Killer Queens (7 page)

Lori had giggled, pretend-smacked Shameeka back, and made a huge effort to put her friend’s words out of her mind. OK, so Joachim was reaching the age when guys who’d held out up till now found their thoughts turning to marriage and kids: but they’d only met a couple of months ago, and even to entertain the thought was way too soon for a normal person, let alone for a guy who wasn’t just marrying a wife, but choosing a queen to help him govern his country.

No, she wasn’t even going to think about where this courtship might end up. She was going to visit Herzoslovakia, enjoy having Joachim show her around his home country, which sounded like the quaintest, prettiest, most charming little monarchy in the world, and then go home to Miami; the Duplex watch people had been very happy to change the date of her return ticket. She’d tell Shameeka all about the trip, soak up some much needed Florida sunshine, and, if things went well, she had no doubt that Joachim would come to visit her. Distance was clearly nothing to him – he’d even come to Russia overnight to visit her on the press tour. And if the Miami visits went well, and he invited her back . . . well, then,
maybe
she would allow herself to start thinking about the
possibility
that he might want to make her his Queen . . .

That was how Lori had envisaged the process – assuming, naturally, that they liked each other more and more with every visit, that the liking blossomed into something stronger. The oddest thing of all about the situation in which she, quite unexpectedly, found herself, was that she wasn’t even sure that the blossoming, as it were, had actually happened. She couldn’t actually
remember
Joachim telling her that he had fallen in love with her, that evening in the tower terrace of Schloss Schwanstein, the ugliest name in German for the prettiest one in English, Castle Swanstone. It was as lovely as its English name, not an adjective Lori had expected to use for a castle: she’d thought of them as being imposing, dominating, with castellations from which boiling oil could be poured on invaders, slits in towers for archers to rain down arrows on ditto, surrounded by a wide moat, barred by a huge clanking drawbridge.

But Herzoslovakia’s castles weren’t like that, not at all. They were beautiful, fairy-tale creations, perched on hills high over rivers with exquisite views over the countryside below, clustered with towers and turrets and balconies, designed in a Gothic Revival style but with nothing gloomy about their interiors at all; the rooms were charming, painted in light clear blues and creams and greens, furnished with delicate, priceless furniture, hung with gilt-framed watercolours and oil paintings of landscapes. Clanking suits of armour, displays of historic weapons and heavy dark portraits had been discreetly moved to attic storerooms by the Dowager Queen, whose taste was impeccable.

There was so much to admire in Herzoslovakia: the beauty of the tiny, mountainous country, the friendliness and affluence of its citizens; as a tax haven, Herzoslovakia’s wealth meant that there was full employment and more than enough money to go round. Joachim had taken her on a tour of the castles, stopping for a couple of days in each one, barely an hour’s drive between each – when, of course, they didn’t travel by river, on his private motorboat.

Each castle was prettier than the last, each suite of rooms reserved for her use more enchantingly decorated, and by the time they reached Schloss Schwanstein, Lori was in an absolute daze. Dinner that night, in the tower terrace, hundreds of candles in crystal sconces and candelabras providing the only illumination, gas flames flickering outside on the stone balcony in huge wrought-iron torches, had been utterly perfect: blinis with caviar, delicate curls of smoked salmon on golden beetroot canapés, tiny steamed dumplings, each topped with a dot of sour cream, all served on priceless, gold-edged, royal-crested china, vintage champagne from the royal cellars poured into crystal coupe glasses . . .

For once, she had said hell to her eating plan and the one-drink-a-night rule. A soft Hungarian red wine had followed the champagne, served with seared beef with foie gras and miniature puffed soufflé potatoes; then elderflower and champagne sorbet with Italian rosé dessert wine, Rosa Regale by Castello Banfi, in smaller crystal glasses from the vast matching set. By the time coffee came, in paper-thin gold-rimmed china demi-tasse cups, Lori’s head was swimming with enchantment. The string quartet at the far corner of the room, partially concealed behind a two-fold Chinese gilded screen to afford Joachim and Lori some privacy, were playing Borodin’s ridiculously romantic String Quartet No. 2 in D major, written to evoke the memory of the composer’s blissful courtship of his beloved wife; Joachim held out his hand to Lori, asking her to step out onto the terrace and admire the night stars, timing it as the quartet reached the famously dreamy Nocturne.

