The Prince's Proposal. Sophie Weston
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Jazz bit back a smile. ‘Oh, I do hope so,’ she said with a languishing look.
Francesca narrowed her eyes to slits. ‘You can stop right there. You’re not going to wind me up, so don’t try it. You don’t give two hoots about princes. Not even a sexy article like this.’
Jazz stopped languishing and laughed. ‘If he gets the royalty-magazine readers buying real books, I give plenty of hoots,’ she said drily. ‘And they’re the ones we can never get in through the doors.’
Francesca groaned.
‘He can write,’ Jazz wheedled. ‘Oh, boy, can he write. And this is a tough time of year for us. We could really use an Evening with Prince Charming, Franny.’
Francesca sighed. But she did not wriggle any longer. ‘OK. I’ll ring the publisher.’
‘I told you. They won’t look at us. We’re too small. You’ll have to get to him direct. Go on a charm offensive.’
‘Charm? Me?’ Francesca snorted. ‘Dream on!’ She thought. ‘OK, if the publisher won’t come through I’ll get on to the Montassurran network and see how much he costs.’
Jazz boggled. ‘Costs?’
‘Rent-a-Royal,’ said Francesca cynically. ‘How do you think these ex-royals earn their crust? They hire out their only asset.’
Jazz peered over her shoulder at the strong face in the photograph. ‘Would you say his only asset?’ she murmured wickedly.
Francesca was lofty. ‘You have a very low lust threshold.’
‘Me? Nonsense. Everyone knows I’m picky, picky. You’re the one that’s odd. Getting yourself all fogged up by Barry de la Touche!’
Francesca flinched. ‘Go on, rub it in, why don’t you?’ she muttered.
‘I can’t believe that you were really thinking of marrying him.’
Francesca had had a bad night, thinking about just that point. Half the time she could not believe it herself. The other half she remembered him saying caressingly, ‘My little bird,’ and could believe it all too easily. And, if she was falling for an elusive hint of wood smoke, all the indications were that she could do it all over again. Get a grip, she told herself fiercely. Get a grip.
‘All that shows is that I have no discrimination and an excessively gullible response to tenderness,’ she said savagely.
Jazz shook her head. ‘Why didn’t you say something? I could have told you what a phoney he was.’
‘Could you?’ Francesca was not entirely glad to hear that. ‘On the principle that anyone who fancied me had to be a con man?’
‘On the principle that, for an alleged playwright, he never put pen to paper,’ retorted Jazz. ‘I never knew that he claimed to fancy you. You both kept it very quiet.’
Francesca looked away. ‘Barry’s idea,’ she muttered. ‘He said it was bad form to date people you work with. I—well, I’ve never really worked anywhere for long enough to find that one out. I believed him.’
Jazz swore under her breath.
‘Oh, well.’ Francesca was determinedly bright. ‘I suppose I should look on it as a learning experience.’
Jazz scrutinised her expression. ‘Did you really care for him?’
There was a pause.
‘I thought so,’ Francesca said at last in a low voice.
The normally cool Jazz kicked a waste-paper basket viciously. ‘Toad!’
Francesca was touched. ‘Hey, I’ll get over it.’ She rallied. ‘Enough learning experiences like this and I’ll end up normal.’
And thought, If only that were true!
As Jazz predicted, the publishers were unhelpful. More than unhelpful. The publicity assistant did everything but laugh down the telephone at her request.
‘His Highness really has no room in his diary for any more personal appearances,’ she announced.
She did not say that she wished His Highness had been persuadable to do any personal appearances at all.
So Francesca had to fall back on Plan B. She was not very happy about it. After her father had inserted himself so dramatically into her love life she had told him exactly what she thought of him and refused to see him, on principle. Actually, she had been very dignified until he had said, ‘But I was right. I am always right.’ At which point she had lost her rag and told him to get back to New York and not bother about next year’s Christmas present.
So to call him and ask his help to contact the Montassurran royals was a real climb-down. She only talked herself into doing it after reminding herself that he had never had any time for the monarchy. He had said so publicly more than once. So he would not be able to introduce The Buzz management to the royal family himself. He would have to pass her on to a friend of a friend of a friend. If he could help at all.
So she called him.
Peter Heller had not gone back to New York but he was clearly at lunch. Somewhere expensive, thought Francesca, hearing the echo of vaulted ceilings as glass and cutlery clinked. Still, that went without saying. Her father enjoyed his wealth with enthusiasm.
‘Hello, Dad,’ she said, struggling to forget their last encounter. ‘How are you?’
‘Francesca,’ he said, pleased. ‘So you have forgiven me for being right.’
Francesca gave up the struggle. ‘Thank you, I’m well,’ she said coldly, in reply to the question he should have asked. She became as direct as he was. ‘I need a favour.’
‘Ask. But ask quickly. I have a guest.’
She cut out all explanation. It reduced her request to a single sentence. There was silence.
‘You want to meet Prince Conrad?’ said her father slowly.
You want an explanation, you ask for it, thought Francesca vengefully. ‘Yes,’ she said aloud.
Another, longer pause. She heard a waiter murmur something; her father’s clipped assent; the sound of wine being poured into crystal. She maintained stubborn silence.
Then her father said abruptly, ‘I can arrange that. I will be in touch later.’
And cut the connection before Francesca could even say thank you. Probably just as well in the circumstances, she admitted wryly. She knew she ought to be grateful. But, as always, her father’s high-handed commands left her fuming. Still, she wanted his help and he had agreed to give it. Think positive, she told herself.
She would not have been so philosophical if she had seen her father after he snapped his digital phone shut and slid it into his jacket pocket.
He sat back in the generous carver chair and beamed across the table. He looked, thought his elderly luncheon guest, like a cat who had found its way into a cream plant. The guest was not used to it. It made him uneasy. He looked over his shoulder, as if expecting the heavy mob to materialise from the Ritz’s impeccable kitchens.
His troglodyte host gave him a wide, wide smile. He leaned forward.
‘Now, have I got a deal for you…’
‘No,’ said Conrad Domitio firmly. ‘Absolutely not.’
He had been taking a stand against his grandfather’s wackier schemes ever since he was twelve. Experience had taught him that you had to say no early and keep on saying it. Any hint of negotiation and you were lost.
‘But you haven’t even heard my idea,’ said his grandfather. His squashed toad’s face managed to look both hurt and hopeful at the same time.
His tall grandson looked