Reality TV Bites (4 page)

“What game?”

“Basketball. The Bulls are in the play-offs.”

His lips tighten in a thin line, and I'm impressed with his restraint. There is only one sport the typical European man enjoys: soccer. Every other sport—baseball, football, golf—is substandard. Nicolo appears to be of this opinion, but instead of ranting about how ridiculous basketball is and how he'd rather have his testicles ripped off and mounted in a Plexiglas frame than watch a Bulls game, he says, “I will join you. Where?”

Now, if he had
asked
if he could join me, if he had offered to escort me or take me out before the game or after, I would have let this go. I might even have nixed the basketball game entirely, even though Rory would have killed me. But Nicolo did not
ask
if he could accompany me. The real me—as opposed to the composed, fabulous me sitting beside Nicolo—is kind of excited that this guy likes me so much, but what kind of girl would I be if I let him see through me so easily?

It's important not to expose one's vulnerabilities too early, if at all, so I say, “You know, I'm not certain where we'll be.” I slide back in the seat, extricating my leg from his hand. “Let me give you my friend Rory's number. Call her tomorrow and ask if you're invited. She can tell you where we'll be.” I pull a business card from my bag and look at him expectantly. I have a perfectly good pen in my bag, but I am going to wait for Nicolo to offer his Montblanc. Here's another hint: Always make the guy work for it because men are a strange species. They don't appreciate what they don't work for.

Nicolo frowns, then sighs because this wooing stuff is
such
hard work, and at last pulls the Montblanc from his jacket pocket.

“Thank you.” I write Rory's name and work number on the back of the card and hand it to him. The car is rounding the corner, and I see the Drake's bellboys and porters up ahead. “Stop here, please.”

“The hotel is a bit farther,” Nicolo says.

“I know. But I'm not going to the Drake.” I gather my purse and open the door when the car stops. “I'm not hungry anymore.”

Nicolo leans across the backseat. “At least allow me to drive you home.”

“No thanks. I can make it on my own.” I close the door and walk away.

I grab a cab back to the office, but instead of getting in my car to drive home, I head back upstairs. Natalie's still there, and when I walk in she looks up, surprised.

“Natalie,” I say breathlessly. “You're good at research, right?”

She nods, staring as I bend down to remove my Pradas. I'm all for fashion, but I've been wearing these heels for thirteen hours now, and that's enough of a homage to haute couture for a day.

“Good, come to my office. Quick!”

She jumps up and races after me. I flick on the lights in my office, boot up the computer, and slide into the chair behind the drawing board that constitutes my desk. “Grab that chair, Nat.” I point to a cushy orange retro chair, and Natalie drags it closer. While the computer wakes up, I turn to look at her. “What do you know about Nicolo Parma? Something about his name sounds really familiar, and I can't figure out why.”

“Maybe he's produced other reality TV shows,” she says, pushing her glasses back on her sweaty nose.

“No, it's something else. Parma. Parma. Where have I heard that?”

“It's a part of Italy.”

I turn to the computer and click on the Internet icon. “God, this computer is so slow.”

“You should do a disk cleanup,” Natalie says.

“What's that?”

“Here.” She reaches past me and starts messing around with the settings. “Okay,” she says finally. “That should help. It got rid of unnecessary stuff and freed up memory to make the computer faster.”

“Great.” Now when I open the Internet, I'm able to get Google almost right away. When the search box pops up, I type “parma” in. On the screen, Google displays entries.

I scroll through the choices—Parma, Ohio; Parma, New York; Parma, Michigan—ha! Parma, Italy. I click and after a pause, there's a list of hotels and pictures of old buildings. At the bottom of the page I find a link for history. I click on that and read the highlights to Natalie. “183
B
.
C
. founded. Ruled by the Visconti, Sforza, the French. Pope Paul III established a Duchy. Joined kingdom of Italy in 1860.”

I sit back to think, and Natalie leans forward. “When did the French rule Italy?”

