The Grumpy Count, page 7
Our noses brush ever so slightly. He strokes my nape, before bringing his big hand to the side of my face with his palm to my skin. My eyelids flutter down with the pleasure of that small caress.
His lips are close, so very close! There’s nothing I want more than to feel them on mine. But… what if this is a trap? What if the instant I kiss him, thus sealing his victory and my unconditional capitulation, he pulls away and laughs? What if he’s doing this just to prove a point?
If only he’d take away my dilemma and kiss me himself!
Instead, he brushes his thumb against my bottom lip. I tremble with anticipation. Jonas slides his other hand over my shoulders and down my back, leaving trails of heat in its wake. His fingers clasp my waist and pull me closer until my breasts press against his chest. I gasp.
He almost has me where he wants me. Another tiny caress, one more whiff of his scent, a tighter grip of his hand on my waist—and he won’t have to nudge me by initiating the kiss. I’ll do it. I’ll prove his point by ingratiating myself to him. I’ll give up my principles and become just like Doreen and Mom—a servile pleaser of men.
“No,” I breathe out.
He stops at once.
“I won’t kiss you,” I say, my heart drumming against my ribs. “And don’t expect me to sleep with you because you saved me from some unpleasantness this afternoon.”
His hands fall limply at his sides.
“Or,” I add, “because you rescued our production, for that matter.”
He stares me in the eye, his expression hard. “You’re right to rebuke me. My gesture was highly inappropriate, considering—” He cuts himself off.
“Considering what?”
He stands up. “Please rest assured that this won’t happen again.”
With a quick nod, he turns on his heel and strides out the door.
Good! I should be pleased. I did the right thing. The principled thing. The only thing—
Oh, for crying out loud!
Did I just screw up the headiest, most sexually charged moment of my life?
CHAPTER 13
JONAS
We’re standing in the show circle, chanting softly, “Am I ready to make art? I am ready to make art!”
Despite this previously effective ritual, concentration eludes me. My mind is somewhere else.
I was having such a great time in the library with Margot last night, before she clipped my wings by announcing she wouldn’t kiss me. But it was the statement she made after that, about not wanting to sleep with me out of indebtedness, that delivered the sucker punch I hadn’t seen coming. It finished me off.
The recollection of how I got to my room is fuzzy. Was I able to walk after Margot’s blow? I suppose so. Unless I crawled. What I do remember is that I lay in my bed for hours, eyes wide open, overcome by the irony of what had happened.
There I was, worrying about my mission to charm the precious key out of Giselle. But Margot had been on my mind from the outset, and more so with every passing day, but I had resisted the pull in order to protect the mission. I thought that my willpower was the only hindrance to us hooking up. Well, that and if my rival Peter upped his game.
It had never occurred to me that Margot might reject me. And not because she’s in a relationship with someone else, or because she’s taken a vow of celibacy. Oh, no! She rejected me because she doesn’t do gratitude sex.
Talk about pricking a helium balloon!
And then this morning, I was leaving my room to join the others for the preshow prep, and who do I bump into? Margot, of course! She emerged from the staircase and opened the door to the dressing room next to my bedroom. We said good morning. She said she’d left something behind, and she’d be down in three minutes if Sandra asked.
How come I hadn’t realized her quarters were right under my nose?
It could be because I always return to my room before everyone else and leave it after the others. In the evenings, I wear headphones for my video calls, and also when I’m viewing the day’s rushes. In the mornings, I camp in my room where I eat breakfast cooked by Mrs. Everly and delivered by Oli, while answering emails and taking calls, then I shower in my en suite bathroom. Then I meet the rest of the cast downstairs.
My newfound knowledge about the identity of my next-door neighbor does nothing to improve my mood. Of all the people Sandra could’ve put in that dressing room, did it have to be Margot? Buggeration!
My foul mood aside, I manage to pull myself together.
Within minutes, the week’s second performance begins. No incidents mar its first act.
