We’re woken later in the evening and told that dinner with his parents has been cancelled. His father was exhausted from his appearance today and is resting.
The Prince gets dressed for the evening’s festivities and then I let him drive. I had texted Ellis earlier and had him drop off the car.
“Your car is a quite the tease,” he says, rolling slowly through town.
“She prefers to go fast, for sure,” I agree, constantly looking in the side mirror to be sure the black car holding his bodyguards—of which there are four tonight—is still behind us. “What time does the fashion show start?”
He checks his watch. “The party started about an hour ago, but the fashion show won’t start until later.”
“I don’t want to miss Allie walking the runway. She’s really excited about it.”
“Why is that?”
“She’s popular in the United States, but hasn’t done much internationally.”
“She is a very attractive woman. I’m sure she will do splendidly and have many admirers after tonight. My eyes, however, will only be on you.”
“That will be awkward,” I tease, leading him into my suite after arriving at the villa and asking for a bottle of champagne to be sent up.
The Prince is poking around my bathroom while I touch up my makeup. He holds up a round blue object. “Why do you have so many blue balls?”
I stop brushing my hair to see what he’s talking about.
“They’re bath bombs.”
“Sounds quite dangerous. It’s interesting what you brought with you.”
It
is
interesting what the Kates outfitted the villa with. I’m pretty sure one of them is obsessed with Lush products and imagined me in a foreign country without the ability to take a proper bath. She even included a note on her favorite combinations, thankfully.
“Honestly, I didn’t bring that much. I read that Montrovian shops have everything your heart could possibly desire. I just wasn’t sure if they had these, so I shopped in bulk.” I walk over to a large glass container and pull out a gold bar. “This gold one is perfect before a night out, because it gives your skin a soft shimmer. But my favorite thing is to mix a blue one with the gold. The combination looks like you’re bathing with a mermaid.”
“I’d like to bathe with a mermaid.”
“Since you’ve slept with all the other girls in the world, you need to find a new species?” I laugh. I’m funny sometimes.
“I’d like to take one with you.”
“My bath tub is built for one, and there’s a reason for that.”
“Why?”
“Baths are a solitary activity. A way to relax.”
“Have you never taken a bath with a friend?”
“No. Baths were in short supply at college.”
“We must remedy that immediately. The art of bathing can be very sensual.”
“Let me guess, you were bathed by nannies even after you hit puberty.”
He shrugs. “I was raised to—I’m comfortable naked.”
“I’m not.”
“I’ve seen you in a bikini. You looked plenty comfortable.”
“My lady bits were hidden.”
“In Montrovia, topless sunbathing is encouraged.”
“I don’t have a problem with that.”
“Then tomorrow, we have a date. You will bring the bath bombs. I will supply the bathing garments.”
X X
X
The Amber Room is a glittering venue set up specifically for the Montrovian Grand Prix and
is the setting for numerous parties over the race weekend
. There is flowing champagne, exquisite cuisine, performances by iconic artists, amped up DJ sets, and tonight’s fashion show which benefits an international charity. I’ve met jet-setters, film stars, Formula One drivers, and royalty from numerous nations. Security is tight, and no one gets in unless they are on the list.
I’m having fun.
And feeling fairly relaxed. With all the famous people in the room, the bodyguards and security are numerous. Not to mention that the Prince’s personal bodyguard, Juan, is sticking very close tonight as are the other three who accompanied us to this event.
I even get the chance to go backstage to wish Allie luck. I thought she might be nervous, but she seems in her element and ready to go. She also looks killer with her bangs teased and held back by a barrette and wearing a sexy, retro bikini.
I go back out and take a prime seat next to the Prince as the show starts.
A well-known DJ is spinning a sick beat, and the fashion show is fast-paced and features both men and women’s attire from many of the high-end boutiques in Montrovia’s elite shopping district.
“You would look amazing in that,” Lorenzo says, commenting on the red gown that is the grand finale to the show. “You must have it.”
