Royal Snapshot

By Anya Sharpe

Gia Perrone is hired to fill in as famous photographer Scott Wainwright's assistant. The job entails documenting the life of Santoria's royal family and the prince's wedding. All work, no play, right? Wrong. Scott lives up to his reputation as an insulting bully of a boss until he makes his off-the-clock interest in Gia clear. Meanwhile, Prince Roman can't stop flirting with her, despite being engaged. Add in non-committal ex-boyfriend Jason Fortin begging for a fifth chance, and good grief, life in Santoria isn't just a job anymore. It's a conundrum of royal proportions.

Which one will win her heart? One she doesn't want. One she can't have. One she can have—maybe—but does she want him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Jun 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781509231621

Anya Sharpe

Anya Sharpe is a former journalist and teacher who has been addicted to reading her whole life. Key to Heart is Book Two of the Hearts on the Line Series. When she isn’t writing or with her nose stuck in a book, she loves to travel—especially anywhere there is a warm, sunny beach—scuba dive, ski, and try interesting restaurants. She’s a pretty good cook, too. Anya lives near Boston with her family, along with her side-kicks, The Dog and The Cat. Visit Anya at www.anyasharpe.com

Book preview

NetGalley

Chapter One

Gia

It will pay the bills.

I mutter my mantra—one of the two reasons I’m even doing this—while stuffing random handfuls of clothes into the two large suitcases spread open on my bed. It will pay the bills. It will pay the bills.

Do you even know what you’re packing, Gia?

For the past twenty minutes my best friend, Sophie, has been leaning in the doorway watching my haphazard attempt at filling the suitcases while casually filing her fingernails. Frankly, the scratchy sound of the emery board is irritating the crap out of me. And, I’m already in a pissy mood. I have plenty to be pissy about, too.

I don’t care what I’m packing. As long as I have enough clean underwear for a month or so.

They probably have people to do your laundry, you know. It’s not like you’ll be trudging through the outback with a backpack and one change of clothes.

Very funny. I still can’t believe I got suckered into doing this.

"Then, why are you really doing it? Honestly, you could get another job anywhere. Waiting tables or something. Don’t be so stubborn."

Flinging a pair of my favorite strappy, dressy sandals—which I may or may not need—into one suitcase, I pause to glare at her before diving back into my closet. You know why. Where the hell is my orange sundress? I need my orange sundress.

The one in the suitcase?

I poke my head out and, sure enough, it’s sitting right on top of a pile of other dresses. Sophie pushes off the threshold and opens a dresser drawer, dangling my favorite red and white striped bikini from her fingertips. Hey, you should bring this.

Why?

She shrugs. I dunno. Maybe they have a pool. The place is big enough. They probably have, like, eight of them or something. Not to mention, beaches. She wiggles her eyebrows.

I’m not going on a damned vacation. I’ll be working, and lucky to get any sleep, based on Scott’s reputation as a slave-driver. I rub my temples. I can’t afford to screw this up, Soph. Not after Uncle Roger went and pulled strings to get me the job when Scott’s assistant got injured a few weeks ago.

"Yeah, yeah. It’ll look good on my résumé. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime. Any girl in her right mind would be salivating at this chance. I need the money. I owe Uncle Roger. You’ve given me all the boring reasons."

Sophie stuffs the bikini under the sundresses. I pretend not to notice. She might be right. Perhaps I’ll get an afternoon off to explore one of Santoria’s famous postcard-worthy beaches.

I still don’t get why you won’t turn this down if working with the guy gives you the heebie-jeebies. Your uncle will understand. It’s not like you’re unemployed and starving.

No. I owe him. Uncle Roger paid my way through school. He’s done everything for me since my parents died. The least I can do is accept this offer he wrangled for me. It’s only for four or five months or so. Yeah, yeah, yeah…working with the great Scott Wainwright—if I can survive it—will be an amazing learning experience. It’ll open doors for me and get my name out there. I only hope he’s not as awful as his reputation. Not to mention this is better than spending another year taking graduation studio portraits. I make a sour face as I contemplate my current—now former—job. My boss was less than enthusiastic over my big opportunity. He may have muttered, Don’t let the door hit you on the way out. Screw him. As soon as the thought rumbles through my brain, I wince. I’d better hope I don’t need to beg for that job back when this is over.

