Secrets of a First Daughter (9 page)

Nervous waiting for Max to arrive,
I changed into jeans and a T-shirt, drank several cups of complimentary Twinings tea, and wolfed a whole package of HobNobs digestive biscuits, regretting the mess the crumbly cookie made on the freshly vacuumed carpet. A tap at the door sent me flying to open it.

It was Max.

“Hey.” I brushed the crumbs off my
GOBSMACKED
!
BY THE U.K
. T-shirt.

“Hey.”

“So George found you?”

“Yeah.” Max's face registered no pleasure at seeing me. In fact, he looked a little shattered.

“She didn't grill you about why you were in London, did she?” I asked.

“She's not stupid. She's probably figured it out.”

“The MI6 stuff?”

“No. The Morgan Abbott stuff.”

“Oh.”

He resisted slightly before allowing me to drag him into the room, where he stood a few paces away, arms folded in front like a barrier.

His silence was making me so nervous, I started babbling. “Okay, Max, here's the thing. Trevor just grabbed me.”

“And started kissing you.” Max's voice was flat.

“Yes! It was beyond gross, too.” I shuddered at the memory. “I was trying to get him to back off, but he was being a complete tool. He has a bizarre idea that because he's the PM's son and I'm the president's daughter, that we're
supposed
to be together.”

“That's not the way it looked to me.” Max's stony expression hardened.

“You have to believe me.” I could feel the tears threatening. I swallowed hard. “I would never do anything like that. I promise, Max. He just attacked me, lips first.”

Max's expression changed from stony to furious. “Maybe I should pay Trevor a little visit and teach him some manners.”

“Don't worry, I already did. Let's say he won't be able to smell too well for a while.” I explained about my collision
with Trevor's nose. “Honestly, the whole situation got stupid so fast.”

Max didn't reply. I held my breath. “Did you really punch him?” he asked, and broke into a grin.

I let out a huge sigh of relief.

“Well, it was sort of an accident. But still completely satisfying. Trevor Eckley was being a jerk.”

“Spitfire,” Max murmured, and gathered me close.

Mmm-hm. Kissing Max totally wiped away the memory of Trevor's ookey kiss.

After a few minutes, we reluctantly broke apart. “I forgot to tell you,” I said. “In another Morgan-related disaster, Brittany has threatened to send the photo of us to the gossip rags the minute she lands Stateside. No cell-phone reception or the deed would have already been done.”

“What set her off this time?”

“Oh, who knows?” I decided not to tell him about the wrestling match I'd gotten into with Brits. Learning that his girlfriend was in two violent altercations in the same day might have been a tad too much info. “She lives to torture me, and she knows the trouble we'd be in if anyone found out about us.”

Max sighed.

“Morg…maybe we should cool it a little.”

Whaaa?

“We are breaking all kinds of rules,” he went on. “And I hate having to sneak around. You should be living in the spotlight, dating a guy who fits into your lifestyle. I mean, I know I'm not exactly perfect boyfriend material for the president's daughter. I'm just a working stiff who is still paying off my student loans. I'm not sure I'm what's best for you.”

“Maybe you should let me be the judge of who the president's daughter should be dating.” I searched his eyes. “Are you telling me you want to date someone less complicated?”

At that, Max's sweet smile rippled over his face. “Nah. My life would be boring without a Tornado ripping it all to pieces every so often.”

Aww! I draped my arms around his neck and brought him in for another passionate kiss. The kiss was different somehow. He was holding back. Then he relaxed.

After a long moment, I pulled away. “Hey, you had the interview with the Secret Intelligence Service today! How'd it go?”

“Pretty good, I think. I won't know their answer for a couple of days yet, but I passed the background checks. I think I have a shot at it.”

“Excellent.” I hugged him again. But deep inside, I still wasn't sure I wanted Max to get the job. We'd already been shoved far apart as it was. Max working for the British
government would only widen the chasm.

Suddenly the door to the hotel room burst open, and Hannah and Prince Richard lurched inside.

