The Frog Prince (37 page)

Still on one knee, Roman holds up a sparkling, diamond-studded crown. I can’t help it—I gasp. “Holy shit, Roman, is that–”

“This is the crown my great-grandmother wore at her wedding to Karl the First of Austria,” he says, too pleased by half.

“You–you stole a crown?”

He snorts softly. “Well, you can’t really steal something that technically belongs to your family.”

“Oh, right. Can I…hold it?” I am actually clenching and unclenching my fingers in my eagerness to get my hands on it.

He smiles. “Leigh, you’re sort of ruining this for me.”

“Ruining this for you.”

“Yeah, plus my knee is getting cold.”

I take a startled step backwards, right back into full panic mode.

“I love you, Leigh,” he says, still holding the crown out to me. “I have never felt more like a king than the six months that you’ve been in my life. I want this to be yours.”

“You’re…giving me a crown,” I say, glancing around nervously. I fully expect that someone from Interpol will be jumping out of a snow-covered bush any second. “Be serious, Roman.”

“Well, I’m giving it to you metaphorically,” he concedes.

“Metaphorically,” I parrot.

“I’m asking you to come back to Austria with me now–tonight–and wear this crown at our wedding. I want you to be my wife and the Princess Consort of Austria.”

I am on the verge of saying something–one hundred somethings–but I can’t actually get any words to come out. I just stand there, holding the breath inside my lungs in case I am eventually able to articulate something.

“Leigh?”

I blow out the air just as my vision starts to get spotty. “You–you can’t just ask me to marry you,” I say.

He stares at me. “Because…?”

“Because you’re making me an offer that’s not yours to make, that’s why!”

He stiffens, lowering the crown onto his bent knee. “You think who I ask to marry me,” he says slowly, “is someone
else’s
offer to make?”

“Be reasonable, Roman!” I yell. “You can’t even switch from butter to margarine without putting it on the ballot.”

He shrugs. “Fine. I’ll go back to Austria and abdicate and then we can get married when I come back to the States. No crown in that case, of course, but maybe we can pick up one of those paper ones from Burger King and get married at Caesar’s Palace in Vegas.”

I scowl down at him, annoyed that he is clearly playing on my weakness for crowns and palaces. “You can’t just run back to Austria and abdicate so we can get married!”

“Why not?”

“Because–because of Wallis Simpson!”

He looks puzzled. “Who?”

“The Duchess of Windsor? The British royal family rejected her, the British people hated her, so King Edward the Eighth was forced to abdicate so that he could marry her.”

Now he nods knowingly.

“And then it turns out that they hated each other–
she called him Peter Pan!
–and they had to live like leeches off public money in the Bahamas for the rest of their lives because they were—they were
unemployable
!”

I sniffle through a fresh round of tears, swiping my gloved fingers under my eyes to catch the overflow.

Roman stares at me, a half-smile still on his face. Then he puts the crown back into the case, closing the lid and securing the locks. Pushing himself to his feet, he leans over and smacks the snow off his pants and the front of his coat.

I freeze to the spot as he removes his gloves and drops them casually onto the crown case. He steps over to me and slowly undoes the oversized buttons on my coat, then pushes his hands under my coat and my sweater until he is touching the bare skin of my waist. He pulls me close to him and grazes my jaw line with his lips, all the way up to my ear.

“Leigh?” he says softly.

“Yes.” I’m close to swooning now; confirming my identity is all I can manage. He pulls me tighter to him, every edge of our bodies from the shoulders down is so tightly pressed together that there’s almost more of him inside my coat than there is me.

“I would
never
let you call me Peter Pan,” he murmurs in my ear.

I lean my forehead against his shoulder.

“Not to mention you haven’t been divorced twice,” he says.

“That
you
know of,” I say, my voice muffled in the fabric of his coat.

He chuckles. “I’m sure the press would have uncovered all that by now.”

“Speaking of the press, if you announce that we’re engaged–”

“Are we engaged?”

I ignore his question. “If you announce that we’re engaged, the press…” I trail off, unable to finish through my gritted teeth.”

“You really should stop watching TV,” he says. “It kills brain cells.”

