Honeymoon With a Prince (Royal Scandals) (16 page)

Her eyes narrowed fractionally as she assessed him.
 
She was unused to being put off, especially on matters she considered important.
 
“While you make your decision, begin assembling a staff so they’ll be in place when you’re ready to work.”

“I’ll begin today.”
 
Once he took a nap.
 
Assuming he could stop thinking about Kelly Chase long enough to sleep.
 
How was it that after a few weeks at home, it was an American tourist who made him feel vibrant again?
 
Who made him feel
anything
again?
 

“Good.”
 
She brushed a piece of imaginary lint from her hip.
 
Her nails were painted an understated pink, but the diamond and emerald ring she’d received as a fortieth anniversary gift from her husband last year sparkled in the light from the windows as her hand swept from her dress toward his desk.
 
“I assume you were supplied with paper and a pen when your apartment was prepared for your return?”

He assumed so, too.
 
“You can check.
 
Why?”

“I’ll leave notes for you.”
 
She moved the antique chair aside and slid open the narrow wooden drawer in the center of the desk, then withdrew a piece of stationery and a pen.
 

“I know what needs to be done, Mother.”
 
He resisted adding a,
for crying out loud, I’m a grown man.
 
Grown as he might be, a mother-son relationship wasn’t the same in a royal family as in a traditional one.
 
A power factor existed that other families didn’t have, one built into the legal fabric of the country.

“Yes, but I can make it easier.”
 
She seated herself at his desk as if it were her own and began writing.
 
“First, you’ll need an assistant to manage your schedule and your correspondence.
 
Since Vittorio recently hired a new assistant, you should speak with him about candidates.
 
Also, we have several events at the palace in the coming weeks.
 
I expect you’ll attend at least a few, which means you’ll need to update your wardrobe.
 
For that, you need a stylist.”

The thought made him want to close his eyes and lean back into the sofa.
 
Meeting with a stylist, especially one who’d want to take his measurements, discuss suit colors and fabrics, or—worst of all—offer suggestions on his personal grooming habits, was akin to opening a vein in his arm with a rusty spoon.
 
Instead of protesting, as he suspected his brother Alessandro would do, he kept his gaze riveted on the queen.
 
When she got into one of her get-everything-done-now modes—a key sign of which was her need to make lists—the only way to end it was to let her think he was grateful for her help and would do everything she asked.
 

As if she could sense his horror over her use of the word
stylist
, she glanced at him to be sure he was paying attention.
 
“Do you know where to find a good stylist, Massimo?”
 
Without waiting for an answer, she said, “Your sister recently found one for Stefano’s fiancée, Megan, so if you’re uncertain about whom you wish to hire, ask Sophia.”
 

“I’ll do that.”

The queen’s updo had the audacity to bobble atop her head as she continued writing.
 
“Megan was a hard sell.
 
Didn’t want a stylist.
 
Said she’d worked in the hotel business for years and knew how to dress professionally.
 
While she does have good taste, one can always use refinement, especially when it comes to attending events as a member of the royal family.”

Since Megan was from Minnesota, which didn’t pride itself on stylists or royal soirees, he could see why a suggestion that she could “use refinement” before becoming a member of the Barrali family might’ve rankled.
 
Megan was used to her independence and to making her own decisions.
 
It was like imagining Kelly with a stylist.
 
A stylist wouldn’t have selected the blue sundress she’d worn to dinner last night.
 
They’d have claimed it was too boring, too common.
 
They’d have urged her to choose a more luxurious fabric while overlooking the way the dress hugged her upper body, the way the color contrasted with her brown eyes to make them seem even more deep and soulful.
 
The way the skirt floated around her long, long legs.

The ease with which it could be hitched up over those legs.

He cursed himself for the mental image and shifted forward on the sofa.
 

“Maybe Megan has a different perspective, given that she and Stefano don’t reside in the palace,” he suggested.
 
Instead of living with the rest of the royal family, the couple purchased a large apartment a few kilometers away, near the waterfront.
 
The location offered them easy access to the palace and Stefano’s staff, yet afforded them a modicum of privacy as they prepared for their upcoming wedding.
 
It was as close to rebellion as any of his siblings dared.
 
Massimo wasn’t sure whether it was a brilliant move on Stefano’s part or one he’d come to regret.

“I’m hopeful they’ll move back,” the queen replied, her tone ever-practical. “You’ll need to get up to speed on the current economic and political environment so you can speak intelligently on such matters.
 
I’ll have the relevant information sent to you, unless you’d prefer to work with an adviser.”

She was on a mission now.
 
Apparently, talking about Megan and Stefano made her more determined than ever to keep Massimo on the track she’d set in her mind.
 

“The information will be fine, Mother.
 
I don’t need—”

“And you simply must hire a decorator.
 
These rooms are terribly outdated.”
 
She set down her pen and faced him.
 
“Start with your closet.
 
Most of what’s in there is from your college years or before.
 
You’ll need to clear space for new suits, clothing for casual events, new accessories—”

“I met with a closet organizer yesterday.”
 

Why that came out of his mouth, he didn’t know.
 
Perhaps it was to stave off his mother’s attempts to organize
him
.
 
Perhaps it was because he hated all discussion of stylists and decorators—two items that he wished to ban from his vocabulary, let alone his apartment.
 
