Inconceivable! Read Online Free

Pete’s sake.
    The limo took a sharp turn and I looked out the window. We pulled through a tall, black iron gate at the rear of Belvoir Palace.
    Some inspired architect conjured Belvoir from a fairytale. I gazed up at the towers topped with the beguiling battlements that reminded me of the bottom teeth in a jack-o-lantern’s grin. At eye level, the manicured grounds sprawled away from the palace, a green grandeur, even in October, reserved for the royal family; a high brick and stone fence shielded it from public streets.
    I realized I was holding my breath as the driver opened the door and helped me out.
    “This is it. Home Sweet Beaver,” John said, grinning at the well-known mispronunciation of the French name Belvoir.
    “Does that mean you’re Prince Beaver?” I realized a beat too late that what I said was a double entendre.
    “I’ve been called that and worse. Are you sure you don’t read the tabloids?”
    I rubbed my forehead again. Even my reaction to embarrassment was embarrassing.
    John led me through a service entrance into a dully lit passage. Despite our brisk pace, I tried to register each sight (faded green wood paneling in the hallway), sound (a woman singing in German), and smell (Toulene’s airy, puffy bread in the oven). I drew in a quick breath when we passed a small, oval portrait of John’s mother hanging on the wall. Her charity work and then her untimely death thrust Toulene and its royals into the international spotlight. It was a tiny country in the grand scheme of Europe, but the Meinrad family gained significant attention when Princess Beatrix died of ovarian cancer at age 29. John was only nine years old at the time. His father, who would presumably take the throne before John, hadn’t remarried, and raised John and his brother, Henri, away from the public eye. That is, until the boys reached their late teens. They were handsome in all the right ways and exuded perfect manners, so they received more than their fair share of international press coverage from the gossip rags and TV newscasts.
    We turned a corner and started up a staircase. The reality of being inside Belvoir was exhilarating. The royal family almost never let reporters in here. So, why the heck was he allowing
me
to traipse through the place? Regardless of the reason, I was in, and I hoped to score an exclusive story and an amazing photo with some flirting on the side.
    By the time we got to the top of the staircase, I was huffing a little, though I tried to conceal it by taking controlled breaths.
    “Sorry. Am I going too fast? Since I’m always darting in and out of cars and buildings, I’ve gotten into the habit of practically running everywhere I go.” John waited for me to catch up at the top of the stairs.
    “I’m fine. The wet clothes are making me a little slower than usual.” The cold dampness of my shirt reasserted itself, and I shivered.
    “We’re about to take care of that.” John had a note of delight in his voice. With his wide eyes and eager smile, he was brimming with the knowledge of some pending surprise. He was a man who knew how to fix problems, and enjoyed doing it. I’m sure it’s fun to tackle challenges when you have vast quantities of money and power.
    After traversing a series of short hallways, we faced a dead end with three closed doors.
    “Is this your first time visiting the palace?” John stood with his back to the middle door, his hand on the knob.
    “Yes. I’m mildly impressed so far.” I laughed, unable to play it cool.
    He opened the door. “After you.”
Ever the gentleman.
    I stepped into a room that had a marble mantelpiece, a canopy bed decked out in blue layers of luxury, and a short, light blue sofa with navy pillows. Its sheer perfection froze me to the spot where I stood.
    “Does anyone use this room? It’s immaculate.” I didn’t want to drag my soaking self into such a clean space.
    “It’s one of the rooms we sometimes let photographers use if they