Asteria In Love with the Prince (22 page)

“For tonight,” Patricia told me, “I’ve arranged for a special piece.” She said the name of a designer: one you see elegantly written across the corner of a double-page advert in Vogue. I nodded solemnly and told her that it sounded perfect.

When the dress arrived it was carried by a white-haired, glossily tanned man who kissed her on both cheeks: her assistant, I presumed, though he seemed old to be working for Patricia. The dress was a floor-length, strapless champagne tube that flowed into a trailing skirt: I’d never seen anything quite like it, which is when it sunk in that
that was kind of the point;
this was one-of-a-kind, haute couture. The man turned me and twisted me and fussed with pins, and eventually declared seemed satisfied. He bustled off, leaving Patricia to help me get the dress off without dislodging anything.

“Thank you,” I told her. “And please thank your assistant, too. He was very helpful.”

Patricia blinked. She said the name of the designer again and I couldn’t understand why. She had to say it again before I understood.

***

Two hours later, an hour of which had been spent having my hair styled by a longhaired Parisian stylist who reminded me of Louis, I was staring at a reception line. We were in an ambassadorial residence somewhere in the heart of the city and I was staring because instead of standing in the line – which I’d done a few times at friends’ weddings – I was preparing to walk along it.

“Just smile and shake hands,” Jagor told me. “Don’t try to remember names. Those who really need to talk to you will find you during the evening. Pretend you’re used to it. I want to fuck you in that dress.”

My eyes widened. He kept doing that – throwing something filthy in while he was speaking in Asterian, knowing no one else could understand.

“Thank you, I will, and the dress has to go back in the morning,” I said, and then we were into it, cameras flashing as my hands were clasped, shaken and occasionally kissed. The party seemed to be half politicians and half the people who’d paid to get them into office: CEOs, a few actors and an aging rock star.

Jagor was in his element. The crowd seemed to part in front of him, conversation switching smoothly to accommodate him as he approached. His French was still appalling, but everyone was more than happy to speak English for his benefit and for the few that didn’t, I could translate.

“I am delighted to meet you – both of you,” a man in an elegantly cut suit told us. I tried to remember if he was Minister for External Affairs, or Trade, or both. The man next to him, waiting patiently for an audience, was almost definitely the Minister of Defense. “We were all shocked to hear of the attempt on your father. He is recovering well?”

“Like it never happened,” Jagor reassured them. “I’m sure he’d welcome a French delegation in the near future.”

“We’re proud that you picked our country to hint at your engagement.” The minister gave me a politician’s practiced smile. “Where better than Paris for romance?”

“Julien was responsible for the treaties I’ve been studying,” said Jagor. He glossed over the fact that I’d been working as his aide at the time. “I’m hopeful we can reach an agreement soon – but of course it depends on my father.”

“Of course,” Julien smiled – a little tightly, I thought. He begged a moment of Jagor’s time to discuss some complexity of mining rights, leaving the Minister of Defense and I alone.

“It would honor me,” he said very gravely, “if I could offer my services.” He looked more like an accountant than a military type, with hair dyed an oily black and round glasses. “We don’t yet have a formal treaty with Asteria, I know, but we would always give our aid if the need should occur.” He pressed his card into my hand: Roland Doré – and yes, he was the Minister of Defense. I thanked him profusely and took the card with a sense of unreality: I knew now who to call if I ever needed an air strike.

An arm slid around my waist and Jagor lightly kissed my ear. I loved that he did that in public: it was the opposite of how we’d had to hide, just a few weeks ago.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked me in Asterian.

I kept smiling and spoke out of the corner of my mouth. “I’m not sure.”

He nodded. “These people have never seen a woman of Asteria. They’ve certainly never seen an exkella: there hasn’t been one for hundreds of years. You don’t have to live up to anything: you can set your own expectations.”

I nodded as if I understood. “Yes, Obi-wan.” The only thing scarier than the party was how much I had to learn.