I smile, recognizing my own suggestion to him all those months ago. “Don’t you believe anything you hear unless you hear it from me,” I say.

“I promise you I won’t even believe it then.” He pulls away from me and takes my hands. “So…will you?”

“Will I what?”

Roman rolls his eyes. “Was it me or someone who looked like me who just got down on his knee and asked you to marry him?”

I sigh. “I’ll try.”

“You’ll
try
to marry me? I thought the only choices were ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

“Come on, Roman, you know it’s not going to be that easy. There’s your family, Parliament. Hell, you’ll probably have to have another referendum.”

For once he doesn’t have an answer.

I turn my head up, watching as the snow spins down on us through the lights. “Wallis Simpson once said ‘You have no idea how hard it is to live out a great romance.’” I bite my lower lip, fighting back a sob that is bubbling up the back of my throat. “It’s going to be really hard for us.”

“Yes.”

Snowflakes the size of quarters spin around us as Roman leans forward to kiss me. No sooner have his lips touched mine then a voice crackles from somewhere underneath his coat: “
Entschuldigen Sie mich, Ihre Hoheit
.”

Roman groans and pulls a cell phone from his pocket. Keying it like a walkie-talkie he says, “Go ahead.”

Responding in English must be the cue for his security detail to do likewise. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” says the guard in a thick German accent. “The press is on its way, sir.”

“How long?”

“Channel Nine has a helicopter in the air. Two minutes.”

“Okay.” He puts the phone back in his pocket and eyes the sky. “Uh, I don’t suppose you have your passport on you?”

“Yeah, I carry that around all the time in case I need to flee the country.”

He grabs the crown case in one hand, my hand in the other, and leads us carefully down the snow-packed stairs, back in the direction of Union Station. I see Kat and his security detail waiting for us next to a limo.

As we get closer I see the huge smile on Kat’s face. “Well?” she calls to us when we’re about twenty feet away.

Roman’s return grin speaks volumes. Kat squeals like a kindergartener and launches herself at us. “Oh my god, I’m so happy for you guys!” she shrieks, grabbing us both in a hug.

“I’m going to kill you while you’re sleeping,” I mutter.

My threat of violence has no affect; apparently nothing can diminish their enthusiasm.

“Where’s her bag?” says Roman to Kat.

“Christine has it.” She looks at me, realizing that I am only now aware of how deep her deception went tonight. “She’s around front.”

“Her passport?”

“In the front zipper pocket.”

“What the hell, you guys?” I say. “I can’t just leave. What about my job? I just got it back!”

“Extended leave of absence for medical reasons,” says Kat. “I already filled out the paperwork for you. I’ll take it to HR on Monday.”

“Medical reasons? What medical reasons?” Given the guile required to put all this together, it wouldn’t surprise me if Kat has also trolled through my medical records and knows that I have a terminal disease. Or maybe she’s referring to the fact at I’ve obviously lost my mind, agreeing to this crazy scheme.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says as the three of us duck into the limo.

“What about my parents? I have to at least call them and let them know.” Roman and Kat exchange a lightning-fast glance. “Oh, great!” I say, rolling my eyes in exasperation. “Is there anyone who
doesn’t
know about this?”

“I couldn’t very well propose to you and whisk you out of the country without speaking to your parents,” he says.

The driver maneuvers the car carefully through the snow-covered street, around to the front of Union Station. He pulls up to the curb where Christine is standing by, shivering in the cold, with three fully-loaded jumbo suitcases.

Roman starts to get out, but a guard cautions him. “The helicopter cannot get low enough for a good shot,” he says, peering from the window up at the sky. “But their news trucks are on the way.” He jumps out to load the suitcases into the trunk.

Roman pulls Christine into the car and gives her a big hug, both of them grinning from ear to ear.

“I suppose you’re in on this too?” I ask her.

Christine leans across the seats and kisses me on the cheek. “Thank you for not breaking his heart,” she says in my ear. “You’re doing the right thing.”

“How do you know?” I grumble.

