square, rather heavy face was set in a manner that brooked no argument.
The royal mind was made up. Even so, Astrid thought hotly, she would resist it all the way.
‘So you’ll call Max?’
‘I can’t,’ she said stubbornly. ‘He’s at Oakeshott House, at Stonker Shropshire’s.’
A mighty jolt of panic now shook Engelbert’s composure. He swallowed, and his myopic eyes narrowed. Stonker Shropshire! That
settled it. If Max was with Stonker Shropshire . . .
The handsome English duke, with his imposing height, silver hair, libidinous reputation and the allegedly enormous manhood
to which his nickname referred, was something of a ladykiller even in his mid sixties. He and Astrid had been friends for
many years. Had they ever been more? the King often wondered.
For all his bombast and bluster, Engelbert was deeply insecure. He was aware that in marrying Astrid, he had strayed significantly
out of his league lookswise. He adored his wife, but the fear thatshe had never really wanted to marry him lurked deep within, and sometimes, like now, it rose to the surface.
‘What’s he doing with Stonker?’ the King growled.
‘I did tell you about it,’ Astrid snapped back.
‘When?
When?
’ the King demanded. Had he really been informed? He cast Astrid a suspicious look.
‘I’ve told you several times,’ the Queen snorted. ‘But the only person you seem able to listen to at the moment,’ she added,
her voice rising sharply, ‘is that
ghastly
PR man.’
‘He’s not ghastly,’ the King retorted. ‘He’s saving Sedona. Look, just tell Max he has to come home and get married. He’s
the eldest. The Crown Prince, the heir. It’s his duty to his king and his country. He has no choice.’
Chapter 12
In a garden square just south of Oxford Street in central London, a dark-haired woman in a red coat and high black heels was
sitting on a bench. She was keenly watching the entrance of an imposing thirties office block across the road. Above the revolving
door were the words ‘Fashion House’, although, strictly speaking, the building did not require this announcement that it was
the home of
Fashion
, the hugely influential glossy magazine. The leggy, polished creatures who kept the door in a constant spin were proof enough.
Alexa had watched them arrive, one by one. In Porsches, Ferraris and Aston Martins they had come, driven by glamorous men
who kissed them lingeringly before roaring off round the square in a cloud of smoke and money. None of these sophisticated
creatures seemed to walk from the Tube, as she had done.
She knew, however, that to feel bitter was an indulgence she could not afford. She had nowhere to stay that night, nor did
she have a job. And if she didn’t get both before the end of the day, she was lost. She could either sleep on the streets
or return to Mum and Dad’s; the former option seemed by far the most attractive.
She looked glumly across at Fashion House.
Fashion
magazine was not her quarry; a job on its sister publication,
Socialite
, was her aim. On the train, it had seemed a possibility; Alexa had pictured herself swanning in, passing security with a
light sallyand ascending in the lift to waylay the
Socialite
editor, impress her with her irresistible chutzpah and talk her way into a job.
Now, she felt less certain. She had been close enough to the doors to see that security was hardly the sort one just flounced
past; two mean-looking men in uniform sat behind the gold-sprayed front desk. Alexa’s hastily concocted alternative plan had
been to persuade an employee to accompany her in, but the idea of approaching any of them made even Alexa quail. There was
something so disdainful about the privileged beauties who scampered through the door, tossing their hair and swinging their
It bags. Seeing one look her over haughtily as she swept past in a cloud of delicious perfume, Alexa had retreated to the
garden square to regroup. How was
The royal mind was made up. Even so, Astrid thought hotly, she would resist it all the way.
‘So you’ll call Max?’
‘I can’t,’ she said stubbornly. ‘He’s at Oakeshott House, at Stonker Shropshire’s.’
A mighty jolt of panic now shook Engelbert’s composure. He swallowed, and his myopic eyes narrowed. Stonker Shropshire! That
settled it. If Max was with Stonker Shropshire . . .
The handsome English duke, with his imposing height, silver hair, libidinous reputation and the allegedly enormous manhood
to which his nickname referred, was something of a ladykiller even in his mid sixties. He and Astrid had been friends for
many years. Had they ever been more? the King often wondered.
For all his bombast and bluster, Engelbert was deeply insecure. He was aware that in marrying Astrid, he had strayed significantly
out of his league lookswise. He adored his wife, but the fear thatshe had never really wanted to marry him lurked deep within, and sometimes, like now, it rose to the surface.
‘What’s he doing with Stonker?’ the King growled.
‘I did tell you about it,’ Astrid snapped back.
‘When?
When?
’ the King demanded. Had he really been informed? He cast Astrid a suspicious look.
‘I’ve told you several times,’ the Queen snorted. ‘But the only person you seem able to listen to at the moment,’ she added,
her voice rising sharply, ‘is that
ghastly
PR man.’
‘He’s not ghastly,’ the King retorted. ‘He’s saving Sedona. Look, just tell Max he has to come home and get married. He’s
the eldest. The Crown Prince, the heir. It’s his duty to his king and his country. He has no choice.’
Chapter 12
In a garden square just south of Oxford Street in central London, a dark-haired woman in a red coat and high black heels was
sitting on a bench. She was keenly watching the entrance of an imposing thirties office block across the road. Above the revolving
door were the words ‘Fashion House’, although, strictly speaking, the building did not require this announcement that it was
the home of
Fashion
, the hugely influential glossy magazine. The leggy, polished creatures who kept the door in a constant spin were proof enough.
Alexa had watched them arrive, one by one. In Porsches, Ferraris and Aston Martins they had come, driven by glamorous men
who kissed them lingeringly before roaring off round the square in a cloud of smoke and money. None of these sophisticated
creatures seemed to walk from the Tube, as she had done.
She knew, however, that to feel bitter was an indulgence she could not afford. She had nowhere to stay that night, nor did
she have a job. And if she didn’t get both before the end of the day, she was lost. She could either sleep on the streets
or return to Mum and Dad’s; the former option seemed by far the most attractive.
She looked glumly across at Fashion House.
Fashion
magazine was not her quarry; a job on its sister publication,
Socialite
, was her aim. On the train, it had seemed a possibility; Alexa had pictured herself swanning in, passing security with a
light sallyand ascending in the lift to waylay the
Socialite
editor, impress her with her irresistible chutzpah and talk her way into a job.
Now, she felt less certain. She had been close enough to the doors to see that security was hardly the sort one just flounced
past; two mean-looking men in uniform sat behind the gold-sprayed front desk. Alexa’s hastily concocted alternative plan had
been to persuade an employee to accompany her in, but the idea of approaching any of them made even Alexa quail. There was
something so disdainful about the privileged beauties who scampered through the door, tossing their hair and swinging their
It bags. Seeing one look her over haughtily as she swept past in a cloud of delicious perfume, Alexa had retreated to the
garden square to regroup. How was
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