***

As the night went on and I sipped more champagne, (
sipped:
it wouldn’t be appropriate to get drunk), I gradually managed to relax. Jagor knocked back several glasses, but given his massive frame and the Asterian drinking culture, it might as well have been water.

Toward the end of the night, someone new arrived: a tall, broad-shouldered African-American man. He spoke English but with a French accent, and kept switching into rapid-fire French and laughing. He bowed formally and introduced himself as someone connected with West Africa, and with defense. When he kissed my hand, his lips seemed to leave an invisible mark – I could feel it tingling for minutes afterward. I gazed after him as he disappeared into the crowd, and Jagor caught me looking.

“You like him?” he asked me, teasingly. I must have hesitated for a moment, because he said, “I could always lend you to him, if that would please you?”

“No!” I said quickly, my face flushing. But something about the man had reverberated deep within me – a rawer feeling than the dark heat Jagor kindled in me. Less formal, if that makes any sort of sense. Like the difference between a stirring violin concerto and hard rock. “Who is he?”

“An American, by way of many countries. People call him Jacques. There are a lot of stories about him. Some say he’s a heroic leader, living in exile, and one day he’ll return to lead his people.”

“And what do others say?”

Jagor’s mouth tightened. “That he was a dictator.”

I drew in my breath and watched the man laughing and joking with the other dignitaries. Was that who I’d be mixing with, now? People so rich they’d stopped caring about good or evil: only the size of your bank balance? I looked across at Jagor. Was I just hopelessly naïve?

“Do you deal with him?” I asked.

He kissed the top of my head. “Never.” He hesitated, then blurted, “I want to do things the right way.” He looked suddenly embarrassed; as if that wasn’t the sort of thing a prince should say. I quickly kissed him.

“What was that for?” he asked.

“For being you.”

Chapter Fourteen

The next morning was for sightseeing: only it seemed like we were the sights. We roared up to the glass pyramid of the Louvre entrance in a motorcade, accompanied by the Minister for Culture. The head of the gallery was there to give us the tour and, aside from the press, they’d cleared the whole place for us. I wondered how much money they were losing an hour, turning away the tourists.

Every time I moved and sometimes even when I didn’t, there was the
click
of a shutter. It was unnerving: my ear developed an itch and I didn’t dare scratch it. “Why do they keep taking photos?” I asked Jagor. “They already have about five hundred of us.”

“They’re looking for
the one
,” he said. “You have to give them opportunities: then they’ll relax.” At the next painting, he stopped and elaborately put an arm around me, pointing theatrically at some detail. There was a
brrr
of shutter clicks and then a blissful silence. We were essentially models, I realized; the whole thing was an elaborate photo shoot.

When we moved to the next painting, the photographers move around in front of me. I looked adoringly up at Jagor – not difficult. There was another
brrr
. I was seeing gossip magazines in a new light: all those supposedly shots were posed.

We stopped again and Ismelda nudged Jagor. He bent and whispered in my ear, which of course itself triggered a flurry of clicks. “We should give them a kiss,” he told me.

“What, every photographer?”

“Very funny. You know what I mean.”

I looked at the painting. We were in front of
Venus, Satyr and Cupid
by Correggio. “Are you sure this is the right painting?” I asked, looking at Venus’ naked curves.

“Very appropriate. We are Asterian and therefore sex-crazed in their eyes. And you are my Venus.”

He drew back from my ear and I turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised. He was grinning and so was I. When his lips descended and my eyes closed, the
brrr
of shutters seemed to fade out: there was just blackness and the warmth of his mouth on mine and the fabric of his suit under my hand as I pulled him in closer, the sudden, gorgeous pressure as my breasts pushed against his chest.

It went on for longer than it strictly needed to. Okay, so not everything in those magazines is posed.

***

In the afternoon, Jagor had to meet with the ministers again but insisted I stay at the apartment. “Things will move quickly in Asteria,” he told me. “You should take some time off now, while you can.”

