The Prince and I: A Romantic Mystery (The Royal Biography Cozy Mystery Series Book 1)

THE PRINCE AND I

By Julie Sarff

Copyright 2015 Rose Moon Press and Julie Sarff

Version H

Books in THE PRINCE AND I series:

1. THE PRINCE AND I

2. THE PRINCE’S SECRET

3. THE KING OF SCOTLAND (coming in winter 2015)

License Agreement

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All place and people in this book are fictitious. Real places are used in a fictitious manner and not meant to be exact replicas of the actual place.

Sometime in the not-so-distant future

Chapter
1

“A biography of the Prince, it doesn’t get any better than that,” Meg, my editor, says. We are drinking glasses of Krug 2000 and staring up at the soaring ceiling of the Hugo Mursk Gallery on the Upper East Side. My eyes travel down to the paintings on the walls: vivid swirls, dashes and bold lines glow brightly under track lighting.

“Mmm,” I reply, trying to keep from tottering over. I’m not much for heels or alcohol, and the combination is testing my coordination.

“You must be so proud of Sean,” she murmurs, “he’s at the top of his game.”

Proud of him? Why would I be proud of him? Once upon a time I had thought of him as “the one.” That was before he broke it off in dramatic fashion.

I drain my glass. Feeling wobbly, I right myself. “Proud of him, yes, he deserves it, he’s a salt-encrusted slug…”

“I’m sorry, what?” Meg’s eyebrows arch in confusion above her nerdy, retro glasses.

“I mean he’s the salt of the earth, that guy.” A salt-encrusted slug? Where did that come from? It came from my insomnia problems, and the seventh generation Ambien which appears to kill my short-term memory, and also this champagne, which is so rich and creamy.

My eyes flit around the room; it’s a veritable who’s who of New York. Or at least Meg thinks so. I’ll have to take her word for it. Since all of these people are alive and ticking, I have no idea who they are. They stand with their bodies making strange angles, staring at the pictures on the walls and assessing them with small nods of their heads.

“It’s a plum job, that’s for sure. Of course I remember the days when Sean and I were crawling around Sardis trying to track down the last remaining bits of the Treasure of Croesus, doing solid research,” I pontificate and sway dangerously on the high heels that are strapped to my feet. The shoes were a bad idea. Who was I trying to impress anyway? Tatum? I glance around the room again; she’s nowhere to be found. Wait… there she is, on the floating stairway that leads to the second floor. She’s tan and gorgeous as always. She is a combination of va va voom and wide-eyed, freckled little girl. A combination that proves lethal to every man. I’ve yet to meet one who could resist her.

“You’re not…still…infatuated with Sean are you? You guys broke up, what was it, ages ago?”

“Three months ago, three months…” I mumble. Meg has no real interest in my personal life. All she wants to know is how fast I can crank out the odd biography of Sargon of Akkadia, or Ashurbanipal the Assyrian. I am a money-making machine for her. The fact that her two full-time writers stopped collaborating has simply been a financial inconvenience for her and all the management at Schnellings Publishing House.

“It’s a glorious affair, Meg darling, and a party for the launch of what promises to be a very interesting read. How did you pull it off? How did you get Buckingham Palace to agree…when the Prince has always shunned the press?” queries a man with silver hair, gliding into the middle of our conversation. He is wrapped in a tuxedo and looks as if he just stepped off his 50-foot yacht.

“Pierre, it was nothing. The biography will be strictly the facts; that’s all. We have a reputation for writing the truth at Schnellings, and may I add that Sean deserves this appointment. His biography of Prime Minister Morton was a bestseller, not to mention that the Prime Minister, herself, loved it.”

“Yes, well, that’s because you didn’t get into all the dirt on her, did you?” Pierre asks, with a sardonic smile.

Meg’s face turns sour. I don’t think she likes this line of questioning. Quickly she changes the subject. “And may I introduce you to our other talented biographer, Trudy Rue.”

Pierre appears taken aback by such an unglamorous name spoken at such a chic party. I have to agree, my name was an unfortunate choice on behalf of my parents. A name devoid of all good taste, like the entire decade of the 1970’s.

“Ms. Rue,” Pierre murmurs, looking vaguely as if he might be a hand kisser. Indeed, he is a hand kisser. He snatches my free hand and pulls it to his lips. I stare at him appalled and wipe his slobber on my black dress. Where is this man from? Bulgaria? Romania? Montenegro? I can’t tell by his accent.

“And what is it you write?” He eyes me like a vampire.

“I’ve just finished a biography of King Alulim, he reigned for 30, 000 years.”

“My,
that
is a long time,” Pierre practically moans with pleasure, as if I have made some kind of strange double entendre. “I think perhaps you have had too much to drink, Ms. Rue.”

Meg eyes both of us. I can tell by the expression on her face that she finds all this flirting unsavory. I have no idea why she gives me the stink eye. Is she nuts? Does she think I am encouraging this behavior?

“No, it’s a Sumerian myth. He was the first king recorded in Sumerian history. You have to understand the concept of time was different for people back then. They were a preliterate society.”

