Page 50 of Scarred Crown

Kafil sips his coffee after I hand it to him and sighs. “I took her to observe some lions bringing down a giraffe. I don’t think she liked it.”

“That’s it? Nothing else?” I fiddle with my stir stick and consider his words.

“She seemed fine before that, so yes, I think that’s it.”

Another worker comes over to Kafil and pulls him aside. While they chat in hushed tones, I try to determine whether Jules would be that upset about seeing a giraffe die. Possibly. While we watched a lot of horror movies as kids, she enjoyed the ones that were more over the top, tending toward campy. I suppose that makes sense given that she never liked them at all. Still amazes me she sat through so many and never said a word.

The worker leaves, and Kafil comes back to my side. “We still haven’t located a second bed for Secretary Jensen, but the camp is clearing out tonight. We will have an extra tent next week if you think she’d like her own space?”

My heart kicks at the thought of her being in a tent other than mine. A ridiculous reaction given the distance I’ve purposely put between us this last week. She’d likely enjoy being far away from me, able to ignore me as much as she wants.

“Actually, Secretary Jensen mentioned just last night that she’s enjoying being in my tent. I don’t think there’s any need to inconvenience the staff with a move or a further search. She can continue to stay with me.”

“Should I mention the second tent to Julia?” Kafil raises his eyebrows.

His use of her first name while he still calls me Prince Nicholas scrapes across my consciousness. She’s easy to like, but it annoys me they’ve slipped into such an easy comradery.

“No,” I say. “Julia is happy in my tent.”

The minute the last word is out of my mouth, Robbie walks past us to take a cup from the self-serve coffee area. Lauren has been cozying with him when Julia and I have managed to tear ourselves away from the medical search in our tent to join them.

“You two certainly spend a lot of time alone together,” Robbie comments while he pours cream into his coffee.

“She’s my father’s secretary,” I say. “We have mutual projects.” Answering him is pointless. He’ll spread whatever lies he wants.

His grin around his coffee cup is knowing, as though he suspects mutual projects is a euphemism.

One of the meal tent staff comes over to our group and smiles at me. “Would you like your meal in the main tent or your tent this evening, Your Royal Highness?”

I suppress a sigh. Next time, I’m booking under an alias and keeping my mouth shut about my true identity. The last time there was a big changeover in guests, more staff got a break if I ate in my tent. They’ll deliver as needed and leave me—us, now—alone.

“We’ll eat in my tent,” I say. “No need to go to any extra trouble. Something simple is fine.”

“A feast, I’m sure,” Robbie says not quite under his breath. He strolls to the edge of the tent where we’re standing. “You must get immense satisfaction working so closely with Secretary Jensen. We’ve hardly seen the two of you.”

“I didn’t realize I came to this particular camp to entertain you. I apologize. I’ve been a terrible host.” I peer at him. Did he luck into this camp at the same time as me or did someone tip him off?

“You used to be good for a story or two. Helped us pay our bills.” Robbie muses.

“Never willingly,” I mutter.

“I beg to differ. At the height of your modeling career, there was a new woman and a new story every week. If that’s not willing, I don’t know what is.”

Half those stories were made up. All I had to do during those years was breathe next to a woman and there was a story in the tabloids. The problem with going to an American college—royalty is something they covet, even when they pretend they don’t.

“Give me something, Nick, and then I don’t have to use my wits.”

“It’s Prince Nicholas. And you’ve got wits? News to me. Perhaps you can write about that? Prince Nicholas stunned to find out tabloid reporter has two wits to rub together.”

“All right,” he says and holds up his hands, one of which still has a steaming cup of coffee. “I can take a hint. I can write what I want. Good to know.” He winks at me and heads toward the communications tent.

I could chase after him, offer him the nugget that I’ve started a local foundation to support girls going to school, or that Jules and I have been holed up trying to get a toddler with two clubfeet speedy care. Instead, I let him walk away. There’s nothing he can write about me that I haven’t read before.

“The other reporter,” I say to Kafil when Robbie is out of earshot. “The one who is supposed to be here next week, they’ve been moved to another tented camp?”

“Yes,” Kafil confirms. “You don’t need to worry.”

While I might be used to the type of story Robbie is likely to print, Julia won’t appreciate it. Guess I should give her some warning.