After the intermission, the Sky Hall becomes Meryton once again.
Props, mobile scenery, and animations transform the room into the main square of Jane Austen’s fictional Hertfordshire town. A patchwork of shops, businesses, and houses is projected onto the wall. The scent machines fill the air with the smell of freshly baked bread, flowers, and hay that can be expected due to the surrounding countryside. The musicians play a jovial albeit muffled tune. In the background, benevolently overlooking the square, rises a church, its fake windows glinting in the real sunlight.
The square is teeming with audience members who play townsfolk. Next, the younger Bennet sisters arrive. Three fashionable militiamen in Regency-chic red coats stop by the bakery. George Wickham is among them. The dashing trio elicits flirty looks, giggles, and whispers from the younger women including Kitty and Lydia Bennet. The older ladies ogle the soldiers, too, before returning to their errands.
Our second Elizabeth Bennet meets up with her bestie Charlotte Lucas.
My turn now.
The background music swells as Mr. Darcy strides onto the set, his head gracefully high and his eyelids at half-mast with a sense of superiority he derives from his pedigree and money. His buddy Charles Bingley is by his side, grinning good-naturedly and greeting folks left and right.
No such frivolousness on my end!
Dressed in a finely tailored coat, breeches and Hessian boots, I look every bit as dashing as the militiamen by the bakery, but a lot more mysterious. Where they smile, I brood. Where they bow, my back remains unbent. According to Sandra, “imperiously aloof” is Fitzwilliam Darcy’s middle name before he melts for Elizabeth. That’s what I’m going for. Without much difficulty, I must confess.
My appearance causes a jolt of surprise in the audience, followed by a hush of anticipation.
We’re going to let them stew for a few minutes, until we reward them with a bout of verbal sparring between Elizabeth and me. To fill the gap and enhance the physicality of the show, Sandra has imagined a short ensemble number at this point. As a bonus, it also entertains the few children in the audience.
Two puppeteers deploy a booth-like structure called a castelet in front of the modiste’s shop and perform an interactive sketch. The audience takes part in the jokes and howls with laughter.
Theater within the theater has been done before; The Producers arguably did it best. But immersive theater within the immersive theater? I don’t think so. This was a brilliant idea. One of Sandra’s many brilliant ideas. If that woman ever directs for screen, she’ll have a standing offer from Royal Riviera as soon as I get wind of it!
It goes without saying that Mr. Darcy stays away from the rowdy puppet show. Charles Bingley has abandoned him, unable to resist the pull of the entertainers. Mr. Collins takes his place at once, droning on about the generosity of Darcy’s aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
At the end of their number, the puppeteers take their bows. I’m about to send Collins on his way and stride toward Elizabeth when a burst of color and movement above the clapping crowd draws my attention. It’s beanbag balls. Someone in the audience must’ve brought them along to show off their skills. I peer at that person. She looks oddly familiar…
It’s Max’s wife, Lucie! And the man standing next to her is Prince Maximilian himself.
What are they doing here? Did they buy last-minute tickets to enjoy the show like Leo who’s coming to see it on Saturday? Or are they here to impart some urgent message to me—something confidential enough that the royals didn’t want to relay it over the phone?
Both Gigi and Adam Von Dietz have warned me to never assume that phone lines are secure. Not even the supposedly secure ones. It follows, if one recalls how a few years back the NSA got caught listening in on a bunch of European heads of state. Allies included. With our own Kurt Ozzi problem to boot, MESS has been increasingly resorting to old-school methods of communication and encouraging the royals to do the same.
I make a detour on my way to Elizabeth so that I can nod to Lucie and Max. Now they know that I saw them and will look for them during the intermission.
Suddenly, it can’t arrive soon enough.
CHAPTER 14
JONAS
I usher Max and Lucie into my basement “dungeon,” as Gigi so aptly called it, and pull the door shut. “I’m sorry, Your Highnesses, but I have twenty minutes, tops. If you can hang around or come back, I’ll have a lot more time tonight.”
