by Liz Fielding
But His Serene Highness’s image would keep intruding, as fresh as the photograph on the cover of that magazine. As challenging. Refusing to go away.
It was her aunt’s fault, of course. Insisting that she take the magazine away with her. She retrieved it from beneath her bed and carried it through to the kitchen. She’d gone to sleep drooling over the frocks at the latest show-biz wedding, studiously avoiding the colour spread of the glittering gala in aid of some charity of which he was the patron. In the light of day, she told herself, he would look a lot less dangerous.
She poured a fresh cup of coffee and stared at the photograph on the cover. He stared right back, as dangerous as ever. And the longer she looked at his implacable features, the more she wanted to disturb that aristocratic bearing. Ruffle that calm poise. Unsettle him as much as he was unsettling her.
So what was stopping her?
Her date with a cowboy builder, that was what. A real story. The internet had provided very little background; she’d have to use the newspaper library. It might be a waste of time, but it was an excuse to put job-hunting on hold.
Except that once she was in the library her mind would keep wandering back to Prince Alexander. She finally abandoned the builder and keyed Montorino into the search engine.
It didn’t help much.
While his family had provided hot gossip for the newspapers for most of the previous century, and for a while Prince Alexander had looked set to follow their example, these days he was the very model of what a modern prince should be. Diligent. Hardworking.
Boring.
Well, that was good, wasn’t it? For the people of Montorino and for her. Now she could concentrate on something important, right?
Wrong.
Boring?
She wasn’t buying that. That face didn’t belong to a bore.
She continued her searches and by the end of the day she had an impressive dossier containing the official version of the history of Montorino, the entire Orsino family tree going back to the Middle Ages and enough photographs to fill the family album.
One, of Alexander as a small boy holding his grandfather’s hand, looking desolate at his parents’ funeral, leapt off the page to touch her heart. She swallowed. Made a quick note that his mother and father had died in a boating accident when he was six, at which point Alexander had become heir to the throne, bypassing his aunts and his older sister since women were barred from the top job in Montorino.
They could have appealed to the Court of Human Rights—in Laura’s opinion it was their duty—but they were clearly having too much fun filling the gossip columns of Europe.
Not Alexander. The only photographs of him in the last eight years were formal, controlled images that gave nothing away. Or else they’d been taken at grand occasions where everyone was on their best behaviour, which was much the same thing.
The articles about him were no better. They read like handouts from his public relations department. This bachelor prince, who had effectively become head of state since his grandfather’s heart bypass, apparently did nothing but open hospitals, support charities and promote his country. Of course, when he said ‘his’ country, that was exactly what he meant.
It wasn’t just the architecture that was medieval. Which, along with the lack of equal opportunities for princesses, was a situation absolutely guaranteed to raise Laura’s democratic hackles.
Jay had been right about one thing. His disturbing eyes notwithstanding, this was a man who would never win her sympathy.
Which was great. As far as it went. She’d have no problem in exposing his Achilles’ heel—always assuming he had one—and she’d positively enjoy giving him a wakeup call for the twenty-first century.
It was practically her duty, for heaven’s sake.
Unfortunately, she had no idea how she was going to go about it. When she’d said that she’d never get an interview with a man like that, she hadn’t even been close. It would have made no difference if she’d been one of those rarefied journalists who regularly interviewed the crowned heads of Europe.
His Highness didn’t give interviews.
And there was no gossip. Not recent gossip. He might be a bachelor but he wasn’t a playboy. It had been years since he’d frequented casinos, squired supermodels to nightclubs, got into brawls with the paparazzi.
All that had ended the day his grandfather had had a heart attack and he’d become head of state in all but name.
On the surface, it seemed that there was no story.
Except, of course, there was always a story if you knew where to look for it. He was flesh and blood, after all. He put on his trousers one leg at a time, the same as any other man. He would have hopes, desires, dreams, just like the lowliest of his subjects. And she didn’t imagine he lived like a monk.
Those eyes didn’t belong to any monk.
The thought made her shiver a little before she pulled herself together and reminded herself that he might as well have been for all the gossip that made print.
As she’d read everything she could find, hitting a blank wall whenever she’d tried to dig beyond the surface, she’d felt a stir of indignation that anyone with such a public presence could keep his personal life so private.
Her research, far from satisfying her curiosity, had piqued it. Far from answering her questions, it had simply raised more.
It was a challenge.
What topped the ‘want’ list of the man who already had everything? What place did love have in his life? For a man so apparently driven by duty it seemed strange that he hadn’t done what was expected of him, married some suitably aristocratic woman and secured the succession.
Or hadn’t he found anyone to match his own apparent perfection?
It was, in the end, the very lack of any story that irritated her into action. Coupled with the knowledge that whoever broke through the icy façade to expose the real man would be an editorial favourite. All past mistakes forgiven.
It had to be a façade, surely? No one could be that perfect.
She’d messed up a promising career with a series of stupid blunders that had her spiralling down the ladder rather than climbing it, despite the hefty leg-up from her aunt. She had one last chance to redeem herself—she owed it to Jay to redeem herself—and that prickle of disquiet at the way his eyes had looked out of the magazine at her, seeming to taunt her with his invulnerability, suggested that this was the man to provide the story.
Nonsense, of course. He wasn’t taunting her. He was invulnerable and he knew it.
Nonsense it might be, but come evening she was standing outside his grand official London residence, staring up at tall, lighted, first-floor windows and wondering what he was doing up there.
Living up to his public relations image and working late into the night on matters of state?
Watching sport on the television, feet up, his supper on a tray after a hard day doing whatever it was that autocratic rulers did?
Best of all—career-wise—would be if he were entertaining, very discreetly, some lovely young woman.