“Oh my god!” Hannah cried. “The paparazzi are going nuts down in the street in front of the hotel. I've never seen anything like it, even in D.C. Rich had to have the helicopter land on the helipad on the roof of the hotel so we could avoid them.”

“Londoners breed up an aggressive paparazzi,” Prince Richard said. Good lord, the heir to the British throne got more smoking with every passing day, even when
royally
annoyed. His rumpled black curls and sapphire eyes were so
GQ
he'd make most male supermodels envious. “They've been following us all day.”

“They were waiting for us at the helipad this morning and they never let up.” Hannah blew a lock of her disheveled hair out of her eyes. “Morgan and I talked about going to the theater tonight, but I'm not sure I could face running the gauntlet again. I'm nearly blinded from camera flashes.”

“Why don't we all stay in tonight?” I suggested. “Mom will be busy with official dinners, so I'm free. Max?”

“I'm free, too. Tell you the truth, I'm bushed. A night in sounds great.”

“Brilliant, Morgan.” The prince looked pleased. “Scotland Yard wasn't too happy about closing half the roads in
the West End theater district for security purposes anyway.”

“Hans?”

Hannah was already kicking off her boots.

I called George to let her know we'd be staying in tonight and not to disturb us. While Max and Prince Richard settled in to watch a soccer match on TV (Richard called it “football”—too cute!) and Hannah whisked herself into the opulent bathroom suite for a shower, I called room service. I had to be sneaky about what to order. Weird as it sounded, tabloid spies lurked in kitchens and custodial quarters hoping to pick up juicy tidbits on celebrities that they could sell to bottom-feeding tabloids and bloggers. We were hiding Prince Richard, the biggest celebrity in Great Britain, in our hotel suite. I didn't want to give away the fact that he hadn't left the premises yet. I also wasn't keen on broadcasting Max's presence to the Secret Service. And I wouldn't have put it past Brittany to nose around. So I ordered one portion of spaghetti Bolognese, hold the sauce, a side of peanut butter, grilled chicken for two, a shrimp cocktail with a side of sriracha hot sauce, and a large mesclun salad. I raided the suite's minibar for peanuts and found a couple of limes in the massive fruit basket the prime minister had sent us upon our arrival.

Once the food arrived, I got to work whipping up a quick Thai-inspired meal. Grilled chicken and shrimp got
tossed in peanut butter, hot sauce, lime juice, and served over the pasta. The salad on the side, sprinkled with peanuts and orange slices from the fruit basket, completed the meal.

Hannah emerged from the bathroom completely refreshed. “Whoa, that smells good. Is that a specialty of the hotel?”

“Nope, it's a Morgan special.” Proudly I served up the Thai chicken and shrimp. “I didn't want to tip off the press that we had more than two people up here, so I threw this together.”

Richard took a bite. “It's delicious. And…hot…” He started coughing.

“Too much sriracha?” I asked anxiously.

“Not for me,” Max said, taking a big bite. “It's perfect.”

Warmth stole through me. It was silly to feel so pleased about improvising a meal for my friends, but there was nothing better than the satisfaction, the magic really, of creative cooking. It almost felt normal, just four friends chilling—in a five-star hotel with a gazillion Secret Service and MI6 personnel right outside the door. At least it was the closest I ever got to normal.

“Hold up,” Hannah said. “I think we could improve the ambiance in here.” She dug into her massive handbag and pulled out a rose-colored silk scarf and threw it over the
lamp. The garish hotel light mellowed to a lovely glow.

“Ah, domestic bliss,” Richard said. He stretched his long legs out over the coffee table and tucked into the food.

“Sure is.” Max drew me down into the space next to him. I settled into the crook of Max's shoulder with a contented sigh, while Hannah snuggled next to Richard.

I wished every evening could be like this: great food, laughs, good times with friends…and without the pressures of celebrity to worry about.

Max tightened his arm around me.

Yep. Life was good.

