Affairs of State

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She glanced nervously around. Thank heaven she was a neat freak and had just put away her laundry. It was Saturday around noon and she’d been trying to decide whether to spend her afternoon looking at paintings in a museum or fondling interesting objects at a flea market. Since she hadn’t made up her mind (frigid air conditioning versus sticky D.C. summer humidity) she was dressed in jeans and a spaghetti-strap tank top. Not exactly what you’d don if you expected a prince to stop by.

“Your house is lovely.”

“Thanks. I only have the first floor. I rent it from the couple who own the upstairs. They have a separate entrance around the side. I do like it, though.” She was babbling. He was only being polite. Her tiny and rather overstuffed space must have seemed quaint and eccentric to him. “Do sit down. How did you know I’d be here?”

“I didn’t.” He eased himself into her cream loveseat. “Do you live alone?”

“Yes. I keep such crazy hours and really need my sleep when I finally have time for it. I tried living with roommates but it never worked out for long.”

“So all of these interesting things are yours?” He picked up a pocket-size nineteenth-century brass telescope she’d scored at an estate sale in Virginia.

“I’m afraid so. You can see I love to collect interesting trinkets.”

He expertly opened the piece and trained it out the window, then glanced up and his eyes met hers. Her breath stuck at the bottom of her lungs for a moment. How did he have that effect on her? She dealt with celebrities and big shots all day long and had a strict policy of treating them like the ordinary people that they were, if you ignored all those extra zeros in their bank accounts. She’d worked with royals from Sweden, Monaco and Saudi Arabia, among others, and hadn’t given a second thought to their supposedly blue blood. But somehow around Simon Worth she felt lightheaded and tongue tied as a naive schoolgirl.

“I can see you have good taste. I’ve grown up surrounded by fine things, and never had to exert myself to acquire any. It looks as if you’ve done the work of three hundred years of collectors.” He picked up a hand-painted miniature of a lady and her poodle.

“Isn’t she sweet? A client from England gave her to me to thank me for planning her wedding in Maryland. In a way I suppose I’ve stolen her from among your national treasures.”

“Perhaps she’s simply traveling for a while.” His smile melted a little piece of her. “Objects might get restless, just as people do.”

She laughed. “I sometimes wonder how they feel about being bought or sold or traded to a new person. I know that inanimate objects aren’t supposed to have feelings, but they must carry some energy from the people and places they’ve been before.”

“I know places can have their own spirit. My home at Whist Castle practically bustles with it.” He leaned forward, his eyes sparkling. “If places can have a feeling, why not things as well?”

“I’m glad you don’t think I’m a nut. I do enjoy seeking out little treasures. In fact I was thinking of ducking past any photographers and doing that this afternoon at the Eastern Market.”

“Perhaps we could go together.” He said it quite calmly, as if it wasn’t the most outlandish idea she’d every heard.

“But if people see us together…they might talk.”

“About what?” He leaned back, face calmly pleasant.

Suddenly she felt like an idiot for suggesting that people might gossip about a romance between them. Obviously that existed only in her own mind. What would a British royal be doing with her? “I’m being paranoid again. I probably think the press cares far more about me than they actually do.”

“If anyone asks, we can tell them you’re helping me source interesting items for a fund-raiser we’re planning.” He picked a pair of tiny silver sewing scissors and snipped the air with them.

“The outdoor concert?”

“A mad hatter’s tea party, perhaps?” A cute dimple appeared in his left cheek. “People do expect us Brits to be eccentric, after all. You won’t actually need a reasonable explanation.”

“Well, in that case, let’s go.”

“Is there another way out of here?” He’d risen to his feet and offered his hand to her.

“You mean, besides the front door?”

He nodded. “I’m afraid I was spotted arriving here.”

“The short guy with the ponytail?”

“The very same.”

“Ugh. He’s freelance and has sold pictures of me to at least three different papers. One was a picture of me carrying two grocery bags, and somehow he managed to bribe the cashier into handing over my receipt so everyone could learn what brand of aspirin I prefer. And there isn’t another way out. I guess you’ll have to stay here forever.”

Her hand heated inside his as he helped her to her feet. He didn’t look at all put out by either the photographer or the prospect of spending the rest of his life in Apt. 1A.

“I do hate to assist these lowlifes in their trade. We’ll leave separately so there’s no picture. I’ll leave first in my car, you leave five minutes later and walk around the block. I’ll have a blue Mercedes meet you in front of the Mixto restaurant.”

“Goodness, I feel like I’m in a James Bond film.” He must have planned this. Which sent sparkles of excitement and alarm coursing through her.

“Don’t worry. I have years of experience in dodging these leeches. I think of it as an entertaining challenge.”

“I’m game. What should I bring?”

“Just yourself.”

Simon left via the front door and she rushed to the window, where she saw him get into a waiting silver SUV, which pulled away. She took a couple of minutes to fix her hair and face, and put on a light blouse and some boots, then she headed out in the opposite direction, toward the tiny restaurant as if she was just on her way to the local deli. She didn’t cast a glance at the depressing figure in his dull green jacket and faded black baseball hat, though she felt his eyes trained on her.

Simon was right. As long as they weren’t seen together, there was no picture to sell. The whole world knew he was in D.C. Everyone was already tired of pictures of her leaving for work and coming back home again. No picture, no story.

A tiny ripple of triumph put a spring in her step as she rounded the corner and spotted a blue Mercedes idling double-parked halfway down the block. The car’s rear door opened and she saw Simon’s reassuring face. Feeling like a ninja, she climbed in, and they cruised off down the block. Her heart was pounding, and she wasn’t sure if it was because of all the subterfuge, or being so close to Simon again.