“I’m afraid we can’t,” Max says. “Twenty minutes now will do.”
He turns to his wife, letting her deliver the message.
“Adam Von Dietz believes he knows who the mole is.”
If there was a chair in this room, I’d be sitting down. “Who?” I ask.
Max and Lucie exchange a strangely hesitant look, as if expecting I won’t like the news.
“Prince Leonardo di Borbone,” Max says to me.
My head jerks back. “As in, my best friend Leo?”
They nod.
“Impossible,” I say. “I’ve known Leo since we were kids! And he isn’t just my friend; he’s a friend of House Montevor, too. You can’t deny that.”
They don’t.
I go on, “Dowager Princess Gertrude loves him, Prince Richard loves him, the peerage appreciates him… He’s a principled man, and he’d never betray his friends.”
We stare at each other for a few silent seconds.
The part we don’t say aloud, because there’s no need, given how acutely we’re all aware of it, is that the royal family has been shunning Leo lately. Since last spring, to be precise. The day Kurt Ozzi launched a diplomatic war on Mount Evor, Leo went from being a guest of honor at every major event, always welcome to stay for extended periods of time, to an undeclared persona non grata. The official and unofficial invitations ceased, not because anyone seriously suspected Leo of wrongdoing, but out of precaution. He is, after all, a nephew of Kurt’s.
It occurs to me that the months of forced estrangement between the royals and Leo are an argument in his favor.
“If he were the mole,” I say to Max, “he would’ve been unable to apprise Kurt of your progress with the key, or of Arnaud’s itinerary, or of Theodor’s destinations. He wasn’t in Mount Evor during any of it.”
“True,” Max admits. “But Adam believes that by the time Leo lost access, he’d recruited one or more staffers at the palace and the prime minister’s cabinet to gather intel for him.”
“MESS is re-vetting everyone again to identify those staffers, but no luck as yet,” Lucie adds.
Dazed, I nod absently, refusing to believe. And then I remember that Leo will be here on Saturday. It has to be a mere coincidence, but I feel obligated to tell Max and Lucie about it.
“His new girlfriend is a Jane Austen fan,” I add to give them context. “And, back when I did amateur acting, Leo attended my gigs whenever he could. So, really, I don’t think this has anything to do with the key. How in the hell would he know I’m the new key seeker, anyway?”
Max lifts a phlegmatic shoulder. “Thanks to his eyes and ears in Pombrio.”
“Or maybe he doesn’t know it,” Lucie suggests. “Maybe he’s acting on a hunch. You’re here, spending three weeks at your London home without Matteo, while your studio is shooting a movie over in Cannes…”
I have a counterargument for that! “Sandra’s production is a very valid reason for me to be here. Not only is it my first—and maybe last—pro acting gig, but I’m the male lead of the show.”
“Here’s my take,” Max says. “Kurt’s men no doubt spy on everyone in the extended royal family. Your being in London was reported to Kurt who thought it was odd and dispatched his nephew to keep a close eye on you.”
Rubbish! Leo and I have never really talked about his powerful uncle’s actions against my country. We don’t need to. I know he doesn’t approve of them. But what kind of friend would I be if I demanded that Leo disown a family member as proof of our friendship?
“I’m not telling you to turn your back on your childhood friend, Jonas,” Max adds in a softer tone of voice. “Not until we have proof, anyway. Just watch your six around him, OK?”
“Understood.”
Lucie checks her watch. “Our twenty minutes are up.”
I check mine. “We can take five more. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. If I find the key—”
“When you find the key,” Max corrects me.
“When I find the key and make an offer, what if Giselle says it isn’t for sale?”
Max shrugs. “Then you double the offer and keep raising it until she says yes. Your pre-authorization is two mil, but all you need to do is call in if she asks for more.”
“What if she says that key is her talisman or something, and she won’t sell it? Her family is rich. She doesn’t need the money.”