Perhaps it was because he couldn’t shake Kelly from his mind.
 

Perhaps it was guilt at leaving Kelly to fend for herself with the police, though he had no reason to feel guilty.
 
He wasn’t the one renting a place under a different name or cheating the landlord out of money for a honeymoon villa.
 
He certainly wasn’t sleeping with someone else while
on
his honeymoon.

He let out a long, slow breath.
 
Problem was, despite the police presence or the landlord’s red-faced insistence that Kelly was squatting on the property, he didn’t believe it.
 
Whatever happened with the honeymoon, there was something…not right.
 
Because what he’d felt about midnight, when he’d laced his fingers through hers and their foreheads were pressed together, stirred his soul.
 
It may have been a one-night stand, but there was more than sex involved.

“Who?”
 
His mother couldn’t hide her shock.
 
“When was this meeting?”

He blinked, jerking his attention back to the queen.
 
He intentionally ignored the first question and answered the second.
 
“Yesterday afternoon.
 
Before I went to Giulia and Guillermo’s.”
 

He stood and crossed the room.
 
Gently, he put a hand on his mother’s shoulder.
 
He could feel her collarbone underneath the soft silk of her dress.
 
Though she looked robust, she seemed thinner than usual, as if worn down by worry.

“I’m fine,” he assured her.
 
“I’ve been away for a long time.
 
I worked long, hard hours for the last few years and I’ve needed time to get my bearings now that I’m back to civilization.
 
That’s all.
 
I’ve always been responsible.
 
I’ll always
be
responsible.”

“I know.”
 
Her hand came up to cover his.
 
“But I like the reassurance.”

He glanced down at the list she’d composed.
 
Immaculate handwriting covered the fine stationery.
 
He wondered if the handwriting, like her walk, was part of her when she was young or had come with time and the impossibly high expectations of becoming the Barrali matriarch.
 
“Consider yourself reassured.
 
No one can miss with a checklist like yours.
 
Too bad I can’t hire you as my assistant.”

“I’d drive you crazy.”
 
She patted his hand, then pushed back from the desk.
 
Gaspare chose that moment to plod in from the kitchen.
 
The dog glanced at them and, satisfied that he wasn’t needed, found a square of sunshine in which to lounge.
 
Though he was out of the way, his appearance in the room was enough of a distraction to alter the mood.

“I need to prepare for my brunch,” his mother said, “and you need a shave and shower.
 
I’ll have budget information sent to you this afternoon from the family accountants so you’ll know what you can spend on your staff.
 
But please, follow up with the closet organizer.
 
Today, if you can.
 
It’s important you get started.
 
Then you’ll feel better hiring everyone else.”

He nodded his thanks, then escorted her to the door, folding her list and sliding it into his front pants pocket as he went.
 
Once she was gone, he returned to the windows, still craving the light and fresh air of the outdoors.
 
Despite its twenty-foot ceilings, the apartment felt stuffy, as if the air merely used the extra space it was allotted in order to press down more heavily on the room’s occupants.
 

He couldn’t begin to guess what the massive windows weighed, but surely there was a way to open them.
 
He could’ve sworn he’d seen maintenance workers open the lower sections before.
 
His fingers skimmed the lower perimeter of the glass, feeling for a lever.
 
Gaspare twisted his head to watch, then shifted his body further into the sunshine and let out a low whine, as if annoyed that Massimo dared move close enough to cast a shadow.

“What?”
 
Massimo frowned at the dog.
 
“Am I bothering you?”

Gaspare settled his head on the floor, but didn’t close his eyes.
 
He looked forlorn.
 
It wasn’t a typical expression for the dog, but now Massimo had seen it twice in twenty-four hours.
 
The last was when a certain woman was scratching Gaspare’s rear and the dog knew he was about to be commanded to his owner’s side.

“You liked her, didn’t you, old boy?
 
Yeah, well, I liked her, too.”
 

When the lower edge of the glass provided no openings, he moved his fingers along the sides.
 
There was a groove indicating that the window could be raised, but no lever was apparent.
 
Stretching as far as he could, he reached to one of the higher panes and caught a whiff of his shirt.
 
It was faint, but enough to cause him to pause, then put his nose to his sleeve and inhale more deeply.

Kelly.

Giving up on the window, Massimo jammed his hands into his front pockets and stared sightlessly at the gardens.
 
After several minutes, he shook his head, knowing there was only one way to dislodge thoughts of the previous night’s experience from his brain.
 
After telling Gaspare to be a good boy—easy enough if the dog stayed away from water—Massimo crossed to the apartment door and whipped it open, coming within inches of colliding with his eldest brother, Vittorio.
 
The serious, dark-haired crown prince was walking alongside Queen Fabrizia in the direction of the garden exit, presumably headed to brunch.
 
Staff members followed at a discreet distance, allowing the queen and her son to speak privately.
 
More than one set of eyes widened at the sight of Prince Massimo bursting out of his apartment.

People did not burst out of rooms in the palace.

“Where are you headed in such a hurry?” Vittorio asked.
 

Beside him, their mother raised an eyebrow as if to add,
and without having yet showered?
, but as her gaze snagged on the folded stationery protruding from his front pocket she said, “Meeting the closet organizer?”