Once Upon A Tiara

Kooks, yes, he conceded, thinking of a colleague who’d paid a cool million for a fake Rembrandt or the poor sot who’d had a scarab stolen out from beneath his nose. Kooks, but not dangerous kooks.

The assemblage moved toward the exit. The princess’s head was on a swivel, as if the small municipal airport was a fascinating tourist site. Simon overheard her telling “Nell” that she’d hadn’t been to America since she was a child. Apparently, her father considered the country an immoral wasteland filled with mobsters, cowboys, homeboys and decadent Hollywood movie stars.

“Well, my goodness, that’s just ridiculous,” Corny said, forgetting that it was bad etiquette to deprecate princely opinions—even those belonging to the ruler of a mostly overlooked sliver of a country that had produced nothing of consequence for the last three or four hundred years of his family’s monarchy. “Your grandmother was an American.”

“Hot dogs!” the princess said.

What a scatterbrain, Simon thought, certain his eyes were glued to her as they’d be to a train wreck. She trotted to the airport restaurant, where a half-dozen shriveled wieners rotated on spits around a feeble warming bulb. They were withered, like an old man’s…finger.

And she was in raptures. “I’ve always wanted to taste a genuine American hot dog, not the pale European imitation. Please, may I have one?”

“Of course,” said Corny, with less than her usual gusto. Doubtless, she was thinking of the tea-and-cake tent reception planned for the princess’s arrival in Blue Cloud.

Simon stepped in. “Trust me, Princess Liliane, you don’t want one of those. We can get better hot dogs at the Blue Cloud drive-in.”

“A drive-in restaurant? Like the one in American Graffiti?” Lili’s eyes widened. They were exotically almond-shaped. Brown, almost black—the color of semisweet chocolate. “Do you promise?”

Before Simon could make the date—protocol demanded it—Grundy interrupted. “We must follow the schedule, Princess.” She literally said “shedjul,” but only Simon seemed to notice. He pressed his lips together, holding back a smile.

“Yes, you’re right.” Lili quickly conceded, allowing them to hustle her away even though she threw a longing glance over her shoulder. At the hot dogs, alas, and not him.

Simon shrugged. There must be hot dogs in Grunberg. The country was a stone’s throw from Germany, home of the bratwurst. In the days of the World Wide Web and supersonic air travel, even a sheltered, pampered princess couldn’t be that naive. Going by the diamonds in her elfin ears, the pale pink designer suit wrapped around her luscious curves and, particularly, her easy charm—well-schooled, perhaps—she had to be more sophisticated than her bubbly personality would have him believe.

It’s because she’s only twenty-two, practically a child, he thought, with all the wisdom and maturity of his twenty-nine years. A bright, enthusiastic child. You can’t have a crush on a child.

Even one packaged in a hoochie-mama body.

“IT LOOKS LIKE a picture postcard,” Lili said as they drove past the rolling green-and-gold fields, quilted by white fences and mounds of trees that grew medievally thick. She was enjoying herself again, after being momentarily distracted by disappointment when only the mayor and a bald, beady-eyed man named Spotsky had accompanied her, Grundy and Rodger in the limousine from the airport. The oddball museum guy with the flashy tie and the quiet chuckle had been left at the curb along with the rest of the greeters.

She’d been subjected to Nell’s running discourse on the history of the town ever since. If the oddball had come along, he would have smirked, devilishly. His eyes would have twinkled and one brow would have arched high on his even higher forehead, and Lili might have gotten the little hitch in her throat again. He wasn’t knock-your-socks-off handsome, not in that awful tie and the terribly wrinkled suit, but there were his intelligent eyes to consider, and the cowlick that distracted from his receding hairline, and the adorable way the two sides of his face didn’t quite match up…

Simon Tremayne, she thought. Not a solid All-American name like Chip or Hank or Dave, but it suited him. She liked him instinctively, even if he wasn’t what she’d expected. Or hoped for.

Lili tuned in to the mayor, who was saying, “My esteemed grandfather, Horace P. Applewhite, founded the Society of Concerned Citizens, putting into action the preservation of the…”

She tuned her out again, careful to maintain a wide-eyed look of interest. It was a talent she’d developed when stuffy state dinners became de rigeur, quickly followed by de trop. Mrs. Grundy would fill her in on the highlights later. If there were any.

