“So you could be within striking distance of Fenna!”
He nodded and grinned. “Oil rig work and such is hard to break into because of unions and certs, but—”
“There was an opening on a yacht, for a personable young man who could teach guests how to scuba dive.”
“Exactly, ma’am.”
“Well! That explains—”
“Why Fenna’s coming to help you get ready for the big party tomorrow evenin’！” Jules said, now smiling broadly.
“She seemed incredibly eager to do so. I fancied she was doing me a favor.”
“I’m real glad it worked out!”
“Not as glad as you’re going to be, I’m quite sure.”
If it was possible for a man as deeply and perfectly tanned as Jules to blush, he did so.
Something about the knowledge that Fenna and Jules were tomorrow going to be fucking each other’s brains out in the manner that had been so conspicuous in Texas made it seem not merely okay but almost a matter of some urgency that Saskia and Michiel get to it first. After Jules politely excused himself and left them alone together, they had dinner brought out and they dined poolside, al fresco, in a setting as romantic as it was possible for a decommissioned
Cold War Soviet nerve gas depot to be. Then they went back to Saskia’s suite and got the Beaver up to cruising altitude. The next morning they had another go. After a little doze, Michiel got out of bed and began taking a shower. Saskia put on one of the provided bathrobes, ordered coffee, and was sitting there in a condition of pleasant post-coital disarray when a knock came at the door.
“Come in!” she called, and it opened to reveal a waiter carrying a silver tray. And, right behind him, a young man. Blond, bearded, oddly familiar-looking, clearly not a servant. The look on both men’s faces suggested it was an awkward coincidence. The blond man politely held the door open for the waiter, but then averted his gaze from Saskia, backed out into the corridor, and allowed it to swing closed.
Saskia only had to turn her head and look out the window across the pier. B?kesuden was still tied up there. But this morning it was flying a new flag, bearing a royal coat of arms. Not the purple-mantled one used exclusively by the king but the red-mantled version used by the crown prince.
She strode past the bewildered waiter and peered through the peephole in the door. Prince Bjorn of Norway was still standing there, looking indecisive. When she hauled the door open, though, he looked astonished and unnerved. It didn’t help that her robe almost fell open when the door snagged it. She caught it with her free hand just in the nick of time and retied it while the prince gamely tried to keep his eyes on her face. He was wearing a navy blue blazer and a well-tailored dress shirt over khakis. Looked as though he’d have been more comfortable, though, skiing through the mountains.
“Prince Bjorn!” she exclaimed.
“Your Royal Highness. When we last met—”
“My husband’s funeral. You were just a boy. How you’ve grown! Are you here to talk to me about my daughter?”
“Well, yes.”
“Come in.”
They sat down across the coffee table from each other. The waiter poured coffee for both of them. Saskia took advantage of
the delay by pulling up a certain selfie on her phone. She showed it to Bjorn: Lotte in the gown she’d worn to the ball on the day she’d become Queen of the Netherlands, making a comically exaggerated wink as she posed next to Bjorn, who here was looking even more uncomfortable in black tie. Bjorn blushed as deeply as Jules had yesterday, but he was a lot more careful about using sunscreen—something of a professional obligation when you were the crown prince of a country full of outdoorsy melanin-deprived people—and so it really showed.
“Well then, I’ll get right to the point,” he said, as soon as the door had closed behind the waiter.
“Oh my god, is she pregnant?”
Bjorn barked out a nervous laugh. “Certainly not! My god. We haven’t even done anything.”
“I’m just joking. If she were pregnant, you couldn’t possibly know yet.”
“The point is, she’s seventeen.”
“I was aware of it.”
“I’m twenty-two.” He shrugged. “It might seem a small difference to—to—”
“To someone as old as me? Go ahead, it’s okay.”
“But I just wanted to say—because there have already been false reports on the Internet—”
“Someone on the Internet is wrong? I don’t believe it!”