The Prince Next Door. Sue Civil-Brown
“Huh?” That was one American expression Mas had learned well.
“He doesn’t care,” Menos repeated in a snarl.
“But we kidnapped his mother! What kind of son is he?”
“What kind of prince is he going to be if he doesn’t care about his own mother?” Menos corrected darkly.
“I can’t believe it.”
Neither could Menos. He’d been there, he’d seen the reaction, heard the words, and his jaw was still dragging on the ground, metaphorically speaking.
“That’s inhuman,” Mas said. “Maybe he doesn’t really believe us.”
“Oh, he believed me,” Menos said, plucking rayon away from his chest. “He said, ‘I pity you. You don’t know what you’re in for.’”
Mas’s eyes widened, then a snicker escaped him. “He’s right.”
Menos, whose world view was rather dour to begin with, silently agreed. Why, oh why, had he ever allowed that woman to talk him into this?
But then he squared his shoulders and reminded himself his country’s future was at stake, and it was riding on his shoulders while the consul-in-residence chased bikini-clad bimbos down in Key West.
“We will call her,” he announced. “She must call her son and convince him she’s in danger.”
Mas nodded, only too eager to agree to anything that would allow him to get back to his comics. “Good idea.”
MARIA TERESA STOOD on the stool while her dressmaker jabbed industriously at the waist of the green watered-silk gown she was having made for her son’s coronation.
The call from Menos in Florida hadn’t pleased her at all. Imagine Darius not being upset that she’d been kidnapped! Even Menos, squirrelly as he was, had sounded appalled by the utter lack of concern Darius had displayed.
What was it Menos had quoted Darius as saying? “Enjoy your time with my mother.”
Humph.
Rolling her eyes heavenward, Maria Teresa demanded to know why His Lordliness had given her such an unfeeling son. Why, in fact, the stolid Swiss side had predominated to such an extent.
Was the boy not of her flesh, as well? Where was his passion and fire? Why wouldn’t he take up his lance and tilt at windmills for the sake of his mother?
Why didn’t he believe it?
And how could he laugh at being told he was the prince of Masolimia, a not-inconsiderable flyspeck of a principality in the Pyrenees? It was, after all, bigger than Monaco. It was his birthright. And hers, for that matter. To return as the dowager princess, rather than as the daughter of a despised shepherd family…well, what more could justice demand?
She sniffed and looked down at the dark hair of her dressmaker as the woman worked to pin a fold in at the waistline.
“I’m not sure I like this silk at all,” Maria Teresa announced.
The dressmaker’s hands froze. Without looking up, the woman said, “But it becomes you so well, madam.”
Maria Teresa glanced sideways at the mirrored wall, taking in all the expensive, basted fabric that covered her. Fabric her own mother could only have dreamed about. It did flatter the olive tone of her skin, she decided.
“But blue,” she said, anyway.
The dressmaker, now on solid ground, looked up. “Madam doesn’t want to look as if she has a liver disease.”
Maria Teresa sighed theatrically. It was true, blues made her look sallow.
“Oh, very well,” she said irritably, hating to be reminded that there was anything she couldn’t do. “Perhaps yellow…”
The dressmaker, Adele, straightened, stepped back and put her hands on her hips. “Madam,” she said sternly, “we tried every color of the rainbow and agreed this flattered you best. Moreover, it will not be so green once we add the pearls.”
Of course it wouldn’t. She needed to remember that. She was just being difficult because of Darius. Speaking of whom…
“You’re right, Adele. Keep working. After you bring me a telephone.”
“Yes, madam.”
Help just wasn’t what it used to be, Maria Teresa thought. But Adele was one of the best dressmakers around, unless you were interested in the ridiculous fashion ideas that were called haute couture in Paris these days, and Maria Teresa definitely was not.
When Adele passed her the phone, Maria Teresa didn’t need to look up the number, even though Darius had only moved into his new residence three weeks ago. She had memorized the number instantly, just the way a bloodhound memorizes the scent it wants to follow.
Or a predator.
But such unflattering descriptions of herself were not on her mind as she tapped her toe and waited for her son to answer. It seemed to take a long time, but when she absolutely needed to, she could be patient. Barely.
“Maxwell.”
“Darius,” she said, making her tone as pathetic as she could. “Estoy secuestrada.” I am kidnapped.
“Sí, so I’ve heard. How much are you paying them?”
She puffed up with indignation and heard the faint tearing as pins ripped through silk. Adele cast her a disapproving glance, but Maria Theresa ignored it. She would deal with this woman’s impudence later. First, though, she had to deal with her son.
“Darius!” she snapped, in a tone that every mother knows and at which every child quails. “I’m not paying anyone anything. You have to help me!”
“Just how am I supposed to do that? I have no idea where you are.”
She frowned, tapping her toe. This was certainly not the treatment she had expected from him, and certainly not when she employed the voz de la madre, the stern voice of a mother. Looking heavenward, she blasted a handful of saints and her poor departed spouse for having cursed her with such a child.
“Ma mère?”
In this family, a plethora of languages were spoken, and Maria Teresa had always insisted her son address her by the French rather than the Spanish for “my mother.” Sometimes he liked to irritate her by calling her mamacita.
Regardless, she didn’t hear nearly enough concern in his voice. Feeling frustrated, she twisted just a bit, and one of the seamstress’s pins jabbed her side. She cried out.
Which had the desired effect, she realized instantly.
“Ma mère?”
“They’re torturing me,” she cried with great relish.
Adele jumped back, her face paling. Maria Teresa waved her concern away. “You have to save me at once!”
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know!” Which was a lie. The Riviera was a little hot this year, but otherwise comfortable.
“Mother.” This time Darius spoke in English. “Has it occurred to you that kidnapping is a very dangerous thing to do?”
“Only if the police catch them before I am killed,” she wailed.
“That isn’t what I meant.”
She hesitated. This wasn’t going as expected. “What do you mean?”
“Just that if they’re doing this to make me accept that I’m prince of Masolimia, they’re making a big mistake. Because if I accept the throne, I can have these kidnappers beheaded.”
“My dear son, beheadings are so déclassé.” The wheels were truly spinning in her brain