We don’t bother to discuss the much bigger third reason I’m going—because, if I’m honest, there is a third reason, but I won’t admit it to anyone. Least of all, Sophie. So, we both pretend it doesn’t exist. I throw a new pair of bright white tennies into the bag with most of my other shoes. Sophie inspects the contents.

That’s a lot of shoes.

What? You’re the luggage police now? I need an assortment. Who knows what kinds of situations I’ll be put in.

Speaking of…do you have a gown?

A gown? What kind of gown?

A gown, gown. You know, those fancy floor-length dresses one wears to balls and proms? Occasionally they have sequins on them and slits up the leg. She demonstrates by sticking her leg out at a ridiculous angle, punctuating the pose with a hand on her hip. I roll my eyes. Sophie is so dramatic. She’s better suited to this assignment than I am. Spending the summer documenting the lives of Santoria’s royal family is a great opportunity, and I’m grateful for the exposure I’ll gain. But I’m not one of those girls who hang breathlessly on their every movement. I wouldn’t even watch the prince’s upcoming wedding on television if I weren’t going to be there to help photograph it. Then, there’s Scott Wainwright. I dread being in his presence and having him bitch at me. Why couldn’t another famous photographer, like Dennie Muir or Katelyn Smith, have nailed this assignment? At least they have reputations for being nice. The photography grapevine is full of rumors about Scott. Most specifically his nasty temperament with the female species. A few friends in the biz went sheet white after learning where I’m headed, wishing me much-needed luck. One even tried to give me a rabbit’s foot. Ew. No thanks.

Why would I need…oh. Huh. She’s got a point. Photographers dress to fit in, kind of like camouflage. There’s bound to be at least one formal event we’ll be documenting, and probably more than one. "Crap. Of course I don’t have a gown. The last time I wore anything that fancy was my prom, which was a good seven years ago."

She sighs and shakes her head, as if I’m the most clueless woman in the universe. Well, I am. Fashion is not my thing. I’m happy in jeans or sweats. The reason I even have any decent dresses, or work-type outfits at all, is because Sophie is my friend and refuses to let me be a slob. Plus, professional attire was a must for my internship last year. Funny thing. Glossy, high-end magazines kind of frown on ratty hobo as a fashion statement—even for photographers.

Get your uncle’s credit card. We need to go shopping, Gia.

****

My bangs are plastered to my sweaty forehead, as I plow through the crowded airport dragging two oversize suitcases, and doing my best to avoid running over small children. I’m a traveling pack mule with two large camera bags and a turquoise tote strapped across my shoulders and back.

Graceful isn’t a word to describe me at the moment.

It’ll be a miracle if I get through security in time to make my flight. Why the hell is the airline check-in desk so far away? I spot the green-and-white logo for National Airlines and trudge my way over, praying the wobbly wheels on my well-worn luggage hold out until my bags are checked. Huffing and sweating, I approach the line as I’m about to collapse into a heap on the scuffed, white tile floor.

Holy hell on a muffin.

The queue snakes several rows deep, spilling past the end of the roped off lanes into the main walkway. It’ll take at least an hour to get through. Stopping behind the last person, I glance at my watch. My flight to Santoria leaves in ninety minutes. Now I’m sweating for a whole other reason. If I’m not on that flight, Scott will kill me. Or fire me. Or both. In our one and only in-person meeting and several phone conversations, he’s made no bones about his distaste for hiring me, continually pointing out that he wouldn’t have if it weren’t for my uncle’s persuasion. A near-panic attack sets in as I hear my name being shouted.

Gia Perrone!

