoenix worked in a casino bar, as I recall. Which makes Khara a barmaid too. No wonder bars don’t feature high on her list of must-see places. If anyone told me I had to spend my holiday visiting corporate offices I’d probably also not be very impressed.

“And you? How do you know Max?” She looks at me then, her gaze meeting mine, and I think it must be the first time she’s looked directly at me because I notice now that her eyes are a really dark blue, almost indigo, and it’s as if I’ve had a hit of a particularly powerful drug, the sudden unexpected whammy of attraction sending a rush to both my brain and my groin.

She’s not a classic beauty but her face has character, with perfectly shaped eyebrows and a sultry Cupid’s bow mouth. Her make-up is on the too-heavy side, the smoky eyeliner making her almond-shaped eyes look even bigger. Her blue-tinged hair is frizzy, making her look like a mermaid – wild and exotic. I find myself leaning forward like an eager schoolboy.

Since it’s never a good idea to let a woman know you’re too interested, I force myself to sprawl back, crossing my arms over my chest.

And speaking of chests … My gaze flits down hers. Her arms are also crossed over her chest, pushing up her breasts to give me an excellent view of her cleavage, since her tank top leaves very little to the imagination. It’s so skimpy her bra straps are visible.

Her eyes narrow when my gaze lingers too long, and she rapidly uncrosses her arms. Not that it makes much difference. I’m still picturing those breasts cupped in my hands.

She asked me something, didn’t she? I focus back on the conversation and clear my throat, more than a little pissed at myself. Since when do I get enthralled by a woman’s eyes – or chest – for heaven’s sake?

“I was at university with Rik, Max’s brother, and we all played together on the same polo team for a few years, before Max moved to the States,” I answer, finally piecing together her question.

“Polo’s the one in the water, isn’t it?”

I grin. “No, it’s the one with the horses.”

Her eyes are wide again. “Isn’t it dangerous?”

I shrug. “Not if you know what you’re doing.”

She shudders.

“You don’t like horses?”

“I have no idea. I’ve never seen one in real life.”

I have to close my mouth. There isn’t a single person in my circle who hasn’t grown up around horses. Everyone I know owns either racehorses, thoroughbreds for everyday riding, or polo ponies – and sometimes all three. I received my first Arabian on my fifth birthday.

“Well, you’ll have a chance to meet your first real horses this weekend. Max has agreed to take part in a charity polo tournament with my team.” In Nick’s place, since we haven’t yet found a permanent replacement with a similar handicap.

The waiter returns with our wine. He pours a little of the chilled Chablis into my wine glass. I breathe in the bouquet, swirl the wine in the glass then take a small sip. Crisp, just a little tart, perfect. I nod, and the waiter fills both our glasses. Then he clears away the cutlery we won’t need and Khara’s shoulders lose a little of their tension. I file that interesting titbit away.

“Have you lived in Las Vegas all your life?”

Khara nods, but doesn’t say anything more. This conversation is going nowhere fast. Has she never learned the art of making small talk?

“Tell me about it,” I prompt.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

I’m pretty good at reading people. That’s why picking up women has always been so easy for me, and why I’m so good at charming clients. So I know that this woman is being deliberately cagey. Now I’m not just interested; I’m intrigued. What deep, dark secrets is she hiding?

“Okay, then, tell me something about Phoenix that I don’t already know,” I say, my tone teasing again, changing the subject to easy common ground.

Instead, she clamps her lips together and shakes her head. My eyes widen. Wow, whatever she has on Westerwald’s soon-to-be archduchess, it must be good. I wonder if Max knows …?

But before I can press her the waiter arrives with our meal. Khara eyes the plates with suspicion. “What is this?”

“Veal Entrecôte, and creamy polenta with truffles and Parmesan.”

“And again in English?”

I chuckle, and earn another glare. “I guess you could call it rib-eye steak from a calf, and oatmeal with mushrooms and cheese.”

“Then why not just call it that?” She takes a tentative bite of the veal.

“Because it sounds better in French. Everything sounds better in French.”

She shrugs. “Just sounds pretentious.”