Lili let her gaze stray to the window. Despite her longing to emulate her sisters and quit trying to conform to her father’s expectations, it seemed to her that she was always looking at the world out of windows, from a distance. Was it so wrong of her to want to experience her life instead of only observing it in a dull and stately manner? She wasn’t blunt like Annie, nor gutsy like Natalia. All she wanted was a bit of fun now and then.

The limo was entering the town. Lili was delighted by what she saw, even if it was through a pane of glass. Blue Cloud appeared to be the quintessential small American town. There was a spare white church with a steeple on one corner, a stone post office with an American flag on the other. The car passed through a bustling downtown—with parking meters!—populated by gift shops and tourists, who pointed and took photos of the limo. She glimpsed something called a Freezee Treat, a redoubtable bank with pillars and stone lions and an old-fashioned brick schoolhouse—with a crossing guard!—and then they were cruising through tree-lined streets of quaint bungalows and wood-frame houses as upright as Puritans.

Lili pressed the toggle to roll down the window. “Prin-cess,” cautioned Mrs. Grundy, but Lili went ahead anyway and thrust her face into the wind, not caring a whit that she would probably be mistaken for a Pomeranian with its head hanging out the car window. Her hair fluttered against her cheeks and forehead, just like the little flags at the front of the car. Wonderful!

Bright sun, the rush of wind, the smell of blacktop and hot brick and—

Rodger tugged her back inside. The occupants of the car stared at her, smiles wavering. Nell had actually stopped talking. So it hadn’t been the wind in Lili’s ears drowning her out. Good, she thought. Good. I don’t want to be a jewel, refined and polished to perfection. There was nothing more boring than perfection.

An immense sea of cars shining in the sun caught Lili’s eye. “Oh,” she cried, “I want to shop there.” The limo had passed through town and was cruising along a busy boulevard. Cars surrounded a building that looked like a cement bunker. A plasticky sign in primary colors—so American—read: Salemart.

“But that’s the Salemart,” the mayor said, aghast. “It’s cheap and tacky.”

Lili beamed. “Perfect.” She wanted a pair of flip-flops, a T-shirt with a silly slogan and one of those fluorescent-colored beverage concoctions that was so giant, it looked as if you’d stuck your straw in a bucket.

The limo was slowing to turn into a glade of green so emerald it made Lili squint and miss what the discreet signpost read. A mass of trees shimmered against the blue and white of the sky. The razor-edged curve of lawn was as plush as carpeting. She would dance on it in her bare feet, given the chance….

Suddenly there were people everywhere, scattered across the tarmac road, parting to make way for the limo, then moving in to surround them as they cruised to a stop. A red-and-white striped tent was set up on the lawn, against the backdrop of shade trees. There was also the museum building, but Lili didn’t have time to look at it. She was smoothing and rebuttoning, preparing herself for display.

Showtime.

“This is it! The Princess Adelaide and Horace P. Applewhite Memorial Museum,” the mayor announced proudly, before Rodger extended an arm and pulled her out of the car, along with the town’s car repair-shop owner, Rockford Spotsky, who hadn’t said a word the entire trip, only stared bug-eyed at Lili until she’d wanted to hand him a magnifying glass.

Mrs. Grundy pulled a handkerchief out of the breast pocket of her woolen traveling suit and dabbed at a spot on Lili’s cheek. “Now, remember, my girl. You are representing not only the royal family, but your country, as well.”

Suddenly Lili was nervous. “Are there reporters? Cameras?” What if she tripped or stammered or peed in her fancy silk drawers the way she had when she was six and invited to take part in the Assumption Day pageant?

“There are always cameras.”

Not always, thought Lili. She’d escaped on occasion, sometimes tagging along after Annie and Natalia and sometimes completely on her own. Brief, memorable occasions.

With a murmur of reassurance, Mrs. Grundy left the car.

Lili looked out her window. So many smiling faces, soon to be focused exclusively on her. You’d think she’d be accustomed to the attention, but it seemed there was benefit in being the youngest of three sisters after all. Or demurring to the powerful presence of her father.

You wanted this, Princess, she said silently.

Rodger opened her door.

No, I wanted peanut butter.

Mayor Cornelia Applewhite stood nearby, ready and waiting. “Ladies and gentleman, I present to you…”

The polite applause began as soon as Lili emerged from the limo. “…Her Serene Highness, Princess Liliane of Grunberg.”