I was happy to accept. An afternoon off, relaxing in a plush apartment, sounded very inviting. After debating what to do for a while, I dug out a bikini, a towel and some sunblock, picked up my e-reader and went to check out the rooftop garden.

On the roof, low manicured hedges surrounded a perfect square of green turf.
How do they mow it?
I marveled. Paris spread out around me like a giant tourist map: I could see the Champs-Élysées, the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower.

I clearly wasn’t the first person to think of sunbathing up there: there was a sun lounger sitting waiting for me. I found that once I was lying down, the hedges acted as a windbreak, leaving me to soak up the sun. Bliss.

I had a fairly racy romance on my e-reader, which I’d been meaning to start for ages
.
But there was something I had to do first.

It was something like 8am there: she’d be running around cursing and trying to find a clean blouse for work, probably with a bagel in her mouth. She answered on the fourth ring.

“Mm-nom.
Fuck
.
What?”

“It’s me.”

I heard her swallow and stop moving around. “Does he have you tied up? Has he branded you yet?”

“They don’t
brand
us.”

“Says you. I’m examining you for brands when you get back. Where are you?”

“In a rooftop garden in Paris. Sunbathing.”

“Oh.”

“This morning we went to the Louvre. I got my photo taken about five thousand times.”

“I know: it’s on the gossip sites already. The kiss is all sorts of sweet. Actually, sweet isn’t the word. It looks like he’s about to rip your clothes off.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that things could move that fast. I was going to have to start checking the internet. Or wait: should I? Thinking about it, I wasn’t sure I wanted to see myself.

“How are things with Louis?” I asked.

“What things with Louis? There are no things with Louis.”

“You still see him every day.”

“Yeah, and isn’t that a whole heap of fun? I should have thrown myself at some foreign prince at a party.”

“I didn’t throw—”

“Maybe what I need is a holiday in Asteria. Can you set me up with Jagor’s brother or something?”

I winced, remembering the story Jagor had related. “His brother’s dead.”

“Some other prince, then. I’ll settle for a viscount. Is a viscount below a prince? Maybe a duke.”

I tried to imagine Gwen in Asteria, learning to take orders. The two didn’t seem to fit together. “What you need is to get back together with Louis. You two were happy.”

“Nope. Never. Hey, you’re sunbathing, right?”

I sighed, but let her change the subject. “Yes.”

“Are you doing the French thing? Frying the eggs?”

I looked down at my bikini top. “No!”

“You should. Strap marks aren’t a good look. It’s a rooftop, right?”

I looked around. She had a point: no-one was going to see me up here. I was on the tallest building for a good mile in every direction. A little hesitantly, I reached back and unknotted the string, then slipped the top off. “There. Done. Happy?”

“Beyond words. I have to get to work.” I heard her stuff the bagel back in her mouth. “
Mmffnom
-ake care.”

I put the phone down and started rubbing in sunblock: burned nipples didn’t bear thinking about. I worked the cream into my breasts, a little embarrassed at the warm glow that followed my fingers and twisted straight down to my groin.

Once I was done, though, it was worth it. The beating sun was like a warm bath, relaxing every muscle and scouring away any thoughts more complicated than simple pleasure. I tried to remember the last time I’d been outside topless and realized I couldn’t. Suddenly all the claims naturists made didn’t seem so hokey: I could feel the breeze on my bare skin, exquisitely sensitive from being under clothing for so long. When a gentle breeze blew across my nipples, I felt them stand to attention, my whole body shuddering.

A long, lazy afternoon passed that way, with the only interruptions the occasional drone of an aircraft and quick trips downstairs to grab a cold drink. I showered and changed in time for Jagor arriving home, throwing on one of the dresses Patricia had brought: a halter-neck grey number that finished just above the knee. When Jagor walked in, I ran up and threw my arms around him, letting him lift me off the ground and spin me around. It was the most relaxed I’d been since before we broke up. I may have whooped.

“You’ve unwound,” he smiled. “Good.” He pulled me close, my body molding to his. “Come.”