We eat in silence for a few minutes and I can tell she’s enjoying the meal, despite her initial misgivings. She digs into her food as if she were starving. All or nothing. Does she do everything with that same single-minded focus? My mind strays as I imagine her in bed. Naked. All or nothing. That wild hair spread out across my pillow, its wildness matched in her eyes.

I grin at the vision. It would certainly be a refreshing change from most of the women I’ve dated. Though maybe calling them dates is an exaggeration. Let’s be honest: I don’t date them; I sleep with them. But I’ll also be the first to admit that’s growing old. I’ve been looking for a fresh challenge lately, and here she is, sitting right in front of me.

As we eat, Khara props the guidebook in front of her on the table and starts to read, effectively walling me out. This time I manage to keep my mouth closed, but I’ll admit that I’m stunned. Batting a maiden over, as we say in cricket, is rare enough for me, but this is a definite first. I cannot think of a single moment in my life where any woman found a book more appealing than my company. Most women I wine and dine even put away their mobile phones in my presence.

Still, her supposed absorption in the book gives me a chance to study her. There’s something raw about Khara. It’s not so much that she lacks polish, but rather a vitality, an untamed quality simmering beneath the surface. She doesn’t have that rigid posture and glossy façade that most women in my circle develop somewhere around their pre-teens, nor does she carefully weigh everything she says and does. She makes me feel a deep, primal urge I’ve never experienced before. It’s that physical kick I get every time I touch her, but there’s something more there, something I can’t identify.

Despite the fact that she keeps shutting me down – or maybe because of it – I actually want to spend more time with her. I want to understand who or what put that chip on her shoulder about men, about me. I want to get to know her. And that is rare enough to be noteworthy.

When we’re done with the main course, I summon the waiter for the bill. This is my grand moment; now I’m sure to get her attention.

I whip out my black credit card.

The waiter’s eyes go reassuringly big and round. But Khara doesn’t even blink. She casts a glance at the card, then closes the guidebook, tucks it away into her big, faux-leather handbag and says, “So where to next, tour leader?”

I choke on my last mouthful of wine. Doesn’t she know the significance of a black card? Or does she simply not care? It’s that last thought that hits me like a horse kick, as if everything I’ve ever known has been turned upside down. I’ve never met anyone before who doesn’t care about the money.

I have to clear my throat before I can speak. “I need to get you to your dress fitting, but we’re going to make a stop for dessert along the way.”

Chapter 5
Khara

The sun on my face feels completely different to the Nevada sun. Milder, gentler, as if the fluffy white clouds drifting overhead are filtering out the heat on its path down to the ground. I lift my face to the sky, feeling the warm prickle on my closed eyelids and my cheeks. I breathe in deeply and smell food, and humanity, and exhaust fumes, ever-present in any city in the world, I suppose. But above all of these is the delicious scent of the man beside me.

The chemistry between us is impossible to ignore. Trust me, I’ve tried. All morning and all through lunch I tried to ignore this thrum of awareness I get whenever Adam is near. I tried so hard I now have a headache.

I sigh.

“Is it that good?” Adam asks. His voice is doing that purring thing again, making me shiver. Or maybe that’s the ice cream trickling down the cone and melting over my fingers. I stop worshipping the sun and rapidly lick my fingers clean, catching the cold droplets dripping down the sugar cone with my tongue.

Adam makes a small sound, a little like a groan, and I flash him a look that I hope says ‘In your dreams’.

“Not bad,” I answer. “This could even give Ben & Jerry’s a run for their money.”

He snorts in amusement, and I smile to myself. This rich, creamy, home-made ice cream is way better even than Ben & Jerry’s, and I’ve been involved in a clandestine love affair with Ben and Jerry since my first high school boyfriend (ironically named Ben) broke my heart. I feel just a little as if I’m being unfaithful to them, but this cappuccino and French vanilla ice cream is seriously the best-tasting thing that has ever passed my lips. I take another lick, and moan with pleasure.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Adam not-so-discreetly adjusting his chinos, and suppress another smile. No reason why we can’t both feel uncomfortable.