A tall, thin man in baggy, brown corduroy pants—who wears those anymore?—and an untucked white oxford button-down over a sagging blue T-shirt strides toward me. His sandy hair is an unruly mass of untamed curls set off by dark, round, heavy-rimmed glasses which are perched on top of a beaky nose. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, but it’s not one of those purposeful, trendy scruffy looks. Scott Wainwright may be a world-famous photographer, but he shows more like an absent-minded professor. Just as unimpressive and perplexing as during our initial meeting. Then again, I’m not dressed in high-style either. I went for comfort—an ancient pair of yoga pants, plain white tee, and my faded NYU zip-up sweatshirt. We make a great pair. Together no one would ever suspect we’re headed to spend months with royalty. We appear more suited to backpacking around Europe.

There you are. You’re late.

He grabs my roller bags and spins around, stomping off around the long line. Speechless and red-faced, because the people in line are staring, I gather my wits and hurry after him. Damn he walks fast. Catching up to him with my shorter stature, therefore shorter legs, while weighed down by fifteen pounds of photography gear, is a challenge. I run-walk after him, my heavy braid slapping against my neck. He stops abruptly, and I plow into his back with a loud oomph.

What are you doing? Pay attention. Where’s your ticket? I’ve managed to annoy Scott right off the bat. Super.

It’s, uh, right here. Flustered, I fuss around with one hand inside the bag, hoping to snag my ticket quickly since I put it on top of everything else. But no. That would be too easy and not at all embarrassing. My thumb catches on the strap and the whole bag slides off my shoulder, crashing onto the floor, and scattering any number of items around me. Thankfully, no tampons.

Scott glares as I stoop down and gather everything as fast as possible, stuffing it all into the once-organized bag. I find my ticket and ID, which I clench hard in case these inanimate objects have any designs on escaping.

Sorry about that, I say, standing. When I dare to peek at Scott, I gulp at a little sneer forming at the edges of his mouth, his eyes turning to hard, unblinking marbles. Ohh-kaaay. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he contains his irritation.

"I was under the impression, Miss Perrone, that you were the assistant. We’re not even on the plane and I’m beginning to have doubts about your uncle’s faith in you. Perhaps it’s misplaced? Or even worse, the man sees you through an extremely thick pair of rose-colored glasses?"

Ah, no, sir. I assure you. I’m usually very prompt and organized. I’m not used to traveling is all. Once I’m settled in, everything will go smoothly. I promise. Yeah, I’m not always as organized as I claim to be, but I do pride myself on my timeliness. Traffic was a disaster this morning. The cab had to find two alternate routes because of accidents. I should have been here at least forty minutes ago.

I may be wilting under his condescending glare as he silently assesses me. As much as I’m not looking forward to this assignment—prestigious as it is—I certainly don’t want to get sent home with my tail between my legs, not having even made it through airport security. Scott leans close to my face and speaks in a very serious voice. At least his breath is minty-fresh.

Fine. You have a lot to prove, Miss Perrone. But trust me…you cause any problems once we’re in Santoria, and you’ll be back in New York before you can blow your entitled little nose. Clear?

I cough. As a bell, Mr. Wainwright.

With not another word, he drags my bag through a VIP check-in line. My armpits are soaked, and I’m officially terrified of Scott Wainwright. My inner cheerleader comes to life, the bitch. Way. To. Go.

****

Thankfully, the rest of the flight is uneventful, pleasant even. Scott the Snot—my new clever and oh-so mature nickname for him—didn’t say much more to me during the trip. Once he got over shoving me in and out of lines and grumbling under his breath about what a nit-wit I am, and heaven help him get through this with such a moron at his side, things quieted down.

One good thing? First class. Yup. He may be a giant jack-hole, but the guy splurged for the big leather, reclining seats, and superior cabin service. Can you say free movies and complimentary champagne after take-off? Oh, and he didn’t say six words to me until we landed, which was a bonus, since he apparently didn’t have a single nice thing to say to begin with. I tried to apologize once again to set things straight, but Snot-head pierced me with a don’t even go there, missy expression. Fine. Back-to-back rom-coms it is.