“Napoléon probably. He took over after Louis the Sixteenth and Marie Antoinette got their heads chopped off. The Italians got rid of their king, too, in the forties. It was just a few years ago that they allowed the exiled royal family—Prince Victor Emmanuel, of the House of Savoy—back in.” If there's one thing I know, it's royalty. Comes with the wanting to be a princess thing. I didn't like school much, but when I wanted to learn something—like, say, the lineage of the royal families of Europe—I had no trouble.

“The French tried monarchy one last time after Napoléon. They asked the Bourbons back but—” I clap a hand over my mouth and stare at Natalie.

“What?” she says, eyes wide.

I reach for the keyboard, but my hands are shaking now and I can't type. “Type ‘Bourbon-Parma' in,” I say.

Natalie reaches forward and starts typing.

“No, it's O-U-R and there's a hyphen.”

Natalie hits search, and a site about the royal house of Bourbon comes up. With shaking fingers, I point to the link for the genealogy of the Bourbon-Parma branch.

Natalie clicks on it, and we scroll down, past all the princes and princesses—Robertos, Giuseppes, Marias, Antonias, Philippes—“Oh, my God! Stop.”

Natalie jumps. “What? What?”

“There. That's him.” My heart hammers, the room is too hot, and my head is spinning. “Oh, my God! I knew it.” I can barely squeeze the words out.

Natalie squints at the small type and leans closer. “Prince Nicolò Thierry Ferdinand Ignazio Alfonso Roberto Paolo Tadero Giovanni Bourbon-Parma, born Roskilde 6 December 1970.” She looks at me. “Wow. That's a lot of names.”

“That's the guy who was here this afternoon. Mr. Parma.”

“What?” Natalie steps back, stumbling against her chair.

“Parma is Prince Nicolo Bourbon-Parma. A real prince.” I look at Natalie. “Get Josh on the phone.”

“Yes, Ms. Holloway.”

She races back to her desk and lifts her phone, simultaneously punching buttons on her keyboard to bring up the file with employee contact info. A moment later, she buzzes me. “Mr. Bryant on line two. He sounds mad.”

“Thanks, Nat.” Normally, the first person I'd call with something like this is Rory. But I'm too excited to explain, so I'll brave Josh's temper. I pick up. “Josh, you are not going to believe this.” In the background I hear loud music and voices. Natalie must have gotten Josh on his cell.

“You're in bed with Don Juan. Happy, happy, joy, joy. You're taking me away from a gorgeous Cuban with a lisp. You
know
how I love a lisp.”

Actually I didn't know that. “Josh, forget the Cuban. You are not going to believe what I found out. After I left Nicolo I came back to the office.”

“You're at work? Sweetie, go home. Sex in the workplace is so last year.”

“Josh, will you shut up and listen? I Googled Nicolo and you are not going to believe this.” I pause for effect, then say, “He's a prince. It's right here. His whole family line. I mean, the family doesn't rule any countries or anything. They
haven't since like 1860, but he's descended from royalty, and he still has the title! Do you know what this means?”

“No, but you're going to tell me.”

“I went out with a real prince. If this works out, I could be a princess!”

Okay, actually, after further research, I realized I can't be a princess. Since
the Bourbon-Parma family is no longer reigning, only the issue of princesses and princes of the line are titled. Unless a prince marries a girl who's a princess already, she doesn't carry the title of princess. Still, it's pretty much the closest to being a princess a girl could imagine.

Needless to say, I'm in raptures. A reality TV show and a prince. My life is perfect. Really perfect. Meeting my Prince Charming is all I've dreamed about since I first read
Cinderella.
Rory knows this, so as soon as I see her, I give her the 411 on the prince and the show.

“So the film crew didn't show up today,” I tell her. “I think they'll be there Monday, but I'm getting a little nervous. I mean, Miranda can't or won't tell me anything and the
translator abbreviates everything the iron designers say into three words or less.”

