Page 3 of Royal Pain
Red flag waving.
Shit.
I didn’t see that coming. Most writers I know don’t look like her, dress like her, or have a body like a brick shithouse. That’s what I get for concentrating on the surface things. It’s fucking disappointing to know her interest is only work related.
“Don’t panic,” she chuckles. “I don’t have any designs on interviewing you. There’s no hidden agenda.”
“Why not? Don’t you find me interview worthy?” I’m fucking with her, but only fifty percent worth.
A smile lights her attractive face. “You’re definitely worthy, and the fact you give few interviews makes me interested in speaking to you on record. But I wouldn’t lead with a request for your time.”
Hmm.
“What do you write? For whom do you write?” I ask.
“New World. It’s an online blog. I’ve got a political column that runs every Friday, recapping the week’s news.”
“Impressive. I’ll look for it tonight. I know you have plenty to weigh in on in these times.”
“Unfortunately true. My hope is I can engage the reader to take an active role in their government. It’s the only way forward, and the one hope we have for change.”
“Said like a politician.”
She meets my gaze with steely eyes. They’ve darkened.
“Or a writer who believes in the premise of the statement.”
I like her. There’s a touch of the fearless in her.
“Easier said than done,” I say.
“That it is. I’ve been accused of being a dreamer.”
There’s a confidence in her tone, as if being a dreamer has only positive connotations. Pretty cool.
“Nothing wrong with dreaming. I think that’s where everything good starts.” I wink.
She’s looking at me intently and it throws my game. Usually when I’m with a woman we get to the sexual chemistry before too long. Not this one. There’s an intellectual heft I sense. Beauty and brains, the dynamite combination a thinking man can’t resist.
“Your reputation proceeds you. I bet that wink has charmed many women.”
“What?”
I’m not sure how to take the comment, but I’m pretty sure it isn’t a compliment. She’s telling me she sees through my typical moves. Not many women have minded or protested.
“I know you’re in New York for another week. Right?” She veers off topic.
I take a sip of my lukewarm coffee. “Yes. My father wanted to visit a few old friends.”
I’m not about to tell a writer, or a stranger, the real reason we’re here.
“And you’ve discovered The Coffee House, a hidden gem. A brilliant move in my opinion.”
“I learned to look beyond the common many years ago. I was educated in the United States.”
“You attended Harvard if I remember correctly.”
She’s done her homework. Is this all a set up? She knows too many details about the family, and in particular me, to back up a chance meeting in a midtown coffee shop on a side street. I must be wearing my thoughts on my face because she addresses my expression.
“A few years back I wrote a piece on your country. I cited the success you’ve had as a sovereign state and used your father’s methods of governance as an example of a successful monarchy.”
There’s a wide smile on my face even though my guard is up. She’s impressive. On an impulse I decide on my next move.
“Would you like to take a walk? I have another hour of freedom and it would be wonderful to feel the sun.”
She considers my request for a moment. “Yes. That would be lovely. But you better put your sunglasses back on. I’m not the only New Yorker who can identify you. The tabloids would pay big money for a photo of you in this getup.”