I have to admit, Adam’s version of sightseeing isn’t too bad. From the Guildhall we walked along the embankment of the Wester River which runs through the city. Glass-walled tourist boats ply the river, loudspeakers blaring, while plainer-looking water buses move in a steady stream in and out from the very modern-looking dock. Then he hailed us a horse-drawn carriage, just like the ones in New York City romcoms, and we rode through the increasingly narrow, cobbled streets to this square in the shadow of the cathedral.

Dotted around the square are the quaint wood-and-canvas stalls of a farmers’ market, bustling with shoppers, vendors shouting for attention, kids and dogs, and tourists, who are easy to spot because they look just like the tourists we get in Vegas. We eat our ice creams sitting on the sun-baked edge of the stone fountain in the center of the square and a light breeze drifts cool droplets toward us.

Without a doubt, the home-made ice cream stall is the most popular, even more popular than the craft beer stalls. People are queuing for this ice cream, and I don’t blame them. Why isn’t this in the guidebook?

“Do you come here often?” I take another long lick from my cone, enjoying the way Adam’s eyes dilate at the sight. Geez, but men are predictable, no matter where in the world they are, or how much money they have.

Adam shrugs. “I’ve visited Westerwald off and on over the years, first because my mother is a patron of the Neustadt Ballet and has family here, and then more frequently after I got to know Rik and Max.”

That wasn’t what I meant, but it tells me more than I wanted to know. A patron of the ballet? I’ve never even seen a ballet. It just reaffirms that this man who seems to be trying his utmost to win me over is in a whole other league. Still, I can’t quite reconcile the man beside me, licking melting home-made ice cream off his fingers as the breeze ruffles his dark hair, with the one I saw earlier, ordering pretentious foods and waving around his fancy credit card and generally acting like a dick. The man I met in Vegas, the one I saw last night, didn’t look like the kind of man who’d want to get his no-doubt-designer pants dirty sitting on the edge of a public fountain, as relaxed here among us mere mortals as he looked in the palace library.

Not that Adam could ever be mistaken for a ‘mere mortal’. He could be in a room full of the world’s most beautiful people and he’d still stand out. Not because of his looks or his fancy button-down shirt that looks like something out of the pages of GQ, but because of the way he carries himself, as if he’s saying ‘I am Someone. Look at me.’

When my cone is done, I trail my fingers in the cool water of the fountain.

“You look more relaxed,” Adam observes, flashing me a decidedly wolfish grin. “Have you realized I don’t bite?”

I eye him coolly. “You give yourself way too much credit. My being relaxed has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with the place.”

He looks at me as if he doesn’t understand. I blow out a breath. “These are my kind of people. I belong here, not in a palace.” I wave toward the vendors and shoppers.

He looks genuinely confused. “You are who you are, whether you’re in a palace or the town square.”

Of course he’d think that, safe in his bubble of white male privilege. And being more privileged than most, he’d no doubt feel that same confidence wherever he goes, whether it’s a palace, a farmer’s market, or a high-priced Vegas casino.

“But in the palace there are all sorts of rules and etiquette you need to know to fit in.”

It’s more than just knowing how to use a napkin or a fork. In less than a day I’ve realized it’s how I dress, how I walk, even how I talk to servants, that marks me as different. The housemaid was very put out that I made my own bed this morning. How was I supposed to know that would cause offense?

Adam wipes his hands clean in the water. “Etiquette is easy enough to learn.”

“I must have missed that day at finishing school.” I don’t even try to keep the snark out of my tone.

“That’s not a bad idea …”

Since I don’t remember having any idea, I stare at him.

“Lessons,” he says. “If it worries you, you could have etiquette lessons.”

Are there really people who teach this stuff? I shake my head. “Thanks, but no thanks. I can’t afford lessons. I’m unemployed as of two days ago, so I need to save my money for more important things, like transport and the gas bill and food.” And I’m not going to be here in Westerwald long enough to make that expense worthwhile. Back in Vegas, I’ll still have to make my own bed, and I’ll only ever use one knife and fork.

