The Prince Next Door. Sue Civil-Brown
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way up from the horizon. “I don’t mean to butt in, Serena. If I’m annoying you, tell me to go away. But if you’d like a match…”
His voice held a hopeful note she couldn’t resist. “Sure. But I’m out of practice.”
“So am I. But I suspect you’ll get your game back faster than I will.”
Not only was he a gorgeous man, but he also had a gorgeous accent. British, with a hint of something exotic.
He helped her gather the balls, then came to stand behind her while she practiced. She could feel him back there, watching. It made her nervous. Too nervous.
The other couple finished their game just then, and gave her a few moments of reprieve as they left the court. Then there was just her and Darius.
She felt wobbly. “Look,” she said tartly, “you’re making me nervous, standing back there and watching.”
“But I’m not being at all critical,” he answered. “Tell you what. I’ll stand beside you and we’ll both practice our serves.”
“Fine.”
It gave her great pleasure when his hit the net and hers went exactly where it was supposed to.
“See?” he said. “I’m out of practice, too.”
His next ball hit the net, but so did hers. Now she was getting annoyed. She could serve better than this. Far better than this. And for some reason she felt a strong need to show him up.
She picked up another ball, drew her racquet back and slammed the ball across the court. “Bingo! Slam-dunk!”
He laughed. “Beautiful serve.”
It was his turn, and this time he, too, aced it. She suddenly had a bad feeling, and turned to him. “You weren’t hitting the net on purpose were you? Just to spare my feelings?”
He held his free hand up, as if to push away any such thought. “Of course not. I’m rusty.”
She still felt suspicious, even though he looked as innocent as a newborn baby. Turning, she picked up two more balls and served them, one after another, perfectly. Her arm was going to hurt tomorrow, but she didn’t care.
“What are you going to do about your mother?” she asked him.
“I don’t really need to do anything,” he replied. He served, and watched the ball fall short again. “She’s on the Riviera enjoying herself.”
“But how can you be sure of that?”
“I talked to her. She didn’t want me to behead her kidnappers. Besides, I recognized the country code and exchange. I called the phone company and they were able to tell me that much.”
“Behead her kidnappers?” Stunned, Serena forgot all about tennis. “Would you really do such a thing?”
He shook his head, and this time when he hit the ball she could sense anger in his swing. He aced it.
“I’d never behead anyone. But I was testing her. She would ordinarily love the idea, if not the execution of it. Instead she told me it was déclassé.”
“Oh, my word!”
“Exactly. The woman is so hung up on becoming the dowager princess of Masolimia that she’ll go to any lengths. Well, I absolutely refuse to become her pawn.”
“I can’t say I blame you. I imagine being a prince would be an awful job.”
“Exactly.” He slammed another ball across the net. “I like to travel. I like my business, most of the time. I like being in the art world. Why in the world would I want to give up my entire life so my mother can preen for the rest of hers?”
Serena found herself nodding. But then she had a thought, “Still, there’s that genetic thing.”
“I know.” He bounced a ball off the clay, caught it and looked at her. “I’m not heartless. Those people really do need this contract. I visited Masolimia enough as a child to know how impoverished it is. But the real prince will serve just as well.”
“How are you going to find him?”
He hesitated, then said, “I have an idea. The problem is carrying it out.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s…a little illegal.”
Serena looked at him, her jaw dropping. Then, before common sense could resurrect its ugly head, she said, “If it doesn’t call for hurting anyone, count me in.”
SHE REALLY DID NEED someone to stitch her tongue to the roof of her mouth, Serena thought as she showered. How had she ever allowed herself to say such a thing? And now she had to meet Darius at his apartment in twenty minutes.
To plan something that was “a little illegal.” As if there were degrees of illegality.
Although, in a way she supposed there were: misdemeanors and felonies. Somehow she had a feeling this was going to be no mere misdemeanor.
Good Lord, she needed to grow up!
Well, she’d just go over there and tell him she’d changed her mind. She didn’t want to even conspire to commit a crime. She didn’t want to have knowledge of a crime. She didn’t want any reason to find herself in a courtroom, either as defendant or witness.
But even as she castigated herself, she was intrigued. There were butterflies in her stomach. Her adrenaline was pumping.
And she wasn’t bored. Not one whit.
AT THE APPOINTED TIME she presented herself at Darius Maxwell’s door. It opened immediately in answer to her knock, and he invited her in.
His living room was full of paintings, large and small, cramming the walls and sitting on easels. The room itself was done all in white, including the furniture, as if not to detract in any way from the beauty on the walls.
Before she had done more than say hello, Serena was drawn to the walls, to the paintings. A small Rembrandt in an ornate frame. Heavens, it was real! Some artists whose names she didn’t recognize. A goodness-gracious-for-real Titian.
Her jaw practically agape, she turned to Darius. “Aren’t you afraid these might be stolen?”
“If they ever are, I’ll know how to get them back. That’s the advantage of my trade.”
She nodded, believing him. “Did you collect them all yourself?”
“The more recent works. The older ones are family heirlooms. A trust for future generations.”
Never once in her life had she thought that way. Of course, she didn’t come from an old European family, either. “I’m surprised you brought them here with you.”
He shrugged. “I’m going to be here awhile, and they give me great pleasure. It would be a shame to keep them in storage. They’re meant to be enjoyed.”
“Well, I’m certainly enjoying them.”
She walked slowly around the room, feasting her eyes, trying to remember each and every painting. Before she finished, however, she was honestly feeling overwhelmed. It was all too much to take in. “This is like trying to do an entire gallery in a single day.”
“I know. Feel free to drop over when I’m home. I’ll be glad to take down whichever painting you like so you can just sit and admire it. I often do that. This space is too cramped. Each painting really needs a separate setting.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” She accepted his invitation to sit, feeling as if she sat in a room covered with jewels. “Listen, about this thing you’re planning…”
“I know.” He smiled and poured coffee from a carafe into a bone china cup. “It was kind of you to offer your help, but you don’t want to get involved in anything shady.”