Affairs of State - By Jennifer Lewis Page 0,2
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