A waiter comes by, wrapped up tight in his own tuxedo. Deftly, Pierre swipes a drink off the man’s tray. With one smooth gesture, he places it in my free hand, while simultaneously snatching my empty glass and placing it back on the tray with all of the other glasses.

“Have another glass of champagne. Do go on, I absolutely love ancient history,” Pierre oozes. “Which is why I bought into Schnellings as soon as it went public. I’ve got tons of your stock,” he emphasizes “your stock” trying to give it a secondary, sexy meaning.

Right then. It’s time for me to go.

“I’m sorry, I’m just going to congratulate Sean and then I’m home to bed.” Pierre looks really hopeful at the word “bed,” as if he thinks I might be extending some sort of an invite.

“I need to sleep I just flew in from Hongapore.”

“Singapore,” Meg corrects. ”She means Singapore. She just flew back from a book junket. The Singaporeans adore her biographies. Don’t they, Trudy?”

Hongapore? What is wrong with my tongue? It’s true I’ve been on a book junket to both Hong Kong and Singapore. I’m no good at sleeping on planes and the entire flight back, I couldn’t sleep a wink. Not even after taking an Ambien. I should have dove into bed the moment the taxi dropped me off at my apartment, but instead I changed clothes and dashed across Manhattan to make it to the gallery on time for the party.

Now, as I sway on my heels, I realize what I really want to do is return home and fall down face first onto my bed. Thinking that I could be asleep within the hour, I say my goodbyes to Meg and Pierre; the latter watches my every move as I make my way over to the bottom of the floating staircase. Luckily for me, Pierre’s eyes follow my gaze up the stairs to Tatum. That’s all it takes. Pierre’s face registers instant infatuation. Just like that, I am Pierre-free.

I must congratulate Sean before I leave
, I think as I climb the stairs with laborious movements.
Yes
, I think,
I wore these dangerous spiky heels especially for Tatum.
I wanted her to see what a sex kitten I can be. Even though she has taken my man, I want her to know that I am a desirable being. So what if I have an unglamorous name and an ever-increasing dress size? Moving from one step to the next, the six-inch spikes on the heels of my shoes actually work against me. It’s as if I am strapped to some kind of strange workout device. Using a combination of waddling and thrusting, I manage to make it to the second-floor landing. Tatum is here, surrounded by a bevy of people. She resembles a Ralph Lauren ad. A white linen sheath accents her curves in the most tasteful of ways. Whereas silver-haired Pierre looks as if he just stepped off a yacht, Tatum looks as if she has just crewed
Il Moro di Venezia II
into Hudson Bay by herself.

She doesn’t meet my eyes as I waddle and thrust my way up the next flight of stairs. I finally make it to the third floor landing. Meg informed me that Sean is up here, signing copies of his book:
Prime Minister Morton: One Woman’s
Mission to Change the United Kingdom
. I glance around the gallery and spy Leanne, Schnellings’ administrative assistant, sitting at a desk with a pile of books. She informs me that Sean has retreated into one of the back offices for “a little rest and relaxation.”

That sounds like Sean. He’s not a people person. At least, not a living people person. Like me, he loves history’s infamous dead. For most of his life, Sean has shunned the spotlight. Although in the last year, his ambitions have risen. While working on the Morton book in England, he became a man who dogged the Prime Minister. He wrote about her with flair, trying to write a biography that would actually sell outside the Singapore market. After hitting the New York Times Bestseller list, Sean changed. I watched as he became eager to pursue the rich and influential. It came as no surprise then that he jumped at the chance to be the biographer of the Prince. He’ll be off to England soon, this time to Buckingham.

I shuffle around a clear glass counter where the “well-moneyed” write out $80,000 checks to purchase paintings. With the gait of a wounded rhino, I make my way to the back offices. Here pens and pencils are artfully arranged in jewel-colored jars on bright white desks. All the other office clutter is neatly tucked away in the fuchsia-stained teakwood cabinets that run from floor to ceiling.

“Hmm fuchsia-stained teakwood; who would do such a thing?” I chortle.

Spying a light on in one of the back rooms, I stop in my tracks. This will be the first time I have spoken to Sean since he left.
That’s okay
, I tell myself,
it’s time to bury the hatchet
.
Time to shake his hand and
wish him well.
This biography of the Prince will bring him even more success. I need to tell Sean that all is fair in love and war. I need to wish him well. After all, Schnellings Publishing House has never thrown a party for a book that has yet to be written; Sean has become a big to-do.

“I wish you the greatest of successes,” is on tip of my lips but somehow it comes out all wrong. Some unexplainable thing comes out of my mouth. In my sleep deprived/Ambien/second-glass-of-champagne state, my tongue and my brain seem unwilling to work together. I end up shouting the words like “bastard…anteater…spiny” in rapid succession. I continue screaming nonsense at the top of my lungs as I enter the small office.

Then I freeze. Sean is face down on the desk with a pool of his own blood swirling about.