“Where would I wear it? Cinderella’s castle?”
“I was thinking my castle,” he says, taking my hand in his and kissing it. “Shall I buy you glass slippers, too?”
“I don’t know. Do you want me to leave you at midnight?”
He slides his hand into my hair and kisses me. “Most definitely not. Does that mean you will still allow me to escort you to the Queen’s Ball?”
“When is it, again?” I ask, playing it cool.
“Sunday night, after the race. It’s our grand finale of the week.”
“I guess since I said I’d hang out with you for Race Week, it would include that.”
“
Hang out
seems so casual.”
“I thought that’s how you liked your relationships with women.”
“Usually, that is the case. With you, I’m inclined not to want such a casual arrangement.”
“We’ve only known each other for a short time.”
“Still.” He gazes into my eyes. It’s incredibly sweet. I feel a pang of guilt for manipulating his emotions, but I know the manipulation isn’t a lie. Because I genuinely like this man.
And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anyone kill him.
There’s a psychological phenomenon known as Stockholm Syndrome, where a hostage develops a strong emotional bond, almost a love, for their captor. These feelings are irrational in light of the danger endured by the victim. If the captor is kind to them, they mistake the lack of abuse for caring. It’s a form of traumatic bonding. Traumatic bonding can occur in numerous situations, like a hostage and his captor or even in a situation like the Prince and I have been in. Two people in danger together. It heightens the feelings and emotions and is completely natural.
Or so it was explained to us in school. What a good spy has to do, however, is use this closeness to his advantage.
I was taught to be emotionless and uncaring, but no matter how much they tried to drill that into my head, it never worked. I am motivated because of emotion. And it’s that emotion that will always drive me to succeed.
The Prince steps away to speak to someone in private. This worries me, but I see a Saudi Prince with numerous bodyguards join him.
When he is finished and meets back up with me, he’s agitated.
“What’s wrong?”
“The Saudis use the Strait of Montrovia to ship oil to the rest of Europe and the U.S. He offered to have his naval assets supplement ours. He is worried that we are vulnerable.”
“Are you?”
“Every country is vulnerable to an attack. An elite air force could destroy us, but terror organizations do not command those sorts of troops. When he left the meeting, things were tense. I mean, what did he expect? For me to turn our royal maritime unit over to him?”
“I don’t know. Did he say why this is a concern all of a sudden?”
“If you are going to spend time with me, you must know the risks. My own national security as well as the Americans have picked up chatter, an indication that something could happen in my country. I’m assuming his government has heard it as well.”
“Like a terrorist attack. Like at the race?”
“The intercepted chatter seemed to be more indicative of a threat to the throne—to me, personally.”
“Considering someone may have just tried to gun you down, that makes sense.”
He grins at me and takes my hand. “But you kept me safe. I’ll have to be keeping you close.”
We mingle for a bit longer then end up in a corner of the Amber Room chatting with a wealthy Indian man, who owns one of the race teams, along with his drivers. He’s hosting a party on his yacht tomorrow night and assures us that we will receive hand-delivered invitations in the morning. We’re all sipping champagne—except for Lorenzo who guzzled down his last drink, his conversation with the Saudi clearly weighing on his mind.
I’m nodding where appropriate about the upcoming race, but I’m mostly eavesdropping on the conversation behind me. Clarice is discussing the Terra Project with an actress who is a United Nations Goodwill Ambassador. She’s sharing her passion for the project and discussing an area in the United States where they’ve set up a successful trial community using all the Terra concepts. I wonder how this peaceful project in America could possibly be related to the threat to the Prince.
But then she mentions that the next step is to try it somewhere on a larger scale. What if that is her plan? To bring this project to her own country. The country she could be the queen of if just a few people were to die.
That comment alone moves her up to prime suspect number one on my list.
I excuse myself to use the facilities and give Ari a look that lets him know I want to talk in private.
We meet in the hallway to the restrooms.
