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A Stroke Of Midnight :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 11 из 293” He was deliberately trying to distract them into asking about my sex life withmy guard. A much safer subject.
Madeline cooperated by picking one of the tabloid reporters for the next question. If anyone would fall for sex over internal politics, it was the tabloids.
They swallowed the bait. “What do you mean, you belong to the princess?”
Doyle leaned in closer to the mike, close enough that his shoulder brushed against mine. It was very subtle and very deliberate. It would probably have been more eye-catching if Frost and I hadn’t played kissy-face first, but Doyle knew how to play to the press. You had to start slow and give yourself someplace to go. He’d only started playing to the media in the last few weeks, but as with everything, he learned quickly and did it very well. “We would give our life for her.”
“The Secret Service are sworn to give their life for the president but they don’t belong to the president.” The reporter emphasized the word belong.
Doyle leaned closer to the mike, forcing him to put one arm against the back of my chair, so I was framed in the curve of his body. The cameras exploded so that I was blind again. I allowed myself to lean in against Doyle, partly for the picture, and partly because I liked it.
“Perhaps I misspoke,” Doyle said, with all my Christmas brightness framed against his blackness.
“Are you having sex with the princess?” a female reporter asked.
“Yes,” he said simply.
They actually almost sighed as a group in eagerness. Another woman said, “Frost, are you sleeping with the princess?”
Doyle stepped back and let Frost come up to the mike again, though I would have preferred keeping him away from it. He was brave and he came and bent over the mike, bent over me. But Frost wouldn’t play for the cameras. His face was arrogant, and perfect, and showed nothing, even though his grey eyes were bare to the camera’s glare. He always said he thought it was beneath us to play to the media. But I knew now that it wasn’t arrogance that made him not play, it was fear. A phobia, if you will, of cameras and reporters and crowds. He leaned over stiffly, and said, “Yes.”
This shouldn’t have been news to any of them. Publicly I’d returned to faerie to seek a husband. The sidhe don’t breed much, so the royals get to marry only if they get pregnant first. The queen and I had explained this at another press conference, when I first visited home. But she’d kept the guards away from the mikes, and there was something about the guards admitting it, on mike, that excited the media. Almost as if it was dirtier because they were saying it.
Madeline cooperated by picking one of the tabloid reporters for the next question. If anyone would fall for sex over internal politics, it was the tabloids.
They swallowed the bait. “What do you mean, you belong to the princess?”
Doyle leaned in closer to the mike, close enough that his shoulder brushed against mine. It was very subtle and very deliberate. It would probably have been more eye-catching if Frost and I hadn’t played kissy-face first, but Doyle knew how to play to the press. You had to start slow and give yourself someplace to go. He’d only started playing to the media in the last few weeks, but as with everything, he learned quickly and did it very well. “We would give our life for her.”
“The Secret Service are sworn to give their life for the president but they don’t belong to the president.” The reporter emphasized the word belong.
Doyle leaned closer to the mike, forcing him to put one arm against the back of my chair, so I was framed in the curve of his body. The cameras exploded so that I was blind again. I allowed myself to lean in against Doyle, partly for the picture, and partly because I liked it.
“Perhaps I misspoke,” Doyle said, with all my Christmas brightness framed against his blackness.
“Are you having sex with the princess?” a female reporter asked.
“Yes,” he said simply.
They actually almost sighed as a group in eagerness. Another woman said, “Frost, are you sleeping with the princess?”
Doyle stepped back and let Frost come up to the mike again, though I would have preferred keeping him away from it. He was brave and he came and bent over the mike, bent over me. But Frost wouldn’t play for the cameras. His face was arrogant, and perfect, and showed nothing, even though his grey eyes were bare to the camera’s glare. He always said he thought it was beneath us to play to the media. But I knew now that it wasn’t arrogance that made him not play, it was fear. A phobia, if you will, of cameras and reporters and crowds. He leaned over stiffly, and said, “Yes.”
This shouldn’t have been news to any of them. Publicly I’d returned to faerie to seek a husband. The sidhe don’t breed much, so the royals get to marry only if they get pregnant first. The queen and I had explained this at another press conference, when I first visited home. But she’d kept the guards away from the mikes, and there was something about the guards admitting it, on mike, that excited the media. Almost as if it was dirtier because they were saying it.