The phone's jangle cut rudely into my sleep.
I cracked open my eyes in the murky early-morning gloom. The four of us had stayed up late last night, laughing and playing a stupid card game until Richard's entourage, which had been hanging with the presidential security team, called the prince's private mobile line to remind him that he had a royal family function first thing in the morning. He and Hannah said good-bye to each other for, like, forever. Max had given me a kiss that rocked me to my toes before he, too, disappeared into the night.

The phone shrieked again.

“Answer it,” Hannah moaned from her bed. She pulled a pillow over her ears so that only her eye mask showed.

I knocked the phone off the hook and groped for the handset.

“Morgan? It's Courtney Richardson.”

“Uh…who?” Sleep fuddled my brain.

“I'm the deputy communications director on the president's rapid-response team.”

I sat bolt upright in bed. This was not going to be good.

“I'll be over to your room in thirty minutes. Meanwhile, send someone down from your security detail to collect today's newspapers.”

My mouth dried. “What's going on? Is Mom okay?”

“I'll explain when I get there. Don't worry, it has nothing to do with your mother.”

Whew.

Then I realized if it had nothing to do with Mom, it had everything to do with me.

George arrived ten minutes later with a copy of several British newspapers. By now Hannah had crawled out of bed and we sat nervously among the clutter left over from last night's party.

“It's not good.” George handed me a copy of the
Sun
.

The headline screamed across the front page:
MORGAN ABBOTT'S FISTS OF FURY
! along with a grainy photo of Trevor Eckley and his swollen nose. The caption breathlessly related, “London hottie Trevor Eckley was the unlucky recipient of a bloody nose from presidential wild child Morgan Abbott. Unnamed sources claimed the U.S. president's daughter, in London on an official state visit, became
uncontrollably enraged for an unknown reason and landed a direct hit on the nose of the prime minister's son….”

“Oh god,” Hannah groaned.

“This is terrible!” I wailed. “Hitting Trevor was an accident. And look at the photo they dug up of me!” Inset into the blown-up photo of Trevor's nose (which in all honesty looked Photoshopped to make his bruise seem worse than it was) was a tiny photo of me in my tacky
Rent
costume, the one that hit the tabloids a few weeks ago and made it look like I was a sleazoid in everyday life.

“I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about this!” Hannah pointed to another headline:
HAS PRINCE RICHARD SETTLED ON A LADY-LOVE AT LAST
?

In contrast to my crazy-ass photo, Hannah was the picture of jetsetting glam as she was being helped out of the helicopter by Prince Richard, devastatingly handsome in his leather jacket and knit skullcap. “Is this our future queen?” the photo caption read. “Hannah Davis, best pals with President Abbott's daughter, could be considered American royalty. But really, Rich, an American?”

“Oh boy,” I whispered.

A second later Mom rolled in with Humberto and a gray-haired no-nonsense woman who introduced herself as deputy communications director Courtney Richardson.

“I think Morgan should address these concerns
head-on,” Courtney was saying to my mom. “Get her in front of the scandal instead of chasing it. That's the quickest way to derail the internet snowball effect and keep the bad PR from getting out of control.”

“Absolutely not.” Mom shook her head vehemently. “I don't want to throw Morgan to the wolves for something she didn't do.”

“Actually, Mom, I did punch Trevor in the nose,” I offered weakly.

“That's not at issue
at the moment
, sweetie.” Mom brushed it off, but left the impression we'd be talking about the incident later. “Humberto. Thoughts?”

Humberto had been tapping his knuckle against his chin while he regarded me. I'm sure he was wishing I'd never come on this trip, but if anyone knew how to put out a fire quickly, it was Mom's chief of staff. “I think she should respond to the allegations,” he said unexpectedly. “Let her tell her side of the story before others do it for her.”

“The press conference would turn into a zoo, and you both know it,” Mom said. “I don't want Morgan subjected to so much harassment from the media. Once you open the gate, you can't put the horse back in. The media would never leave her alone if we start giving access.”

