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“Hey, what do you think Zahra put on my fact sheet?”
“Hmm,” Nora says, sucking her teeth. “Favorite summer Olympic sport: rhythmic gymnastics—”
“I’m not ashamed of that.”
“Favorite brand of khakis: Gap.”
“Listen, they look best on my ass. The J. Crew ones wrinkle all weird. And they’re notkhakis,they’rechinos.Khakis are forwhite people.”
“Allergies: dust, Tide laundry detergent, and shutting the fuck up.”
“Age of first filibuster: nine, at SeaWorld San Antonio, trying to force an orca wrangler into early retirement for, quote, ‘inhumane whale practices.’”
“I stood by it then, and I stand by it now.”
June throws her head back and laughs, loud and unguarded, and Nora rolls her eyes, and Alex is glad, at least, that he’ll have this to come back to when the nightmare is over.
Alex expects Henry’s handler to be some stout storybook Englishman with tails and a top hat, probably a walrus mustache, definitely scurrying to place a velvet footstool at Henry’s carriage door.
The person who awaits him and his security team on the tarmac is very much not that. He’s a tall thirty-somethingIndian man in an impeccably tailored suit, roguishly handsome with a neatly trimmed beard, a steaming cup of tea, and a shiny Union Jack on his lapel. Well, okay then.
“Agent Chen,” the man says, extending his free hand to Amy. “Hope the flight was smooth.”
Amy nods. “As smooth as the third transatlantic flight in a week can be.”
The man half-smiles, commiserative. “The Land Rover is for you and your team for the duration.”
Amy nods again, releasing his hand, and the man turns his attention to Alex.
“Mr. Claremont-Diaz,” he says. “Welcome back to England. Shaan Srivastava, Prince Henry’s equerry.”
Alex takes his hand and shakes it, feeling a bit like he’s in one of Henry’s dad’s Bond movies. Behind him, an attendant unloads his luggage and carries it off in the direction of a sleek Aston Martin.
“Nice to meet you, Shaan. Not exactly how we thought we’d be spending our weekend, is it?”
“I’m not as surprised at this turn of events as I’d like to be, sir,” Shaan says coolly, with an inscrutable smile.
He pulls a small tablet from his jacket and pivots on his heel toward the waiting car. Alex stares at his back, speechless, before hastily refusing to be impressed by a grown man whose job is handling the prince’s schedule, no matter how cool he is or how long and smooth his strides are. He shakes his head a little and jogs to catch up, sliding into the back seat as Shaan checks the mirrors.
“Right,” Shaan says. “You’ll be staying in the guest quarters at Kensington Palace. Tomorrow you’ll do theThis Morninginterview at nine—we’ve arranged for a photo call at thestudio. Then it’s children with cancer all afternoon and off you go back to the land of the free.”
“Okay,” Alex says. He very politely does not add,could be worse.
“For now,” Shaan says, “you’re to come with me to chauffeur the prince from the stables. One of our photographers will be there to photograph the prince welcoming you to the country, so do try to look pleased to be here.”
Of course, there arestablesthe prince needs to bechauffeuredfrom. He was briefly worried he’d been wrong about what the weekend would look like, but this feels a lot more like it.
“If you’ll check the seat pocket in front of you,” Shaan says as he reverses, “there are a few papers for you to sign. Your lawyers have already approved them.” He passes back an expensive-looking black fountain pen.
NONDISCLOSURE AGREEMENT, the top of the first page reads. Alex flips through to the last page—there are at least fifteen pages of text—and a low whistle escapes his lips.
“This is…” Alex says, “a thing you do often?”
“Standard protocol,” Shaan says. “The reputation of the royal family is too valuable to risk.”
The words “Confidential Information,” as used in this Agreement, shall include the following:
1. Such information as HRH Prince Henry or any member of the Royal Family may designate to the Guest as “Confidential Information”;
