Affairs of State. Jennifer Lewis
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not?” He’d drawn so close to her that she could almost feel his body heat. “Would you join me for tea tomorrow?”
Her brain screeched to a halt. Something about his body language told her he wanted more than tea. He had a reputation for boyish charm, and although she couldn’t remember reading about any romantic scandals in the papers, the last thing she needed was to give the tabloids more fuel for their gossip furnaces. “I’m afraid I have an appointment tomorrow.” She stepped backward slightly.
Instead of looking angry or annoyed, he tilted his head and smiled. “Of course. You’re busy. How about breakfast? That’s got to be the quietest meal for a party planner.”
She swallowed. Every cell in her body was telling her to run screaming from the room. He was dangerously good-looking and must have years of experience seducing women in far less vulnerable emotional states than herself. But he was a prince, so in her line of work she couldn’t afford to offend him. At least not here, in public. Planning a fund-raiser for his charity would be great for DC Affairs, so Scarlet would kill her if she turned him down. And really, what could happen during breakfast? “That sounds fine.”
“My driver will pick you up at your house. It will be discreet, trust me.”
“Oh.” Somehow that sounded more worrying than ever. If the meeting was to be all business, why would they need discretion? But she managed a shaky smile. “My address is—”
“Don’t worry. He’ll find you.” He gave a slight nod, like an ancient courtier, and backed away a step or two before disappearing into the crowd of well-dressed partygoers.
She wanted to sag against a wall with relief. Unfortunately she wasn’t near a wall, and her phone was buzzing.
“Well, well, well.” Francesca’s voice startled her.
“I’d forgotten you were there.”
“I could tell. You forgot to introduce me to your royal friend. Very hot. And I thought his older brother was supposed to be the good-looking one.”
“His older brother is the heir to the throne.”
“Just think, if the USA was a monarchy like England, you’d be next in line to the throne.” Francesca looked at her thoughtfully. “Your dad is the president, and you’re his only child.”
“Who he didn’t even know existed until a few weeks ago.” She tried to stay focused on her job. “And I still haven’t actually met him in person.” That part was beginning to hurt more and more.
“Liam’s in negotiations with the White House press office about the date for the reunion special. Ted Morrow’s on board with doing it. I’m sure he wants to meet you, too.” Francesca squeezed her arm gently.
“Or not. I was an accident, after all.” She glanced around the room, packed with wealthy movers and shakers. “It’s hardly a reunion when we’ve never met before. We really shouldn’t be talking about this here. Someone could be listening. And I’m supposed to be working. Don’t you have bigwigs to schmooze with?”
“That’s my husband’s department. I wish I could be a fly on the croissants tomorrow morning.”
“I wish I could have found an excuse not to go.” Her heart rate quickened at the thought of meeting Prince Simon for breakfast. They couldn’t talk business for the entire meal. What kind of small talk did you make with a prince?
“Are you crazy? He’s utterly delish.”
“It would be easier if he wasn’t. The last thing I need is to embark on a scandalous affair with a prince.” Ariella exhaled as butterflies swirled in her stomach. “Not that he’d be at all interested, of course, but just when I think things can’t get any crazier, they do.”
“Um, I think someone’s throwing up into the gilded lilies.” She gestured discretely at a young woman in a strapless gown bending over a waist-high urn of brass blooms.
Ariella lifted her phone. “See what I mean?”
The long black Mercedes sedan parked outside her Georgetown apartment may not have had “By Appointment to His Majesty” stenciled on the outside, but it wasn’t much more subtle. The uniformed chauffeur who rang the bell looked like a throwback to another era. Ariella dashed for the backseat hoping there were no photographers lurking about.
She didn’t ask where they were going, and the driver didn’t say a word, so she watched in surprise, then confusion, then more than a little alarm as the car took her right out of the city and into a leafy suburb. When the suburbs gave way to large horse farms she leaned forward and asked the question she should have posed before she got into the car. “Where are you taking me?”
“Sutter’s Way, madam. We’re nearly there.” She swallowed and sat back. Sutter’s Way was a beautiful old mansion, built by the Hearst family at the height of their wealth and influence. She’d seen paintings from its collection in her art history class at Georgetown University but she had no idea who owned it now.
At last the car passed through a tall wrought iron gate, crunched along a gravel driveway and pulled up in front of the elegant brick house. When she got out, her heels sank into the gravel and she brushed wrinkles from the skirt of the demure and unsexy navy dress she’d chosen for the occasion.
Simon bounded down the steps and strode toward her. “Sorry about the long drive but I thought you’d appreciate the privacy.” She braced for a hug or kiss, then chastised herself when he gave her a firm handshake. Her head must be getting very large these days if she expected royalty to kiss her.
He was even better looking in an open-necked shirt and khakis. His skin was tanned and his hair looked windblown. Not that it made any difference to her. He was just a potential client, and an influential one, at that. “I am becoming paranoid about the press lately. They seem to pop out in the strangest places. I don’t know what they hope they’ll find me doing.” Kissing a British prince, perhaps.
She swallowed. Her imagination seemed to be running away with her. Simon probably just wanted ideas about how to attract high rollers who would donate money to his charity.
He gestured for her to go in. “I’ve learned the hard way that photographers really do follow you everywhere, so it’s best to try to stick with activities you don’t mind seeing under a splashy headline.” His grin was infectious.
“Is that why I’m afraid to even change my hairstyle?”
“Don’t let them scare you. That gives them power over you and you certainly don’t want that. From what I’ve seen, you handle them like a pro.”
“Maybe it’s in the blood.” Her private thought flew off her tongue and almost made her halt in her tracks. Lately she’d been thinking a lot about the man who sired her. He faced the press every day with good humor and never seemed ruffled. It was so odd to think that they shared the same DNA.
“No doubt. I’m sure your father is very impressed.”
“My father is…was a nice man called Dale Winthrop. He’s the dad who raised me. I still can’t get used to people calling President Morrow my father. If it wasn’t for sleazy journalists breaking the law in search of a story, he wouldn’t even know I existed.”
They went into a sunlit room where an elegant and delicious-smelling breakfast was spread out on a creamy tablecloth. He pulled out her chair, which gave her an odd sensation of being…cared for. Very weird.
“Help yourself. The house is ours for now. Even the staff have been sent packing so you don’t have to worry about eavesdroppers.”
“That’s fantastic.” She reached for a scone, not sure what else to do.
“So you have the press to thank for learning about your parentage. Maybe they’re not so bad after all.” His honeycolored eyes shone with warmth.
“Not bad? It’s been