“They aren't leaving her alone now,” Courtney pointed out.

“Remember, we need to control the message given to the press,” Humberto added. “Not the other way around.”

“Morgan is not a politician!” Mom said angrily. “She's my daughter, and I'm going to protect her from these media jackals come hell or high water—”

I stood up. “I'd like to talk to the press.”

The three of them stared at me.

Mom broke the surprised silence. “Out of the question.”

“I need to, Mom. Otherwise, the press will be free to make up any other stories they want about me. At least I'll have my side out there.”

Mom draped her arm around me. “Oh, honey. Are you sure? Journalists are vultures who want to pick our bones clean.”

“Yeah, but this is the British press. Maybe they won't be as vicious because I'm an American?”

“Don't be so sure about that,” Courtney said darkly. “They might be vicious
because
you are. Foreign reporters don't always like Americans.”

“I'd like to speak to the reporters, too,” Hannah interjected. “I can't stand the thought that Rich is getting his love life looted because of one date.”

Courtney nodded briskly. I got the sense she was someone who didn't like to waste time. “Okay, if it's a go, I'll set up a press conference for this afternoon. We'll get you
both some boot-camp media training. And I'll make sure we limit the questioning, Sara. Promise.”

“Well, if it's the only way to squelch the media frenzy, then I guess we have no choice. Proceed.”

While Mom, Courtney, and Humberto discussed the details, George quietly approached Hannah and handed her a slip of paper. She glanced at it, then put a shaky hand to her mouth.

“What is it?” I asked. Hannah looked awful.

“It's from Buckingham Palace. I've been asked”—she swallowed hard—“to ‘please abstain from contacting Prince Richard due to unforeseen scheduling issues.' Unforeseen scheduling issues? What does that mean?”

Mom and I exchanged concerned glances, while Courtney and Humberto moved politely out of earshot. “It means that the queen would prefer if you do not see her grandson again,” Mom explained gently. “I'm so sorry, Hannah.”

“Oh.” Hannah pressed her lips together. “I get it. I'm not good enough to date Rich because I'm not a royal.”

Distress lit Mom's eyes, but she'd never skirt the truth. “I'm afraid so.”

I started to go to her. “Hannah—”

Hannah held up her hand to check me. “It's okay, Morgan. I just need a minute.” Tears started to roll down her
cheeks, and Mom and I didn't stop her as she fled to the bathroom.

 

The PR boot camp Courtney set up lasted from breakfast until lunch. She drummed into our heads the importance of using slow, controlled gestures or, better still, to keep our hands folded in our laps. She forbade OMG!-type slang and advised us not to be tempted to fill the silences. Answer the question and then stop talking. We practiced our “key messages,” as Courtney called them. She assured us that the media couldn't quote anything we didn't say. “Choose your words carefully,” Courtney said, and glanced at me.

In short, she tried to turn us into media-savvy robots in under four hours. She told us to wear conservative suits with minimal makeup. Even Hannah's love of outrageous jewelry had been tamed—she was all about the concept of damage control and was paying close attention to everything Courtney told her. I knew she was hoping that if she did everything just right, maybe she could see Prince Richard again.

The press conference had been set up in the hotel's opulent Regency-style banquet room. Journalists, photographers, and camera crews mobbed the joint all the way to the walls. In the anteroom, Courtney and one of her aides
took a head count of the prominent British journalists and camera crews from the
Guardian
,
The Times
,
BBC News
, and
CNN International
.

And Brittany Whittaker's smug face popped out of the sea of strangers. No way would she pass up an opportunity to see me humiliated.

Mom arrived by a back route just before the news conference was set to start. “Nervous?” she asked.

“Nah. I've fielded press conferences before. At least this time I can do it as myself and not as the president of the United States.”

Mom winked at me. Last month, disguised as Mom, I had to hold down the fort on an impromptu press conference when Mom had gotten stuck at Camp David negotiating a cease-fire in Africa. I did a pretty good job, I think. At least, no one found out about the impersonation, which counted for a lot.