Adam holds up a hand to stop me. “This right here is lesson number one – you need to stop doing that.”

“Stop doing what?”

“It is considered very poor taste to talk about money. We don’t ask about thread counts, or talk about how much things cost, tell anyone we’re unemployed, and we certainly don’t tell anyone how much we need money.”

“But I do need it.”

“Lesson number two: don’t give away any information that can be used against you.”

He rises, offering me a hand to help me up. I’m tempted to ignore it, but that would be rude, wouldn’t it? So I place my hand in his and for a moment I struggle to breathe, that sensation of his warm skin against mine flooding my senses. Who would have thought something as simple as a touch could make me feel as if every nerve ending just received a shock? It’s as if I can see my life flashing before my eyes, but, instead of my life, I’m seeing flashes of what it might be like to be up close and personal – and naked – with this man.

He pulls me to my feet, but still doesn’t let go of my hand and I’m too dazed to pull away.

So much for trying to resist this very inconvenient attraction.

“It’s just norepinephrine,” I mutter, and Adam gives me an odd look.

It’s just hormones. It’s not real. It wouldn’t last beyond ten minutes after he’s gotten what he wanted from you. Hopefully, if I tell myself that often enough, my brain will finally take over and I’ll stop feeling so feverish I want to strip off all my clothes. And his.

I pull my hand out of his and fuss with putting the guidebook back in my purse to avoid eye contact.

Adam leads me on a winding route along narrow streets made of uneven cobbles. Thank heavens I don’t wear heels. The buildings on either side of us are just as narrow, all identical and rigidly formal-looking, no more than two or three stories high, with red, beaver-tail roof tiles (according to the guidebook). If the other pedestrians weren’t dressed in twenty-first century clothing I’d swear I’d stepped into a Jane Austen movie.

Then we round a corner into a wider, tree-lined boulevard, with plush store windows on their ground floors, and every one is a designer brand name. Prada. Chanel. Bulgari. Armani.

I’m so busy gaping at the window displays that I nearly bump into Adam when he stops walking. And there it is, the bridal boutique, only it’s not just any bridal boutique. The storefront has one of the most luxurious displays I’ve ever seen, ball gowns and cocktail dresses and fancy jewelry accessories that I suspect aren’t made of paste. The next story up contains the bridal dress display, and these are seriously the most jaw-droppingly elegant dresses I’ve ever seen, with trains and everything. Rebekah might be right; I don’t think these dresses are made for brides who are six months pregnant and headed for the local registry office.

As if sensing my hesitation, Adam nudges me in the back, forcing me to step through the double doors which are being held open by a liveried doorman. Inside, the store is cool and quiet. An attendant steps forward to greet us, but when she takes in my blue-dipped hair, and worn jeans and sneakers, she starts to back off. For a second I wonder if I’ve stepped out of Jane Austen and into Pretty Woman.

“Ms Thomas is here for her appointment with Anton,” Adam commands in the same voice he used with the footman. It’s a voice that sounds bored, and just a little dismissive. It’s the voice I remember from that long ago night in Vegas.

For a moment I envy his self-assurance, the way the attendant blushes and says “Yes, sir,” and almost falls over herself in her eagerness to be of service. But I’ve also been on the receiving end of that tone often enough for my hackles to rise.

The attendant leads us up a sweeping staircase to a private lounge area. Phoenix is already there. “Did you have fun?” she asks, eyes twinkling as she looks between me and Adam.

“It was … interesting,” I answer. “I’ve seen architecture and art today that I never dreamed I’d see for real. This city is beautiful!”

“See – didn’t I tell you this trip would be educational?” She turns to Adam, that sparkle in her eyes looking decidedly mischievous. “And did you get an education today?”

“More than I bargained for.” He looks around the brightly lit lounge. The sofas are ivory-colored, as are the walls and even the modern chandelier overhead. The only color in the room is its inhabitants. “I thought bridal fittings were supposed to be accompanied by Champagne?” He sounds hopeful.

