Page 3 of The Dauntless (Spy Girl 5)
There’s a commotion to my left, near one of the exit doors. Voices yell out his name while Secret Service parades Daniel through the throng, allowing him to stop briefly to sign autographs. I jump up onto one of the orange spheres and call out to him.
When he spots me, I get a wink, and a single dimple punctuates the smile on his handsome face. He strides toward me, holding out his hand to help me off the tall sphere.
“Are you trying out for the circus, or are you here for me?” he asks.
“I came for the cornfields and tractors.”
“Nah,” he says, giving me a cocky grin, “you’re definitely here for me.”
“Well, I think I still owe you a pizza and a shirt,” I tease, taking his hand and leaping into his arms.
He responds with a quick kiss on the lips. “I know exactly why you’re here.” His eyes flash sympathy before I get the dimple again. “We’re having a slumber party.”
He tightly holds my hand as we walk across the street and to his hotel, Secret Service in tow. The way he’s holding my hand feels protective, not romantic, and I know everything he said was for the benefit of the crowd.
We are whisked up the elevators to the hotel’s Presidential suite.
“My parents are coming later in the week,” Daniel says. “But, for now, this is all ours.”
I walk past comfortable furnishings and come to a stop at the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Missouri River. It’s pretty but definitely not Montrovia, the place my heart longs for.
Did I make a mistake? Should I have gone to the palace with him, told his mother of our engagement, and done the press conference? Would I have still been able to figure out the conspiracy to end the world while planning a royal wedding?
“Did you compete today?”
“Nope, you’re right on time. Just practice heats today, and then tomorrow, I’ll have the two-hundred meter freestyle and, hopefully, will follow it up with the two-hundred meter freestyle semifinal. Have you watched it yet?”
“Watched what?”
“Their press conference?”
“They went through with it?” I ask, my heart dropping into my stomach and causing me to feel sick. “I thought maybe …”
Daniel nods. “Yeah, they did. Tell me what happened.”
“I was with him last night,” I stutter out.
Daniel’s eyes go wide with understanding. “I warned you.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I say, shaking my head. “He proposed. We were to tell his mother of our courtship today.”
“Why weren’t you the one holding the press conference then?” He studies my face more closely. “And what’s up with the bruise on your cheek? Did Enzo—”
“No, he would never! I was in a bit of a fender bender in London. I’m fine, just pretty banged up.” I take his hand and lead him to the couch, where we sit down. “We woke up to the news that his mother had already announced his engagement to Lizzie and the upcoming press conference.”
He rolls his eyes. “Let me guess. Lorenzo had no idea, and I’m the runner-up.”
“No,” I reply, looking into his eyes and sliding my hand down his cheek. “You’re my friend, and”—my voice cracks—“I could use one of those about now.”
“Has he tried to contact you?”
Tears fill my eyes as I shake my head. “Has Lizzie contacted you?”
“Only to tell me that she was going through with it and that there would be a press conference today. Part of me wants to watch it,” he admits.
“Surely, we can think of something better to do.” Anything to not see Lorenzo fawn over Lizzie.
“Like what?” Daniel asks, flashing a dimple and eyeing the sleek four-poster bed in the master bedroom.
I swallow hard, knowing that I can’t hide the way I feel about that.
“You really do love him, don’t you?” Daniel suddenly stands up. “Enough of this.” He grabs the phone and orders bowls of pasta, three pizzas, and some French fries.
“We’re going to watch the press conference before the food arrives and have ourselves a little pity party, and then we are going to focus on me qualifying for the Olympics.” He picks up the television remote, using it to find the press conference on the internet, then sits next to me and tightly grips my hand when Lorenzo and Lizzie fill the screen.
I audibly suck in my breath when I see Lorenzo. He looks … stressed. He’s wearing a dark suit, and the sexy stubble that touched nearly every part of me last night is still gracing his cheeks. I shake my head to ward away the memories.
Lizzie looks regal, her hair expertly coiffed, her figure clad in a conservative designer dress, and a pleasant smile is plastered on her face—the perfect future queen.