Courtney interrupted us. “They're ready, Morgan.”

“Showtime, sweetie.” Mom smoothed my hair affectionately.

“Showtime,” I repeated.

Hannah and I entered the banqueting area calmly and with our heads held high, per instructions. Cameras flashed and video recorders whirred while we sat behind the skirted table. Courtney insisted on the draping to hide
any nervous twitches our legs might make. I had to hand it to Mom, she'd found another gem staffer in her deputy communications director of rapid response.

I scanned the room, getting more nervous by the minute. Maybe this wasn't such a stellar idea. Then I saw Max. He stood at the back wall partially hidden by video equipment and members of various camera crews, but he stared right at me. He flashed a thumbs-up, and I relaxed.

After a few preliminary remarks, Courtney said, “We'll open the floor for questions now. Yes, you first.” She pointed.

A man with tons of ear piercings stood up. “Clive Willowby,
Daily Mail
. Morgan, how long have you been dating the prime minister's son?”

I forced my mouth into what I hoped was a winning smile. “I'm not dating the prime minister's son. We're friends, that's all.”

“You Americans have a funny way of showing friendship, by the corker you landed on his nose.”

Titters. Giggles.

“Trevor's injury came about purely by accident,” I said serenely. “I couldn't help it if his nose slammed into my knuckles.”

Hearty chuckles.

“Honestly, it was an accident. Still, it shouldn't have
happened. I apologize to Trevor Eckley, the prime minister's office, and the nation of Great Britain for the fuss I caused. Most especially, I apologize to British journalists for having to cover this pretty lame story.”

Roars of laughter now.

Another journalist stood. “Morgan, if not Trevor, are you seeing anyone special?”

I sat back in my chair. Courtney hadn't prepared me for this. I swallowed. I wanted to shout from the rooftop that, yes, I was seeing Special Agent Max Jackson. But I couldn't, not without consequences. I regained my composure. “No, I'm not seeing anyone special.”

It hurt to say it, but what hurt even more was the look on Max's face. He knew I couldn't answer honestly, but I could still tell my response stung. No one special. He gave me a weak smile and I tried to smile back, shifting my gaze so no one else would notice Max.

Another reporter hopped to her feet. “Jemima Jones,
Telegraph
. Question for Miss Davis. How close are you to Prince Richard?”

“We're good friends.” Hannah kept her voice cool and her manner regal.

“Have you two been dating long?” someone from the back yelled.

“We met when the prince visited Washington, D.C.”
Hannah didn't fill in all the blanks for the journalist, as per Courtney's instructions. We'd been prepped to give minimal answers.

“Do you think you're going to be the next queen of England?”

Hannah gave an incredulous laugh. “It's a pretty wide leap from friendship to becoming the queen of England, don't you think?”

Oh snap! Hannah had turned the question back on the reporter. She was knocking it out of the park!

A woman with aggressively plucked eyebrows and a chic aubergine suit raised her pen to be called upon. “Lulu MacGregor,
British Vogue
. Who are you wearing, Morgan?”

That's when I knew the tide had turned.

The rest of the session consisted of questions about how we were enjoying our stay in London, which West End shows we were considering attending, and random queries on our favorite British foods. I scanned the room to see how Brittany was taking this turn of events, but she was nowhere to be found.

Whatever.

Now I searched for Max, but he was gone, too.

 

The press conference had exhausted Hannah and me, and we crashed in the hotel room. I was dying to see Max, but
we both knew we couldn't risk it—not while I was once again under the media microscope.

George ordered us room service for dinner, but neither Hannah nor I was the slightest bit hungry. We were in one of the greatest cities in the world but we couldn't enjoy it. We went to bed early, wrung out from our ordeal and missing our boyfriends.

It was hard to believe that just last night the four of us were chillin' when tonight that safe and comfortable feeling felt so far away.

 

The next morning, I asked for all the newspapers to be brought in.

“Hannah, wake up,” I called.