The Frog Prince (10 page)

Our physical examination of each other complete, I follow Roman out to the pool. A group of men, including Mikhail Romanov, watch our approach, leering at me as predicted. I move behind Roman, shielding myself from their view in the shadow of his body.

I no sooner have the beach wrap untied then Roman grabs me by the waist and drags me over the side of the pool with him. Once we’re under the water he releases me. I push my feet against the bottom and rocket to the surface.

Even underwater I'm laughing, so that I have a big smile on my face when I finally break the surface. “How long did you have that planned?” I say to Roman, as I kick to the side of the pool and wrap myself around one of the ladders.

“Pretty much all day,” he says, returning my grin.

A tsunami rolls over me as Mikhail Romanov’s posse jumps in simultaneously, all of them performing picture-perfect cannonballs. Roman dives underwater, emerging next to me a few seconds later. He shakes his head in a way that only men can do, flipping his wet hair out of his eyes.

“Come on,” he says to me before disappearing back under the water.

I dive in after him, heading towards the waterfall at the far end of the pool. He swims deep under the roaring foam before disappearing from sight beyond the effervescence. I follow him through the churning water, watching him nimbly kick to the surface on the other side. I do the same, tilting my head back as I come up so my hair isn't hanging in my face.

I expect to come up behind the waterfall and be stopped short by the far wall of the pool. Instead, I see that the waterfall hides a deep grotto that is faintly illuminated with twinkling white lights mounted in the rock. I look behind me—the pool, the tables, the people are gone, obscured now by a blue curtain of water.

“Isn't this great?” says Roman, treading water beside me.

I nod, smiling, as I turn around and around in the water, taking it all in. Roman swims further into the grotto. The bottom must angle up here, because I see him gain his footing and come chest high out of the water before pulling himself onto a bench carved from the rock. I jump up beside him and try to catch my breath.

“Some friends you have,” I say, angling my body towards him.

Roman drags his fingers through his wet hair, shaking the excess water loose. “Most of them are really good people.”

“And if you're going to know really good people,” I say cheerfully, “it's even better when they have artificial waterfalls, a great wine list, and a guesthouse.”

I mean this as a joke, but Roman doesn't laugh or even smile, he just stares at me. I panic a little, wondering if I’ve offended him by insulting his friends. I erase my own smile, and then mentally flail about to formulate the right apology when I realize I've misread him. He’s not offended; in fact, he probably didn't hear a word I said. That's because he is busy plotting strategy.

Roman lifts his hand to my face and is leaning towards me, watching me carefully. My heart stutters and misses a few beats as I realize what’s about to happen. My last thought is
oh my god, does my breath smell like shrimp?
before my hypothalamus thankfully takes over. Without it and the rest of my reptilian brain, I would probably never mate.

I meet him halfway, my eyes half-lidded, my breathing uneven. When his lips finally reach mine, I inhale a sharp stream of air through my nose that threatens to immediately morph into a lustful moan.

Roman suddenly pulls away. I hear the boom of male voices, and realize that Mikhail and his friends are coming through the waterfall. I slide off the stone bench back into the water just as Mikhail breaks through.

“What are you two doing hiding back here?” he says with a mischievous grin.

“Trying to get away from you,” says Roman. He leaps at Mikhail, grabbing him by the shoulders and dragging him under the water. The two pretend to brawl, and pretty soon more guys arrive to join in.

It's not that I'm scared that they’re planning to drag me into the melee, but even an accidental shove or grab could upend the twins right out of my bikini top. I move backwards into the spray of the waterfall and just stand there, enjoying the feel of the water hammering against my skin. Two hands push me from behind, back into the main pool.

“Mikhail is a twelve-year-old,” says Roman once we're both clear of the waterfall.

“He’s fun,” I say. “We should all play something. Is there a net for the pool? Or we could drink a little more and play Marco Polo.”

“A woman after my own heart,” says Mikhail, joining us with a big splash. “I'll get the drinks.”

Gradually, with generous amounts of alcohol, we are able to coax a dozen or so more people into the pool—men and women—including Princess Isabella of Denmark and Princess Menen of Ethiopia. We split into teams and play a few games of water volleyball, Marco Polo, and Chicken, each game getting more boisterous and out-of-control.