Lili stood. Shutters clicked. Flashbulbs popped. The applause grew, peppered with “oohs” and “aahs” as if she were an especially impressive roadside attraction.

She gave a friendly wave to acknowledge the cheers, but her smile felt awkward and fake. Then she saw Simon Tremayne, standing beside the silent, staring Spotsky, and a warmth spread inside her. Only inside. Her silk drawers were safe…for now.

A child came forward to present her with flowers. Lili spoke to the girl, thanking her by name, then straightened and lifted the extravagant bouquet of sweet freesia to her face. She took a deep breath, momentarily losing herself in the scent.

Her lips parted with a sigh of pleasure. She dropped her nose into the fresh blossoms for a second, even deeper whiff, then popped back up, startled by a strange sensation. Something was buzzing inside her mouth, bumping against the back of her throat.

She’d inhaled a bee.

Lili motioned frantically to Amelia, her eyes bulging. Should she keep her mouth closed? Should she spit? Was it better to swallow? Could she swallow a bee even if she wanted to?

A sharp sting on her tongue settled the question.

With a howl of pain, Lili’s mouth opened wide.

And the bee flew out.

2

“AM AW WIDE,” the princess said.

“She’s all right,” Mrs. Grundy translated.

“I’b nod awwergick.”

“She’s not allergic.”

“Got that one,” Simon said. He’d hustled Lili into the museum to tend to her, leaving the mayor outside to marshal her forces and continue the tea party without the guest of honor. Lili had insisted, smiling a brave smile even though there were tears in her eyes.

“Here we are,” said Edward Ebelard, who was an RN at the Blue Cloud Medical Clinic and had accompanied them to Simon’s office. He held up an ice pack made from a plastic bag and two pounds of ice chips taken out of the soft-drink machine in the museum snack bar. “Stick out your tongue, dearie.” Edward was thirty, six-three, two-fifty, bearded; to compensate, he spoke like a nurse of the old school.

Lili stared up at the towering RN with big dark eyes. She looked at Simon. He shot her a thumbs-up. She gave a watery hitch of her chest, then squeezed her eyes shut and stuck out her tongue. The tip was fiery red and swollen to twice its normal size. Or at least what Simon assumed to be its normal size.

Edward tsk-tsked as he peered at the tongue, poking it with a pencil he’d liberated from the holder on Simon’s desk. He plopped the ice pack on Lili’s tongue.

Her head wobbled under the sudden weight. “There we are. That will soon take the swelling down, Princess. We’ll be better in no time.”

Mrs. Grundy grabbed the bag of ice and applied it more gingerly to the princess’s tongue. Lili whimpered softly.

“Is that all you can do?” Simon asked the RN.

Edward shrugged. “Yes. Unless she wants to go to the clinic for a shot. But you really only need that if you’re allergic.”

Lili waved a hand, the lower half of her face obscured by the lumpy bag of ice. “No shaw. No shaw.”

“No shot,” Simon and Grundy said in unison.

“She’s not awwergick,” Simon added. The princess crinkled her eyes at him.

“It will be sore for a few hours, but there should be no lasting effect,” Edward said as Simon showed him out. “I could stay, just in case. I’d be happy to. It’s not every day I have a princess for a patient.”

“I’ll handle it from here.” Simon shook Edward’s hand. “Thanks for all your help.” He lowered his voice, imagining the lewd spin the tabloid reporters could put on a story about the princess’s red, naked, swollen tongue. “If the reporters ask, you can tell them she was stung by a bee, but keep the details to yourself.”

Edward inhaled. “Of course. I do have my professional ethics, you know.”

“Indeed.”

The RN looked with reverence at the pencil in his hand, the one he’d used on the royal tongue. “Mind if I keep this?” He put it in his shirt pocket. “For a souvenir.”

“Help yourself.” Simon thanked Edward again, then closed the door behind him and turned back to Princess Lili. She sat on the couch placed against the paneled wall of his office, her head thrown back against the cushions as Mrs. Grundy applied the ice-chip pack to her open mouth. It was already melting. Droplets of water leaked onto her white lace collar, spreading in a large wet patch. There had to be a better way.

He got a paper cup and plastic spoon from over by the coffee machine in the reception area. Lili was pushing the ice pack away when he returned. “Maw howe mowf—”

“Your whole mouth is frozen,” Simon said, sitting beside her. “Let’s try this.” He scooped some of the melting ice chips into the cup and fed Lili a spoonful.