“Unfortunately,” Max concurs.
I level an expectant gaze at him.
“In that case, you’ll ask to borrow it to have a copy made,” he says.
Lucie jumps in, “If she doesn’t trust you, or can’t bear to part with it, then she can go with you. We’d love to recover the original, but a copy will do, too.”
“Theo’s key is a copy,” Max reminds me. “And it fits the lock.”
“What if she loves the idea that her key is unique, and wishes for it to remain so?”
Lucie quirks an eyebrow to convey how unlikely such an objection sounds. I agree, but it’s a contingency I’d like to have a plan for.
“Well,” Max exhales, “then you’ll say ‘bummer,’ and leave it at that.”
I do a double take.
He smiles at my reaction. “MESS will take over and send its best agents to sneak in and retrieve the key from the museum, or wherever she keeps it. They’ll make a copy and put it back on the same night. Giselle Fisher will be none the wiser in the morning.”
“OK,” I say nonchalantly to hide how much I’d hate to fail my mission and rely on MESS to get the job done. “You guys are the experts.”
It’s Max who’s taken by surprise now. “Are we?”
“After I was read in,” I say, gripping the door handle, “Theodor told me how Lucie and you spent a full night scouring a Lyon museum for the key.”
I open the door.
Lucie steps out. “We didn’t find it in that museum.”
As I close the door, I catch her trading a look of amused complicity with Max. From the glimmer in their eyes, I’d say their night had been productive, regardless.
CHAPTER 15
JONAS
Our third performance went without a hitch.
After the talkback and a quick dinner, everyone—Margot and Peter included—heads upstairs to the bar. Unobtrusively, I watch him woo her for twenty minutes or so. When I’ve had enough, I slip away to my bedroom. There’s a new batch of rushes for me to download from the cloud and view. As producers, Louis, Celeste and I receive the edited rushes every day. We aren’t expected to view them as consistently as the movie’s director, but we do our best to stay on top of things. It’s our money, after all. We won’t recoup it if the movie flops.
But first, I put on my headset and call Matteo. He isn’t in a chatty mood tonight, and nothing I say can get him to lighten up. Even seven-year-olds have their moments of darkness. Especially seven-year-olds who’ve been through what Matteo has been. Tempting as it is to push, I’ve learned to back down at times like this and just let him be. He’s with Celeste and Mom now. Both love him to pieces and watch over him like hawks. He’ll be all right.
We hang up, and I start on the rushes.
Today’s stuff is good, so I manage to focus at once and stay focused for two hours. Then I type up an email to the director:
Suggested edit: When his father dies, the shot could stay on Otis instead of lingering on the explosion. Not that it isn’t spectacular. But Otis’s grief over his father’s death impacts the plot later on. So, it may be a good idea to focus more on his reaction here—unless there’s a good reason not to. Let me know what you think.
I click Send, and the email flies away. As does my concentration.
Is Margot back in her room by now?
Is she reading, or asleep, or just lying down less than a meter from me, on the other side of that wall? Is she thinking about last night’s incident in the library?
My cock stirs in my pants.
Is she alone? What if Peter is in there with her?
I refuse to envision that eventuality.
Instead, I imagine Margot asleep on her back, with her mouth agape, producing a long, loud, multipart “Bohemian Rhapsody” of a snore. The image is supposed to put me off. To my shock, even it doesn’t kill my erection.
Fuck! I need that woman to be removed from that dressing room and resettled as far from me as this house allows.
In a move as resolute as ill-considered, I disconnect the headset, turn up the volume, and go on to view the remaining rushes that feature gunfire, explosions, and a great deal of yelling.
There’s a knock on my door. I throw on a bathrobe to hide my bulge and open the door. It’s Margot. Her auburn hair is plaited into a loose braid. She’s wearing a brown fleece bathrobe over her PJs.
Hah! No woman would look like this if she were entertaining a suitor in her room. Peter sleeps in his own bed tonight.