“Ari, were you listening to Clarice? Did you hear what she said about the Terra Project?”
“I did.”
“Do you think that’s her plan? To become Queen and implement it for all of Montrovia?”
“I can’t imagine that. She seems passionate about a lot of random things.”
“That’s true. I heard her ranting earlier about the energy used by the cattle industry. She won’t eat meat.”
“But she sure likes the bone,” Ari fires back.
“What?”
“Ha! I don’t even know where that came from. Actually, I do. It’s from an oldie that one of my sergeants used to listen to. Get it?”
“Ari, you have a bone,” I say with a smirk. “Maybe you should
barter
her with it.”
“She has a boyfriend and seems crazy in love with him. I don’t like him though.”
“I want to know how she got to be such a tree hugger. How did she learn about this project? Who started the whole idea?”
“I don’t know, but we better find out,” he says.
Lorenzo is waiting for me in the corner of the room, chatting now with Peter and Allie.
Clarice still has the actress cornered and is ranting. “Wouldn’t it be amazing if our culture didn’t thrive on conspicuous consumption? A small nation like ours would be the perfect place to take the project to the next level. That is, if the King would abolish the currency and let us all live in peace.”
“It seems pretty peaceful here already,” the actress says.
“We do live in peace, but that’s not the point. When there were terror attacks in Europe that killed a few hundred people the news was all over it, but when thousands died in genocide in Africa, no one said a word. It’s that kind of inequity that the project would change. Not to mention the industries that are ruining our planet. Do you eat meat?”
“Uh, yeah,” the actress admits, sounding a bit ashamed.
“Did you know that way back in 2006 a report was released by the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations that states
the livestock sector is a major stressor on many ecosystems and on the planet as a whole
? Did you know that agriculture releases the most greenhouse gas emission, even more than the transportation sector? Not to mention the horrific treatment of the innocent animals.”
I think she’s going to stop ranting, but she continues. “The industry has even made up names for our food to make us feel better about what we are eating. Instead of Foie gras, escargot, veal, and caviar, we should call them what they are: unnaturally fattened duck livers, snails, baby calves, and fish eggs.”
Allie, who must be eavesdropping, too, looks at me and makes a gagging gesture, which causes me to stifle a laugh.
A waiter emerges from a door just behind us with a flute of champagne on a platter and presents it to the Prince. He takes it. I’m thinking it’s kind of rude that there’s only one glass when I notice that the waiter is wearing black gloves instead of the normal white ones.
A chain reaction quickly takes place in my body. My heart races, my breathing speeds up, and my muscles are on high alert ready to strike.
Something’s not right.
In a split second, I process the waiter’s military short haircut. Buff body. The tattoo snaking up his neck.
The Prince moves the glass toward his lips.
“Wait! Don’t drink that!” I yell, reacting quickly by grabbing his arm.
I give Ari a look and he stealthily leaves the room, hopefully to chase the man, who I watch run out of another door.
Both Lorenzo and I are quickly surrounded by his bodyguards.
Juan, his personal guard, asks me, “Why shouldn’t he drink it? What do you know?”
I realize I must act dumb. My being able to stay close to the Prince depends on them believing what I say next.
“Uh, I don’t know anything. I just thought it was weird.”
“What was weird?”
“The waiter came out of the kitchen with only one glass of champagne instead of a tray full, and he had on black gloves instead of white ones.” I look straight at the Prince. “I mean, I don’t know how things go here in Montrovia, but I’d hate to see you end up as a plaything in a frat house getting taken advantage of.” I purposefully giggle. “Oh, wait. That doesn’t make sense. Maybe I’ve had too much champagne.” What I’m about to say next is a total conflict, but I have to say it. I ready my hand to knock the drink away in case they call my bluff. I’ll blow the mission if I have to, to keep him safe. “You’re right, I’m being dumb. Who’d bother to roofie the future King? Everyone already knows he’s easy. I just reacted, it’s probably fine to drink.”