Princess Menen seems to understand that there is tension between Isabella and Roman, and makes a special effort to strike up conversation with me between games so I won’t feel uncomfortable. Her crisp British English with its soft African accent is mesmerizing.

“Are you coming to the dinner?” I ask her during one break.

“Of course,” she replies. “I will see you there, yes?”

“I think so,” I say. “I'm sort of here as Roman’s guest, so I have to go where he goes.”

Menen smiles and looks across the pool where Roman is sitting on the edge with a few other guys. In the middle of their conversation he turns away, looking for me. He's been doing this–randomly checking on me–all afternoon. “I think it is clear that Roman will go where you go,” she says, watching him watch me. “How long have you two been together?”

The question throws me. Are we “together?” I'm not sure. Is “together” the same thing as dating? Are we even dating after only three days?

“Um, I’ve only known Roman for a few days,” I admit.

“Really?” Menen seems surprised by my answer. “That is hard to believe.”

“Why?”

“Roman has always been very careful about friendships in general and relationships in particular,” she says.

This is a pretty vague answer, but I don't want to seem like I'm rudely fishing for information, so I don't ask a follow-up. Still, I secretly hope that she will go on.

“Being ‘almost royal’ is difficult,” she says, to my great relief. “You are without a throne, without a crown, without a kingdom, but you are not a commoner. No, you are certainly not a commoner,” she says sadly, “no matter how many generations separate you from the last true king in your ancestry.”

She takes her feet out of the water, tucking her legs neatly to the side and leaning towards me on one arm. “Your family still has a great deal of input in your life, including where you go to school, who your friends are, who you will marry. Roman has often chafed against the restraints placed on him. There was great pressure from his family to be with Isabella.”

“Oh,” I say, automatically looking for the willowy blonde in her skimpy silver metallic bikini. She is in the water, working her way towards Roman’s group, not-so-subtly cupping her hands and splashing the group to get their attention. Isabella has shot frosty looks at me all afternoon. I've avoided making eye contact with her as much as possible.

Menen shrugs as she sees where I am looking. “He was not happy with Isabella,” she says. “He looks very happy with you.”

“I'm a commoner,” I blurt out.

She giggles, covering her mouth with one of her perfectly manicured hands. “You are very funny. Roman also makes me laugh. You are good together.”

Again with the “together” talk. Hopefully it won't get back to Roman. By the end of the night, I suspect there will be rumors circulating of our impending nuptials. Well, there might be if I wasn't so comparatively low class.

My mind wanders, and I contemplate what my medieval rank would be. If Roman is a prince, would that make me a vassal? A serf? I try to remember the difference—isn’t one a landholder and the other a slave?

A shower of water droplets on my now-dry skin startles me out of my Manioralism musings.

“The dinner starts in about an hour and a half,” says Roman, standing above us and dripping with water. “I figured you'd want time to shower and dress.”

I immediately jump to my feet, amazed that the time has gone by so quickly. I'm going to need at least forty-five minutes to dry my hair—the one drawback to having such a long, thick head of fur. “We can go back now if you want,” I say.

“I'll go talk to someone about a shuttle,” he says.

“It was nice talking to you,” I say to Menen. “I'm sure I'll see you in a little while.”

“I will be very disappointed if that is not the case,” says Menen in her beautiful, ultra-classy accent.

I tie the wrap around my waist and rush back to the cabana to get my clothes. When I come out I see that Roman is right about one thing: Prince Faisal runs a tight ship. A golf cart shuttle is already standing by in the middle of the courtyard. It whisks us away like a getaway car at a bank heist. We rocket down the empty paths and are back to the cottage in ten minutes.

“What are you wearing?” I ask Roman as I rush up the stairs, holding the folds of my wrap up with my hands so I don't trip on it. I've packed two dresses, one more formal than the other, depending on what the royal definition of “formal” is this evening.

“It’s formal, black tie for the men,” says Roman.

