12. AMANDA

Isabella’s voice is like Charlie Brown’s teacher in my ear: Wah wah, wah wah wah waaaahh.

I make out just enough of what’s she’s saying to know when to nod, but my mind is still in the arborvitae shrubs with Dante, his skin still hot against mine, our breath still mingling together.

How do I feel about it? I mean, the most eligible bachelor in the world just gave me the first orgasm outside of my own hand. We were this close to sealing the deal. I spent my prime sexual years moldering away in dusty old libraries, and then, out of the blue, my first time is almost with Prince Freaking Dante of Morova!

Where do we go from here? My heart knows what it wants – so does my body – but it’s all too much to wrap my brain around.

“What do you think, dear?”

Shit. The old bird asked me a question. What do I do?

“Oh,” I say, nodding. “I agree, a hundred percent.”

“Excellent.”

I hope I didn’t just commit myself to clipping her toenails or something equally horrendous. Pay attention, girl! This is no time for distractions.

Distractions like a prince’s hard cock bringing you to climax…

I manage to suppress the urge to slap myself, but just barely.

The halls of the palace are bustling as usual: people milling about, doing the seemingly infinite number of jobs that are required to maintain the palace, the monarchy and the illusion that it’s all easy.

“I don’t know how I managed to lose track of the sword,” Isabella says as we turn down the hallway that leads to Carlo Ferrare’s office. “It’s been in my charge since I was named regent. I love my nephew, but I swear, if it was left to him, the sword would have been gambled away in a card game long ago.”

I wonder. I probably would have agreed a few days ago, but after getting to know him – and seeing him with the twins – I’m inclined to believe Maria. The image is made up. Maybe he plays it so close to the vest that his aunt never figured it out.

Or maybe I’m the one who’s being played. That hadn’t occurred to me until right now.

“I’m sure the prince realizes how important the sword is to protocol,” I say. “After all, it turned the tide of the battle that ultimately led to Morova becoming a principality.”

There’s very little humor in Isabella’s smile.

“Yes,” she says. “At least as far as the popular history is concerned. Of course, the real weapon has always been the gold in the Trentini vaults. Or in their computers nowadays, I suppose.”

She has a point. The family banking interests go back to the Middle Ages, having survived countless wars through diplomacy, warfare, or a combination of the two. Some scholars believe Napoleon came close to stealing the fortune during his campaigns, but there’s never been any concrete proof of that.

“I made the mistake of leaving the sword in the care of the Trentini family’s chief historian a couple of years ago,” Isabella continues. “Now we need it for the ceremony, and here I am searching for it in a panic like I imagine a commoner would search for his missing car keys when he’s late for work.”

Commoner. Well, I guess I know where a Montana girl with shit-stained boots stands with the former regent. Actually, that’s unkind. It’s the proper term to describe those without titles. It just tends to stick in the craws of the people on the receiving end. Like me.

I open my mouth to tell her the story of Peter and me in the vault in Malta, but she walks straight into Carlo’s office without knocking. If he’s put out by such rudeness, I can’t see it in his face.

“Your Grace,” he intones, standing slowly. I imagine those big, knobby joints of his aren’t his friends at this age.

He turns to me and smiles. “Ms. Sparks. What a pleasure to see you again.”

“Signore Ferrare,” I smile back.

“Feel free to call him Carlo,” Isabella says absently as she takes a seat in front of his desk.

“I couldn’t,” I say shyly.

“Please do,” he says. “I’ve no title, outside of Chief Cook and Bottle Washer. In fact, I insist.”

“All right, then I’m Amanda.”

He nods his agreement.

Isabella sighs. “If we have that all straightened out, can we please discuss the sword?”

Carlo reaches into a huge teak cabinet behind his desk and emerges with the item that’s been at the center of all this fuss.

“I believe this is what you’ve both been looking for.”

He holds up the Trentini schiavona, a type of broadsword with a basket-style guard of polished silver that protects the user’s hand in battle. The gleaming steel blade ends in a handle sheathed in ironwood, which has been wrapped in the finest kid leather. It’s an absolute work of art.

You know – if you’re into post-Renaissance swords, which I totally am.

“Excellent,” Isabella beams. The look on her face makes me think of a mother admiring her child. She reaches out to Carlo, who returns the sword to its tooled leather scabbard and hands it to her.

“Where did you end up finding it?” she asks, running a hand along the scabbard to the handle.

“Actually, I was going to answer that before we came in,” I say. “A colleague of mine was studying it at a vault in the royal archives in Malta. I don’t know how it came to be there, but –”

“But find it he did,” says Carlo. “And he returned it to me. I, in turn, have given it back to you.”

There’s more to the story, but I guess Carlo’s not interested in discussing it with Isabella. I don’t blame him – I get the sense she can be a bit of a shrew under the right circumstances.

“Well, I’m just glad to have it back,” she says, then turns to me. “I’ll return it to our own archives, unless you need it right away?”

“Not until the prince’s birthday, ma’am. I just needed to know where I could find it.”

“Very good.” She turns to Carlo. “Again, many thanks. You’ve eased an old woman’s worries, signore.”

“I don’t know of whom you speak, Your Grace,” he says, bowing. “I see only beautiful young ladies in this room with me.”

Isabella clucks her tongue and sighs as she heads for the door with the sword.

“You’ve been hanging around Dante too long,” she says, but she’s smiling. “Amanda, it’s been a pleasure. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”

“Ma’am.”

“And you,” she says to Carlo. “Take a day off once in awhile, will you?”

He nods and Isabella leaves. As soon as she’s down the hall and back onto the main concourse, Carlo carefully closes and locks the door to his office.

“I appreciate your discretion, Ms. Sparks,” he says.

“Amanda.”

“Of course. Amanda. I wasn’t eager for the duchess to be privy to how the sword came to return to Isola D’ora.”

“I kind of got that vibe from you,” I say. “I was beginning to wonder if maybe Peter wasn’t supposed to have it in the first place, and that was what his big panic was about.”

“I can assure you, Mr. Scott is deep in the Morovan court’s good graces for returning the sword here when he did. His timing was impeccable.”

“Whew,” I say, wiping pretend sweat from my brow. “I was worried for a second.”

Carlo props his butt on the edge of his enormous antique desk and folds his arms over his chest.

“Tell me, Amanda, have you had the opportunity to spend any time with the prince?”

My heart thuds paiinfully in my chest. Did Carlo see us? No, that’s stupid. Or maybe not – there could be cameras in the gardens!

The easy smile on his face erases my worries. I’m just being paranoid. Better get over that real quick.

“Yes,” I say. “In fact, we had some, uh, quality time in the gardens just a little while ago.”

“I trust he’s cooperating with you?”

He’s cooperating, all right.

“Absolutely. He’s shown me only the best royal manners.”

“Excellent. Then if you’ll excuse me, I have several matters that need attending. Thank you so much for stopping in to visit me.”

“The pleasure was entirely mine,” I say.

He drops a wink with one of those basset hound eyes.

“You’re learning quickly,” he says with a grin.

Yeah, I think. I’m learning a lot. And maybe a little too quickly.