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relationship between the future royalties, the carriage could either be a vaguely awkward or a totally hot ride. And, of course, it was always choice pickings for the rumor mill at school. If there was any chemistry at all between the Prince and Princess, sending a Princess into the carriage was much like sending a bride off to her marital bed. Hence Phillip Jr.’s bawdy boast, and hence Isabelle’s icy not-in-front-of-your-folks glare.
    “What about you, Natalie?” she asked, steering the conversation back toward more appropriate ground. “Are you on the Court for Princess, too?”
    Before I could open my mouth, Diana snapped, “Don’t change the subject, Isabelle.”
    I used my toe to nudge Mike’s groin. When his head shot up and his eyes met mine, I raised my eyebrows in the most seductively threatening way I could manage at the dinner table. Prime time to step up to the plate, love.
    “No one’s changing the subject,” Mike piped in obediently. “If I win anything, it’ll be because of Nat.”
    Diana was banging the prongs of her fork on her dinner plate without realizing the entire table was trembling to the beat of her nerves. I popped another bite of filet mignon in my mouth, enjoying every delicious moment.
    I had never seen Diana King so unglued. There was something gorgeously transparent about her poker face:
    Had she been slacking in her duties as a high society mother?
    Was there someone she needed to talk to?
    Was it . . . gasp . . . too late?
    “Really, Mr. and Mrs. King,” I said sweetly, laying a hand on Diana’s arm to silence the fork. “Don’t worry about a thing.” I wedged my toe further between Mike’s legs, wondering briefly what accolades I could get for working open his fly using only my toes.
    “Slightly easier said than done, dear,” Diana said to me.
    “I promise,” I said, giving weight to each word. “I think your son and I have found a surefire way in.” I glanced at Mike, unbuttoning him right there in front of his very buttoned-up family. “Pretty soon . . . we’ll have this thing nailed.”
    Mike bit his lip. Sometimes it was hard to tell whether he was flushed from being turned on or whether he was embarrassed by a little innocent bon mot in front of his family. Everyone but me seemed relieved for the interruption when Binky brought out the palate cleanser.
    “Thank you, Binky,” Diana said, settling back into her role as Queen. “I think we’ll ask you to serve dessert aboard P.J.’s sailboat. Of course, it will just be the four of us.” She motioned to everyone but Mike and me.
    Mike looked at me. “You’re sure you don’t want to—” “Your mother and I already discussed it, remember? She was kind enough to consider my feelings after what happened to Daddy.”
    “Of course,” Mike nodded, looking uncomfortable that he hadn’t remembered instantly. Not that I blamed him—it wasn’t exactly like I went around bragging about my dad’s disappearance all the time. The tragic sailing accident was just a convenient story—clean enough for company and tragic enough that no one, including Mike, had ever really asked for particulars. “We’ll just take the cigarette boat out then, Mother, if that’s okay with you.”
    “Do as you wish,” Diana said, standing up to excuse us from the table. “Just remember that when it comes to Prince next week, we’re talking about more than just your wishes.” She looked at me. “This is a family affair.”
    As Mike and I walked down the path toward the marina, he motioned me behind the pine tree where we’d once carved our initials. We stood pressed together in between the thick patches of green-mouthed Venus flytraps that grew like sun-spots on the King’s backyard. The plants’ carnivorous jaws were open, waiting for their evening meal.
    “You and my mom are sure in cahoots over my Palmetto Prince campaign,” he teased. “Hey, I’m sorry about the sailboat thing. I should have realized.”
    “Over