He clearly doesn’t know Phoenix very well. She has a hard head for alcohol, and could drink most men under the table back when she and I worked together (probably the result of growing up on the road with her hard rocker father) but the one drink she won’t touch is Champagne. Says it makes her do crazy things – like marry a man she just met in Vegas. Not that I think that was in any way crazy. Just look at the man she married. Is marrying.

Max isn’t a great catch because he’s an archduke, because he’s rich, or even because he’s good-looking. He’s a great catch because he’s a good man. Not the kind of man who would shirk his responsibilities. When he and Phoenix met, he was working as a winemaker in California. A solid, honest job working with his hands. Then, when circumstances forced him to drop the career he loved, he did the right thing and stepped up to lead Westerwald. That’s the kind of man I want for myself one day. Not Prince Charming, just a good, reliable man who can be counted on not to shirk his responsibilities.

“No Champagne,” Phoenix confirms. “Besides, we still have the dinner party this evening, so no alcohol allowed until official duties are over.”

Adam pulls a face. “If there’s no Champagne, I’m going to leave you lovely ladies to your dresses. If I remember correctly, there’s a rather nice little bar not far from here that starts happy hour early.”

I roll my eyes, but Phoenix laughs. “You didn’t read the schedule Max gave you, did you? You’re on the guest list for the dinner party, so we’ll expect you in the Yellow Drawing Room at six-thirty.” She waves an admonishing finger at him. “And don’t be late. You always either arrive late at our parties, or leave early.”

He grins, his gaze flicking to me. “There just always seems to be some woman at your parties who wants to get me alone.”

I can’t help it; I snort. Does he seriously think that makes him seem attractive, or that I’d want to be yet another notch on a bedpost that clearly has so many notches it’s in danger of collapsing the entire bed? What self-respecting woman would think that was a good deal? So I simply give him the same icy glare I give patrons who get handsy. The same look I gave that cousin of his.

Adam looks away, and it’s my turn to grin. Score one for me.

When he takes his leave, sweeping Phoenix’s cheek with another kiss, I move away so he doesn’t even think about coming close and trying the same with me. His eyes glint, as if relishing the challenge, but he doesn’t make a move to touch me. I blow out a breath as he disappears back down the stairs, then I turn to Phoenix. “I’m sorry I was late.”

She waves her hand dismissively. “You’re not late. I came early so Anton and I could have a catch-up and a gossip.”

She pats the couch beside her and I take a seat, grateful to have a moment alone with her. “I’ve been wanting to ask …” I gnaw on my lower lip. “What is a royal bridesmaid supposed to do? Aren’t I supposed to organize you a bridal shower, or something? The only other time I was a bridesmaid, all I had to do was persuade the bride to borrow one of my dresses rather than get married in jeans.”

She laughs. “This time I have more than enough dresses, and having you here is the only bridal shower I need. Claus and the protocol secretary are handling everything else.”

“What’s a protocol secretary?” I ask, diverted.

“Don’t ask!”

“I am asking.”

“He’s the person who tells us where everyone needs to be seated, what order they need to arrive in, how we should greet them … that sort of thing.”

“Sheesh! I am so glad I’m not the one marrying a prince! If I ever get married, I want a quickie Vegas wedding, just like you had the last time.”

She sighs dreamily. “Yeah, that was magical. But my point is, aside from Rebekah and Anton, I don’t have many friends here. Everyone else I know either works for us or they’re important Westerwald families, not the sort of people I want to share a spa day with, or sit up all night eating chocolate with when I get cold feet.”

I laugh. “Sorry to tell you this, but it’s way too late for you to get cold feet now!”

“That didn’t stop me after I married Max the last time.”

Our hushed laughter is interrupted by the arrival of Anton Martens himself, followed by a team of seamstresses and assistants. Even I have heard of Anton, fashion icon and one of Westerwald’s most famous exports. Phoenix introduces us, and for the first time I really feel as if I’m being presented to royalty.

“Pleased to meet you,” Anton says, but he isn’t looking at me. He’s looking at my chest, and I’m about to give him that same icy look that quelled Adam when he says, “US size six?”

I nod.