Except I crashed during the first movie and slept most of the flight. Never did get to find out how the couple overcame the odds and fell in love. Not that I care. Love is overrated in my experience. It’s certainly not as fabulous as the romance novels make it out to be. Most guys are self-centered douches, and the ones that aren’t are taken by tall, skinny, gorgeous blonde women with PhD’s in physics. Which I am not. Try five-foot-four, not overweight, but not a toothpick, either. Hey, I work out. I’m toned. Mostly. I’m definitely not possessing the higher-than-normal intelligence gene. Nope, this girl won’t be curing cancer in her lifetime. If she’s lucky, she’ll take pictures and report on the person who is brilliantly smart and beautiful, and the whole package will go viral. Or something like that. Haven’t quite figured out how to maximize the journalism/visual arts double-major yet. This job could be the in I need.

An elbow jabs into my side, and I sit up with a snort, gaining my bearings as Scott informs me we’re about to land. I covertly wipe the drool off my mouth, before my delightful boss can make a snide comment. The guy doesn’t need any more ammo to sling at me. Save it for the big stuff, I say.

The ride in the limo is fairly short. If I hadn’t been with Mr. Uptight, I’d have explored the mini-fridge that’s calling my name. I’m thirsty and could use a bottle of water. I decide against it, figuring he’d probably produce a ruler from thin air and smack my hand if I so much as reach for the handle. Instead, I sit back and hope my room comes with ice cold water.

Which makes me wonder what my room will look like. Given where we’re headed, I’m guessing it should be pretty damned nice. Unless I end up with the closet under the stairs or in the potato cellar or something. I shudder. Ew. Spiders.

What’s wrong with you? I’m stunned to hear actual words from The Snot.

Huh?

Why are you shivering? It’s not cold. Was that another sneer? Or are you nervous? Afraid your lack of decorum is showing?

Is he kidding right now? My turn to glare. The bastard doesn’t have to insult me every time. Maybe mix it up and skip a few? I’m tired and this last gibe rankles. I’m done being meek. Of course not. I’m pretty sure I tucked my decorum in when I went to the ladies’ room at the airport. I scoff and turn to peer out the window, but not before catching a small hitch in his left eyebrow at my stinging remark. My inner cheerleader blows a spit-filled raspberry at him. Love that girl.

The limo turns off the main road and stops in front of a massive iron gate attached to stone walls at least a good twenty feet high. No one’s sneaking over that thing. The driver exchanges a few words with the guard and presents our passports. Then, the windows on either side of the passenger seats go down. A guard on each side shines blinding lights in both our faces, then compares them with the pictures in the passports.

Miss Giavanna Lenore Perrone?

Uh, yeah? I wince at the light which is now searing my retinas. Thanks guys!

Please place your left hand on the screen of this tablet, ma’am.

Uh, okay? I press my palm onto the black screen, which lights up in bright green on contact.

Thank you. You may remove it. A security measure, ma’am, he says, by way of explanation. The spot where my hand had been turns a deep red with pale lines running through it to match my prints. He returns my passport, and the window slides back up.

The large gates swing open and the limo rolls through. Eager for a look, I lean forward to peer around the driver’s head.

The nighttime grounds are blanketed with warm golden light from lampposts lining the long driveway. It’s pretty, but what makes me suck in my breath hard and fast is the glorious structure sitting at the end.

Every single one of more than two dozen windows illuminate the spectacular Royal Palace of Santoria.

Things just got real.

Chapter Two

Gia

The limo stops in front of a grand marble staircase leading to the enormous double front doors of the palace. I envision climbing those steps and possibly greeting the queen in her bathrobe or one of her minions in the foyer, which has me sweating all over again. I may have to throw away this shirt. A guard leans in and speaks to the driver for a moment, then the car slowly moves forward.

Hey, wait! Did they change their minds? Are they kicking us out of Santoria before we even get to see inside the palace?