A roar goes up and Rory and I glance at the big-screen TV on the patio in front of us. Not that I can see the game. There's a wall of men guarding the television. Rory and I are sitting on the wooden steps, arms drawn around our knees, dressed in shorts and T-shirts. Rory's drinking a beer, but I'm nursing a gin and tonic. Not my favorite, but the liquor here is crap. I don't really like gin, so drinking cheap gin can't ruin it for me.

“But you're going to be on TV,” Rory says when the noise dies down. “And you might even win a million dollars.” She tucks a strand of her straight light brown hair behind her ear. She cut it a few days ago so that it grazes her chin, and the style really flatters her small face.

“It will be fun to be on TV, but I'm afraid that all my mess-ups are going to be broadcast for the world to see.”

“But you're not going to mess up,” she says with perfect confidence. I marvel at her complete faith in me. One thing about Rory, she's loyal. “And you're going to be an unofficial princess!”

“I hardly know Nicolo. I think it's a little early to plan the wedding.” I've already gotten the whole thing planned anyway.

Rory finishes her beer. How can she drink that stuff?

“I don't think it's too early. Every man you meet falls in love with you.”

I roll my eyes. “I don't know where you get these ideas. Bryce didn't fall in love with me.”

A groan erupts from the patio, and the mournful sound complements my feelings. Rory puts her arm around my shoulder. “Bryce was a nerf-herder. I thought we established that.”

“
You
established that.”

“Allison, it's time you took all thoughts of Bryce and blasted them into the far reaches of an asteroid field to be pulverized with all the other refuse. Then start thinking about how nice Princess Allison sounds.”

“Don't tell me the rumor's true,” Hunter says, taking a seat beside Rory. And, as if they're two parts of a whole, she melts effortlessly into him. “The whole way here, Rory wouldn't stop talking about the prince that called her at work and wanted to know if he could watch the game with us.”

“Well, it's not every day that a prince calls me, okay? Like if a princess called you, you wouldn't be excited.”

“A princess already does call me,” Hunter says and kisses her cheek.

Gag, gag, gag. Hunter is just too good to be true. Don't get me wrong, I like him and everything. I've always liked him, and I've known him since elementary school. But when all the cheerleaders were gaga over his blue eyes, his dark hair, and his athlete's body, I wasn't interested. Hunter will always do the right thing. The expected thing. There are no surprises with Hunter, and I like surprises.

“So Rory tells me you're going to be on TV.”

I nod wearily. “The show's called
Kamikaze Makeover!
It's supposed to be like
Iron Chef
but with decorators. It's Josh and me against the Japanese. They start preproduction tomorrow.”

“Cool.”

“It
looks
cool, but there's something weird going on. You know how these shows are. There's got to be something we don't know. And these Japanese guys. I think we need to get a new translator.” I see a tall guy with unmistakable confidence stroll in, and my heart starts beating hard. Oh, my
God. It's Nicolo. I didn't actually think he'd show. But then the guy turns.

It's Dave. How could I possibly confuse Dave with Nicolo? Dave's hair is kind of an ash blond, thick and spiky, sort of like Brad Pitt's, while Nicolo is all dark and European. I suppose they're built about the same, but Dave walks around like a
Tyrannosaurus rex
and Nicolo moves like Fred Astaire.

“Why do you need a new translator?” Hunter asks.

Still watching Dave, praying he doesn't spot us, even though I know avoiding him all night is impossible, I say, “Because his answers are too short.” I glance at Hunter. “Mr. Kinjo and the director, Watanabe, talk and talk and talk, and then the translator will say, ‘Mr. Kinjo say hello.' What is that? How long does it take to say hello in Japanese?”

“Not long,” Hunter answers. “Hey, Dave! Over here.” He waves at Dave and I grind my teeth when Dave turns and flashes the three of us a smile. Why does he have to look so good? I really, really hate him.

