Ivy Secrets (40 page)

In Brazil, she met Raoul.

She rolled onto her side now and drew her knees up to her chest. As fair-skinned as Dimitri had been, Raoul was Latin bronze. And unlike Dimitri, Raoul was hungry for sex. Hot-blooded, hot-tempered, and, quite simply, hot, Raoul told Marina that she was a woman first, a princess second. They were words she had longed to hear. He convinced Marina to marry him, and after three weeks in bed, they returned to Novokia together.

“I can help your country,” he said one night in the darkness.

Marina should have known better.

An acclaimed international equestrian with a string of stableboys who Marina came to realize meant more to Raoul than well-cared-for horses, Raoul was determined to introduce the people of Novokia to the sport of fine gentlemen. Novokia, however, had few gentlemen, with a small minority of wealthy families, followed by a huge gap down society’s ladder to the bulk of the people—unemployed, working-class paupers.

But Raoul had a dream: Novokia was his springboard to fame. He spent months developing his strategy, talking with King Andrei, and amusing the increasingly forgetful queen, who adored his good looks and magnetic charm, and smiled whenever he entered the room.

His growing passion for Novokia, self-serving though it was, at least provided Marina with a relaxing distraction. Distraction from her past; distraction from watching her sweet mother deteriorate into confusion; distraction from the caustic comments of her sister, Alexis, who had by now produced another child—another son.

The fun lasted a year, until Raoul insisted on a visit to the United States. He wanted to examine the Olympic Equestrian Training Center and make a side trip to the most prestigious collegiate riding center, to inspect a few horses for sale. Unfortunately, the collegiate riding center was at Mount Holyoke College in South Hadley, Massachusetts, a few miles down the road from Smith. But Marina had promised Charlie she would never try to reclaim Jenny, and she had made a solemn pledge to herself that the best way—the only way—was to pretend that Charlie and Tess and Smith College
simply no longer existed. Being that close to Northampton would be a painful reminder.

She refused to go with Raoul.

Raoul wanted to know why.

Marina said it was none of his business.

Raoul said it was. He was, after all, a man; she, merely a woman.

Marina spit on his boots.

Raoul slapped her face.

And what could have been a comfortable marriage turned into a nightmare, with Marina screaming for the palace guards, who escorted a raving Raoul from the palace, feet first. Worse yet, Alexis had witnessed it all.

That night Marina made the decision to leave Novokia again. She no longer wanted to live as a caged bird; she could no longer pretend she would be a competent queen.

“I cannot stay here,” she had told her father. “I crave freedom too much.”

“But Novikia is your destiny,” King Andrei had answered gravely, the furrows in his brow deepening. “I am sorry that causes you such pain.”

“Father, please. I must go. Don’t make me feel more guilty than I already do.”

“Where will you go?”

“Somewhere. Anywhere. I need to have fun.”

“Life is not about fun, Marina.”

She bit her lip so she wouldn’t cry.

“I will send Nicholas with you. To be certain you’re safe.”

“No, Father. No bodyguards.” Until then, Marina had not known that tension could be not only felt but also seen: The room had grown darker, the air stuffier, her father older.

“Will you return?”

She kissed his bearded cheek good-bye. “I do not know, Father, so I will not lie.”

For four—perhaps five—years now, Marina had traveled from the Rivera to Capri, and back again. She built a new life filled with laughter and liveliness—all the things she had never known. There was no time for friendships, no time for roots: at last she was free, a nomadic Quad Bunny, moving on when the booze ran dry, the drugs ran out, and the party was over.

And now there was Henry.

Marina opened her eyes and stared into the mirrored ceiling over the bed. She knew she was marrying Henry for sex. Long ago, she remembered hearing Elizabeth Taylor—the great movie star—say if she wanted to sleep with a man, she married him. For all the men Marina cavorted with, despite what the tabloids implied, she slept with none. None, unless she was assured the bond of matrimony. She was, she supposed, considered a tease. But Marina knew that the men between marriages—as the boys before Viktor—could only rob her of her dignity, and betray her later. She had learned her lesson from Viktor Coe. Her one exception had been Edward James. Marina wondered if Elizabeth Taylor, too, had been made to suffer before she spawned her rules of passion.

