The Prince's Proposal

Jazz did not say anything.

‘Look, you can’t think I was seriously attracted. Not to someone I only met once.’

‘Attraction is usually instantaneous,’ pointed out Jazz mildly. ‘Not a lot you can do about it. OK, you can choose whether you go with it or not. Spend the night. Or hold out for the whole white wedding with pageboys and bells. That’s the stuff you get to take decisions about. Attraction just hits you.’

Francesca shivered again. Even her feelings for Barry had not just hit her. Not in the way that Jazz meant. Not the way they hit other people. Barry had had to tell her that she fancied him, laughing. ‘You’re such an innocent,’ he had said tenderly.

She folded her lips together. ‘Not me,’ she said quietly.

Jazz was unimpressed. ‘Which bad fairy came to your christening and gave you immunity?’

‘Listen,’ said Francesca intensely. ‘Until yesterday I thought I was in love with Barry. I’d made up my mind to marry him, for heaven’s sake. I’m not in the market to be hit by attraction.’

Jazz grinned maddeningly.

‘What?’ yelled Francesca, frustrated. ‘What?’

Jazz wiped the smile off her mouth. It stayed everywhere else, though. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘Give me my glasses,’ said Francesca haughtily. ‘I have work to do.’

Jazz did. Francesca stamped off into the stock room, muttering.

Eventually Jazz wandered in after her. ‘I know you didn’t get hold of this prince last night,’ she said. ‘But I really think we could do an exciting panel one evening, if we could get him along.’

Francesca had not forgiven her yet. She pushed her glasses up her nose and sniffed. ‘Cheap sensationalism!’

‘Yes, that’s what I thought,’ said Jazz equably. ‘But I looked at his book last night. Have you read it?’

Francesca stuck her nose in the air.

‘Thought not. Well, it’s a hell of a story as well as being good popular science.’

‘So?’

‘So call him—talk to him—tell him how great our customers are—sell him The Buzz.’

Francesca forgot that she had told the stranger last night that she was going to do exactly that. ‘Why should I?’

Jazz was prepared for that. She whipped out a glossy laminated sheet of paper from behind her back.

‘Take a look at that,’ she said impressively.

Francesca stared. This time she could actually see the photograph. It was beautifully composed in moody black and white. It would have made anyone look spectacular. But in this case the photographer had had plenty to work with.

It was an impressive face. Not classically handsome. Not even mildly good-looking. It was too strong for that, with its high cheekbones, prominent crooked nose and heavy-lidded light eyes. But it was a face you wouldn’t lightly forget.

Francesca had one instant thought: I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of him. She shivered, inexplicably.

She turned the sheet over. In addition to the blurb there was another photograph. From the book this time, and in glorious colour, it showed off the man’s spectacular tan. He was posed—hell, not even posed—he was standing in a vertiginous landscape. His shirt had clearly lost most of its buttons. It was open and falling off one tanned shoulder as he brandished an axe above his head, laughing. The snow-covered peaks behind him should have made him look small. They didn’t.

It was not just that Conrad Domitio was unexpectedly tall. Or even that the strongly muscled shoulders looked as if they could shift Stonehenge if they had to. Lots of men were tall and broad-shouldered. It was the lazy confidence. The mobile, knowledgeable mouth. And the laughter in the steady, steady eyes.

Francesca thought suddenly, I can’t deal with a man with eyes like that.

Jazz did not share her reservations. ‘He’s every woman’s dream,’ she said practically. ‘And men are all going to want to be like him. He seems to have got that volcano party down single-handed.’ She read aloud,

“‘Why was it the new kid on the block who took charge? Was it because of rivalry among the others? Most of them had known each other for years and competed for academic honours. Was it because he was younger and fitter? Conrad is thirty-two and a regular rock climber who swims daily. Or was it because he is genetically programmed to take charge?”’

Francesca told herself to stop the adolescent palpitations and get real. This was nonsense and every atom of her experience told her so.

“‘Genetically programmed to take charge!”’ she snorted. ‘Ludicrous! He’s just a bossy guy who’s used to throwing his weight about.’

‘He saved a lot of lives doing it,’ Jazz pointed out. ‘And the book’s very accessible.’

Francesca turned the sheet back over and looked at the moody photograph.

‘So is the author, by the looks of it.’

Jazz bit back a smile. ‘Oh, I do hope so,’ she said with a languishing look.

Francesca narrowed her eyes to slits. ‘You can stop right there. You’re not going to wind me up, so don’t try it. You don’t give two hoots about princes. Not even a sexy article like this.’

Jazz stopped languishing and laughed. ‘If he gets the royalty-magazine readers buying real books, I give plenty of hoots,’ she said drily. ‘And they’re the ones we can never get in through the doors.’

Francesca groaned.

‘He can write,’ Jazz wheedled. ‘Oh, boy, can he write. And this is a tough time of year for us. We could really use an Evening with Prince Charming, Franny.’

Francesca sighed. But she did not wriggle any longer. ‘OK. I’ll ring the publisher.’

‘I told you. They won’t look at us. We’re too small. You’ll have to get to him direct. Go on a charm offensive.’

‘Charm? Me?’ Francesca snorted. ‘Dream on!’ She thought. ‘OK, if the publisher won’t come through I’ll get on to the Montassurran network and see how much he costs.’

Jazz boggled. ‘Costs?’

‘Rent-a-Royal,’ said Francesca cynically. ‘How do you think these ex-royals earn their crust? They hire out their only asset.’

Jazz peered over her shoulder at the strong face in the photograph. ‘Would you say his only asset?’ she murmured wickedly.

Francesca was lofty. ‘You have a very low lust threshold.’

‘Me? Nonsense. Everyone knows I’m picky, picky. You’re the one that’s odd. Getting yourself all fogged up by Barry de la Touche!’

Francesca flinched. ‘Go on, rub it in, why don’t you?’ she muttered.

‘I can’t believe that you were really thinking of marrying him.’