Was there something about one of our passports they didn’t like? Before I can fully hyperventilate, the limo follows the paved path around the side of the palace. It’s a little darker here, but faint footlights guide the way. I guess giant spotlights shining into the queen’s bedroom while she’s sleeping wouldn’t be a good thing.

When the car comes to a stop again, we’re at what I assume is the rear of the palace. This time the driver opens my door, my signal to step out. The night air is quite cool with a hint of crispness. It’s early May, but being on an island in the Mediterranean, I expected the nighttime temperature to be warmer. I consider all the sundresses I packed and wince. Checking the weather before I left the U.S. might have been a brilliant idea.

While I’m mentally chastising myself for improper packing, we’re ushered through a door into a beautiful, large living room. A fire crackling in a fireplace at the far end offers welcome warmth. Several carefully arranged clusters of plush, upholstered chairs and sofas look to accommodate small groups of people for relaxation or intimate discussion. However, the decor doesn’t seem to be regal enough for a royal family to hang out. Unless their standards are a lot lower than I’d expected.

Good evening. Miss Perrone and Mr. Wainwright, I presume?

We’re greeted by an attractive woman impeccably attired in a modest navy dress accented with a series of gold buttons running down the front. Her light brown hair is artfully arranged atop her head. High cheekbones and full, precisely painted lips bring interest to what would otherwise be a thin face. If I were to guess, she’s in her late thirties or early forties. She extends a hand to Scott and me, in turn.

I’m so pleased to meet you. I am Diana Carelli, Her Majesty’s press secretary and assistant. I will be your main contact during your stay at the palace, as well as the organizer of all the photo shoots you’ll be working on.

Her handshake nearly scorches me when I learn she’s one step removed from actual royalty. Thankfully, Scott does the talking for both of us, because I’m likely to stammer incoherently and blurt out something stupid like, so…is the queen in bed already? It’s happened before. The pleasantries don’t last long.

Carlo will escort you to your rooms. Your bags should be there when you arrive. Since it’s late and you’ve had a long journey, I’m sure you’re anxious to rest. I’ve taken the liberty to have light refreshments placed in your rooms. Carlo will return for you in the morning at eight for breakfast here in the staff’s residence area. As she sweeps her hand around the space, I now notice an archway leading to a darkened dining area. So, the queen doesn’t hang here. Good to know. A royalty-free zone.

Wordlessly, we follow Carlo down a small, narrow corridor. Carlo is about what you’d expect. Older guy, graying hair with a bit of a comb-over, immaculate butler-ish outfit complete with the white gloves and spit-shined shoes. He walks slower than I’m used to, with measured steps, and a back so straight and stiff there has to be a plank under his suit. I don’t get the sense we’ll be sharing a lot of jokes. He pauses at the elevator and pushes a button. Immediately, the door slides open and he gestures for us to enter.

Can elevators be fancy? This one is. Assuming it’s mostly used for staff, the glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling surprises me. As do the padded red velvet walls. A girl could scream her head off in here and no one would hear. We stop one floor up and follow Carlo down a hallway with a series of doors on either side. The plush Oriental-style carpet buffers our footsteps. Carlo brings us to the end of the long hall and opens the very last door on the right.

Miss Perrone, this will be your quarters during your stay. I believe everything you should need has been accounted for, but if you require anything at all, I can be reached by dialing 16 on the house phone. His eyes twinkle and a tight smile plays momentarily on his lips.

Thank you, Carlo. I’m sure everything is perfect.

As Miss Diana mentioned, refreshments have been set out for you to enjoy at your leisure. A card with a guest internet password has been provided as well. I will return before eight for you. Have a good night, miss.

With that, the door closes behind me. For the briefest of seconds, I wonder where Scott’s room is.

All righty, then. Clapping my hands together I spin around and, for the first time, take in the space. Yeah. This is not a room. This is a freaking apartment. Almost. I glance back at the door, blinking furiously and expecting Carlo to knock and inform me he was mistaken. That my room, indeed—because he would use the word indeed—was under the stairs as I had suspected.

There is no knock.

