The Royal Treatment (16 page)

“Thanks.”
Now what the heck was this?
She opened the box and nearly gasped. It was a choker, set in platinum, with ice-blue diamonds as big as the first joint of her thumb set every two inches. “Oh my God! Sorry, Cray.”

Alex was looking over her shoulder. “Huh. That turned out great.”

“Turned out?”

“David designed all the jewelry.”

“He
did?
”

“Well, sure. Did you think he just called a catalog and had them surprise him?”

“And my ring?”

“Yes. See, how it works is, when I said
all
the jewelry, I meant
all
the jewelry.”

Christina put a hand over her eyes, then jerked it away, mindful of her makeup. “You mean all the rings I…I…”

“Cruelly rejected?”

“Oh, shit. Sorry, Cray.”

Alex shrugged. “Eh, it was good for him. He needed a challenge.”

Kathryn snickered.

Jenny had jumped up and taken the box. “Turn around, my lady, I’ll put it on for you.” She did so, and Chris felt the weight of the stones, cool at first, then warmed by her body.

Tonight,
Chris thought,
I’ll take everything off except this.
The thought caused desire to bloom inside her like a black orchid.

“You okay, Chris? You look a little flushed.”

“I’m fine.” And with any luck, she soon would be.

“J
enny, did you know you look an awful lot like Shania Twain?”

“Wh-what?”

“Shania Twain. You’re, like, the spitting image of her.”

Jenny blushed again. She’d been doing it with distressing regularity this morning. “The American singer? Oh, I—no. No, I don’t. She’s much prettier.”

“Jenny—do you own a mirror?”

“Yes, of course.” Jenny looked nervously at her watch. “Still ten minutes, my lady. I—uh—I had something I wanted to tell you, but I can’t find my notes.”

“You don’t need notes to talk to me, you dark-eyed dork.”

“Ah—yes. My lady—Christina—I just wanted—um—that is to say—well—”

“Spit it out—you’re giving me the fidgets.”

“Sorry. It’s just—I wanted to thank you again for allowing me to be in your wedding party. My mother—my mother is very pleased. And very honored to be invited, as well,” Jenny added.

“Jenn, seriously. We’ve been over this. It was no big deal.”

“It
is
a big deal,” she corrected sharply. Chris raised her eyebrows…she didn’t know Jenny
could
be sharp. “My father died two years ago, and since then my mother hasn’t been very interested in—well, anyway, the wedding is all she’s been talking about for months. It’s nice to see her excited about something again.”

“Well, she got a good seat, right?”

“Oh, yes! Yes, she’s in the third row, on the left. She’s wearing a purple hat. She bought it especially for the occasion.”

“Swell.”

I
t was so nice to be out, not just on a lovely day like today, but also to be in attendance at a truly historic occasion. Mrs. Smythe, Jenny’s mother, had only one wish: that her dear husband could have been there as well.

Jenny’s wedding followed within a year, and soon Mrs. Smythe was enjoying the wonderful distraction of grandchildren. And until the end of her days, she told The Story over and over again. Jenny looked on but never demurred, and Jenny’s children—particularly her twin girls—begged many times to hear The Story.

The Story went like this: “Well, I was sitting in the pew, waiting to get a glimpse of the queen—only she wasn’t the queen then, don’t you know? And when she came down the aisle, she looked almost as pretty as your mother did.”

(Jenny would always break into The Story at this point: “Oh, Mother! You know that’s not true. On my best day I could never have been as pretty as the queen.” And Mrs. Smythe would always say, “Hush up, girl. Nobody’s talking to you.”)

“She was wearing a beautiful ice-blue gown, and a matching ice-blue cape, and a gorgeous blue choker, and a little crown of diamonds. And she was smiling. A little pale, but a lovely smile. And she found me! She looked in my little aisle, and looked at my hat, and looked at me, and she winked. The queen winked at me on her own wedding day! Why do you think she did that?”

And one of the grandchildren would say, “Because Mama told her you had come to see her get married, and bought a purple hat specially.”

“That’s right,” Mrs. Smythe would say. “That’s just right.”

K
athryn and Alex had vanished for a final pee break before the big moment. Jenny had been called away to settle the matter of whether Prince Charles should be seated with the Spanish princess or Queen Noor.