The strains of the Borodin, the first violin and cello soaring together in an intense, silvery thread of melody, was the final touch. It had all been planned to perfection. Joachim took Lori in his arms and kissed her with the gentle, sweet, chivalrous kisses which had ended every evening of her stay in his country; the embraces had lasted longer every night, but had been confined to kisses on her lips and her hands, caresses of her hair and shoulders, and soft compliments to her beauty, charm and grace. Lori had fallen asleep enveloped in twin clouds of starched linen sheets, fresh each day, and the praise which Joachim had rained down on her, feeling already as beautiful as a queen.

When Joachim pulled back from the kiss, looking fractionally up at her – Lori was a little taller than him in heels, but he had assured her that he preferred tall women, and Lori had always liked short men – his round blue eyes were wide and sincere as he told her that she had swept him away as no woman ever had before, that her beauty, her bearing, her natural modesty, her manners, her fresh, unjaded American charm, had carried him away until he could think of nothing but her. That showing her his country over the last ten days had been the greatest pleasure of his life. That the time was drawing close for her to go home, and he couldn’t bear to let her go. That he wanted her to stay for ever with him, by his side, learning about his country, becoming its Queen. Would she? Would she stay with him, here in Herzoslovakia, agree to make it her new home? She would make him the happiest man in the world if she would say yes. At this moment he was not a king, but a man, a man asking the woman upon whom he had set his heart to marry him.

From the pocket of his dinner jacket, he had produced a velvet box, easing it open with a flip of his thumb. Lori couldn’t help gasping, even though she was worried about seeming vulgar. Inside was a ring with the biggest diamond she had ever seen in her life, set inside an oval of other, perfectly matched diamonds, each of which would have been quite satisfactory on its own. The entire effect, even in the velvet-dark night by the flames of the gas torches, was breathtaking; by daylight, the clarity and colour of the jewels would, literally, be dazzling.

Lori’s mouth dropped open. Joachim, taking silence for consent, reclaimed her left hand and slid the enormous door knocker of a ring onto her third finger. It fitted as if it had been made for her.

‘I took the liberty of having it sized to fit you,’ he said, smiling at her reaction. ‘A maid measured your rings for me and the jeweller estimated the correct size for this finger. It is exact? Good!’ He kept hold of her hand, looking at it with great approval. ‘A family heirloom. Only a woman like you, Lori, could carry off such a magnificent piece. As I looked through the family jewels, I knew that this was meant for you. It once belonged to Queen Elizabetta of Herzoslovakia, who was called the most beautiful woman in Europe. There is a portrait of her I will show you tomorrow – like you, she was tall, statuesque, beautiful. Regal. You will look superb in the crown jewels of Herzoslovakia. You will be the most beautiful queen in the whole of Europe – the whole of the world.’

Joachim enfolded her in another embrace, his kisses becoming more passionate. Lori, her head spinning from his proposal, the romance of the setting, the confidence with which Joachim was kissing her, the music in the background (the quartet were playing the Nocturne on repeat, as per instructions) and the unusual quantity of wine she had drunk, kissed him back with a passion that easily matched his. Joachim allowed his hands to slide down to her waist, pulling her even closer. She felt the warmth of his hands through her simple black cocktail dress and shivered in pleasure, wanting more; she twined her fingers through his thick short curls, pressed herself snugly against him, tasting the sweet wine and the elderflower sorbet on his tongue, losing herself completely.

Her eyes closed, and she felt her nipples stiffen against the light silk fabric of her bra. The sensation was delicious. It had been so long since Lori had let herself be carried away like this, to eat a three-course meal, drink wine with every course, to kiss a man and feel her whole body respond. She had been measured in her response to Joachim previously, echoing his decorous kisses, unsure of what proper etiquette was with a king when she wasn’t even his official girlfriend, but knowing that she certainly didn’t want to seem in any way too eager, a vulgar American girl who didn’t know that European kings pursued their courtships with gentlemanly restraint.