Forest green carpeting covers the floor, plush beneath my feet. I scan the room. It’s enormous. In the front and to the right of where I am standing, a small round dining table is flanked by four upholstered chairs. The refreshments sit there on a tray. Let’s just say they aren’t cookies and milk. To my left is an overstuffed sofa, coffee table, and two arm chairs. Behind the living space is a monstrous four-poster bed that might as well have been ripped off the set of a period romance movie about eccentric royalty. You know, the one where the hot prince guy is going at it with some lithe beauty when the help walks in? The posts are thicker than a professional body builder’s thighs, and climb all the way to the high ceiling. Sheer curtains are tied to each one. If I weren’t so afraid of getting caught by Carlo, I’d be jumping on the bed right now. To be honest, I’m intimidated by it. For my convenience, the bed’s been turned down, exposing white sheets, and no fewer than a half-dozen fluffy pillows. No little mint.

I continue assessing the room. A wall of windows—covered by heavy drapes—is to the left of bedzilla. To the right are two large wood doors. My luggage sits in front of one of them, so I assume it’s the closet, and the other leads to the bathroom. I decide to remove my shoes, my feet sinking into some damned soft carpet as I walk across the room. Before plopping my tote bag onto the floor, I dig out my cell phone so I can call Sophie.

Then, I take a flying leap onto the bed.

****

I dreamed I was engulfed by a light, fluffy cloud. Angels might have been singing, too.

The fantasy is rudely interrupted when my phone alarm begins rattling on the nightstand like it was possessed by a poltergeist, jarring me awake. To my utter surprise, the drapes are open on the windows closest to the lounge area. Someone snuck in earlier to open them, allowing the morning sunlight to shine in. I’m not so sure how I feel about a stranger tiptoeing around me while I’m out on Cloud Nine. Hopefully, I wasn’t snoring.

Sitting up, I take a deep breath, and inhale the glorious aroma of coffee. Last night’s buffet—an array of mini-sandwiches with the crusts cut off, sliced fruit, mineral water, cupcakes and hot de-caf tea—has been replaced by a silver coffee service, and several china cups and saucers.

Ooh! How nice. I revise my previous opinion of the early morning intruder. If they come bearing coffee, I say come on in.

As comfy as this ginormous bed is, a rich, roasted brew is beckoning me. Quickly fixing a cup I sink into an armchair and take my first sip.

Died and gone to heaven. The best coffee I’ve ever had. I don’t care if it’s an illusion because it’s served in such finery—Did I mention real china cups?—or some blend only royalty can buy, I could drink this stuff all day.

Not to be separated from the magical coffee, I refill my cup and carry it with me into the bathroom, where I turn on the shower, and dig an outfit out of my suitcase. The shower…get this. First, the bathroom could fit inside my entire living room. The shower alone, the size of my kitchen. It’s so large and decadent, there aren’t even any doors. Just a partial glass wall and a bunch of different shower heads attacking me from every direction. It’s like I’m under siege from a selection of firehoses. I hurry through the gauntlet of needling sprays with the promise to figure out how to tone it down later.

Not knowing what today will bring, I decide on a simple tan and white light-weight knit dress with cap sleeves and a wide brown belt. I am tempted to default to the usual single braid down the back, but choose to leave my long hair loose. As I’m slipping on a pair of low-heeled but dressy sandals, there’s a tap at my door. Carlo is prompt.

Good morning, Miss Perrone. I trust your night was acceptable?

Searching Carlo’s expression for any hint of amusement, I find none. Is he kidding? Like I’m gonna tell him the bed was hard or something? It was, in fact, the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in. The idea of asking Carlo if there’s a royal bed-tester/buyer on the premises amuses me.

Wisely, I go for polite instead. It was perfect, thank you, Carlo. Please, call me Gia. He answers with a tight, curt nod. We walk to the next door where, I assume, Scott spent the night. He emerges with damp hair, the wayward curls of yesterday slicked back into a professional style. It looks weird. Maybe they’ll spring back to life after his hair dries…boing! I stifle a giggle.