So, for the moment—in fact, for the first time since Kurt and Edmund had gotten her up—she was alone.

Alone with her thoughts. Alone to sweat it out. Alone to realize she was in way, way over her head. Alone to…

“You believe this?” The king burst in. “Elizabeth didn’t come, but she sent her kid. Well, we can talk about hunting at the reception. Too bad he didn’t bring the little ones.”

“The little ones,” she said faintly, “are grown men and over six feet tall.”

“Aw, they’re punks.
Nice
punks, but still. Hey! Ready to face the enemy?” The king strolled toward her, chortling. “Damn! Kid, you look good enough to—what’s wrong?”

“Oh, Al!”

“Jeez, what’s the matter? Are you sick?” He hurried across the room and patted her ineffectually. She had time, even in the midst of her sudden, surprising onset of misery, to be amazed: the king was wearing a suit. He actually looked…well…kingly. “Did you eat something? You gotta eat something.”

“It’s not that. Oh, Al,” she said, resting her face against his broad chest for a moment, then jerking back before she ruined his shirt with makeup. “I don’t think I can do it. I really don’t. All those people!”

“Bullshit. Christina Krabbe, you never ran away from anything in your life. You’re not gonna start now.”

“The ‘e’ is silent,” she reminded him, “but thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I’m serious, kiddo. I know it’s scary, but it’s just an hour or so in front of the cameras, and then it’s strictly fun stuff. You know—until I die,” he joked.

“Okay. Sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Hey, you wouldn’t be human if you didn’t get the fidgets once in a while. ’Specially today of all days. Shit, I was a wreck on my big day.”

“You look great, by the way. Like a grown-up and everything.”

“Fucking shirt collar is choking me. But thanks. You okay, then? You need anything?”

She managed a smile. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Okay. See you out there. And Chris—really—David’s a lucky boy. You look like a million bucks. In fact, you look like a queen.”

She blanched. “Don’t say that.”

“Right. Sorry. But you do. Okay, sorry. ’Bye.”

Mercifully, he left.

Jenny hurried back in, carrying her bouquet of light blue irises, and lugging Christina’s bouquet of white and red roses, and dark purple irises. “I just got the word, Your Highness. We’re on in three minutes.”

“Don’t start with that ‘Your Highness’ stuff,” she warned, accepting the bouquet, which weighed approximately six tons.

“I’m well aware of your dislike of titles,” Jenny said, smiling shyly. “I just wanted to be the first one to call you that.”

“Jenn—get a life. I’m serious.”

She laughed, which made Chris laugh. Unlike the demure young lady she presented to the world, Jenny had a whooping, infectious laugh. And for a moment, it was almost like an ordinary day.

“R
eady, my lady?” Edmund whispered.

She was frozen, a deer in the headlights. She’d never seen so many people in one room—one enormous, cavernous room—in her life. And she hadn’t even entered the room. She was still in the foyer, peeking in.

She knew she was supposed to start walking down the aisle. Everyone was waiting. More important,
David
was waiting.

She couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t do it. She’d run away. Leave now, today. Hike up into the wilderness…in Alaska, there was plenty of it. She knew how to hunt, she knew how to fish. She wouldn’t be a princess; she would be a hermit. A smelly blond hermit who had narrowly escaped becoming royalty.

“My lady?” Edmund was looking at her with no small amount of concern.

“Ready,” she whispered, with a smile that felt ghastly on her face. Stupid, pointless fantasy. Of course she would go through with it. She had promised, hadn’t she? Not in so many words, but the ring she had accepted and wore on her finger was a promise—a promise set in platinum, with blue diamonds.

So—she would get married. And as for the rest of it, for her future job as queen or co-boss of Alaska, like Scarlett, she’d worry about that tomorrow.

The strains of Clarke’s
Trumpet Voluntary
filled the air with their rich sweetness, and she started down the aisle. Suddenly there were too many things to look at; her brain struggled to process them all. And her smile felt frozen on her face.

First: the faces. Hundreds of them, all turned toward her. She thanked God she was wearing neither (a) pumps, nor (b) a train.

Then: cameras. All kinds of them. She spotted NBC, CBS, BBC, MSNBC, PBS, and ANB (Alaskan National Broadcasting), and that was just in one glance.

There were funny little flags hanging on the end of each pew…navy blue, with a big white letter. Some of them had a C, and some had a D.

