Page 4 of Royal Pain
Chapter 2
Belinda
“Just one more block,” I say, navigating the streets of Manhattan with a prince.There’s an image I never considered before.Spring lingers in the city. I’m trying to appreciate the warmth on my skin, because memories of the cold weather with its snow and slush still linger. But today the scent of blossoming trees is in the air and sounds of muffled conversations as people pass by.
A woman in a bikini top and shorts almost bumps into us. She’s texting. At the last moment she looks up, turns sideways, and squeezes between us. “Sorry!” she says before resuming her message.
Zan has a contented look on his face.
“I don’t care if it’s ten more blocks,” he says firmly. “I’m loving just being able to take it in. Being able to walk the streets of New York is a privilege I’m not used to enjoying.”
I return the smile he offers but wonder if he’s ever able to feel joy. I think about the drama of his life. The horrors he’s seen. The deeply tragic story that surfaced when I was researching my article on Mozia. There was no reason to include it in my piece, and a good one not to.
It felt like an invasion of privacy somehow, even though the story had been previously published. My focus is current political information, not history. Especially if it has nothing to do with the country I’m writing about.
Few details of his past were available. I settled for the crumbs I found. But the images brought up were bad enough. How a child’s tragic beginning morphed into a happy ending is only heard of in fairy tales. It’s God’s grace that saved his life to begin with. That’s the only conclusion I could reach.
I remember reading how he’s become a tireless supporter of children’s charitable organizations that benefit not only his countrymen, but Africa in general. Alongside the praise was reference after reference about the acerbic tongue he can bring out when called for. He’s even been referred to as the Royal Pain. But with a playboy bent and stunning looks. It’s a fact he lives up to the hype.
Soraya was the one who suggested I investigate more about the prince. She thought my female readership would be interested. I pointed out my column is serious in nature, but she had a retort. Why not see a picture of a handsome sexy man while they’re getting their weekly update? That’s how she put it. Right about now my best friend is looking pretty smart.
I can hardly wait to call her and say she underestimated his gifts. The bone structure alone would be enough to grab the attention of females fourteen to ninety-four. But the exotic combination of DNA from an Italian American mother and African father sets the stage.
Black hair, jewel green eyes, and a rockin body sends women over the cliff. Me too. I’m free falling. The mustache is hiding his top lip. The bottom one tells enough of the story though. It’s full and pillowed. So, so soft. And never mind thatOut of Africais my favorite film.
He’s getting random looks from some of the women as we walk, but not out of recognition. It’s because he’s hot. Thankfully no one realizes who they’re looking at. Good. If I can keep this to myself, I may have a shot at learning more about him for a slant on the article I’m going to write. This is my chance to impress the powers that be.
Maybe I’ll submit it toVanity Fair. Oh, just the thought of being published in that magazine raises my blood pressure. The one time a submission got more than a compulsory response was enough to keep me high for a month. Rejected, but a compliment on my writing style was its own reward.
Wonder if Prince Zan bought my disinterested attitude? Probably not. He’s no inexperienced, sheltered man. What political writer wouldn’t want to interview him? I need to find out specifically why the Royals are here. All of them. That’s unusual business. It’s not as if it’s an official state visit from the Queen of England. These people have no official status with our government.
Nevertheless, important contacts exist. As in everything, one hand washes the other. Zan’s country is a subject of interest to many African nations that the United States recognize. So, it’s of interest to us. As usual it’s about the money. In this case, Mozia’s mineral rights. I learned that when I wrote my article.
That small piece of land on the west coast of Africa is sitting on a considerable fortune in gold.
But why is the entire family here? I think I know, but confirmation is key. He tried to sell me on the idea King Mansa and Queen Ayana were here visiting old friends. But come on, even a rookie journalist would see that excuse for what it is. Bullshit.
What is more likely is the seventy-year-old king is introducing his heir. Without actually stating it publicly, he’s grooming one of his sons to take over in the near future. Probably Prince Tarik. That would be the best call. It would be a huge mistake for him to choose his eldest, Kwai, and an impossibility to name Zan. He’s not even a blood relative.
“The rooftop garden is up here,” I say, pointing to the entry of the Diamond Hotel. He takes in the small boutique property, and his expression shows he’s as charmed by it as I am.
“I may need you as my New York guide. Are you available?” He says it as if he’s serious. Walking through the doors gives me a moment to gather my response.
“I’m sure you could hire some person more suited,” I chuckle, looking over my shoulder.
Leading the way into the one elevator, I turn to face him and press the rooftop button. A sly grin shows up on his face. Even with that mustache it’s easy to see. I notice one edge curling away from his lip.
“Let me fix this,” I say, reaching up.
He doesn’t flinch as I reattach the offending edge. Think the man’s pleasantly surprised I’m touching him.
“The truth is I’d like to see you again, but I’m interested in more than your touring or mustache grooming skills,” he says, moving a few inches closer. This man looks like he’s never heard the word no.
My brain is in overdrive.Is he a good guy or a lech?He’s obviously used to every female falling all over him. Maybe both men reside in him. I inch myself a little to the left, and he reads my body language and backs off.
If I have any chance of getting an exclusive, or even an interview, I can’t blend the lines between personal and professional. Can’t think with my genitalia. And I’ve got to somehow let him know it without being insulting. Luckily he lets the subject drop.
The elevator doors open, and we step into Manhattan’s Little Eden.
