To Kiss a King (Royal Scandals: San Rimini Book 6) Read online

  To Kiss A King

  Nicole Burnham

  To Kiss a King

  by Nicole Burnham

  Copyright © 2020 by Nicole Burnham

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without express permission in writing from the author or publisher.

  Cover design by Patricia Schmitt

  Edition: July 2020

  ISBN: 9978-1-941828-53-3 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-941828-52-6 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-941828-54-0 (audio)

  For more information or to subscribe to Nicole’s newsletter, visit nicoleburnham.com.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Thank You

  Scandal With a Prince

  Also by Nicole Burnham

  A Royal Scandals Wedding

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  “Good morning, Your Highness. How was your time with Greta this morning?”

  King Eduardo diTalora cast a sidelong glance at his longtime personal assistant, Luisa Borelli, as she fell into step beside him. Polished as always, she wore a soft brown skirt and tailored jacket with low heels. Her black hair was twisted into a flawless knot at her nape and tiny gold studs dotted her earlobes.

  Luisa was very good at her job. One would never know by looking at her that she was also the devil incarnate.

  Eduardo shook his head, then looked forward, his smile encompassing various staff members who lingered in the hallway, waiting for him to arrive at his office. To Luisa, he said, “It wouldn’t be a proper Monday morning if Greta hadn’t spent the weekend plotting new ways to torture me.”

  “Precisely which part of the session did you find torturous, Your Highness? The box jumps?”

  “No, because she decided to change the box jump portion of the workout to stepping onto the box—”

  “Oh, good—”

  “While holding a fifteen-kilo medicine ball.”

  “Oh.”

  “Then she added a series of planks. Apparently, running is insufficient for building core strength. I attempted to convince her otherwise, but she refused to listen to my wisdom.”

  “She is stubborn that way. But I daresay that when it comes to matters of health and fitness, Greta is usually right.”

  “As is the cousin who referred her and wouldn’t stop nagging me until I hired her.” He raised a brow at Luisa, but buffered it with a smile that she returned.

  Eduardo wished one of the guards a good morning as he and Luisa rounded the final corner to his office, then Luisa said, “It’s my duty to ensure you serve the country to the best of your ability. Maintaining a high level of fitness is essential to that task. If it makes you feel better, tomorrow I’ve scheduled a run at six a.m. The weather should be ideal. Mild and clear with low wind.”

  Most people would consider a sunrise run torture, but to Eduardo, a crack of dawn jaunt along San Rimini’s waterfront or through the hills above the palace sounded like heaven. He could breathe fresh air, listen to music, and allow his mind to wander. For that single hour, he was responsible to no one but himself, and there was no Greta at his side to insist he could work harder or crank out one more rep.

  If he could crank out one more rep, he was the type to do so without being told.

  Eduardo greeted a courier who waited near Luisa’s desk, then glanced at his assistant. “I’d be obliged if there are waffles in the dining room following that run tomorrow. Samuel had oatmeal today. Good oatmeal, but still oatmeal.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, though Samuel mentioned that he’s planning on baked quinoa with berries.”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  “Perhaps you could pretend it’s a waffle?”

  “I shall pretend I didn’t hear that, either. I’ll pretend you said, ‘Yes, Your Highness, I will request waffles and ensure Samuel provides plenty of syrup. Perhaps a few of those berries on the side.’”

  Luisa raised a finger to indicate that the courier should wait for her, then she and Eduardo entered his formal office. Eduardo’s chief political advisor, Sergio Ribisi, sat on a sofa beside Eduardo’s press secretary, a burly young man named Zeno Amendola who looked better suited to commanding a rugby team than a press room. The two were hunched over a tablet, reviewing what Eduardo assumed were notes for their morning meeting. Across from them sat Margaret Halaby, his Director of Charities and Patronages. Margaret had her hands in her lap, a pen threaded between her fingers. A notepad lay on the sofa beside her, its top page filled with indiscernible scribbles, bullet points, and arrows. She stared past the two men, lost in thought.

  Luisa made a small noise to catch their attention. All three rose in unison and wished Eduardo a good morning. He waved them back into their seats, then asked Luisa to give him a five-minute warning before he needed to leave for his first event of the day.

  “How was your session with Greta?” Zeno asked once Luisa closed the door behind her.

  He nailed Zeno with a glare. The man had the audacity to grin in return.

  “I saw her carrying a medicine ball through the parking garage,” Margaret said. She turned to Zeno. “Ever do squats with one of those? Or throw them at a target? It makes for a fantastic workout.”

  “Medicine balls are great tools.” He widened his eyes in mock excitement. “I like to do walking lunges while holding one overhead. Real muscle burner.”

