One Night (7 page)

“I don’t know…”

“Make a decision, Prince Tom.”

His eyes went cold. “All right, Kelly. Let’s see the maps.”

I pushed through the crowd to Simone. Hard to figure why she kept bodyguards, because the lady was loving the contact with the pickup audience, everyone apparently a devoted Simone Sanchez fan. I caught her eye. “We can’t wait; we’re leaving.”

She patted the air around her, trying to back the people up. “Give me a minute, dear ones; I’ll be right back.”

She linked her arm through mine. “You don’t want to go inside? I can’t believe I get to go inside. You mean you don’t want to?”

“He doesn’t want to be caught by the press, Simone. So we’re sneaking off to see—”

“Don’t say, Delivery Girl. Then I can’t tell if someone asks me.” She held her arms out to the prince. “Wonderful boy, give my love to your sister. Tell her she’s inspired me to record another CD like
Live.
Tell her she’ll get the very first copy.” A hug, kisses, then a grand sweeping turn back to the waiting crowd. Within seconds she had two wide-eyed fans in her arms and was preaching to them about reading.

Prince Tom and I hustled away. I checked over my shoulder. No one followed, no one looked.

“So what’s this rare map you hope to see?” I asked. I wasn’t really interested, but I wanted him to keep his mind off where he should be and what he should be doing. Keep him running, keep him happy, keep him busy until I could hand him over to Kit.

“It was made for Charlemagne. It was a map of his empire, engraved on a silver plate. Charlemagne’s map, right here in Dakota City. We’re taking the bus?”

“I’m a delivery girl, not a movie star, Prince Tom; this is my limo.” I pushed him on board. He stared at the fare box. I paid for us both. He fell into a seat as the bus lurched. I slipped in beside him and smiled. Ancient maps he knew all about. Public transportation apparently was a mystery. How in the world could he ever rule a country?

As the bus rolled along, Prince Tom chatted about the map he hoped to see. I listened, sort of, while I thought about the university buildings, bus stops, and how to make sure we avoided the part of campus where they were holding the forum. If we got off at the student union and then took a campus shuttle… I planned it out while he talked about Romans and Franks, cartography, roads, empire building. I heard some—enough.

Charlemagne: Now
there
was a king.

*

Bad news. When we got to the archives, the first thing we heard was that the one map Prince Tom most wanted to see was out of reach, couldn’t be viewed, not available to anyone. All this—but no reason why—crisply relayed by a student sitting behind the reception desk at the map library. I tried reasoning with her. “This is a public university,” I reminded her. “Everything’s free and open to the public.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said.

“This place is empty,” I said. “No one would know.”

“No way,” she said.

Prince Tom tried charm bordering on seduction. That was a better idea, because the student-on-duty was obviously bored with sitting on a hard stool at a desk and reading
Valley of the Dolls,
which was all she had been doing when we arrived. The two of them bantered for a while. She was melting, but, still, no go. She tossed her head and giggled. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” she said. I swear I was about to shake her when Central Casting sent in a professor.

I mean, this guy was
it
:
worn tweed jacket, pockets bulging; tie askew; disheveled white hair; eyeglasses resting crookedly on his nose. And he wore red Converse sneakers.

The girl sat primly at her post. “Dr. Larson. I didn’t expect you back after the seminar.” She turned to Tom and me. “Dr. Larson is the curator of the map collection. He’ll confirm what I’ve been saying.”

The geezer looked us over. “Well?” he said.

Tom said, “Dr. Ralph Larson?”

Again: “Well?”

“I’ve heard a great deal about you, sir. I studied at Oxford under Bulworth Smythe-Warwick.”

“The hell you did!” The old guy whipped up so sharp and erect, I expected to hear bones snap. “You’re one of Bully’s students? Well, as I live and breathe.” He leaned forward and looked hard. “Not a Brit, are you?”

“Raised in Texas,” Tom said. Truth as evasion; not a bad trick. He offered his hand. “Tom Buckhorn.”