She opened her lips as obediently as a baby bird, looking at him with glistening eyes. “Thank ooh.”

“You’re welcome. Hold the ice against your tongue until it melts. Is the sting still painful?”

“Naw so much.”

“Will you be able to return to the reception, Princess?” Mrs. Grundy asked. “There are a hundred guests waiting to be greeted.”

Lili nodded dutifully.

“Give her fifteen minutes,” Simon said. He looked at the older woman, nudging her along with a head bob. “Maybe you could go and report to the mayor? I’m sure Cornelia can delay the program for another fifteen minutes.”

Mrs. Grundy glanced from one to the other, squinting a skeptical eye. “Princess?”

Lili shooed her.

She hesitated. “Rodger’s right outside if you should need his assistance.”

Simon fed Lili another spoonful of ice chips. “I’m a mild-mannered museum wonk. I assure you, the princess is safe with me.” Grundy, mollified, finally left.

Lili looked at him and smiled through the ice melting on her tongue. “They thay ith alwayth the quiet one.”

He waggled his brows, knowing no one with a cowlick and a metallic King Tut tie could ever look dangerous. “You’re talking better. Swelling going down?”

“Yeth.”

“More ice?”

“No, thank you. Already feel like an iceberg.”

“Would that make me the Titanic?”

She blinked. “How?”

“We’ve had one encounter and already you’ve torn off a vital piece of my heart.”

She was quite fetching when she giggled—her eyes slitted, her cheeks plumped, her wide smile infectious. “Is that a line that works on American girls?”

“I wouldn’t know, being a museum wonk.” He’d never tried an idiotic line like that on a girl in his life. When it came to hitting on women, his batting average was too dismal to account. He’d even come to the conclusion that associating with the female gender was dangerous to his welfare. Too bad about the biological urges he was having more and more trouble supressing. Thoughts of swollen body parts and how they meshed kept popping into his head. Definitely not on the how-to-treat-a-princess list.

“Then you’re not married?”

He managed to cover his surprise, telling himself that she was polite, not interested. “Only to my work. The sarcophaguses—sarcophagi?—would get jealous otherwise.”

She smiled as he fed her more ice. “You’re very amusing.”

“I practiced my act special for you.”

“Ooh, I’m all damp,” she said, and for an instant he was nonplussed by the idea of damp swollen body parts, before he realized she was referring to her clothing. She peeled off the pink jacket and reached under her lace jabot to unbutton the blouse. The wet silk had gone transparent, clinging to the curves of her breasts, outlining the plunging neckline of her undergarment.

She kept unbuttoning. He pulled his gaze away, rising from the couch. “Hold on. I’ll step outside.”

“Don’t bother. We Europeans are accustomed to going topless.”

Good God! Simon risked a quick glance and saw that she was taking off her blouse entirely. He spun around, keeping his back to her, every synapse firing. Breasts! Naked! Lucky, lucky man!

Then: Bodyguard! Royal outrage! Scandal! Disgrace!

Worth it!

He clenched his hands. Naked breasts were also surely against Corny’s protocol. “Uh, Princess, I really don’t think this is—”

“Oh, it’s all right, you silly man. I was only joking with you. I’m wearing a camisole.”

He glanced over his shoulder. The camisole was soft, silky, loose-fitting. It covered about as much flesh as a tank top. The fabric tented over her round breasts, held up—rather flimsily—by narrow satin straps. Even at a glance, it was obvious that the princess possessed a nice set of erect nipples. They were properly positioned and everything.

And everything.

He tore his gaze away a second time. It had taken the Titanic hours to go down, and here he was, sunk in mere minutes. “Could you put on your jacket?” he asked the ceiling.

“It’s damp, too. Do you have a hair dryer?”

Self-consciously, he passed a hand over his hair. It was clipped close to his skull despite an excess of forehead and temple. He figured he’d be bald by the time he was forty, so why fight it? “There are hot-air hand dryers in the lavatories.”

“Would you?” she said, holding out her blouse and the pink jacket. “Please?”

He sidled closer, still not sure that he should look directly at her, as if she were the sun. The sun, with breasts that shifted beneath the silk camisole every time she moved. His brain had lost too much blood for him to think straight and maintain willpower, so it would be best if he left the room as quickly as possible.

