My Best Friend's Royal Wedding (ARC) Read online

  I choke on my last mouthful of wine. Doesn’t she know the significance of a black card? Or

  does she simply not care? It’s that last thought that hits me like a horse kick, as if everything I’ve

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  ever known has been turned upside down. I’ve never met anyone before who doesn’t care about the money.

  I have to clear my throat before I can speak. “I need to get you to your dress fitting, but

  we’re going to make a stop for dessert along the way.”

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  Chapter Five

  Khara

  The sun on my face feels completely different to the Nevada sun. Milder, gentler, as if the fluffy white clouds drifting overhead are filtering out the heat on its path down to the ground. I lift my face to the sky, feeling the warm prickle on my closed eyelids and my cheeks. I breathe in deeply, and smell food, and humanity, and exhaust fumes, ever-present in any city in the world, I suppose.

  But above all of these is the delicious scent of the man beside me.

  The chemistry between us is impossible to ignore. Trust me, I’ve tried. All morning, and all

  through lunch I tried to ignore this thrum of awareness I get whenever Adam is near. I tried so hard I now have a headache.

  I sigh.

  “Is it that good?” Adam asks. His voice is doing that purring thing again, making me shiver.

  Or maybe that’s the ice cream trickling down the cone and melting over my fingers. I stop

  worshipping the sun and rapidly lick my fingers clean, catching the cold droplets dripping down the sugar cone with my tongue.

  Adam makes a small sound, a little like a groan, and I flash him a look that I hope says ‘in

  your dreams’.

  “Not bad,” I answer. “This could even give Ben & Jerry’s a run for their money.”

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  He snorts in amusement, and I smile to myself. This rich, creamy, home-made ice cream is

  way better even than Ben & Jerry’s, and I’ve been involved in a clandestine love affair with Ben and Jerry since my first high school boyfriend (ironically named Ben) broke my heart. I feel just a little as if I’m being unfaithful to them, but this cappuccino and French vanilla ice cream is seriously the best-tasting thing that has ever passed my lips. I take another lick, and moan with pleasure.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Adam not-so-discreetly adjusting his chinos, and

  suppress another smile. No reason why we can’t both feel uncomfortable.

  I have to admit, Adam’s version of sight-seeing isn’t too bad. From the Guildhall we walked

  along the embankment of the Wester River which runs through the city. Glass-walled tourist boats ply the river, loudspeakers blaring, while plainer-looking water busses move in a steady stream in and out from the very modern looking dock. Then he hailed us a horse drawn carriage, just like the ones in New York City romcoms, and we rode through the increasingly narrow, cobbled streets to this square in the shadow of the cathedral.

  Dotted around the square are the quaint wood-and-canvas stalls of a farmer’s market,

  bustling with shoppers, vendors shouting for attention, kids and dogs, and tourists, who are easy to spot, because they look just like the tourists we get in Vegas. We eat our ice creams sitting on the sun-baked edge of the stone fountain in the center of the square, and a light breeze drifts cool droplets toward us.

  Without a doubt, the home-made ice cream stall is the most popular, even more popular than

  the craft beer stalls. People are queuing for this ice cream, and I don’t blame them. Why isn’t this in the guide book?

  “Do you come here often?” I take another long lick from my cone, enjoying the way

  Adam’s eyes dilate at the sight. Geez, but men are predictable, no matter where in the world they are, or how much money they have.

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  Adam shrugs. “I’ve visited Westerwald off and on over the years, first because my mother is

  a patron of the Neustadt Ballet and has family here, and then more frequently after I got to know Rik and Max.”

  That wasn’t what I meant, but it tells me more than I wanted to know. A patron of the

  ballet? I’ve never even seen a ballet show. It just re-affirms that this man who seems to be trying his utmost to win me over, is in a whole other league. Still, I can’t quite reconcile the man beside me, licking melting home-made ice cream off his fingers as the breeze ruffles his dark hair, with the one I saw earlier, ordering pretentious foods and waving around his fancy credit card and generally acting like a dick. The man I met in Vegas, the one I saw last night, didn’t look like the kind of man who’d want to get his no-doubt-designer pants dirty sitting on the edge of a public fountain, as relaxed here among us mere mortals as he looked in the palace library.

  Not that Adam could ever be mistaken for a ‘mere mortal’. He could be in a room full of the

  world’s most beautiful people, and he’d still stand out. Not because of his looks or his fancy button-down shirt that looks like something out of the pages of GQ, but because of the way he carries himself, as if he’s saying ‘I am Someone. Look at me.’

  When my cone is done, I trail my fingers in the cool water of the fountain.

  “You look more relaxed,” Adam observes, flashing me a decidedly wolfish grin. “Have you

  realized I don’t bite?”

  I eye him coolly. “You give yourself way too much credit. My being relaxed has nothing to

  do with you, and everything to do with the place.”

  He looks at me as if he doesn’t understand. I blow out a breath. “These are my kind of

  people. I belong here, not in a palace.” I wave toward the vendors and shoppers.

  He looks genuinely confused. “You are who you are, whether you’re in a palace or the town

  square.”

