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Chapter Two
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“Holy shit.”
The words ricocheted back at me from the mosaicked walls of the Palais Arcadia rotunda, bringing the horrifying recognition I’d spoken them out loud. Okay, whispered. At least it wasn’t a moronic gasp. Those I gulped back—between numerous mental floggings.
How the hell had I thought internet “research” was a proper substitute for all this? How could I have bitched, for a second, that the Cimarrons’ insistence on flying me here was a waste of money? Most importantly, how did I assume Ez and I could conceive a ceremony and reception to match this grandeur?
The beauty continued as I followed a petite court page with a sleek French twist down several more hallways. Every tiled masterpiece was more intricate than its predecessor, shifting in theme from ocean and rainforests to the gold, red, and cobalt of the Arcadian crest. In spots where the walls gave way to archways, I snatched glimpses of balconies with elegant wrought-iron furniture, overlooking lush gardens and unspoiled shoreline. Beyond those beaches and cliffs, the Mediterranean was beautiful beyond description. The waves, like liquefied blue orchids, were dazzled with diamonds of sunlight and edged with lacy foam. It was splendor to the point of pain, but looking away wasn’t an option—as I learned while waiting for the page to swipe a fob over a digital panel embedded into a wall.
I looked away from the view long enough to gape at the state-of-the-art lock. The moment was like the scene in Somewhere in Time, with Christopher Reeve jarred back to real life by pulling out a modern penny. I was equally jolted as we left the enchanted castle, entering offices that could’ve been transplanted from any modern corporate park.
All traces of the old-world majesty were gone. Our footsteps were muted by industrial carpeting, instead of echoing on marble hallways. A collection of secretary cubicles stretched in front of us, decorated with kid pictures and puppy calendars. Their occupants chattered merrily. I was a little surprised, happily so, to see the international assortment of complexions and body types. From curvy redheads to ballerina blondes to wild Beyoncé locks, there were men and women to represent the look. Everyone was dressed in modern white pantsuits, accented with red and gold brocade scarves for the ladies, and matching ties for the men.
My fascination was returned a hundred-fold. Though conversations didn’t come to screeching stops, I discerned fascinated whispers as I kept up with the page. Weirdness. While I was used to such behavior, it was usually because of gossip about the bride I trailed, not me. What were these people thinking of the American main attraction now?
Not that I had a lot of time to ponder those answers. Keeping pace with the assistant was turning into my workout for the week…maybe the month. Ruthless pace, thy name is a court page in flats.
Inwardly, I hissed at those flats.
Note to self. Leave out that part during the debrief with Ezra.
We entered another part of the offices, where the cubicles were replaced by actual offices lining a modern hallway. Through one open door I glimpsed an eye-popper of a modern conference room, outfitted with speakerphone consoles, wide AV screens, and even the latest in two-way hologram projectors.
“Sheez-ussss.”
The page glanced over her shoulder. “Miss Fava? Is anything wrong?”
I lifted a perky smile. “Nope. Right as rain.”
“Oh! I love that expression too!”
“I’ll bet you do,” I mumbled.
“Excuse me?”
“Uhhh…mmm…I said, what a coincidence…boo?”
So I’d never win a rap battle. Thank God the girl looked more set on guiding me deeper into the office labyrinth than throwing down some one-liners—though we didn’t get much farther on that quest either, once a couple of women emerged from the next conference room, curious smiles on their faces.
I recognized them at once, as damn well I should have. A brunette and a blonde, one rocking a cute ponytail and the other with a chin-length blunt cut. Both looked me nearly eye-to-eye because of the killer-cute heels on their feet. Heels. What the fuck?
On the other hand, they weren’t the ones needing to make an impression here—proved by the goose egg diamonds on their ring fingers.
“I heard a Southern California accent,” the blonde claimed in a sing-song.
Her companion went for an eye roll. “I’d spank you but you’d like it, sister.”
The blonde scowled. “What the hell?”
“Californians don’t have accents.” She directed a wider smile my way. “They do, however, know how to greet one of their own.” And in seconds, had me locked in a sunshiney hug. “Hi there. Welcome to Arcadia. You’re Lucina Fava, right?”
“Guess you’re hoping I am.” As I’d hoped, the quip met with her approving chuckle. “It’s lovely to meet you, Your Majesty Camellia.”
“Just Camellia,” she insisted, stepping back to let her “sister” shift forward, extending a hand with more formality. “Or Cam, please. I’m not officially ‘Majesty’ of anything until after the wedding. And this is Brooke Valen-Cimarron, already the sister of my heart, soon to be my real sister-in-law.”
Yeah, I knew that too, but tried to shake the petite blonde’s hand with a blend of formality and friendliness. “And I’m here to propose ideas about you both doing that in beauty and style.”