I didn’t laugh, which was a huge accomplishment, but I did nearly gag on spit. Buckhorn?
Buckhorn?
Okay, I could understand why he wouldn’t toss around Tomas Teronovich, but
Buckhorn?
Prince Tom turned slowly and stilled me with a regal stare.

On the other hand, if you’ve got to hide behind an alias, why not choose a manly one?

Professor Larson scanned Tom Buckhorn’s slick suit. “Your accent says Texas, but I’m not sure your clothing does. Oh, that’s probably my ignorance and prejudice. Either way, if you’re one of Bully’s students, you’re smart as a whip, and that’s all I ever care about. How may I help you, Tom?”

“My friend and I would love to see the Charlemagne.”

“Can’t.”

Tom nodded, his face regretful. “That’s what your aide told us. I suppose only a few researchers have access.”

“They might get away with that at Oxford, but not here,” Professor Larson said. “In the US of A a public school means public. Our collections are open to the taxpayers. And even if we did limit access, well, you can be sure I’d give the okay to one of Bully’s boys.”

“Then why can’t we see it?”

“It’s not here. Permanent loan to the Library of Congress. Hasn’t been announced yet, but I delivered it myself last week. Just missed, my boy. Sorry.”

The prized map was gone, but the genial professor had other things he thought Bully’s boy might want to see. Tom and Dr. Larson—both blithely accepting my claim that I needed to use the bathroom—disappeared together into the archives.

It wasn’t the bathroom I wanted. I’d spotted a pay phone near the library’s front door. I’m sure I could have cajoled Valley of the Dolls into letting me call for free from her desk or one of the offices; I mean, after all, I’d brought one of Bully’s boys to delight the head man. But I didn’t want her listening in, because I needed to call Kit and arrange the next move. Prince Tom might not be ready to talk and tape an interview, but I didn’t know how much longer I could string him along. Better to let Kit at him now.

She didn’t answer at home. Odd, because at this time she was usually planted in a favorite chair, drinking ginger ale, and keeping up a running commentary on the news programs. She didn’t pick up at the office, either, and her cell phone threatened to ring on into infinity.

But the most puzzling thing was that there was no voice mail, not at even one of the numbers. I kept waiting for the familiar message: T
his is Kit Carpenter. Talk now!
Nothing.

She always left a way for people to get in touch. Kit would die before she’d be out of touch. Okay, sometimes, if the show had been especially hot, her interviews or commentary especially provocative, she’d stay away from the office phone until things cooled down, until the guys at the station saw the ratings numbers and decided to can the “you can’t do this sort of thing” tirades. But even on those days she kept the cell on and open. It was her private link to her private world. And only a few people had that number: a couple of friends from DC
(Kit, honey, I’m just back from the White House, and you would not believe
…), her personal shopper at Nordstrom
(I’ve got some fabulous new Eileen Fishers; you should see these jackets!),
the chef at D’Amicos
(The scallops are in, luv, and they’re perfect today).

And me. I had the number.
Kit, I’m at the U map library with the prince of Lakveria. He might be ready to talk with you. Shall we meet at the station and tape a segment for tomorrow?

That was the message she didn’t want to hear. Didn’t dare hear. That must be it. The thugs wanted their prince back. They’d found out that he wasn’t in the hotel room or with Simone, but they didn’t know where he was now. Just that he was with me and that I worked for Kit. One way or another, they were keeping her company until they found me. So she’d shut me out and wasn’t letting me call.

That meant one thing.

Kit knew what I was trying to do. They’d told her I was loose with the prince, and she knew what I was trying to do, knew I’d be in touch, knew they’d be on me in an instant if I checked in. She knew, and avoiding the phone connection was her signal: Go for it, Kelly. Bring him in, but you’re on your own.

*

Valley of the Dolls was locking up when I returned. “Closing so soon?” I said. “Isn’t it a bit early for the university library, even for summer session?”