He lopes over, his legs too long to emulate the refined aristocratic gait Nicolo's mastered. Where
is
Nicolo? Am I getting rejected again? If he doesn't show, prince or not, he's getting a royal send-off.

“So, what's the score?” Dave asks, after he and Hunter shake hands, slap shoulders, and make grunting noises.

“Bulls down by three last time I checked,” Hunter answers.

“Yeah? Rory keeping you too busy to watch the game?” Dave jokes, then pulls Rory to her feet and into a bear hug. “Hey, space cadet. You look different.”

Rory fingers her newly shorn locks. “I had my hair cut.”

“Oh, yeah. It looks…shorter.”

“Now that's a compliment for you, Rory,” I say, rising to stand with everyone else. It would be better if I ignored
Dave, but not nearly as satisfying as making snarky comments. “A girl pays two hundred dollars for a cut and highlights and all a guy can say is, ‘It looks shorter.'”

Dave rubs his chin and studies me with those golden eyes. Have I mentioned Dave's eyes? They're like something you'd see on a lion—deep, enigmatic, and compelling. It's so not fair.

“Hey, Red. Good to see you're glad to see me, as usual.”

Argh! Why can't I ever be cool and aloof with Dave? Why does he always cut straight through my bullshit?

“Guys.” Hunter's tone is full of warning. “Don't start.”

Dave shrugs. “It's okay. I think I know what the problem is.”

“You were born?” I counter with a smile, but inside my heart stutters. I cannot let him have the chance to tell everyone he rejected me.

“No.” Dave chucks my cheek lightly with his hand. “You're just jealous because I gave Rory a compliment and not you.”

There's a shout from the patio, and Rory says, “Hey, let's go watch the game.”

Dave and I ignore her.

“Me jealous? What reality are you living in?” But it sounds as defensive as I feel.

And Dave just smiles indulgently, then says, “Don't worry, Red, I've got a compliment for you, too.”

I cock my head. “Oh, good. This I have to hear.”

He winks at me, and I want to scratch his eyes out. “You look good in shorts and a T-shirt,” he says, giving me the once-over as if I were a used car he's thinking of buying. “No blue Gatorade this time and less prissy than usual.”

My jaw drops. “Prissy? Prissy!”

“Allison…” Rory begins, but before I can tell her to stay
out of it, before I can smack Dave, before I can do anything, Dave grabs me up and hugs me, pressing my face into his chest so that no one can hear me.

See why I hate him? See? God, but he smells good. Argh! “I hate you,” I mumble, and then I feel his lips brush my ear.

“No, you don't. You're just scared.”

I stop struggling. Now how does he know that?

“You must be Rory.” A male voice with a familiar European accent penetrates the cage of Dave's arms, the sound muted by the rapid beating of his heart. Hmm. Maybe he's not so unflappable after all.

“Allison?”

Dave releases me, and I whirl around and look straight into the stunning blue eyes of Prince Nicolo Thierry Ferdinand something-something Bourbon-Parma. “Nicolo. You made it.”

He takes my arm, draws me expertly away from Dave, and kisses my hand. Suddenly I feel like I'm once again in control, no longer transparent with my feelings and emotions on display. “I could not stay away,” Nicolo says.

My cheeks warm. “I'm glad. Nicolo, these are my friends. I think you spoke to Rory on the phone.” I gesture to Rory, who's standing beside Hunter, staring at the prince like he's—well, like he's a prince.

“Hi,” she says.

Nicolo takes her hand and kisses it. “Enchanted.”

Hunter sticks his own hand out, right under Nicolo's nose. “Hunter Chase. I'm Rory's boyfriend.”

Nicolo shakes his hand, their grips hard enough to turn their hands white. “Lucky man.”

Men. Everything is a competition. Nicolo looks at Dave, then me. “So, those are my friends,” I say, ignoring Dave. But the jerk refuses to be ignored. He shakes hands with Nicolo and says, “Hi, I'm Dave.”