Oh, right…David and Christina. Huh.

And flowers, flowers everywhere. Masses of roses, piles of irises. The church smelled like a garden. Or a funeral.

She walked, she walked, she would never get to the end of this aisle. She walked alone—that had been tricky. Al had offered to give her away and she’d used all of her tact (what there was of it) to turn him down nicely; she would not walk to her husband clinging like a vine to someone else. No matter how tempting it was. So—she walked alone.

Faces, faces, still more faces—how many people had they crammed in here? She’d thought the church on the palace grounds was enormous; it seemed far too cramped and crowded now. Faces…faces…hat. Hat. Purple hat.
Purple hat!
Jenny’s mom was wearing a purple hat; Chris looked at her, observed that the older woman had Jenny’s great dark eyes, and tipped her a wink. The purple hat bobbed in startled response.

She saw Kathryn, she saw Alex, she saw Jenny. She saw Prince Alexander, skinny as a blade in his tux—the boy really should lift weights or something, fill out—she saw the king, she saw Nicky, she saw…yes! There he was, at last: David, her groom.
Hers.
Very soon. Finally.

He looked unbelievable. He looked beautiful and kingly and wise and gorgeous and broad-shouldered and clean-shaven and kind and charming, all at once. He towered over nearly everyone, everyone but the king. His hands were clasped behind his back; he looked downright mouthwatering in his tuxedo. Who’da thunk it?

He was smiling at her.

She reached his side. He bent forward and said, for her ear alone, “You look
incredible.”

She whispered back, “What time does your tux have to be back?”

People
magazine’s photographer caught them giggling at the altar; it was the lead in every entertainment magazine in the world.

S
he was wholly unprepared for the roar that greeted her and David as they entered the Sitka Palace’s main ballroom:
“Long live the prince and princess!”

“Well, thanks,” she said. Under her breath, to David: “I assume they’re talking about us?”

“Afraid so,” David said, squeezing her hand. “Ready to run the gauntlet?”

“It can’t be worse than getting married and crowned. No offense,” she added.

“Of course not—who could find that offensive?” He rolled his eyes at her and brought her to the receiving line.

Where she shook hands for what seemed to be eight and a half hours. “Hello…thanks for coming…thank you very much…yes, thanks…hi…hello…thanks for coming…thanks, Horrance designed it for me…no, I wanted something besides white…never you mind…”

Jenny was on her left; David was on her right. Jenny was doing both of her jobs—bridesmaid and protocol officer—at once. She would occasionally whisper the person’s name to Christina, who would obediently repeat it.

“Queen Rania, Jordan,” she muttered, and Christina found herself eye to eye with a woman pretty enough (and thin enough) to be a Victoria’s Secret model.

“Hi, Queen Rania…thanks…thanks for coming…thanks, I wanted to try something besides white…”

“Princess Elizabeth, Yugoslavia.”

“Hi, Princess Elizabeth…that’s so nice of you to say…yes…thanks for coming…hi…hello there…”

“Crown Prince Frederick, Denmark.”

“Hi…thanks…yes, I
am
glad it’s over…yeah…well, it’s only for one day, right?”

“Crown Princess Mathilde, Belgium.”

“Great dress…thank you…we appreciate you coming all this way…”

“King Juan Carlos, Spain.”

“Hullo, King Juan…thanks…yes, I picked them out myself…thank you…”

“Charles, the Prince of Wales—”

“
Him
I know, Jenn.” Still waiting patiently to wake up from this bizarre dream, Christina was amazed to find herself shaking hands with Prince Charles. In person he seemed nice enough—he had the big ears caricaturists so loved to exaggerate, but his eyes were warm and kind, and he told her David was a lucky man.

“Well, thank you, Prince Charles.” Jenny had told her it was entirely proper to refer to visiting royals by their titles and name. She knew Christina, as an American of no particular family, wasn’t interested in referring to anyone else as “Your Highness.” However, once she was married, like it or not, she would have rank equivalent to many of the royal guests. “I’m lucky, too. We appreciate you coming all this way.”

“My mother regrets she was unable to be here,” he offered smoothly.

“Well, I’m sure she’s busy. Y’know, keeping an eye on England and all.”

Prince Charles laughed. “That she is, Your Highness.”

“Christina, please.”