He reached out a blind hand, hoping she’d put the items of clothing into it.

She’s royal, she’s privileged, she thinks of me as a handy servant, he told himself. A valet. There’s nothing for me to see because in her eyes I barely even count as a person.

Ha! Nice try, but no go. This princess was no snob.

“I’ll do it,” she said, standing at the same time as he reached again for the clothes.

He got a handful of breast instead.

Sliding silk. Plump, firm breast. Taut nipple.

The princess gasped.

“Sorry,” he said, whipping around and pulling his hand away as if it had been burned.

Her face had gone as pink as her tongue. “My fault.”

“No, mine. I’m clumsy.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Shouldn’t a museum wonk be good with his hands and eyes? All that detail work.”

Every detail of her breast was carved into his brain. Sparks were still shooting up his arm. “Clumsy socially,” he clarified. “I’m no good once you take me out of the museum.”

She patted his hand, and he realized it still hung in the air between them. He let it drop.

“You’re doing fine.” She sighed. “I’m the one who’s fouling everything up.”

“You couldn’t have anticipated a bee in the bouquet.”

“Maybe not, but it doesn’t matter. These things always happen to me when I make public appearances. My father won’t let me out of the castle till I’m forty if I turn this event into a fiasco.”

“You’re an adult, aren’t you? You can do as you please.”

She shook her head. “I’m twenty-two, but they still treat me like a child. Ours is a traditional, hidebound monarchy, you see, and my father became very strict after my mother died. I know he’s only worried about his responsibility to me and my sisters, seeing that we have a proper upbringing, but it’s very hard to—” Lili stopped. “Listen to me. Complaining about life in the castle. You must think I’m a spoiled brat.”

“No…”

“You do. Admit it.”

“I don’t know you well enough to judge.”

She looked at him with bright, inquisitive eyes, her clothing clutched to her chest. “Now that you’ve touched my breast, you practically have to take me on a date.”

His eyeballs were on the verge of popping out and rolling across the floor like marbles. “A date?”

“The hot dogs,” she said. “You promised.”

He hesitated. “Would I get to touch the other breast?”

For a moment, she looked as stunned as he. Her mouth dropped open—the sight of the tender, red, swollen tip of her tongue made him feel curiously protective—and then she burst into laughter.

He shook his head, relieved by her reaction, but still appalled at himself. “I can’t believe I just said that to Her Serene Highness of Grunberg.”

She lowered the hand she’d clapped over her mouth. “Honestly, I’m glad you did.”

His brow went up.

“I didn’t mean…not because of…” Her lashes fluttered. “Or maybe I did.” She cozied up to him, one hand tucked into the crook of his arm. “You see, this is my first time out on my own. It’s my chance to assert my independence. I was hoping to meet a dashing American playboy, but perhaps you’ll do.”

He was feeling pretty good, up until the last several words. They made him snap to attention.

He’d do, as a means to an end.

Story of his life. From Valerie Wingate to Paula Manthey, the grad student who’d faked a romantic interest in hopes of securing herself a cushy position on his team of researchers, women would far rather use him than amuse him. They saw him as a social misfit, an egghead scholar desperate enough to accept any female advance, whatever its motive. Sometimes, he even thought that way about himself. Which was why he was better off spending all his time with museum artifacts. Women were a species not even a man with an advanced degree could understand.

And Princess Buttercup was potentially more trouble than all the rest put together.

He’d take her for hot dogs if she insisted, but he’d definitely be ignoring the annoying little zings of his heartstrings.

Because if he didn’t, the beautiful young princess would soon be playing him like a violin. Just like all the rest.

“WOULD YOU LIKE to see the tiara?” Simon asked, after she’d dried her blouse and jacket and he’d met her outside his jumble of an office. They were returning to the outdoors reception. The museum was spacious and silent. Their footsteps echoed as they descended a wide stone staircase to the double-height first-floor entrance hall. Large arched openings on either side led to the exhibition rooms. Everything but the exhibits themselves was new and clean and shining. Lili was accustomed to old and crumbling and venerable.

Worrying the tip of her sore tongue against her teeth, she stopped in the center of a design inlaid on the marble floor. She’d said or done the wrong thing, back in the office. Suddenly Simon had lost his irreverence. He was being stiff and formal with her, like all the rest.