Thanks again to my subscription to
People
magazine, I know this means that the dinner will actually be
semi
-formal, which means I can wear either of the two dresses I've brought. If it had actually been formal, Roman would be wearing a white-tie tuxedo, and I would be expected to wear a full-skirted, full-length monstrosity like a debutante at a cotillion. In other words, I would be staying home.

In the shower washing my hair I think about what to wear. I have a full-length deep violet sheath dress with a modest V-cut neckline, but with a back that plunges almost to my butt-crack. It has drawbacks, including the fact that I can’t wear a regular bra with it but instead have to hog tie my breasts with stick-on “bra” strips and double-sided tape. The hem sort of puddles on the floor around my feet in a way that is fantastic if I just plan to stand around and be admired, and don’t really plan to do much walking. The chances for a wardrobe malfunction are about sixty percent.

Also, my tattoo would be bared for any elves who may be attending.

The other is an olive baby doll dress, which sounds about as exciting as a martini garnish. But the skirt is sheer, very short, and is dyed in a fade pattern—pale from the ruched empire waistband, but gradually darkening at the dusky olive, mid-thigh hem. The bust is covered with gold and olive sequins of every shade that mimic my green and yellow-flecked cat eyes, and really makes them pop. Plus, the sweetheart neckline isn’t so low that I can’t wear a strapless bra.

I’m still deep in thought as I towel off and cover my body with my favorite raspberry vanilla lotion. A plush white robe hangs from the back of the bathroom door, and I throw it on and begin the tedious task of power-drying the Shirley Temple curls out of my long, thick hair.

I’m no closer to a decision an hour later. I’ve changed from one dress to the other, wishing like crazy that I’d asked a few of the women what they were wearing. If most of them wear conservative, full-length gowns, then my olive dress will seem about as restrained as a fart in church. On the other hand, if flashy, short cocktail dresses are the norm for semi-formal royal dinners, my violet gown is going to be a little over-the-top, like wearing the Crown Jewels to go get your oil changed.

I am starting to perspire from all the exertion of the constant changing, my hair threatening to curl back into its default position from all the humidity in the air and the sweat on my scalp. I am getting close to tears, harkening that dangerous period of frustration during which a woman will use kitchen shears to cut off unruly locks of hair, or decide that shaving off her eyebrows and penciling them back on is high-fashion
avant-garde
.

My breakdown is interrupted by Roman, who raps on the door and says, “The car will be here in twenty-five minutes.”

This helps me focus. I abandon the dresses on the bed and start doing my makeup. Twenty minutes later and I am in a sheer panic. I decide in the end to go with the violet gown because taping my boobs takes less time than putting my hair into an elaborate up-do. I spritz my hair and push it behind my ears, letting it flow down to the middle of my back. This ironically draws more attention to the plummeting backline.

I throw on a pair of dangling zirconium earrings and a matching necklace, grab a pair of high-heel black strappy sandals and step gingerly down the stairs in my bare feet. With this dress it’s best to get where you’re going and
then
put on shoes.

Roman is nowhere in sight. I walk across the living room into the kitchen, and spy him through the window pacing on the back deck. He is speaking animatedly into his cell phone, karate chopping the air in front of him with his hand, an angry look on his face. I back away from the window, too timid to interrupt. Finally, he stabs the phone to disconnect and comes back into the house through the French doors by the dining room.

“Heeeeeeey!” he says, his face splitting into a big grin when he sees me.

“Am I overdressed?” I say nervously.

“Hell no, you’re not overdressed! Turn around, let me see the rest.” He crosses his arms across his chest in anticipation.

Feeling like an idiot, I perform a slow, clumsy pirouette. I return to my starting spot to see him nodding his head appreciatively.

“You’re stunning,” he says. “Mikhail is going to pull out all the stops when he sees you. Get ready for him to unleash the charm.”

I am more worried about Isabella unsheathing her claws, but I keep this to myself. The subtle, social machinations of women are a mystery to men.

Out front I am relieved to see a Lincoln Town Car waiting instead of a golf cart which, on top of being a little chilly, would have made our arrival a lot less spectacular. Roman hands me in before sliding into the back next to me.