But now, his hand was behind her head, holding her tightly against him, his other hand caressing the upper slopes of her bottom, and the relief was overwhelming. Joachim
was
capable of passion, as she had secretly begun to doubt. Now that they were engaged, he could allow himself to show her how much he wanted her as a woman. And Lori was more than ready. She’d spent the last two years training exceptionally hard, had broken up with her college boyfriend because he was resentful of her commitment to making the US Olympic team, and had barely got laid since. Being courted by Joachim had been a fairy tale, but she was a red-blooded girl who definitely enjoyed sex; if he had made a pass at her days ago, she would have been overjoyed. She certainly wasn’t the kind of woman who would have made him propose before she agreed to go to bed with him.

And it’s so important to make sure that you’re sexually compatible before you get married,
she thought seriously.
I couldn’t marry anyone who I didn’t enjoy having sex with!

Joachim’s penis was now pressing between her legs; their relatively equal heights meant that it fit, almost exactly, where she wanted it, and a soft moan issued from her lips as she felt it rub up against her. She couldn’t quite feel how big it was, but it was hard and ready, and her thighs parted a little, her feet shifting apart, so that his leg could drive in between them, his cock butt closer into her. The black silk thong that matched her bra was damp; she longed to be alone with him, to unzip her dress and see the appreciation in his eyes for her body, hard and toned in sexy underwear she’d worn tonight in the hopes that he would see it, want to peel it off her, finally crack the perfect-king façade and –
kiss me like he’s dying to get me in the sack, twist his fingers into my hair . . . yes, just like that . . .

Eagerly, Lori pulled back, looking at Joachim’s gleaming eyes, his pink cheeks. She drew her hand from round his neck, reaching up to stroke his face, saying: ‘Shall we—’

But it was the hand with the ring on it, the gigantic, heavy rock of a diamond. Its facets scraped Joachim’s cheek, and he let out a little squeal, flinching back.

‘I’m so sorry!’ she said, laughing. ‘It’s just so big! I’m not used to wearing anything so huge.’

‘You will become used to wearing many large jewels before you realize it,’ he said fondly, taking her hand and kissing the palm. ‘My Lori. Tomorrow, after we have made the announcement, we will visit the vault and I will show you the tiaras.’

Her eyes widened.

‘And now—’ Joachim drew her arm through his and folded her hand against his chest, a charming, old-fashioned gesture with which Lori had become very familiar – ‘now I will walk you to your rooms, my dear. It will be a big day tomorrow. We will return to Hafenhoffer—’ this was the King of Herzoslovakia’s official residence, overlooking Valtzers, the capital – ‘and tell my mother. She will be delighted! Overjoyed! She has taken so much to you, she thinks you have all the qualities required to be a wonderful queen . . .’

As they re-entered the terrace room, the quartet shifted smoothly to the last movement of the Borodin, the Vivace. It provided a fittingly joyous note on which Joachim could lead his bride-to-be back inside; unbeknownst to Lori, the exit onto the terrace had been the staff’s signal to clear the sorbet dishes and dessert wine glasses, and Lori and Joachim were greeted by a footman carrying a silver tray bearing two champagne coupes.

‘Let us toast, my dear,’ Joachim said, handing one to Lori.

‘How did they
know
?’ she whispered to him as she took it, taken aback by the fact that the staff were so aware of the situation.

He smiled, a genuinely amused smile, and stroked the hand that was resting on his sleeve.

‘Ah, this is something you will have to become used to, Lori,’ he said gently. ‘You are no longer a private person. You belong now to us, to this little country. We will honour you, treasure you, look after you. Anticipate your needs, treat you like the queen you are.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ Lori blurted out as Joachim toasted her, clinking his glass against hers, the cut-glass crystal ringing pure and clear for a moment.

‘You have said yes, and that’s all I needed to hear,’ he said, smiling fondly at her as he sipped his champagne. ‘My very dear and sweet Lori.’

But I never actually
said
yes
, Lori realized now as she stood on the dressmaker’s stool. The women had finished pinning the hem, and were stepping back to coo at her in a stream of Herzoslovakian: Lori was studying the language, but couldn’t have got close to making out what they were saying. Still, it was indubitably positive. Their hands were clasped at their breasts, their heads cocked to the side, their faces wreathed in sentimental smiles.