Page 2 of Fake Fiancée, Real Baby
“Don’t they look happy?”she’d said.“That could be you and the princess.”
But having now reached the third course — an ingenious dish of caviar and quail — Adrien was convinced it couldnotbe. He was starting to wonder if there was a way to extract himself from the princess’s company, even as to do so would have consequences. His car was waiting outside. Janssen, his chauffeur, would be there, as would his bodyguards, Olaf and Grieg. But how to get there without being seen by the paparazzi? If Adrien left the restaurant alone, he’d be the one splashed across tomorrow’s front pages.
But if you leave another way, it’ll be the same — she’ll be seen leaving alone.
Adrien was damned either way, but he certainly had no intention of making a false show for the cameras and enduring the flood of speculation on social media. Last year, he’d taken a woman he’d met in Saint Moritz on the cable car to Victoire’s — the restaurant at ten thousand feet above the resort. By the early evening, rumors of a proposal had reached fever point, and the palace had been forced to issue a statement clarifying Adrien’s position.
“The public want to know about you,”his mother had said, after Adrien had complained he had no privacy.
Why shouldn’t he walk away from the date with the princess? She’d taken out her cellphone now and was scrolling throughsocial media. As the waiters approached to clear away their plates — the princess having hardly touched her quail — Adrien rose to his feet.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he said, placing his napkin over the back of his chair.
Several of the other diners looked up at him as he passed. Everyone knew who he was. He couldn’t simply leave by the way he’d come in. The paparazzi were waiting for him there, but the restaurant had another entrance — a discreet exit at the back — and beckoning to the maître d’ Adrien whispered to him to send the bill to the embassy.
“I’m leaving by the back way,” he said, taking out his cellphone and summoning Janssen by text.
The exit was beyond the restrooms. The princess would think he was merely taking his time, even as he thanked the maître d’ for his discretion, slipping him a fifty-euro note for his trouble. Janssen was on his way with the car, and though Adrien felt a fleeting sense of guilt for what he was about to do, the evening was already over. The princess might even thank him, though she’d be forced to confront the paparazzi alone.
She can always leave by the back way, too.
The car was outside, and the maître d’ signaled for Adrien to make his escape. The exit led into an alleyway at the back of the restaurant, and there was the Bentley, replete with its Flandenne registration and flags on either side of the bonnet. There could be no mistaking its lineage, but Adrien scrambled into the back, telling Janssen to make all haste to his hotel, hoping the paparazzi wouldn’t yet realize he’d left the restaurant.
As the car purred through the streets of Monaco, Adrien breathed a sigh of relief. He’d gotten away, but he knew his escape would be short-lived. He pictured the scene playing out in the restaurant — the princess realizing what had happened, her anger — or perhaps her relief. But it was his mother he feared the most. The call would come the next morning — perhaps in the afternoon if he was lucky — she’d berate him, call him a fool, and remind him of his duty. It always came back to duty.
“Shall I go to the back entrance here, too, Your Highness?” Janssen asked.
Adrien nodded. He wanted to go to bed and forget the whole sorry affair.
“Yes… then I can go straight up.”
The doorman was waiting, and Adrien could see Olaf and Grieg already in position. Slipping out of the car, he hurried into the hotel, taking the back stairs to his suite, where he sank down into one of the leather sofas, ordering a glass of cognac from the butler who’d come to attend him. The sun was setting, casting its orange rays across the shimmering Mediterranean Sea. Adrien’s suite looked down on the marina, where the superyachts lay moored, each one more impressive than the last. A sudden thought now occurred to Adrien — a possibility that might just prolong the inevitable for a few days longer. Taking out his cellphone, he scrolled through the contacts, alighting on the name of Giuseppe Bellagio. Smiling to himself, he pressed call, listening to it ring a couple of times before the voice of his old friend cut through.
“Ciao, Adrien. Come stai?”he answered, speaking in Italian, though Adrien answered in English.
They’d been at boarding school together in England. Giuseppe was the son of an Italian banker and one of the richest men in Italy. He spent most of his time on his yacht in the Mediterranean surrounded by pretty women to be cast off as soon as he tired of them, and replaced in port.
“Giuseppe. I need to escape for a few days. Can you help me?” Adrien said.
Giuseppe laughed. “Who are you escaping from this time? Is a woman pursuing you? Have you left her without a hope? Or have you left her with a kid?” he asked.
Adrien smiled. “Nothing like that, no. I just need to make myself scarce for a few days, and I want to go somewhere the paparazzi won’t be on my tail the whole time. Can I use the yacht? Just for a few days.”
Adrien knew Giuseppe would be thinking the worst, and there’d certainly been times when Adrien had come dangerously close to scandal. Leaving the princess in the restaurant hardly compared to some of his wilder antics, but this time, Adrien just wanted to get away. He couldn’t face the thought of cameras, or of questions shouted at him as soon as he left the hotel the next morning.
“It’s yours, my friend. I’ll be heading off on business for a few days, but I’ll see you on board first. My home is your home — whatever you’re leaving behind,” Giuseppe replied.
Adrien was relieved. Monaco had been fun, but it was time to leave, even as he knew it wouldn’t be long before he was found again.
CHAPTER 2
CLAIRE
“I’ll see you later. I won’t be long. I’ve forgotten the parsley,” Claire called out, hurrying from the tiny galley kitchen where she’d been busy all morning preparing lunch.
The face of the yacht’s skipper, Carlos, appeared from the door leading to his cabin.
“Don’t be long. Mr. Bellagio doesn’t like to be kept waiting for his lunch,” he called out.