At least, Marina thought now, Henry was as passionate as he was rich. At forty years old, what he lacked in intelligence and looks, he made up for in devotion: he was safe, he adored her, and he was a great companion in her revelry. And, most incredibly of all, Henry was a superb lover who wanted only to please her, again and again. It did not matter to Henry that she was a princess who had virtually abandoned her country, who had avoided contact with her family all this time. He did not know that the longer she stayed away, the more difficult any thought of returning became. And with each tabloid headline, each grainy photo of “the wayward Novokian princess” displayed around the globe, Marina recoiled further into her private shame. Her marriage to Henry would at least restore some self-respect. The tabloids may not be as quick with a telephoto lens if the princess was properly wed.

In the meantime, there would be laughter and fun to assuage her guilt, and the incredible truth that, for the first time since Edward James, Marina felt no pressure from a man: She only had to smile at Henry and he wanted her. Again and again, he wanted her. And sex was so much easier to deal with than feelings.

Yes
, she repeated to herself,
Henry will be fine. It no longer matters what anyone else thinks.
Charlie and Tess included.

A short time later Henry came into the cabin wearing a black swimsuit no longer than a jock strap and carrying a glass of champagne. “Hurry, Princess, you don’t want to miss the sun.” He knelt on the bed beside her and grazed his hand across her body. “I want to make love topside this morning.”

Marina smiled. “What will the deckhands think?”

Henry slipped a hand under her robe and inserted two fingers inside her. Marina felt an instant rush of warmth. “Perhaps they would like to watch.”

Marina smiled again, but the wondrous Percodan calm quickly began to fade. “Perhaps not,” she said as she looked into his small brown eyes.

Henry withdrew his fingers and moved his hand across her stomach. “It might give you great pleasure to be with someone more … virile.”

She envisioned the tanned, muscular young men that glistened with sweat as they moved around the boat in tight white pants that hugged their sleek asses that begged to be touched. Then she looked at Henry—adoring, worshipful Henry—the only man who was safe for her bed. Fate, she thought, can often be cruel. She gently took his wrist and pushed his hand from her. “I am about to become your wife. You will not speak to me as though I am a whore.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said in a voice that was close to a whine. “Forgive me, my darling. I am so insecure. I still don’t understand why you agreed to marry me.”

She rose from the bed, tossed back her hair, and opened the large glass doors of her closet—the closet now filled with rayons and silks and hand-embroidered cottons newly purchased in Paris for her grand honeymoon, the closet that now held her wedding dress. “I think I will go into town,” she said, then steadied herself against the closet door, as a Percodan wave passed through her. She smiled and poked through the dresses. “Where are we? Barcelona?”

Henry paused for a moment, then answered as though the matter was forgotten, the issue of their marriage unquestioned. “Yes, we’re in Barcelona. We’re having a celebration tomorrow, remember? A wedding celebration?”

She pulled out a white eyelet dress. “Right. Four hundred guests.” She unbelted her robe, let it fall to her feet, then reached for the body cream on her bureau. “Come into
town with me, Henry,” she ordered as she smoothed the rich, white lotion onto her shoulders. “Come to the marketplace. You know how you love to watch those bare-breasted women show off their wares.”

Henry stood, then took the bottle from her hand. “Let me do that,” he whispered. He scooped two fingers of cream from the jar and slowly began to massage Marina’s breasts. “None of them are as lovely as you, my princess.”

Marina held back her hair and silently watched his movements. With each stroke, she felt a surge of empowerment. “Are you quite sure? Are you sure you do not ache for other women, the way you ache for me?”