“Not this area,” she said. “Special collections all close at six. Your friend is back in the study room with Dr. Larson. It’s the last door down that hall. Would you tell the professor that I’ve locked up and gone?”

There were several rectangular tables in the study room. Most were strewn with books and journals. Tom and his new pal were bent over a map laid out on the table farthest from the entrance. They were both wearing white gloves. Dr. Larson tapped the surface of the paper. “There it is! Do you see how she initialed it, working the letters into the illustration? E.R. Elizabeth Regina. Bully discovered that. Of course, he had his copy to contrast it with, and so this addition jumped right out.” His expression saddened. “His copy has Drake’s initials.”

“I’ve studied it,” said Tom.

“Lucky boy,” whispered the professor.

I sat at a table across the room from them and started thumbing through an atlas while they continued to pore over maps. The professor said something, and Tom happily slapped his hands together in a soft clap. Good joke, I guess. Then Tom pointed at something and replied. The professor threw back his head and roared. Cartographer humor. What a riot.

They hauled out another map and continued their private jokefest; I began a mental list of notes and questions for Kit. Ask him about Oxford, maybe about this Bully. And what was it like going to school as a kid in Texas? Oh, yes: Skiing in Switzerland—how does that prepare you for leading a troubled country? And just how rich are you? The royal family supposedly drained the Lakverian treasury and emptied museums before it left on its fifty-year exile. Any plans to give some of it back? And one final question for you, Your Highness: What’s so funny about maps?

Tom had taken off his jacket and draped it on the back of a chair. His shirttail was working its way out of his pants, his tie was pulled loose, and he’d rolled his sleeves up, exposing sinewy forearms above the gloves. He leaned forward to catch something Dr. Larson was saying, and the shirt tightened across his wide shoulders. His eyes stayed fixed on the professor while he listened, not wavering a moment. What would it be like, I wondered, to have those eyes pinned on me?

Their talking buzzed on. I put my head down on my arms. Okay, somehow I’d figure out what to do and how to deliver him to Kit. Nothing was urgent now. I’d gotten him this far. Out of sight and out of reach of his guards.

My eyes caught Tom’s. He was watching me now, looking over the professor’s bowed head while the older man studied something on the table. Just before I closed my eyes, we both smiled.

If I were any closer, I bet I could watch those eyes do their color switch. If I were any closer, I could breathe in that lovely scent. I could maybe even—

Whoa, Kelly Ray. Remember who you are and what he is.

You’re a delivery girl. He’s the package.

*

Prince Tom’s hand touched my shoulder. Caressing, then slipping down and cupping my—

“Wake up, Kelly. Time to go.” He shook my shoulder, the hand gripping unromantically hard. I came to from a deep sleep, wiping the drool off my chin before I raised my head. I sat up and looked around, remembering.

“You crashed hard.”

How true, Your Highness. “Where’s the professor?”

“Putting things away and calling his wife. He’s invited us home for supper.”

Oh, man. No way. Risking a run-in with the thugs waiting for me at Kit’s would be better.

“I’d like to,” Tom said. “He’s so excited about it. He says he can’t wait to introduce his wife to one of Bully’s boys. He’s been so kind, Kelly.”

“Sounds great,” I lied.

He looked puzzled. “You can’t mean that. You don’t have to come along, you know. I’ll go back to the hotel after I’ve done this. I’ll face the music and take the blame. I’ll make sure it’s all squared with your agency. You should go home; you’re tired.”

Fat chance, Buckhorn. Lose you now? Time for some truth. Half truth and full guilt. “Prince Tom, by now your people know who I am and they know where I live. I bet they’re waiting there now. I can’t go home until I know that you’ve showed up at the hotel and explained everything. You saw how they worked me over. Do you think I want to go home and face that?”

He paled.

Slow down, Kelly. Play it straight, but don’t get him scared. “Besides, Tom, do you think I’d miss my one chance to have dinner with royalty?”