The Righter

The Righter

A writing exercise by Yvette Keller

Christiansborg Palace Reception Rooms

Her kitten heels clicked double-time as she rushed across the reception rooms. She stopped close enough to her latest hookup that he would hear her frantic whisper, “What are you doing here?” She was furious to find him at her workplace, in front of a priceless, gilded nineteenth-century mirror, making sure his blue silk tie was straight. She hadn’t told him anything. She never did. As the ambassador’s secretary, Melissa was extremely discreet.

He smiled but didn’t answer her as she continued to glare up at him. Her gaze flicked from the man to his reflection. The tie looked good, but not as good as Sven. She flushed, remembering him pressing against her without any clothes. His eyes met hers in the mirror, and she tingled everywhere. It had been a very good night.

Her afterglow moment ended abruptly with cold suspicion, and she hissed, “Did you follow me here? How did you get in?” The palace was off limits for the international summit meetings being hosted by the Danish Royal family.

“I’m always here for the luncheons,” was Sven’s response, and turning from the mirror, he gave her a half-smirk.

“You are?” She’d been with the ambassadorial team to Denmark twice and never seen him before. She would have remembered. He was her type: tall, blonde, with a slight accent that kept her hanging on his every word.  

“Well, not as a child, or anything. But since school, yes.” While he spoke, Sven’s arms relaxed at his sides, his hands open. Melissa’s tense accusation had not affected him at all. “Much of my training was done here. I was 22 when it became official, so that was…nine years ago? Maths. Not my favorite subject. But, I’m very pleased to see you again, by the way,” he leaned forward a bit, offering the last sentence in a quiet bedroom voice she was not prepared to respond to. If only her thighs had gotten that memo.

“Who are you?”

“I’m the Righter. My commission is to the Christiansborg administration. Aren’t you glad to see me?”

She dropped her eyes, staring at the sheaf of printouts for the ambassador. “You’re distracting me. I’m waiting for the lunch break, I have to get these…” she stopped. She couldn’t tell him what the papers were. She had no idea what his security level was.

She looked up again and his smile hadn’t changed. His blue eyes were open wide. They matched his blue tie. She believed him. He stood tall like he owned the place. Too completely at ease to be a threat.

She had a few minutes. She’d put an end to this awkward interlude, and get back to work. “What do you write?”

“Sorry I didn’t tell you last night. It didn’t…come up,” he put a hand in his pocket and shifted his weight meaningfully, in case she hadn’t heard the playfully lewd reference. She had, and it gave her pleasant flashbacks. She also noted he was evading her question. He was staring into her eyes and from two feet away she knew he wanted her.

She also knew, from taking the staff tour, that the silk-papered, hand-carved wooden wall included paneling that covered an old servants hallway. If they went before the morning session finished, they could press the catch, slip inside, and…dammit! His gambit was working. She was growing more uncomfortable, in the nicest, but least convenient way.

Parquet Flooring in the Palace

“Writer?” Melissa brought the paperwork to her chest, like a shield between them, and tried to take another step back along the parquet floors, “Tell me what you write, or I’ll go ask security.” Her heel caught the seam of an eight-point ebony and oak rosette and in slow motion, she felt herself trip. Arms full, trapped in a tight black pencil skirt, she was going down, and Sven knew it.

He pulled his hand smoothly from the pocket and brought it upward in a slow lifting motion.

Melissa felt the empty air between her and the hard wood solidify, then hold her weight. Gravity simply stopped pulling. Her own balance did the rest of the work, and she caught herself. Jerking upright started the papers sliding from their oversized folder. She stumbled forward, trying to catch her reports, but again, Sven reached out with his other hand, pushing a flat palm toward the papers. They stopped sliding in midair and reversed their trajectory gently back into the folder.

Beads of sweat stood out on Sven’s forehead. He took a step toward her and put both of his extended hands tenderly on Melissa’s forearms.

“You don’t understand. I’m the ‘Righter.’ No words. I stop tipsy diplomats from breaking the priceless glassware. The royal family pays well.”

He let her see that he had palmed a key card from his pocket, which he now slid under the folder, beneath her fingers. The edge of it dug awkwardly into her palm.

“Room 1823. I’ll have dinner waiting at 9. Have a good day at work.”

He bent to press a hot, breathy kiss at the junction of her jaw and ear. She felt him inhale deeply. Then he left her, entirely steady on her feet, to meet the head of security who had just walked in. She watched in the mirror as Sven took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow while long strides took him across the room. He spoke briefly to the uniformed man, Sargent Ingle. With a nod, he moved to stand inconspicuously in the corner, just before the large, central double doors opened. Diplomats and staff members poured into the formal rooms of the palace en route to their luncheon.

Melissa shifted the folder under her left arm. Sven was smooth. And careful. Like her. She pocketed the key that Sven had left in her fingers. Sleight of hand magic. Just after stopping her and her data from an embarrassing fall. Had he said, ‘tipsy diplomats’?”  

The mirror showed that her ambassador was looking for her, even as he continued chatting with His Royal Highness, Prince Frederik. She spun around carefully, walking to intersect them.

She’d find out what he meant by his…training? Was it top secret equipment? Had the Dutch developed some sort of mini tractor beam, like in Star Trek?

The interlude left Melissa confused, with inappropriately heightened senses. She was aware of Sven, at ease in his corner, and much too aware of how her thighs rubbed slightly as she walked. The natural movement of her hips felt exaggerated, even though she knew her movement was normal. She ached for him, and she was definitely going to his room tonight.

The decision energized her, pulsing a bit of extra wattage into her professional smile. Whatever his deal was, she had hours of work ahead. She needed to focus. Hide the fact that her abdomen was fluttering with intrigue and arousal. Hide her impatience about to finding out what the heck was going on with the guy she’d assumed was only a perfect one night stand. Fun, sensual, accommodating. She looked past the ambassador to the blue-eyed Sven. She found him impossibly sexy.

What had she gotten herself into? Sven belonged there all right. Unless she was mistaken, he had just lowered his eyes and nodded ever so slightly to the Queen of Denmark.