Affairs of State. Jennifer Lewis

and unannounced.

      “Hi.” She managed, after a moment of rather stunned silence. “Would you like to come in?”

      “Thank you.” His tall and broad form made her eighteenth-century doorway look small.

      She glanced nervously around. Thank heaven she was a neat freak and had just put away her laundry. It was Saturday around noon and she’d been trying to decide whether to spend her afternoon looking at paintings in a museum or fondling interesting objects at a flea market. Since she hadn’t made up her mind (frigid air conditioning versus sticky D.C. summer humidity) she was dressed in jeans and a spaghetti-strap tank top. Not exactly what you’d don if you expected a prince to stop by.

      “Your house is lovely.”

      “Thanks. I only have the first floor. I rent it from the couple who own the upstairs. They have a separate entrance around the side. I do like it, though.” She was babbling. He was only being polite. Her tiny and rather overstuffed space must have seemed quaint and eccentric to him. “Do sit down. How did you know I’d be here?”

      “I didn’t.” He eased himself into her cream loveseat. “Do you live alone?”

      “Yes. I keep such crazy hours and really need my sleep when I finally have time for it. I tried living with roommates but it never worked out for long.”

      “So all of these interesting things are yours?” He picked up a pocket-size nineteenth-century brass telescope she’d scored at an estate sale in Virginia.

      “I’m afraid so. You can see I love to collect interesting trinkets.”

      He expertly opened the piece and trained it out the window, then glanced up and his eyes met hers. Her breath stuck at the bottom of her lungs for a moment. How did he have that effect on her? She dealt with celebrities and big shots all day long and had a strict policy of treating them like the ordinary people that they were, if you ignored all those extra zeros in their bank accounts. She’d worked with royals from Sweden, Monaco and Saudi Arabia, among others, and hadn’t given a second thought to their supposedly blue blood. But somehow around Simon Worth she felt lightheaded and tongue tied as a naive schoolgirl.

      “I can see you have good taste. I’ve grown up surrounded by fine things, and never had to exert myself to acquire any. It looks as if you’ve done the work of three hundred years of collectors.” He picked up a hand-painted miniature of a lady and her poodle.

      “Isn’t she sweet? A client from England gave her to me to thank me for planning her wedding in Maryland. In a way I suppose I’ve stolen her from among your national treasures.”

      “Perhaps she’s simply traveling for a while.” His smile melted a little piece of her. “Objects might get restless, just as people do.”

      She laughed. “I sometimes wonder how they feel about being bought or sold or traded to a new person. I know that inanimate objects aren’t supposed to have feelings, but they must carry some energy from the people and places they’ve been before.”

      “I know places can have their own spirit. My home at Whist Castle practically bustles with it.” He leaned forward, his eyes sparkling. “If places can have a feeling, why not things as well?”

      “I’m glad you don’t think I’m a nut. I do enjoy seeking out little treasures. In fact I was thinking of ducking past any photographers and doing that this afternoon at the Eastern Market.”

      “Perhaps we could go together.” He said it quite calmly, as if it wasn’t the most outlandish idea she’d every heard.

      “But if people see us together…they might talk.”

      “About what?” He leaned back, face calmly pleasant.

      Suddenly she felt like an idiot for suggesting that people might gossip about a romance between them. Obviously that existed only in her own mind. What would a British royal be doing with her? “I’m being paranoid again. I probably think the press cares far more about me than they actually do.”

      “If anyone asks, we can tell them you’re helping me source interesting items for a fund-raiser we’re planning.” He picked a pair of tiny silver sewing scissors and snipped the air with them.

      “The outdoor concert?”

      “A mad hatter’s tea party, perhaps?” A cute dimple appeared in his left cheek. “People do expect us Brits to be eccentric, after all. You won’t actually need a reasonable explanation.”

      “Well, in that case, let’s go.”

      “Is there another way out of here?” He’d risen to his feet and offered his hand to her.

      “You mean, besides the front door?”

      He nodded. “I’m afraid I was spotted arriving here.”

      “The short guy with the ponytail?”

      “The very same.”

      “Ugh. He’s freelance and has sold pictures of me to at least three different papers. One was a picture of me carrying two grocery bags, and somehow he managed to bribe the cashier into handing over my receipt so everyone could learn what brand of aspirin I prefer. And there isn’t another way out. I guess you’ll have to stay here forever.”

      Her hand heated inside his as he helped her to her feet. He didn’t look at all put out by either the photographer or the prospect of spending the rest of his life in Apt. 1A.

      “I do hate to assist these lowlifes in their trade. We’ll leave separately so there’s no picture. I’ll leave first in my car, you leave five minutes later and walk around the block. I’ll have a blue Mercedes meet you in front of the Mixto restaurant.”

      “Goodness, I feel like I’m in a James Bond film.” He must have planned this. Which sent sparkles of excitement and alarm coursing through her.

      “Don’t worry. I have years of experience in dodging these leeches. I think of it as an entertaining challenge.”

      “I’m game. What should I bring?”

      “Just yourself.”

      Simon left via the front door and she rushed to the window, where she saw him get into a waiting silver SUV, which pulled away. She took a couple of minutes to fix her hair and face, and put on a light blouse and some boots, then she headed out in the opposite direction, toward the tiny restaurant as if she was just on her way to the local deli. She didn’t cast a glance at the depressing figure in his dull green jacket and faded black baseball hat, though she felt his eyes trained on her.

      Simon was right. As long as they weren’t seen together, there was no picture to sell. The whole world knew he was in D.C. Everyone was already tired of pictures of her leaving for work and coming back home again. No picture, no story.

      A tiny ripple of triumph put a spring in her step as she rounded the corner and spotted a blue Mercedes idling double-parked halfway down the block. The car’s rear door opened and she saw Simon’s reassuring face. Feeling like a ninja, she climbed in, and they cruised off down the block. Her heart was pounding, and she wasn’t sure if it was because of all the subterfuge, or being so close to Simon again.

      “He didn’t follow you.”

      “Nope. He rarely does. I think he’s too lazy. Just snaps a couple of pictures a day and hopes a story will break so he can sell them. So far his biggest coup is the day I wore my Montana Grizzlies T-shirt. They plastered that picture all over the papers right as the story about my father was breaking, as if it was proof I was his daughter or something.”

      “Once you’re in the public eye people read into your every move. You learn to laugh at it.”

      Up close like this she could see a slight haze of stubble on his jaw. She wondered what it would feel like against her cheek, and felt her breath quicken. She tugged her gaze out the window, where D.C. scrolled by. “We’re going in the opposite direction from the market.”