For someone who owns a label that headlines at all the major fashion weeks, Anton is remarkably down-to-earth. While we wait for the assistants to fetch the clothing rail, he chats to us about his favorite binge TV show, the ‘greasy spoon’ he and his partner Lee like to go to for traditional English breakfasts, and the time he got lost in Paris and nearly missed his own show. When he fits me for my bridesmaid dress, he gets down on his hands and knees to pin the hem himself.

Even unfinished, this dress is the most stunning piece of clothing I’ve ever worn. The design is deceptively simple – a fitted bodice with a high halter neck and a full skirt that falls in soft folds all the way to my ankles. The only decoration is a high satin waistband the same color as the dress. It’s the royal-blue fabric that makes this dress so special – I’ve never felt anything this soft before.

“Crêpe de Chine,” Anton says, lovingly brushing his hand over my hip. “It matches perfectly with your hair and eyes.”

“Don’t worry about the hair,” I say quickly. “It’ll wash out before the wedding. And of course I’ll be wearing it up.”

“Why?” both he and Phoenix ask in unison.

Do I really need to spell it out? Clearly I do. “Because you can’t have a bridesmaid with blue hair at a royal wedding.” Or frizz. I Googled royal weddings the day Phoenix called and asked me to be her bridesmaid, and everyone in the bridal parties looks sleek and groomed. If I had the soft, bouncy curls of a L’Oréal commercial I might get away with it, but my curls lean more toward wild corkscrew than artful curl. My hair has more kinks than Fifty Shades.

“Nonsense,” Phoenix says. “This is my wedding and I want it to be uniquely me, and that includes having a bridesmaid who is uniquely you. And I like your hair as it is.”

I love her for that, but I shake my head. I don’t want to be different. I don’t want to stand out. Back home, I see so many people with bright-colored hair that I blend right in, but this entire day I haven’t seen one other person with colored hair.

Anton grins. “Did you know that this particular shade of blue is Westerwald blue? Everyone will assume your hair is a patriotic statement.”

I bite my lip and turn to the tall gilt-framed mirror. The color is a really good match, and both the dress and the hair bring out the dark blue in my eyes.

Phoenix moves to stand behind me, and I look at our reflections. “A crown of white flowers in your hair and a white bouquet, and you’re done.”

“I still need shoes,” I point out, lifting the hem of the dress to reveal my worn but super-comfortable Keds.

Anton laughs. “Cinderella does indeed need a pair of slippers for the ball.” He claps his hands and the assistants jump into action, bringing out an endless parade of shoes. I eye them in dismay. “They all have heels!” I don’t even know how to walk in heels. When you’re on your feet eight hours every day, trust me, a comfortable pair of flats is worth every cent.

“I’ll give you a pair to practice in,” Anton offers.

There are other dresses for me to fit, an A-line, knee-length cocktail dress with a deep V-neck in the same shade of blue for the wedding reception (“better for dancing,” Phoenix explains), a dusky pink babydoll swing dress patterned with grey roses for the registry office wedding, and a nineteen-fifties vintage-style dress of forest-green crêpe for the banquet.

“You’ll need to wear your hair up with this one,” Anton says, “to avoid the colors clashing.” He twists my wild frizz up into an Audrey Hepburn style, and I hardly recognize myself in the mirror.

“Do I get a fascinator to go with it?” I ask. I always wanted one of those. Something with peacock feathers to match my hair.

Anton shakes his head. “Hats and fascinators are for daytime outdoor events only. Tiaras are for evening wear.”

No way am I ever wearing a tiara. I am so not a Disney princess.

“So what do you think of Adam?” Phoenix asks when I’m standing like one of those human statues on a little podium. Anton is back on his knees, pins in his mouth as he nips and tucks at the stiff green crêpe.

“I don’t think of him at all,” I lie.

She arches an eyebrow at me. I know her well enough to know she won’t give up until she has a proper answer.

“He’s cute,” I say. “But he’s a douche.”

Somewhere around my knees, Anton chuckles.

“You’ve barely met him,” Phoenix protests.

Then why is she asking what I think of him? For at least the third time today I wonder if she’s trying to set me up with Adam, though for the life of me I can’t imagine why.

