To Kiss a King - NIcole Burnham Page 0,20

pair of toddlers who were deep in mourning for their mother.

But the recent changes in Federico had been positive. He’d found the strength to move on and had fallen in love with a wonderful woman. Pia Renati made Federico livelier and happier than Eduardo ever would have imagined in the weeks and months following the loss of Lucrezia, the boys’ mother. Though the prince worked as hard as ever and remained a rule-follower at heart, Pia had helped Federico find a lightness of being that softened the stress lines that had taken up residence around his eyes. The two of them even planned a hiking trip in Columbia next month…without the children, and without a single public outing or political meeting on their agenda. Federico never would have done such a thing before Pia came into his life.

Nor would he have smiled so broadly as he ran through the garden.

Eduardo closed the window and returned to his study. Perhaps it was time he moved on as well. Stop mentally living in the past, stop acting like the stoic widower, and start allowing himself to consider the possibilities—what would life be like if he let himself think outside the fishbowl existence of the royal palace?

He took a seat, squared the notecard in front of him, and—after yet another call to Luisa to update the order—he began to write.

Chapter 5

Claire turned off the faucet, dried her hands, then eyeballed the floor along the stalls to ensure she was alone in the restroom. Confident she finally had a moment of solitude, she braced her hands on either side of the sink and allowed her shoulders to sag.

She was nearly done for the day. At least, nearly done with embassy work. She’d had a total of seven meetings since breakfast, if one counted coffee and a slice of toast grabbed on the way out of the hotel as breakfast. There’d been a briefing on a joint project involving the United States Drug Enforcement Administration and San Rimini’s drug enforcement agency, discussions regarding several exchange programs, progress reports on American businesses that had been coordinating with the embassy on trade opportunities, and even a meeting with the embassy’s protocol officer, who was in charge of ensuring Claire’s public events went off without a hitch.

All the while, Claire had been internally repeating the names of staff members to help commit them to memory.

Tonight, she planned to put on her softest pajamas, curl up on the loveseat in her hotel room, and treat herself to a bottle of premium San Riminian wine. Then, she would sleep like a rock. She needed to. Tomorrow she was scheduled for a long session with John Oglethorpe, the Public Affairs Officer, for an introduction to the press office. After that, she would take possession of the ambassador’s residence. Rich Cartwright’s belongings had been packed and inspected and the moving crew would arrive at the crack of dawn to transport everything to California.

“Half an hour,” she told herself. She should only need thirty minutes with Karen to ensure her notes from this morning’s meetings were handled and the resulting tasks were logged in her calendar, then she could enjoy the wine and close her eyes.

The first weeks on a new job were always the hardest, she reminded herself. In this case, it was particularly challenging because the embassy maintained a sizable staff, nearly all of whom had come on board during Richard Cartwright’s tenure. It was natural for them to be skeptical of change and watch her every move to see what tone she would set.

“It’ll get easier,” she murmured to the mirror. She ran a hand over her hair, double-checked her teeth and lipstick, then made her way to her office. As she reached the doorway, a young man stood outside talking to Karen, his face partially blocked by the large plant he carried. The florist’s pail in which it grew had been printed with the colors of the San Riminian flag and was tied in a large white bow.

Karen heard her coming and spun. “Madam Ambassador, you have a gift.”

“I see.” She thanked the man and urged him to carry the pail inside. She cleared a section of her desk and—since he could hardly see around the plant—guided him as he set it down.

Once he’d departed, Karen said, “Well, there must be a story to this.”

“I can’t imagine what.” Claire leaned forward and looked at the leaves. “It’s an olive.”

“An olive? As in a tree?”

Claire glanced toward the hallway. There