“Christina, then.” He pressed her hand. He really
was
charming, in an urbane, geeky kind of way. His breath was minty fresh. “Congratulations again.”

“Thank you, Prince Charles.”

“Suzanne Somers,” Jenny whispered.

“I know her, too,” Chris said, exasperated. “Hi! I’ve got a Thighmaster and I just love it.”

Ms. Somers made a gracious reply, looking like a million bucks in a bronze-colored dress that set off her hair and eyes superbly. Christina was amazed…she’d had no idea Suzanne’s eyes were so big and blue and pretty.

“It was so nice of you to invite me,” Ms. Somers was saying.

“Well, like I said. Love that Thighmaster. I hate my Buttmaster, though…that thing kills! I can barely walk the next day—I’m sincere!”

The famous blonde laughed. “Then you’re doing it right, Princess Christina!”

“Great,” she mock-grumbled. Then, “Hi, Dr. Pohl!”

“Your Highness,” her shrink said demurely, then giggled. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. You look breathtaking.” The doc kissed her on the cheek. “Nice work.”

“Thanks. And thanks for coming.”

“Frankly, I was amazed to receive an invitation.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have been,” Christina said seriously. “I really wanted you to come. I—I’ve enjoyed our talks.”

Dr. Pohl laughed at her.

“Well, okay, they gave me something to think about, anyway. Listen, I’ll catch you at the reception, okay?”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“Queen Beatrix, Netherlands,” Jenny muttered.

“Good afternoon, Queen Beatrix…thank you…yes, it’s been a long day, but a very good one…thanks…”

Christina let her attention wander for a moment, just in time to hear Prince Alex tell Suzanne Somers,

“I like to eat cake

My thighs must pay the price.

Hail the ButtMaster.”

She rolled her eyes, which startled the British prime minister. Princess Alex swore up and down this was just a phase of her brother’s…Chris fervently hoped it was true. Sure, the kid had lost a bet…a year ago! How long was he supposed to spout poetry? Poor bastard. Unless he secretly liked it. In which case, weird bastard.

“Crown Princess Victoria, Sweden.”

“Hello…thanks for coming, Princess Victoria…did you like Yale?”

“Indeed I did,” the princess replied with a kind smile. Another gorgeous brunette with brown eyes…and wearing pink!

“My friend Jenny says you’re going to be Sweden’s first female sovereign in, like, a million years.”

“Three hundred years, and yes.”

“Well, good luck with
that
whole thing.”

“And to you, Your Highness.”

“Princess Stephanie, Monaco.”

“Congratulations,” Princess Stephanie said, shaking her hand.

“And to you, too,” Christina replied. She’d read in
Newsweek
that Stephie got around…she’d just gotten married for the fourth?—fifth?—time.

“Thank you, Princess Christina.”

“Just Christina,” she said, “will be fine.”

“So I hear,” Stephanie replied, and her eyes twinkled merrily.

“Almost done,” Jenny said in her ear.

“Thank God…hi, Ms. Beckinsale. I loved
Underworld.
You kicked ass.”

“Thank you,” Kate Beckinsale replied gravely. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”

“Enjoyed it? I loved it! Great accent, by the way.”

Beckinsale blinked. “I’m British.”

“Oh. Well, then, no wonder.”

“We just wrapped the sequel.”

“Now that’s the best news I’ve heard all year!” she cried, and people up and down the receiving line laughed. With her, not at her. Sometimes it could be hard to tell, but not today.

It was nice.

C
hristina was eating an open-faced cucumber sandwich with her salmon. Mmm! What was it about cukes and salmon that they went so well together? Who knew? It was one of those mysteries, like Stonehenge. But she meant to enjoy it all the same. And she chortled with delight every time she saw the guest favors…miniature wedding cakes exactly like her big one, except only two inches high, in a rainbow of pastels. Each table was littered with pink, or mint green, or baby blue, or cream.

“Thought you’d like those,” David said beside her. His plate was clean, and he was watching her shovel it in, looking amused. “I’m sure there’s more in the kitchen, darling wife.”

“Ho-ho. I was too nervous to eat a
thing
today. Between Edmund nagging and Jenny hovering, I was, like, totally worried that hurling was imminent. On television, no less!”

“I’m glad you avoided it.”

