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“I did. I still am,” he said. “Going for a doctorate in international law.”
“A doctorate—so you’re just visiting?”
“My father got married today,” he said.
“Your father—”
Her face froze in shock as she put two and two together. Suddenly she collapsed against him. “Oh my goodness,” she cried. “I had no idea you were the prince! A thousand apologies—oh my god, I yelled at you, too! I—”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You should hear what my professors call me.”
“But you’re the prince—”
“The least important one,” he said, laughing as he helped her up. “I have two brothers and two sisters, all of them older with at least three kids each, which means that as far as succession goes, there are at least two generations before I even have a chance at the throne.”
“But you’re still a prince—”
“Only in title. Practically, I’m one of those annoying rich prats with a trust fund that goes whoring in Amsterdam every weekend,” he said. “That’s all my title means—money that I didn’t earn doing stuff I don’t even like that much.”
She looked at him, puzzled. “Then why do you do it?” she asked.
“Because it’s—”
He’d been about to say “fun” but that wasn’t exactly true, either. It was enjoyable in the moment, sure. But when it was over he always felt vaguely dirty and unhappy with the women he’d just had a screaming orgasm with. Maybe it was the fact that he was paying them, that he couldn’t be sure that they meant it. Or maybe it was the fact that they were whores—God only knew how many men had had them, how exploited they were. The Dutch had policies in place to make sure the girls were treated well and weren’t forced into doing anything they didn’t want to, but he knew just as well as anybody else visiting the Red Light District that the rules were more like guidelines.
“—it’s just something guys do,” he said, acutely aware of how lame he sounded. “I don’t really know why I do it—it’s a power trip, I guess.”
“Weird power trip,” she said. “It’s not even like a hooker is even really under your control.”
“I know, I get it, I’m a bastard, okay?” he snapped.
“No, it’s not that,” she said. “I mean, yeah, having hookers in Amsterdam is sketchy business no matter how you cut it. But if you’re really into hookers for the power trip—that’s like saying that you’re into coffee because you like cocaine.”
“What are you saying?”
“Real power is something that’s earned. You don’t get it just because you pay a pimp.”
She did have a point, and he was feeling chagrined as she slammed the door shut and turned the engine. The van coughed to life. I need to make this up to her, prove that I’m not a pure dick, he thought. “I’m going to be here for two more days,” he said, suddenly. “Want to have dinner tomorrow?”
For the first time since he first laid eyes on her, she was uncertain. He could imagine her mind trying to work through a complicated algorithm, balancing what she’d just said about real power with the fact that she really seemed to like him. “I guess so,” she said, finally. “In Manama?”
“If you insist,” he said. “There’s a lovely restaurant in Jaffa, though. More intimate, quieter—and I’m less likely to get noticed by the Bahrani paparazzi.”
“Really—there are paparzzi here?”
He could understand her incredulity—the island nation had a little more than a million people on it, and a quarter of them were foreign. “Well, yes,” he said. “They’re more polite than your British rags, but you’ll understand if I would rather spare my father another diplomatic incident.”
She smiled. “Jaffa it is, then. Here’s my number,” she said, passing him a business card. “Call me.”
***
The next morning he went downstairs to get some breakfast—he hadn’t had a chance to eat very much the night before because of the screw-up that he’d perpetrated. He told one of the servants to fix something light for him, and bring it to the pool. After all this time in London, fixing his own things, ordering servants around felt a little strange.
Misha was out by the pool already, taking up one of the lounge chairs while reading a Russian newspaper. It always baffled him, how Misha could find a Russian newspaper anywhere in the world, especially since it was at least a two-hour drive to Manama. “Your father is angry at you,” Misha said, as he took the chair next to his bodyguard.
“He’ll be even angrier when he finds out I have a date tonight,” Bashir said.
“Why do you do this?” Misha asked. “Why do you make him so angry?”
