Mrs. Olson gives a little sniff as she pushes past me, turning right and heading to the exit. Just before she gets there though, she stops and turns around. “I would check my bank accounts if I were you. When you find your money missing, call me. You'll know I am serious and I'll know that you are going to be a good girl.”
She whirls and pushes out of the back door just as Margot and Pippa arrive in the hallway, Brigid at their heels.
“What's going on? Who was that?” Margot demand.
I turn to her, my eyes filling with tears. “I don't know,” I tell her honestly. “It isn't the first time I have seen her though…”
Margot rushes to my side, hugging me hard. And I hug her back, taking a small matter comfort in her gesture. But I feel a strange pull to check my bank account, even though I'm pretty sure that Mrs. Olson is full of crap.
When I finally go home, I do just that. And sure enough, one of my accounts is overdrawn, missing thousands of dollars. I bite my lip, trying to decide what to do.
Should I just tell the bank that my money was stolen?
Maybe I should tell Lars what’s going on.
I sit down on my couch, unable to decide. My phone chimes, alerting me to a new text. I check it, finding several photos of me and Lars in bed together. We obviously don’t realize we are on camera, because we are smiling and laughing in a few of the photos.
Another text comes in. Are you sure you want to ruin this?
My heartbeat races. I’m not sure. I’m paralyzed.
So I do nothing for now, although this situation clearly needs some kind of resolution… I am just too scared to make the wrong move and put Lars in jeopardy.
27
Lars
The next week is made up of seven days of nonstop royal visits. I drag Pippa along to open factories, speak at schools, see various cultural exhibitions, and just generally just try to represent the royal family as well as we can. Pippa, for her part, seems very distracted. She's right there by my side, holding the giant ribbon cutting scissors for me or tasting the newest wine. Always with a smile plastered on her face.
But she's not really there, not completely.
After a week of touring, I surprise her with a getaway to Monte Carlo, feeling like the only cure for whatever Pippa is experiencing is somewhere out there in the white sand beaches and yacht parties.
“Whoa,” Pippa says, staring out the window as we arrive at the palatial beachside mansion I've rented. It's three stories high, beautifully made, and looks like the home of a tech billionaire. She turns her eyes to me, almost disbelieving. “Is this ours?”
I grin at her. “Permanently? No. But for the weekend, it is.”
Her phone chirps and she looks down at the screen, frowning. I reach over into her lap and take her phone, turning it off and then pocketing it. She glances up at me, her expression mildly alarmed.
“Hey, I might need that. There are a lot of things still happening in Copenhagen even though we are not there.”
I shoot her a coy smile. “It can wait until you get back. Can't it?”
She bites her lip, her frown increasing. But she does nod. “I guess it can.”
Our car stops outside the big entrance to the house. We slide out of the car and I slip my arm around her waist, hugging her body against mine. She looks up at me, her expression unreadable. But instead of pulling away as I thought she might do, she leans up, puts her hand on my cheek, and kisses me firmly on the lips.
Her kiss is the kiss of a desperate woman, hungry for my touch, demanding my attentions. I sink into that kiss a little, letting it go on for too long. When the limo driver clears his throat beside us, indicating that he is ready to leave, I finally pull back from her in brace.
I nod towards the house. “Let's go inside. We should technically make it into the house before we start fucking.”
Her lips quirk at that. “If we must.”
I hustle her inside. I wait until the door closes, then rip off her clothes and have her right then and there, on the cold hardwood floor in the foyer. There's a desperation to our sex, a unspoken worry underlying every moan. I