  “This is a conspiracy,” Eduardo told them. “I can outrun everyone in this building except the security personnel—and perhaps even a few of them—yet all of you insist I see Greta three times a week.”

  “It’s reassuring to the citizens of San Rimini to know that you are taking steps to protect your health and that your heart is as strong as can be following your surgery,” Sergio said. “Besides, you like Greta.”

  “Not when she’s telling me to hold a side plank an extra thirty seconds. I informed her that San Rimini has strict laws against injuring the monarch.”

  “I’m sure she reminded you that you signed a waiver?” Zeno retorted.

  He eyed his press secretary. “She insisted that she wasn’t injuring the monarch. Then she informed me that it didn’t matter because I’d signed a waiver.”

  Eduardo took a seat at his desk, then thanked Luisa as she reentered the room with a steaming cup of coffee and placed it on a coaster near his hand. When she was gone again, he looked at Sergio. The arrival of Eduardo’s first cup of coffee marked the official start of his workday. “Let’s discuss the difficult items first. You received a letter over the weekend from the Central District Historical Society?”

  “Yes, Your Highness. They have concerns about your desire to upgrade the Strada il Teatro.”

  “I expected as much, but hoped they would wait until tomorrow’s meeting to ex
press them.”

  “They want to ensure they are heard.”

  Eduardo resisted the urge to grimace. Everyone wanted to be heard, particularly when it came to making changes to the country’s most famous thoroughfare. The Strada il Teatro sat above the country’s Adriatic coastline and offered stunning views of San Rimini Bay. It was home to several casinos, restaurants, historic buildings, and the Royal Theater, hence its name as Theater Street. It was the country’s most recognizable symbol, aside from the Duomo and the palace itself. However, the last major changes to the street—aside from paving it—took place long before automobiles were commonplace. Traffic often moved at a crawl and the sidewalks were packed with tourists at all hours. Despite the obvious need for refurbishment, San Riminians were protective of its appearance. It was why Sergio had organized a meeting for the following day to present the king’s proposal to those most directly affected. He’d invited representatives from the Central District Historical Society, the casino owners’ board, the San Rimini Business Council, and the San Rimini Grand Prix organizing committee, together with the country’s transportation minister. Sergio had even included those in charge of maintaining the public park that ran below one section of the Strada. Once Sergio had their input, Eduardo planned to present a comprehensive modernization plan to parliament for their consideration.

  As king of San Rimini, Eduardo had more power to affect policy than monarchs in countries such as Japan or Sweden. He could not vote, but he had the right to introduce legislation and speak on any matter under discussion in parliament. In the centuries since San Rimini had transitioned from an absolute monarchy to a constitutional monarchy, kings and queens primarily exercised their political might to improve relations with other nations or to promote charitable and humanitarian causes. They steered clear of detailed policy and budgetary issues.

  This piece of legislation would cause many to dig in their heels. However, Eduardo refused to leave the modernization to his successors or to members of parliament who feared that touching the Strada il Teatro meant losing their seats. It was his responsibility to move San Rimini forward.

  Eduardo looked at Sergio. “Inform the head of the Historical Society that the palace fully intends to pursue these improvements—make sure you use that word, improvements—to the Strada il Teatro, as they’re in the best interest of the country and to all who hold the central district close to their hearts. We welcome their input tomorrow, which is why we’ve scheduled this meeting.”

  Sergio nodded as he took notes. While Sergio wrote, Zeno said, “Your Highness, they’re likely to argue their case to the press. They’ll note that it isn’t in the monarch’s usual purview to delve into such matters.”

  Eduardo spread his palms on his desk. “As of last week, I understand that the royal family is viewed favorably by nearly eighty percent of the population.”

  “Seventy-seven percent, sir.”

  “Seventy-seven percent. Do you know how many members of parliament dream of that approval rating? We have the opportunity to leverage that number for the long-term good of the country. The Strada has remained essentially the same for hundreds of years. The fact it was constructed with parades in mind means it’s wider than other streets of its era, but it doesn’t accommodate modern usage or the influx of tourism our country has seen. Attendees at the San Rimini Grand Prix are pushing against the fences, which is a safety concern. Either the route will need to change or we will need to limit the crowds. No one wants to make that choice.”

  “Everyone has their fiefdoms,” Sergio pointed out. “The casinos and shop owners don’t want their entrances blocked while work is completed. The Historical Society doesn’t want to alter the appearance of the street. And while the Grand Prix organizers want a safer route and continued growth, they don’t want to risk losing the race for a year or more due to construction.”