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  Of course he’d think that, safe in his bubble of white male privilege. And being more

  privileged than most, he’d no doubt feel that same confidence wherever he goes, whether it’s a palace, a farmer’s market, or a high-priced Vegas casino.

  “But in the palace, there are all sorts of rules and etiquette you need to know to fit in.”

  It’s more than just knowing how to use a napkin or a fork. In less than a day I’ve realized

  it’s how I dress, how I walk, even how I talk to servants, that marks me as different. The housemaid was very put out that I made my own bed this morning. How was I supposed to know that would

  cause offence?

  Adam wipes his hands clean in the water. “Etiquette is easy enough to learn.”

  “I must have missed that day at finishing school.” I don’t even try to keep the snark out of

  my tone.

  “That’s not a bad idea…”

  Since I don’t remember having any idea, I stare at him.

  “Lessons,” he says. “If it worries you, you could have etiquette lessons.”

  Are there really people who teach this stuff? I shake my head. “Thanks, but no thanks. I

  can’t afford lessons. I’m unemployed as of two days ago, so I need to save my money for more

  important things, like transport and the gas bill and food.” And I’m not going to be here in

  Westerwald long enough to make that expense worthwhile. Back in Vegas, I’ll still have to make my own bed, and I’ll only ever use one knife and fork.

  Adam holds up a hand to stop me. “This right here is lesson number one - you need to stop

  doing that.”

  “Stop doing what?”

  “It is considered very poor taste to talk about money. We don’t ask about thread counts, or

  talk about how much things cost, tell anyone we’re unemployed, and we certainly don’t tell anyone how much we need money.�
��

  “But I do need it.”

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  “Lesson number two: don’t give away any information that can be used against you.”

  He rises, offering me a hand to help me up. I’m tempted to ignore it, but that would be rude,

  wouldn’t it? So I place my hand in his and for a moment I struggle to breathe, that sensation of his warm skin against mine flooding my senses. Who would have thought something as simple as a

  touch could make me feel as if every nerve ending just received a shock? It’s as if I can see my life flashing before my eyes, but instead of my life, I’m seeing flashes of what it might be like to be up close and personal - and naked - with this man.

  He pulls me to my feet, but still doesn’t let go of my hand, and I’m too dazed to pull away.

  So much for trying to resist this very inconvenient attraction.

  “It’s just norepinephrine,” I mutter, and Adam gives me an odd look.

  It’s just hormones. It’s not real. It wouldn’t last beyond ten minutes after he’s gotten what he wanted from you. Hopefully, if I tell myself that often enough, my brain will finally take over and I’ll stop feeling so feverish I want to strip off all my clothes. And his.

  I pull my hand out of his, and fuss with putting the guide book back in my purse to avoid

  eye contact.

  Adam leads me on a winding route along narrow streets made of uneven cobbles. Thank

  heavens I don’t wear heels. The buildings on either side of us are just as narrow, all identical and rigidly formal looking, no more than two or three stories high, with red, beaver-tail roof tiles (according to the guide book). If the other pedestrians weren’t dressed in 21st century clothing, I’d swear I’ve stepped into a Jane Austen movie.

  Then we round a corner into a wider, tree-lined boulevard, with plush store windows on

  their ground floors, and every one is a designer brand name. Prada. Chanel. Bulgari. Armani.

  I’m so busy gaping at the window displays that I nearly bump into Adam when he stops

  walking. And there it is, the bridal boutique, only it’s not just any bridal boutique. The storefront has one of the most luxurious displays I’ve ever seen, ball gowns and cocktail dresses and fancy jewelry accessories that I suspect aren’t made of paste. The next story up contains the bridal dress

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  display, and these are seriously the most jaw-droppingly elegant dresses I’ve ever seen, with trains and everything. Rebekah might be right; I don’t think these dresses are made for brides who are six months pregnant and headed for the local registry office.

  As if sensing my hesitation, Adam nudges me in the back, forcing me to step through the

  double doors which are being held open by a liveried doorman. Inside, the store is cool and quiet.

  An attendant steps forward to greet us, but when she takes in my blue-dipped hair, and worn jeans and sneakers, she starts to back off. For a second, I wonder if I’ve stepped out of Jane Austen and into Pretty Woman.

  “Ms Thomas is here for her appointment with Anton,” Adam commands, in the same voice

  he used with the footman. It’s a voice that sounds bored, and just a little dismissive. It’s the voice I remember from that long ago night in Vegas.

  For a moment I envy his self-assurance, the way the attendant blushes and says “yes, sir”

  and almost falls over herself in her eagerness to be of service. But I’ve also been on the receiving end of that tone often enough for my hackles to rise.

  The attendant leads us up a sweeping staircase to a private lounge area. Phoenix is already

  there. “Did you have fun?” she asks, eyes twinkling as she looks between me and Adam.

  “It was…interesting,” I answer. “I’ve seen architecture and art today that I never dreamed

  I’d see for real. This city is beautiful!”