“Nice to meet you.”

I watch Dave and Nicolo shake, trying to discern how hard they're squeezing. But it looks like a normal handshake, and I don't know how to feel about that. Hunter was jealous simply because Nicolo told Rory he was enchanted. But Dave, who's taken me out and kissed me (and rejected me), doesn't appear jealous in the least. And Nicolo, who's here because it was the only opportunity I gave him to see me outside of work, isn't exactly green with envy after he walks in and sees me in Dave's arms. Okay, have I completely lost my touch?

“Want a beer, Nicolo?” Dave asks.

“Sure. A Hasen Bräu would be good.”

“What the hell's that?” Dave asks.

Nicolo frowns. “Then a Kölsch.”

“I think your foreign beer choices are limited to Heineken or Corona,” Hunter offers.

Nicolo glances at me, as if I can shed some light on the beer question, and I hold up my glass. “The gin and tonic isn't too bad. If you don't like gin.”

“Ah, nothing then.”

“Sure?” I ask. “Dave's buying.”

Nicolo laughs, a deep sound that gives me goose bumps. “Money is not the issue. Unfortunately I cannot stay long.”

“Why not? Nicolo”—I pull him into a corner with the neglected dartboards—“you're not going to leave me here with these—
sports fans,
are you?”

“I am left with no other choice. Work.” He brings his hand up, and at first I think he's going to touch my cheek. Instead, he caresses a lock of my hair, lifting it to the light when he reaches the ends. “Like golden fire,” he murmurs. “I am sorry to go, especially as I will miss you more than you will me.” He leans close and brushes his lips over mine.
I forget to breathe for a moment as Nicolo's hand meanders down my back, finally settling on my waist.

“I don't know about that,” I say when he pulls back. “Nicolo, I know who you are.” I glance at the floor, wondering if he'll be unhappy that I've found out his true identity. Maybe it was part of the reality show, and now I've gone and ruined it. When I glance up, Nicolo's got one brow raised.

“Who I am?”

“You're a”—I glance around and lower my voice—“a prince.”

He grins and leans close. “It is not a secret.”

Yeah, right. That's what the writers of the
Reality TV Addict's Guide to What's Real
said he'd say. “Then why didn't you say so before? Why'd you have Yamamoto introduce you as Mr. Parma?”

He tucks a tangle of hair behind my ear. “Because that is who I am. ‘Prince' is merely a courtesy title. My family is not poor, but we live and work like everyone else.”

“Oh.” When he says it that way, it's not quite as exciting. “So, are you leaving on royal business?”

“No. Regular business. I think there has not been royal business for over a hundred years. But if it were royal business, be assured I would take you with me. We princes are good at rescuing damsels in distress.”

There's a groan from the patio and a chorus of “goddamnits” and “oh, hells.”

“Hopefully, my distress won't last much longer. I think I talked Rory into leaving early with me to watch
The Iron Chef
since she's got seven thousand channels.”

“What a good student. Homework on a Thursday.”

“Do I get an A?”

“Is an A good?”

“Very good.

“Then I give you three.” And he leans down to kiss me again. Very nice. I kiss him back, surprised that kissing a prince isn't as different as I thought it would be. Strike one for the fantasy.

We stand there talking for another ten minutes or more, hands clasped and Nicolo's thumb rubbing my palm in slow circles. Before he leaves, he kisses me once more and says, “I know you said you were busy, but I have been invited to a cocktail party tomorrow evening and have no date. If you find that your schedule changes…” He waves a hand.

This guy is good. He's figured out that a head-on assault isn't going to work with me. Now he's trying indifference.

“Of course, inviting you out on such short notice is absolutely inexcusable—”

“Not to mention, we're working together. I generally avoid dating men I work with,” I add.

“—but I thought you might be interested in meeting my cousin Prince Sixte Louis Charles Vincenz Christian.”

Another prince? Oh, dear. “He's here from Denmark, too?”