Chapter 5 #2
His lips quirk in obvious amusement as his eyes sweep over me, and I wish I were in my Fabiana Fontaine armor. A simple skirt suit and heels, with my glasses firmly in place. "I see I've caught you at a disadvantage."
"Not at all," I say without even a hint of a smile. Why should I smile? It's clear neither of us are exactly thrilled to be working together, even if we both have something to gain from the endeavor. Plus, he's being rude about how I'm dressed. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
Pleasure, aka, why are you darkening my door when we will both have to endure one another's presence in a meeting tomorrow?
"I've been asked to show you around the palace, Ms. Fontaine," he says with grudging politeness.
He was asked? Sure he was. More like ordered by Daddy under threat of having his allowance revoked.
Man-child indeed.
"No need. Apparently, someone called Rita will be here soon to do just that."
"Rita has been called away, so I've had to take on the task."
The way he says the word “task” makes it blatantly clear how thrilled he is about being here.
"How lovely. Although I wonder, can you really spare the time from your busy schedule of princely duties?" I ask.
His jaw tightens. "I can."
"There's no slip n' slide you need to hurl yourself down? No fish to dislodge from a royal pond somewhere?"
Yes, I'm being rude back. Much like my treatment of the scatter cushion earlier, I'm good with it.
A muscle in his jaw leaps, his eyes narrowing a fraction. "Shall we begin the tour?"
We shall, Your Royal Reluctance.
"Give me two minutes." Without waiting for his reply, I close the door over—which feels better than it probably should—and quickly change into my Fabiana armor of a skirt suit, a pair of pumps, and my fake glasses.
I apply my preferred shade of lipstick, aka Battle Red, and then swing the door open once more.
"I'm ready," I pronounce…to an empty hallway.
What the…?
I glance up the hallway, and then down it. There's no sign of him.
I chew my lip. Where is he? Is this a case of the great disappearing prince? Or maybe he's just playing a game, royal tit for tat as it were: I closed the door on him so he disappears.
Despite my irritation, I laugh. Because really, this is the most ridiculous situation we find ourselves in. Neither of us likes the other, neither of us respects the other, and yet here we are, about to embark on a lengthy project together.
I'm going to need to find a way to get on with this man, or else the next month will seem like an eternity.
"What's so funny?" asks a deep, velvety voice and I almost leap out of my heels.
I place my hand over my heart, which is hammering like it's at a rave, and turn to see the man-child himself, returned from wherever he'd scurried off to in this game of one-upmanship we both seem to be playing.
"Nothing, sir," I say brightly. "Now, this tour. Lead the way." I gesture down the corridor, and naturally Prince Max walks in the opposite direction.
This man!
I follow him through the corridor, doing double steps for each of his long-legged strides.
"If I'd realized this was going to be a cardio workout, I would have worn some running shoes," I say as we turn a corner and enter the public area of the palace.
"As you mentioned, I have other duties I must attend to," he says over his shoulder, and he actually speeds up his pace, so now I’m tottering in my heels at a potentially dangerous speed just to keep up.
"What would they be? Your duties?"
"The usual. Champagne on super-yachts. Partying in VIP sections of the city’s most exclusive nightclubs. A private jet trip with a supermodel." He comes to a sudden stop, and I almost slam right into him.
"So just a regular Monday for you?"
He glares at me. "These are the state rooms where we receive foreign dignitaries." He gestures at ornate double doors. "The throne room is through here."
He pushes the doors open briefly, and I see sparkling chandeliers, red carpet, portraits of monarchs dating back centuries. The atmosphere drips with privilege and power.
I hold my phone aloft. "Okay if I film?"
"Be my guest."
I pan the camera around, capturing both the room and his bored expression. "What can you tell me about this room?"
He manages a smile for the camera. "This is where the king and queen knight people and hand out honors."
"And who is that?" I ask, looking up at an oil painting of a woman in elaborate period dress.
I expect him to at least name his ancestor, maybe even throw in an interesting tidbit. Instead, he simply shrugs. "No idea."
I almost drop my phone. "You don't know which of your ancestors this woman is?"
Without glancing at the painting again, he replies, "Queen Bertha. Shall we move on?"
"You just made that up, didn't you? There's no Queen Bertha."
His dark brown eyes sparkle with mirth. "Queen Bertha happens to be my favorite of all the Ledonian queens," he deadpans, but the corners of his mouth twitch.
"Now that you mention it, I do remember a Queen Bertha. 1574 to 1599, if I'm not mistaken. She forged the first friendly relationship with Malveaux."
Yep, I'm making it up.
Sue me.
He narrows those sparkling eyes at me before he harrumphs, dismissing my fabricated story without bothering with actual words.
“Shall we move on to the Blue Drawing Room?” Without waiting for my reply, he strides away toward another set of double doors, and once again, I trail after him.
He pulls the double doors open, and we step into another resplendent room, this one living up to its moniker of the Blue Drawing Room.
It’s decorated entirely in a deep, royal blue, which of course is thoroughly fitting, considering its name.
The rugs on the floor are silk Persians, the wallpaper is blue with gold detailing.
Just as the throne room had large windows overlooking the gardens, so too does this room, each window framed by—you guessed it—blue drapes.
“When was this room last decorated?” I ask, my phone trained on him.
“I believe it was sometime in the late 19th century.”
“Do you know that, or does it come from your vault where you keep facts on Queen Bertha?” My smile is all teeth and zero warmth, more of a challenge than anything genuine.
A muscle leaps in his jaw.
This is fun. Dangerous, but fun.