  “See - didn’t I tell you this trip would be educational?” She turns to Adam, that sparkle in

  her eyes looking decidedly mischievous. “And did you get an education today?”

  “More than I bargained for.” He looks around the brightly lit lounge. The sofas are ivory-

  colored, as are the walls and even the modern chandelier overhead. The only color in the room is its inhabitants. “I thought bridal fittings were supposed to be accompanied by champagne?” He sounds hopeful.

  He clearly doesn’t know Phoenix very well. She has a hard head for alcohol, and could

  drink most men under the table back when she and I worked together (probably the result of

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  growing up on the road with her hard rocker father) but the one drink she won’t touch is

  champagne. Says it makes her do crazy things - like marry a man she just met in Vegas. Not that I think that was in any way crazy. Just look at the man she married. Is marrying.

  Max isn’t a great catch because he’s an Archduke, because he’s rich, or even because he’s

  good looking. He’s a great catch because he’s a good man. Not the kind of man who would shirk

  his responsibilities. When he and Phoenix met, he was working as a winemaker in California. A

  solid, honest job working with his hands. Then, when circumstances forced him to drop the career he loved, he did the right thing and stepped up to lead Westerwald. That’s the kind of man I want for myself one day. Not Prince Charming, just a good, reliable man who can be counted on not to shirk his responsibilities.

  “No champagne,” Phoenix confirms. “Besides, we still have the dinner party this evening,

  so no alcohol allowed until official duties are over.”

  Adam pulls a face. “If there’s no champagne, I’m going to leave you lovely ladies to your

  dresses. If I remember correctly, there’s a rather nice little bar not far from here that starts happy hour early.”

  I roll my eyes, but Phoenix laughs. “You didn’t read the schedule Max gave you, did you?

  You’re on the guest list for the dinner party, so we’ll expect you in the Yellow Drawing Room at six thirty.” She waves an admonishing finger at him. “And don’t be late. You always either arrive late at our parties, or leave early.”

  He grins, his gaze flicking to me. “There just always seems to be some woman at your

  parties who wants to get me alone.”

  I can’t help it; I snort. Does he seriously think that makes him seem attractive, or that I’d

  want to be yet another notch on a bedpost that clearly has so many notches it’s in danger of

  collapsing the entire bed? What self-respecting woman would think that was a good deal? So I

  simply give him the same icy glare I give patrons who get handsy. The same look I gave that cousin of his.

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  Adam looks away, and it’s my turn to grin. Score one for me.

  When he takes his leave, sweeping Phoenix’s cheek with another kiss, I move away so he

  doesn’t even think about coming close and trying the same with me. His eyes glint, as if relishing the challenge, but he doesn’t make a move to touch me. I blow out a breath as he disappears back down the stairs, then I turn to Phoenix. “I’m sorry I was late.”

  She waves her hand dismissively. “You’re not late. I came early so Anton and I could have a

  catch-up and a gossip.”

  She pats the couch beside her, and I take a seat, grateful to have a moment alone with her.

  “I’ve been wanting to ask-” I gnaw on my lower lip. “What is a royal bridesmaid supposed to do?

  Aren’t I supposed to organize you a bridal shower, or something? The only other time I was a

  bridesmaid, all I had to do was persuade the bride to borrow one of my dresses rather than get married in jeans.”

  She laughs. “This time I have more than enough dresses, and having you here is the
only

  bridal shower I need. Claus and the protocol secretary are handling everything else.”

  “What’s a protocol secretary?” I ask, diverted.

  “Don’t ask!”

  “I am asking.”

  “He’s the person who tells us where everyone needs to be seated, what order they need to

  arrive in, how we should greet them…that sort of thing.”

  “Sheesh! I am so glad I’m not the one marrying a prince! If I ever get married, I want a

  quickie Vegas wedding, just like you had the last time.”

  She sighs dreamily. “Yeah, that was magical. But my point is, aside from Rebekah and

  Anton, I don’t have many friends here. Everyone else I know either works for us, or they’re

  important Westerwald families, not the sort of people I want to share a spa day with, or sit up all night eating chocolate with when I get cold feet.”

  I laugh. “Sorry to tell you this, but it’s way too late for you to get cold feet now!”

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  “That didn’t stop me after I married Max the last time.”

  Our hushed laughter is interrupted by the arrival of Anton Martens himself, followed by a

  team of seamstresses and assistants. Even I have heard of Anton, fashion icon and one of

  Westerwald’s most famous exports. Phoenix introduces us, and for the first time I really feel as if I’m being presented to royalty.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Anton says, but he isn’t looking at me. He’s looking at my chest, and

  I’m about to give him that same icy look that quelled Adam, when he says “US size six?”

  I nod.

  For someone who owns a label that headlines at all the major fashion weeks, Anton is

  remarkably down-to-earth. While we wait for the assistants to fetch the clothing rail, he chats to us about his favorite binge TV show, the ‘greasy spoon’ he and his partner Lee like to go to for

  traditional English breakfasts, and the time he got lost in Paris and nearly missed his own show.

  When he fits me for my bridesmaid dress, he gets down on his hands and knees to pin the hem