  “Agreed,” Eduardo said. “So use tomorrow to show them our redevelopment plan, and use our historical and transportation experts to convince them that our proposal is sound. We’ve put months of research into this, and we’re willing to share all of our findings and to listen to their input as we move forward. Change is difficult, but our citizens need the Strada to function for the long term. If we don’t get it through parliament with a seventy-seven percent approval rating, we’ll never get it. Now, what else do we need to address?”

  Zeno ran through the items he would cover at the weekly press briefing, which mainly involved the king’s adult children. Prince Antony had visited an opioid addiction rehabilitation facility over the weekend, and Princess Isabella and her husband, Nick, planned to visit three different schools along the country’s northern border to talk with students about San Rimini’s medieval history. Nick, a medieval studies professor at the University of San Rimini, had arranged a string of school appearances in recent weeks to interest children in the topic.

  When Zeno finished, Sergio said, “Tomorrow night, you are hosting a dinner at which the new American ambassador shall present her credentials. She arrived in country yesterday.”

  “Claire Peyton,” Eduardo said, leaning back in his chair. “I read the briefing last night. She was previously the United States Ambassador to Uganda?”

  “Yes. It was expected that she would stay on under the new President, but she was reassigned to San Rimini when Ambassador Cartwright announced his retirement.” Sergio paused. “It’s not a secret that Rich Cartwright spent his final year or two on cruise control. This will be a change. Given that many in the U.S. State Department consider this an elevation of position, she may wish to prove herself.”

  “I read about the rural education program she helped institute in Uganda. It looked interesting.”

  “Yes, Your Highness. She will likely request a meeting in the coming weeks to present it to you and ask for San Rimini’s involvement. The American president ran on a campaign that focused heavily on education, so it’s a priority for the administration. However, it’s ultimately a no go for San Rimini. Parliament might support sending funds, but sending teachers or advisors would be less likely, given current security concerns. Even the funds will be a challenge while we’re also trying to push the Strada plan.”

  Eduardo didn’t need time to weigh his priorities. There was no contest. “It’s my understanding that parliament will address funding for Central District improvements three months from today. I want our proposal to anchor that discussion. From now until then, that’s our focus.”

  He took a sip of his coffee, then asked Margaret, “Where are we on the Our Place program?”

  “The five-year anniversary celebration will take place on Friday at the elementary school on Via Fontana. As Patron, you will speak briefly about the need for early intervention mental health support in schools and highlight the ways that Our Place identifies and assists children without stigmatizing them. I have some statistics on the continued need for the program and on its success. I should have a draft speech to you by Thursday, which you can then adapt to your liking.”

  “Thank you. That’s a visit I look forward to making. Any others?”

  Margaret ran through updates on two other charitable organizations the king supported, then provided a follow-up report on an event he’d attended for an animal shelter.

  At the same moment Margaret finished her update, Luisa entered the room. “Your ride is waiting, Your Highness. Your tour of the dementia care center begins in twenty minutes.”

  Eduardo thanked Luisa and stood. Sergio, Zeno, and Margaret stood as well. “Are we finished?”

  “One last thing, Your Highness,” Zeno said. “There will be questions at today’s press briefing regarding your visit to the Duomo this Thursday afternoon. Have you decided whether to deliver any remarks?”

  Eduardo felt the corner of his mouth twitch, a dead giveaway to his staff that he was uncomfortable with a topic. It was a tell he could usually control, but this had hit him out of the blue. Somehow, between his morning workout and thoughts about
the Strada, he’d forgotten his annual trip to visit his wife’s final resting place.

  “Next year will be the tenth anniversary of Queen Aletta’s death. Given the attention that occasion will draw, I’d prefer to skip the remarks this year and keep the visit low key.”

  Before Zeno could object, he turned to Luisa and asked, “Do I have any free time this afternoon to see Arturo and Paolo when they get home from school?”

  The boys, sons of Prince Federico and his late wife, Lucrezia, were always happy when he appeared at their palace apartment for a visit. He refused to consider whether their smiles were due to his sparkling personality or to the treats he often brought from the kitchen.

  “Not today,” Luisa said. “They have a school trip to the aquarium and won’t return until evening.”

  “I see. And what about time to see Gianluca?” he asked. Prince Antony and his wife Jennifer’s infant son was his newest grandchild. “Does anyone know when the baby sleeps?”

  A chorus of no and he doesn’t rose around the room.

  “Well, then. Please let Jennifer know that if there’s a good time, I’d love to visit. If Gianluca happens to be sleeping, I’ll simply watch him sleep.”

  “You have fifteen minutes free around three-thirty, Your Highness. I’ll let her know you’ll be available.”

  He nodded to Luisa, thanked Margaret for the work she was doing on the Our Place speech, then addressed Sergio and Zeno. “You know what to do for the Strada. We have ninety days. Let’s improve the country.”