I’m meant to be showing deference to this man simply because of his birth, but he’s so irritating, it’s hard not to want to get one up on him. And really, the look on his face of being one-upped by a lowly journalist is one I’m sure will keep me warm as I fall asleep on my plush royal bed tonight.
Of course, I don't mention that I remember this room. I remember hiding behind that very sofa during a formal reception. I watched the adults in their finery while my nanny searched frantically for me, probably wondering how one small child could vanish.
But Fabiana Fontaine is seeing it for the very first time, so I ask, “What happens in this room?”
“It's another reception room used for official visits and functions. I've been thoroughly bored in this room on many occasions. When I was a child, that is.”
“Fascinating,” I reply. I pan to the incredible ceiling molding, remembering how I hid behind that sofa and gazed up at it, getting lost in the story it told. “The ceiling molding is absolutely exquisite.”
Max looks up. “Yes, it's very...molding-y.”
I press my lips together to stifle a laugh. “Molding-y. Is that the technical term?”
He shrugs, looking as bored as he claimed he once was as a child in this room. “How would I know? I’m not an architect.”
The prince glances at his watch with all the subtlety of a person trapped in an elevator with someone they despise. I suppose this is our equivalent. We’re trapped in a monstrously large palace together with nothing but our sarcasm and mutual dislike to keep us warm.
We move through the state dining room, with its impressively long dining table that seats sixty, and I take some more video and photos, even managing to capture Max smiling.
Well, almost.
It's as we leave the official, public areas and move into the staff corridors when something shifts in his demeanor. His features, once tight, relax, his jaw loosening, and he begins to look like the man I regularly report on. Happy, confident.
I click my camera with curiosity.
"Morning, Timmy," he says to the elderly man polishing silver.
Timmy peers over his glasses. "Your Royal Highness. Miss," he says, rising to his feet.
"I've told you before, Tim. There's no need to stand on ceremony when we're in the business end of the palace," Max says.
Timmy chuckles. "Years of training."
Max clasps his shoulder, the first genuine smile of the day on his face. "How's your grandson's summer football team doing? They had a big game at the weekend, didn't they?"
"That's right, sir. They made it to the semifinals!" He beams. "My Hamish scored the winning goal!"
"That's brilliant! Tell Hamish I said well done, won't you, Timmy?"
"I certainly will, sir. He'll be chuffed."
I watch this exchange with grudging interest, like a scientist observing an unexpected chemical reaction. The prince is genuine, engaged, and seems to know about this elderly man's life.
"And who would this pretty lady be?" he asks, looking my way.
I open my mouth to reply when Max jumps in with, "This is Fabiana Fontaine. The journalist."
Timmy's demeanor immediately changes, his spine stiffening. "What?" he asks, aghast. "Sorry, sir. It's just she's Fabiana Fontaine."
I suppose I deserve it. I bet I'm Public Enemy #1 around here.
"I'm covering a story about the prince. Sort of an 'insider's scoop' on all things Prince Maximilien." I offer him a smile, but his face tells me he's not convinced.
“I see.” He turns his attention to Max. "I'm sure you know what you're doing, sir," he says, his tone suggesting otherwise.
Max shoots him a look I cannot read. "Tell your grandson congratulations from me. Take care, Timmy."
“Have a good day, sir. Miss.”
“Nice to meet you, Timmy,” I say as Prince Max gestures at another door.
"The kitchens are through here," he says, holding it open for me to walk into a hive of activity. Delicious aromas emanate from pots on the stove, being stirred by people in white chef coats, others buzzing around, hard at work.
A few faces look our way, and I notice more than one person smiling at us.
Well, at the prince, I suppose.
I take a few shots to use in a video.
"Chef Margot runs things with military precision around here," Max says, gesturing at a woman in her fifties in a chef’s hat with a round, pink face.
"I bet she's a marvelous cook," I say, and he startles me by leaning closer and saying in a low voice, "Be warned. She can be absolutely terrifying, but she makes the best chocolate souffle I've ever tasted."
As if summoned, Chef Margot, wielding a large metal spoon like Excalibur, approaches us. "Prince Max!" she exclaims with obvious delight, her stern expression melting into maternal fondness. "What brings you to my domain?"
"I'm showing our guest around, Margot. This is Fabiana Fontaine, the journalist I told you about."
I blink at Max. He mentioned me to the palace chef. Why? And what exactly did he say?
Chef Margot's eyes narrow as she studies me. "Ah. I've read your articles. You're the one writing about our Max and his shenanigans."
Our Max?
"I simply report the facts," I reply smoothly.
She arches her eyebrows. "Facts, you say?"
I tighten my jaw. "Yes. Facts."
"Hmm." She throws an appraising eye over me, and I shift uncomfortably.
I decide flattery is the best approach. "It smells amazing in here, Chef Margot. My breakfast today was delicious. I'm sure I'll love whatever you whip up while I'm here."
"I'm sure you will," she replies coolly.
I eye a pan behind her on the table. “Is that apple pie I smell?”
"It's tarte tatin," she sniffs, naming the French dessert. "Prince Max's favorite."
There's unmistakable fondness in her voice.
She cuts a slice, slides it onto a plate, and offers it to the prince, beaming at him like a fond mother. "Prince Max loves all my desserts. Don't you?"
He takes a bite. "Absolutely exquisite, as always,” he says around his mouthful. “You're going to make me fat.” He pats a non-existent belly I’m fully aware from photographic evidence is in fact washboard abs.
As I watch him chat with Chef Margot, I try to figure him out. The man who gave me that obligatory tour that so clearly bored him, is not the same person who asks about servants' grandsons or gets indulged by kitchen staff.
The question is: which version is the real Prince Maximilien?
And why do I have the sinking feeling that finding out might be more dangerous than I bargained for?