“He didn’t follow you.”

“Nope. He rarely does. I think he’s too lazy. Just snaps a couple of pictures a day and hopes a story will break so he can sell them. So far his biggest coup is the day I wore my Montana Grizzlies T-shirt. They plastered that picture all over the papers right as the story about my father was breaking, as if it was proof I was his daughter or something.”

“Once you’re in the public eye people read into your every move. You learn to laugh at it.”

Up close like this she could see a slight haze of stubble on his jaw. She wondered what it would feel like against her cheek, and felt her breath quicken. She tugged her gaze out the window, where D.C. scrolled by. “We’re going in the opposite direction from the market.”

“My driver knows some antique shops in Maryland. We’ll enjoy more privacy there.” He leaned back against the seat, shirt stretching over his broad chest. “And I very much doubt any photographers will find us.”

Was this a date? It certainly felt like one. There hadn’t been any real mention of the event they were supposedly planning. And it wasn’t exactly professional of him to show up on her doorstep without warning. “Do you whisk women off in cars on a regular basis?”

He shot her a sideways glance. “No, I don’t.”

Her chest swelled a little. So she was special? She wondered if he’d prolonged his trip to see more of her. Then chastised herself for having such a vain thought. She’d better steer this conversation in a business direction. “I told Scarlet about your plans for the fund-raiser and she’s going to start work on finding the venue. How are your other fund-raising efforts going?”

“That’s an abrupt change of subject.” His tawny eyes glittered with humor. “And I’m forced to confess I haven’t made much headway. Every time I try talking about education in Africa, people’s eyes glaze over and they ask about my latest climbing expedition. I’m afraid I can never resist talking about climbing.”

“You need to make your cause sexier.” Uh-oh. Just saying the word caused the temperature in the car to rise a degree or two.

He cocked a brow. “Sexy? How do I do that?”

“You focus on the elements of your organization that make people feel good about themselves. For example, with breast cancer, pink ribbons make people think about triumph and recovery. That makes them want to get out their wallets a lot more than lectures about incredible new discoveries in small cell cancer treatments. For a party I’d have pink pearls and pink roses and pink champagne. They don’t have anything at all to do with cancer, but they make people feel happy about embracing the cause.”

Forehead furrowed, he looked intrigued. “So you think I need to rebrand my charity?”

“I don’t really know enough about it. Do you have a brand or logo or imagery you use often?”

He made a wry expression. “Not at all. We simply print the name in blue on white paper. I’m beginning to see what you mean.”

“So what excites you the most about what your organization does?”

He frowned for a moment and looked straight ahead, then turned to her. “Including people in the conversation about our future. Giving them access to technology that makes them part of our world and a way to be heard in it.”

“That’s sexy. And big technology companies are a nice target market for your fund-raising. You’d certainly be speaking their language. How about ‘join the conversation’ as your marketing ploy, so you’re inviting everyone to be part of the future you imagine.”

He stared at her. “I like the way your mind works.”

She shrugged. “I brainstorm this kind of stuff all the time.”

“I had no idea party planning was so involved. I thought it was all choosing napkins and printing invitations.”

“That’s the easy part. The hard part is making each event stand out from the thousands of others taking place during the year. In your case, people would expect a prince to have a very exclusive, private dinner, so an outdoor concert rather takes people by surprise. It also creates the sense of inclusion that your charity is all about. In addition to the event’s raising money from ticket sales, it’ll get people talking and that will generate additional donations and bring in people who want to help.”

He still stared right at her, and she could almost hear his brain moving a million miles a minute. “Where have you been all my life?”

A smile crept across her mouth. “Read the papers. You can learn more about my past than I can even remember.”

He laughed. “I know that feeling. I think we have a lot in common.”

How could she feel so comfortable talking to this man from one of the great royal houses of Europe? Well, she’d never been too impressed by royalty. That probably helped in situations like this.

“That’s probably why I’ve appeared in your life to help you cope with it.”

“Destiny at work.” She swallowed. Did she really believe that some mysterious workings of fate had brought her and Simon together?

No. They were simply going to spend a pleasant afternoon looking at antiques. They’d put together a fun concert that would get people talking about World Connect. Then he’d go back to England and she’d get on with whatever her life was going to be.

What about the chemistry crackling between them right now in the back of the car? What about the way her skin heated when he leaned toward her, or her stomach swirled with strange sensations when he fixed her with that thoughtful gaze?

She was going to ignore that. So was he. No one was going to do anything they might regret. They were both grownups and far too sensible for that.

What a relief.

The driver took them to a little town called Danes Mills, where he parked behind a quaint restaurant that reminded Ariella of a British pub. The entire main street appeared to be upscale antique shops, with maybe a gift shop or bookstore for variety. Simon helped her from the car while the driver held the door. It was all very formal and majestic and made her feel like a princess. Which she wasn’t.

People did turn to look at them. She wasn’t sure if she imagined the whispers. While she knew people thought she was pretty, she didn’t have the kind of looks that demanded attention. In fact she considered herself a nondescript brunette, so she didn’t usually have to worry about standing out from the crowd. People recognized Simon, though. He was tall and broad and attracted admiration without even trying. They’d probably stare at him even if he wasn’t a well-known prince. Maybe they were turning to look at him for the same reasons she wanted to—because he was handsome and his smile could melt an iceberg.