She shrugs. “Any guy who would turn his back on a kingdom for a woman is willing to go the extra mile to make you happy. Just think about all the breakfasts in bed you’ll get out of him. Hell, he’ll probably even put the toilet seat down for you.”

“Great…I can’t wait to see
that
picture on the cover of the tabloids.”

Christine smiles. “Come on, Kat,” she says, backing out of the car onto the sidewalk.
“Wait, where are you going?” I say. There’s already a spotlight from the helicopter shining down on our car. “The guard says the news crews are coming.”

“Perfect,” says Kat. “We’ll promise to give them an exclusive. By the time they realize we’re lying you guys will be halfway to Austria.”

I feel my throat getting tight as I realize I may not see Kat for some time. I catch her in a hug before she gets out of the car. “Thank you, my best, best friend,” I say, kissing her on the cheek. “I’m going to miss you guys.”

She squeezes me. “I’ll see you at the wedding.”

“Will you be my maid of honor?” I say before she can pull away.

“Matron of honor,” she corrects me. “I’m a married woman. Don’t you know anything about weddings?”

“Not really,” I say. “I’m not sure I want to know even now.”

Kat releases me and steps out of the car, her blonde hair almost white in the brilliance of the spotlight. She and Christine raise their hands in a final farewell as they shut the door and the car pulls away from the curb.

Roman holds my hand but is otherwise quiet and thoughtful as the car leaves downtown and gets onto Interstate 25, pulling the helicopter spotlight along with it. By the time we reach Interstate 70 we are being followed by an armada of news vans.

Not until we’re passing the Purina dog food factory does Roman speak again.

“No regrets, Leigh?”

I shake my head. “I learned a lot the first time around.”

“Shut your eyes,” he says suddenly. “Cover your ears too.”

I look at him like he’s crazy. “If you tell me I have to plug my nose, I’m getting out of the car.”

“Humor me,” he says.

I sigh, but do as he says. A few seconds later I feel a weight on my head and his fingers arranging my hair. My eyes fly open as he tucks a few strands behind my ear. I reach over my head to touch the delicate crown perched just above my hairline.

“Perfect,” he says, leaning back in his seat to admire me.

“You play dirty, you know that?” I say, grinning despite myself.

“Hey, desperate times call for desperate measures,” he says, unapologetic. He climbs across the space between us and sits next to me. “It looks really sexy on you.”

“So…I don’t suppose you brought one of the planes with a bedroom in it?”

He grins. “Yeah, but I didn’t plan it that way, it’s just how it worked out.

“You think I could wear this…” I trail off suggestively.

He kisses me just once, but his mouth is only inches away from mine with the promise of more to come.

“Only if you call me Your Majesty,” he whispers.

AFTERWORD

A well-written novel blends facts and fiction so well that it is difficult for the reader to distinguish one from the other. Although many of the places and events in this book are real, I have taken license with history and the present, as well as with palaces and languages to create a world of my own design. In short, one should not plan a trip to Vienna based on my descriptions.

It should be noted that the German in this book is atrocious, and bears very little resemblance to Austrian German (or German of any kind for that matter). German
ish
phrases are included to provide literary “flavor,” and are not meant to stand up to any kind of expert translation. I apologize to Austrians and any actual German speakers who have suffered through my “Babel Fish German.”

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A novel may have a single author, but every novel is the result of the support, insight, and kindness of many, many people.

Those who provided factual input for the content of this novel deserve special mention; however, any errors in fact or detail, whether intentional or not, are mine alone.

My deep appreciation to Curator Dr. Elfriede Iby, and Johanna Frey of Vienna, Austria, for answering dozens of trans-Atlantic questions about Schönbrunn Palace, especially those involving secret passages and “dummy” doors– even answering questions I hadn’t thought to ask.

Thank you to Mag. Ute Axmann of the Austrian Ministry of Defense for assisting me with photos of Austrian military uniforms.

I would like to thank Tiffiny Wine, National Lindy Hop Champion many times over, and teacher extraordinaire who assisted with the dancing facts in the book, and who spent a lazy weekend hour trying to identify the song
Bei Mir Bist Du Schoen
based on my sketchy recollection and tone-deaf humming.