I shrug. “I’ve met his type before. He’s the kind of man who thinks that just because he has money, he’s exempted from behaving like a decent human being.”

“You’re being hard on him because he’s rich.”

I remember the way he slid his room key card to me a year ago, assuming I’d go with him just because he had money. And not even bothering to ask my name. The anger I felt then floods through me, fresh as if it happened today. Or maybe it did happen today. The only reason he volunteered to take me sightseeing was so he could get into my pants. “I’m being hard on him because he measures his worth by how much money he has, and how many women he can score with. He’s the type who uses and discards women as if they’re nothing more than objects for his personal gratification. He thinks money can buy him anything and anyone he wants. It can’t.”

“You should give him a chance. Get to know him and you’ll see that, deep down, he’s a nice guy.”

I turn to eye her, and she grins cheekily. “It’s not as if I’m suggesting you marry him.”

As if.

“So what are you suggesting?”

“That you should relax and have a little fun. That’s what vacations are for. And you need to relax. You’re so tightly wound. When did you last do something just for fun?”

I shrug, and Anton scowls at me. “Stand still!” he orders.

“I have fun!” I protest. Admittedly, I haven’t dated for a while, not since Raúl and I broke up, but … Actually, there is no ‘but’. I can’t even remember the last time I did anything except work or study.

But if I wanted to blow off steam with a man, it certainly wouldn’t be Adam. What I feel around him is definitely not relaxed.

When the shoe parade starts again, I hold up both my hands. “Enough! I can’t take any more.” I look at Phoenix. “Isn’t it your turn?”

Back in my comfortable jeans and Keds, I relax on the couch while Phoenix models her wedding gown for me.

It’s the kind of dress that little girls dream of, made of thick ivory silk crêpe covered in a gauzy layer of soft silk tulle. The bodice is embroidered with an intricate pattern of roses and decorated with freshwater pearls.

Anton proudly holds out the veil for me to inspect. “It’s hand-made Belgian lace.”

I gently finger the veil. “Is that a dragon embroidered on it?”

He nods. “The dragon and rose emblem of Westerwald.”

I remember the signet ring Max used in place of a wedding ring the first time they married – a blue stone carved like a dragon’s head and surrounded by a pattern of silver roses. I had no idea at the time what that ring signified. Did Phoenix?

“What are you wearing for your civil wedding?” I ask.

“Did you pack the dress I asked you to bring?”

I nod, and she grins. “That’s the one I want to wear when we marry.”

It’s the same dress I loaned her for her first wedding to Max, in that Vegas chapel more than a year ago. More Marilyn Monroe than Anton Martens, but if anyone can make it look classy it’ll be Phoenix.

Next she models the dress that Anton is still working on, an ice-blue, lace-and-chiffon outfit that looks like something a nineteen-twenties flapper would have worn.

“My going-away dress,” she explains, doing a twirl.

I frown. “Where are you going away to?”

“That’s the dress the bride wears to leave the wedding reception, ostensibly to go away on honeymoon, though we won’t be taking time off for a honeymoon until Christmas.”

My mind is reeling, especially when I consider the cost of all of this. When I met Phoenix she was just as broke as I am. “Who’s paying for all of this?” I ask, waving my hand at the rail where all our other dresses are hanging.

Anton makes a choking noise, reminding me I’m not supposed to talk about money, but Phoenix just smiles. “Max’s family.”

Wow, just wow. I got my first job so I could buy a prom dress, because my own mother refused to pay for it. Admittedly, she was between jobs at the time, as she was all too often throughout my childhood. She was always leaving jobs because she thought she could do better somewhere else. Her attitude toward men wasn’t much better. She left all the good ones, and had her heart broken by the ones she left them for, the ones who promised her the world then left her high and dry.

That, more than anything, is why I know what damage a man like Adam Hatton can do. Because I’ve watched my mother chase that brass ring enough to know what happens when you let a man like Adam into your life. Men like that are after only one thing, and the moment they’ve had it they’re gone.

So if Phoenix plans to set up the best man with her bridesmaid, then she can think again.

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