“And the food is
great.
As in couldn’t-have-done-it-better-myself great. Although I certainly tried, but the chefs wouldn’t let me near the kitchen as of seventy-two hours ago.”

“They might have had instructions,” Prince David admitted.

“Great. How come?”

“I wanted you to enjoy your wedding reception. Tough to do if you’re obsessing over the number of egg yolks in the butter cream frosting.”

“Shows what you know about butter cream,” she grumbled, but she was pleased. “And is it me, or is Queen Rania a total babe?”

“It’s not just you.”

“Speaking of babes, or babies, rather—”

“Oh, were we?”

“—I threw away my birth control pills yesterday.”

He quickly put his wineglass down before he choked. “All right. I, um, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to respond to that. Congratulations?”

“Well. All those classes on Alaskan history that Edmund gave me. They were endless, but mildly interesting. I learned a lot about your ancestors. And we talked about the succession and the royal family and that you need an heir to, y’know, be the boss of Alaska when we’re worm food—”

“Yes, but you don’t have to get pregnant this second.”

“Well, good, because I’m not done with my cake.”

He grinned at her. “I meant, you flighty creature, that we can certainly wait awhile.”

“Oh. Really? I thought having babies was my job now.”

This time he
did
choke on his wine. “Who told you
that?”

“I figured it out on my own. Come on, don’t pretend we’re like a regular married couple.” She crossed her legs and leaned forward, her cape tenting on the floor around her. “Don’t you need babies, like, A.S.A.P.?”

“No, Christina. You’re young, I’m young. We can wait awhile. If you like.”

“Okay, well, I’ll think about it.” And she would. Most curious! She thought he’d be on board with the Insta-Baby program, but he clearly was in no rush.

Why was that heartening and disappointing at the same time?

“Speaking of jobs—”

“Oh, were we?” she asked sarcastically.

“—have you thought about writing a cookbook? You seem to have very strong opinions about, for instance, omelets—”

“It just makes me
crazy
when people dilute their eggs with milk!”

“—right, right, calm down and eat your cake. You could write a cookbook—”

“No. Not now I can’t.”

He blinked. “Why in the world not?”

“Because it would be a cinch to get it published, and there’d be a big print run—like, a zillion copies—but I’d never know if the book was a success because people liked my ideas and my recipes, or because I was—drumroll, please—Princess Christina! You see?”

“I…I do see.”

She could see he, in fact, did
not
see. Since he had always been a prince, he had been able to take his fame and popularity at face value. It was always there, like the moon and the sun. She would never be able to do that. She was well aware that for the rest of her life, people would want to be her friend because she was (insert snicker here) a princess. It was stupid, but there you go.

“Let’s talk about it later,” she suggested. “It’s our wedding reception—we should probably be having fun. Or something.”

“I
am
having fun,” he said mildly, and forked the last bite of cake off her plate.

“Creep. You—what’s that?”

She heard a mild tumult and looked up to see Kurt’s way being blocked by at least three security people.

“What the hell? Those guys know who Kurt is—what’s with the ‘can we see some I.D.’ treatment?”

“Oh,” the prince said casually, “I might have accidentally put Detective Carlson’s name on a list somewhere.”

“
Real
mature, Penguin Boy. Hey! Guys!” She waved. “Let him come over, it’s all right.”

“Hey, man,” Kurt said to the head of security, exaggeratedly straightening his tux, “I knew the bride when she used to rock ’n’ roll.”

“Possibly more than one list,” the prince added, downing the last of his wine in three gulps.

“Childish much?” she muttered, then gave Kurt a big smile. “Hey! Glad you could make it.”

“I wasn’t gonna miss the royal wedding of the century,” he teased.

“Oh, don’t start with that. We’re barely even into the century. My God, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a suit. You look great!”

“Edmund made me.” Kurt ran a finger around his collar and grimaced. “I feel like a total fraud in this thing.”

“Did you get enough to eat?”

“Relax, Chris. Food’s first-rate. Listen, the reason I came over—me and Prince Alex and a couple of the guys are gonna go hit a few bars. I just wanted to say good night.”

“Well, thanks for coming.”

“You look great,” he said, looking up and down in that old half-critical, half-admiring way. “Like a princess, for sure.”

“Then my disguise is working.”

He laughed and bent to kiss her cheek, then eyed the prince and shook her hand instead. “Well, best of luck and all that.”