I do give The Snot props, though. He’s dressed nicer than I’ve ever seen him. A pressed navy button-down is neatly tucked into fitted dark slacks, and yesterday’s worn trainers are replaced by polished shoes. He’s ditched the heavy eyeglasses for contact lenses, so I’m shocked to see how blue his eyes are, rather than the stormy gray which pierced me with glares at the airport. Has he spruced up his personality and attitude while he was at it? That might be too much to hope for.

The same elevator brings us back to the staff floor, and Carlo leads us to the dining room.

Sunlight shines brightly through a bank of large, crystal-clear windows on one side, and a well-appointed breakfast buffet is set out along the opposing wall. The dining table is impressive, set with everything minus the plates, which are stacked at the buffet.

Please enjoy your breakfast. Miss Diana will be along in about thirty minutes.

With that, Carlo vanishes, leaving me alone in the massive room with Scott. Good times.

My stomach grumbles, and I set to piling my plate with scrambled eggs, sausages, fruit and toast, and choose a seat at one end. A good twenty people could fit at the table, so sitting in the middle would be awkward. Scott takes the spot directly across from me. Out of nowhere, a woman in a light gray uniform sets a glass of orange juice in front of me and fills my cup with coffee.

Scott and I have yet to exchange more than a perfunctory good morning to each other, and we eat in silence.

You clean up pretty well. Startled, I glance at Scott, who’s staring at me. Not a total lost cause. I’ll assume that’s not the only nice outfit you packed in those leaden trunks you brought.

The jab raises my ire, and by sipping my coffee I’m prevented from immediately saying something I’ll regret. But I do return his glare for a second. This guy isn’t going to get away with taunting me for months. I’m dishing back, and he can go to hell. What’s the worst that could happen? He sends me home for sassing him? Bring it on.

A back-handed compliment. Why thank you, Scott. I could say the same about you, but I won’t. Instead, I blink and smile sweetly, which unnerves him. He returns his attention to adding cream to his coffee.

Diana will be going over our itinerary and what’s expected of us. She’ll also outline royal protocol and house rules, as it were. You know, where we are and aren’t allowed to wander unaccompanied in the palace and grounds. That sort of thing. I nod. Makes sense.

This is the bicentennial of Santoria. We’ll be taking both staged and candid photos in and around the palace as well as in a few of the towns. The commemorative book we’ve been contracted to photograph will be one of the cornerstones of the celebration when it begins September first. Of course, the wedding will be an important part of the assignment. I’m aware of all this, but listen patiently. Scott leans forward, his arms resting on the edge of the table, his blue eyes boring into me.

I expect the highest degree of professionalism from you at all times, Miss Perrone. I can’t believe he is scolding me like a child on a field trip. This blowhard knows nothing about me. Tendrils of anger crawl up my spine. It takes every ounce of self-control not to reach across the table and slap the egotistical bastard. I clamp down the urge with clenched teeth. I’m pretty sure slapping people in a palace dining room would be frowned upon by more than Scott.

Are you suggesting I’m not professional, Mr. Wainwright? For a moment, he’s taken aback by my boldness and formal use of his name, and clears his throat.

I know nothing about you, other than what your uncle told me. Supposedly you know your way around a camera and equipment, so I’m counting on that. Although yesterday would have been better, now is a good time to tell me if that is not the case.

So, throwing my toast at his head is not a good idea, either, right? I’m thinking of upgrading his nickname from Scott the Snot to Scott the Scrotum.

Mr. Wainwright… I sit up straight and tall, the heat of indignant ire flushing my face. Although you’re familiar with my work history at a photography studio…

Yes, yes, Jerry Cohen’s. Any monkey can point and shoot a camera at a pimply seventeen-year-old in his father’s suit. He rolls his eyes. Don’t touch the toast. Don’t touch the toast.

As I was saying… Before I can talk about exhibits of my work at a small, but well-known gallery in New York, we’re interrupted by a cheerful Diana Carelli. She looks exactly the same as yesterday, except today’s dress is red with a