Page 2 of Royal Pain
I keep my eyes on the same news page I’ve been reading for half an hour. My fake interest in the finer points of flooding in the panhandle is interrupted by a strong male voice. Looking up, I see a slight nondescript man in his thirties. Looks like he couldn’t swat a fly with any conviction. The line he’s been waiting in just inched forward, and he’s got ahold of the hand of a child. A boy about five, whose eyes are cast down.
“Quit laggin’ behind! Christ!”
He emphasizes his displeasure with a strong yank of the boy’s arm. His fucking arm. The child hardly grimaces, but even from here I see his eyes well with tears. Shit. This kid’s used to keeping his pain hidden. The expression is all too familiar to me. I feel the anger rising.
Then the man turns his attention to Belinda who sits watching. When he smiles there’s a darker tooth right in front that doesn’t match with either tooth to the side.
“Smile, baby. Things can’t be that bad.”
What an idiot. Her expression says it all. Eyebrows knitted, lips pressed together.
“I’m not your baby, and whether I smile or not is none of your business. I’m pretty sure we’ve had this conversation before. Am I right?” She says it quietly but without breaking eye contact. Leaving no room for misinterpretation.
A look of anger passes behind the man’s eyes. Instead of backing off he raises his voice when he answers. “If you’d smile you’d have a better chance of getting a man, bitch. Calm down.”
His words reach the barista who doesn’t like what he’s heard any more than I do. I’m up before I even register rising. The asshole doesn’t sense me coming behind him. But the hands on his shoulders get quick attention.
“Keep on moving before I have to embarrass you. And if I ever see you do that to your child’s arm again, I’ll break your fucking face.”
A hint of a smile cracks Belinda’s serious expression. The man whips around and faces me and quickly comes to the correct decision to back down. I’m about a foot taller than him and twice as able and willing to break any body part required. It’s easy to read intention on an angry man’s face. He shakes off my grip and I let him back away.
“A man can’t even give a girl a compliment nowadays,” he mutters. “The Me Too generation! Ha!”
I watch as he guides the boy out the door, but I know my words will go unheeded. Worse, I believe the child is going to be a victim until he’s old enough to fight back. That’s the ugly truth.
Belinda puts a hand out. “Thank you. I appreciate what you did. Especially for the child. It happens regularly.”
I take her palm in mine and hold eye contact. Light runs wild in this one.
“Some men have no idea how to treat a lady. But I do.” I say it with all the sincerity I have to offer. Never mind I know women love that kind of thing. Uh oh. What just happened? What did I say? Her expression has changed imperceptibly. But I see it.
“You’re a smooth talker, aren’t you?” she says with confidence.
Damn.
“Wait. I think I know you,” she says, suddenly changing the subject.
That’s it. My cover is blown. I was right. No changing the fact. So I remove my glasses hoping I can save my chance to convince her to bed me. I’m nothing if not adaptable.
I slowly look up, knowing I haven’t misread the situation. I’m right. She’s staring at me with those soulful blue eyes. But now there’s a little excitement in the mix.
“Are you Prince Zan? I recognize you from today’s front page of theTimes.” She turns her screen to me.
There for everyone to see are the smiling faces of my brothers and I. We’re surrounding my father, the king, and my mother. There’s no use denying what obviously is the truth. Suddenly my disguise seems cheap.
I face the truth. “Hello. Yes, I’m Prince Zan.”
But I say it in low tones hoping to convince her to keep her voice to a whisper. It works because she immediately softens her tone.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Belinda Banks. May I join you for a few minutes?”
It’s not actually a surprise she’s coming to me. Few people wait for an invitation. I stand and hold out a chair for her to slide into. Grabbing coffee, iPad and purse, she moves to my table.
“Thank you.”
“I’ve noticed you’re on your phone and notepad most mornings. Your work day starts early,” I say.
“There’s really no set hours to my job. Fair warning, Your Highness, I’m a writer.”