Henry bent down and sucked her dark nipple. She put her hands on top of his balding head and arched her back to him.

“Make love to me, Henry,” she said. “Make love to me now. Then I will go into town. Alone.”

He lifted her onto the king-size bed, parted her legs, and proceeded to do what Henry did best.

    Their lovemaking was hot, wet, and exhausting. After it was over, Henry fell asleep. But Marina lay silent, staring at the ceiling, eyes wide open.

She wondered why she was never able to relax after climaxing with Henry, why she, too, couldn’t drift off into a luxurious nap. But when the foreplay and fornication were over, no matter how blissfully exhilarating they had been, Marina was left with an emptiness inside, an emotional wasteland.

She rolled onto her side and spotted the empty champagne bottle, the drained glasses. Her head throbbed, her pelvis ached, and it was only eleven o’clock in the morning. Then, Henry began to snore.

Town
, she thought quickly,
I’ll go into town.
Henry would be awake when she returned, and it would be time for cocktails. Surely some early wedding guests would arrive today. Enough for a grand, prenuptial party tonight, perhaps at the new bistro in Barcelona, rumored to be bawdy, boisterous, and bad. Marina smiled. In the past few years, she’d learned that parties were the best medicine for the blues.

She pulled herself from the bed, showered, and slipped
into the white eyelet dress. As she stepped up on deck, with sunglasses in place and a wide-brimmed straw hat covering her upswept hair, Marina realized that her head had stopped aching. She filled her lungs with the salty, clear air, and summoned a sleek-assed deckhand to prepare a launch.

As she waited for the boat, she strolled across the deck and examined the preparations for tomorrow’s gala celebration. Gleaming brass railings waited to be braided with sprays of thick evergreens intertwined with thousands of tiny white lights and hundreds of fragrant gardenias; long wood tables lined the mirror-polished deck and would later be draped in billowing yards of white organdy; a round table in the corner already overflowed with silver and white-papered, lavishly ribboned boxes—gifts that surely held exquisite trinkets and treasures for the happy bride and groom. Surrounding it all were brown cardboard cartons marked 10 oz. HiBall—3 doz., Champagne Flutes—4 doz., and Brandy Snifters—3 doz. She knew that by tomorrow, the cartons would be gone, and the crystal would sparkle in place atop the tables, next to silver trays of cracked crab and chilled asparagus spears wrapped with prosciutto. She knew that everything would be perfect, because, in addition to knowing how to make love to a woman, Henry knew how to throw one hell of a party.

“Your Highness?”

A voice beside Marina startled her. She turned to face Angelo, the first mate, or steward, or whatever he was, and was reminded that one of these years she really should learn the names and responsibilities of the crew members: their rung on the ladder of nautical order.

“A messenger delivered this this morning,” Angelo said as he presented her with a small envelope. “He wanted to see you, but I told him you were … occupied.”

Marina did not meet his eyes. She quickly took the envelope and wondered if the crew listened to their lovemaking, if they gossiped and chortled about the sexual frenzies of their employer and his princess. “Thank you, Angelo,” she said with a curt nod that abruptly dismissed him. She lowered her eyes and began to unseal the envelope. Then she noticed the fine scripted writing on the front:
HRH Marina Marchant.
The penmanship, she knew, was King Andrei’s.

“Launch is ready,” the deckhand announced.

Marina waved him off. “One moment,” she said, unsure if she should open the envelope or wait until later. She had written a formal note to the king, telling him she was going to wed Henry, extending an invitation, a branch of olive, under the guise of alerting him before he heard it through the press, or before her sister could reap any delight in flashing a tabloid before him. In truth, however, Marina held a small hope that the legality of her marriage would somehow cushion the anguish she had certainly caused him. Perhaps, she thought, as dampness rose on the hand that clutched the envelope, perhaps he is coming. Perhaps this note would tell her when he would arrive, and where she might meet him.