The reporter starts off with a single heartbreaking question. “Are you in love?”
“It is an arranged marriage,” Lorenzo states diplomatically. “To be honest, we were both shocked at the announcement. My mother, in all her excitement, might have jumped the gun a little.”
“But we are thrilled,” Lizzie states.
“My questions for this interview were predetermined and approved by the palace,” the reporter states, “but I am allowed to ask one question based off our social media poll. This might be a little awkward, Lady Elizabeth, but it’s what our viewers want to know. Lorenzo, what about Huntley Von Allister?”
Yes, what about Huntley?
Lorenzo swallows hard. “It is difficult when a man must choose between his predetermined path, what’s good for his country, and his heart. I was born to serve the people of Montrovia. To be your king. And with that comes great responsibility.”
Lizzie gives Lorenzo a sweet smile and a pat on the hand, making me want to wring her regal neck.
“To marry?” the reporter asks.
“To continue the Vallenta bloodline. With the numerous attempts on my life, my father—God rest his soul—moved up the timeline for my choosing a bride, and my mother has accelerated our plans even further.”
“Is there a wedding date?”
“Yes,” Lizzie says with a beaming, soon-to-be queen smile. “It will be held on Saturday, the seventeenth of December.”
Less than six months away.
“And where will the wedding be held? At the chapel, here at the palace, as is the tradition?”
“No,” Lorenzo states firmly. “It will be at the National Cathedral on the Plaza de Vallenta.”
“This is so fake,” Daniel says. “They are both just acting.”
“Are you kidding? They look like the perfect happy couple.”
“That’s because you’re seeing it with your heart and not watching it critically,” he counters.
Am I doing that? I was trained to think critically. To study body language and nonverbal clues to know when someone is lying.
He rewinds it.
“Look,” Daniel says, “they’re not touching. Only when the reporter asks about you does Lizzie put her hand on top of his, and look at what he does.”
“He does nothing,” I say, squinting my eyes as the video continues.
“Exactly. He should caress it or something. When he spoke of you, he was looking straight at the camera, like he was trying to speak directly to you and not to the reporter. Lorenzo is trying to be diplomatic,
but the set of his jaw—”
“Can we see the ring?” the reporter asks next, causing me to feel nauseous, knowing that the ring he chose for me is now going to reside on her finger.
“Isn’t it lovely?” Lizzie gushes, showing off a pretty diamond.
“What can you tell us about the ring?” the reporter asks.
“Over the past few centuries,” Lorenzo states, looking directly at the camera again, “the custom has been for the future groom to research the offerings within our royal collection and choose just the right ring for his bride, and while I very recently chose a ring with great meaning to give to my future queen, I decided to buck tradition and acquire a new one for Lizzie.”
And that message does get through.
I think about the ring he chose for me, the reasoning behind it, and the meaningful things he said.
“It’s quite the sparkler,” the reporter gushes as Lizzie slightly moves it, allowing it to shimmer for the camera.
The reporter grabs her notes. “Friends, you are looking at a classic platinum Cartier engagement ring featuring a center nine-carat radiant-cut diamond with an additional carat of brilliant-cut diamonds wrapping the band.” She turns back to the couple. “Is there a significance to your choice?”
“I just thought it was simple, classic, and beautiful,” Lizzie says.
I take the remote from Daniel and stop the video, but it doesn’t have the desired effect of making it go away. Instead, Lorenzo’s face is frozen on the screen, staring straight at me. I fumble around, hitting rewind and then pause again before finally just turning the damn thing off.
Daniel and I eat dinner in silence, our thoughts elsewhere, but afterward, he challenges me to Battleground.
We play for hours, getting caught up in the game and maybe, sorta having fun.
“I have to be up early tomorrow,” he says. “I suppose we should get to bed.”
I quizzically look at him. “You said you have the whole floor?”
“Don’t make me sleep alone tonight.” He has a pathetic look that I couldn’t turn down if I tried.