A royal romance was always news. If she broke that story she’d be a media heroine overnight.
Not that a discreet young woman would go through the front door for everyone to see. She’d probably be driven into the mews at the rear, well away from prying eyes.
She crossed the road to check it out, her well-rehearsed ‘stray kitten’ story ready, just in case she was challenged by a security guard. As she hesitated at the entrance to the cobbled lane, wondering what on earth she thought she was doing, she heard something drop to the ground ahead of her.
A small bag.
She glanced up. Something darker was moving against the lighter stone of the building.
Not something. Someone.
Hardly the prince’s light of love, not climbing down a drainpipe. It had to be a burglar making off with state papers, or jewels. Imagination in overdrive, she took off down the lane without a thought for her ow
n safety and launched herself at the shadowy figure as it jumped lightly to the ground, bringing the miscreant down with a flying rugby tackle.
They hit the cobbles, and Laura’s initial intention to yell for help was thwarted by the fact that she was momentarily winded. Besides, the burglar was making enough noise for both of them. Except it immediately became apparent that this wasn’t any ordinary burglar. Not if the high-pitched yell of fright was anything to go by.
This burglar was a girl, slight of figure and terribly young. And then, as her face was lit up by passing car headlights, she realised that she wasn’t any ordinary girl, either. It was a face she’d seen during her research on Prince Alexander. His niece. His sister’s youngest daughter, Princess Katerina Victoria Elizabeth.
‘Oh, sugar,’ she said.
The young princess, less restrained, was venting her feelings with scatological exactitude. ‘I suppose you’re Xander’s idea of a watchdog?’ she demanded, once she’d thoroughly relieved her feelings.
Xander? ‘Oh, you mean His Serene Highness. Er, well—’
‘He’ll give you the Order of Merit for this, I shouldn’t wonder. Second class.’
She stowed her curiosity as to the number of classes the Order of Merit boasted and, playing for time, went for stupid. ‘Sorry?’
‘In gratitude for breaking my ankle.’ And she moaned. ‘It’s the one guarantee that I won’t be doing this again any time soon.’
‘You’ve broken your ankle?’
‘No,’ she said, and moaned again. Louder. ‘You did that. When you flattened me.’
Stupid was right. ‘Oh, good grief. I’m so sorry, but I thought you were a burglar,’ Laura said, belatedly scrambling to her knees and taking a closer look. Princess Katerina was wearing a pair of serious boots—eighteen-hole jobs. Good support for her injured ankle, but they made an examination of the injury impossible. ‘Are you sure it’s broken?’ she asked, desperately hoping it might just be a bad sprain. ‘Which one is it?’
‘Does it matter?’ the princess demanded. Then, ‘It was the right ankle, okay? And of course I’m sure it’s broken. I felt it crack.’ She tried to sit up and cried out as she fell back.
Laura felt sick. ‘Can you get up? You need to get inside as quickly—’
‘Of course I can’t get up!’
‘If I help you up? You could lean on me—’
‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage? Look, just get some help, will you?’
The story of her life, she thought, pulling out her cellphone. ‘I’d better call an ambulance—’
‘No!’ She lifted her head. ‘Go to the house and ask for Karl. Tell him Katie sent you. And don’t tell anyone else what’s happened.’
Laura stripped off her jacket, folded it and tucked it beneath the girl’s head and shoulders. ‘I don’t like leaving you here on your own.’
‘I’ll be fine. Trust me. I’m not going anywhere.’
‘No. Look, I’m really sorry—’ The girl’s wince of pain as she lay back on the jacket brought her apologies to a premature end. ‘I’m going.’
The princess caught her hand. ‘Just bring Karl,’ she gasped, her face screwed up with pain. ‘No one else. He’s known me since I was a baby and I can persuade him to tell my uncle that I fell downstairs.’ There was a mute appeal in her eyes. ‘I’m not supposed to be out, you see.’
Somehow that didn’t come as a surprise. If her outing had been authorised she’d have left by a more orthodox route accompanied by appropriate security. However, since she had no intention of telling His Serene Highness that she’d broken his niece’s ankle, she was happy enough to reassure the girl.
‘I’ll bring him,’ she said. Then she grinned. ‘But only if you promise me you won’t tell anyone what really happened. I don’t relish the idea of being sued for assault and battery.’
‘It’s a deal.’ Princess Katerina started to laugh, then caught her breath as the pain cut in. ‘Please go.’
She didn’t want to leave the Princess, but the mews was quiet. She should be safe enough for a minute or two.
‘I’ll just be a minute, okay?’ The only answer was another groan and Laura turned and ran back down the street to the huge front door. She put her finger on the bell and kept it there until it was opened by a footman.
A footman!
‘Yes, miss?’ he enquired, looking down his nose in a manner he must have learned from the Prince.
‘May I speak to Karl?’ she asked politely. And prayed that he wouldn’t ask, Karl who? She should have asked the Princess that. It would help if she knew who, exactly, Karl was. Trevor was right. She would never make a journalist.
‘Who shall I say is calling?’ he replied.
‘It doesn’t matter who I am. Just get him, will you? It’s really urgent,’ she pressed, when the man’s appraising look—the kind that took in her general appearance and suggested she was kidding herself if she thought she was ever going to step foot over any threshold for which he was responsible—had gone on for a great deal longer than was polite. Then, crossing her fingers, she added, ‘Tell him Katie sent me.’ That did the trick. His expression did not change, but he instantly opened the door and stood back to let her inside.
‘Come in,’ he said, not so much an invitation as an order. Since she wanted nothing more than to step inside the Prince’s palatial London residence, she did as she was told. It was just as well she hadn’t been congratulating herself on her good fortune. She got no further than the porter’s room beside the front door. ‘Wait here.’
Not that she could concentrate on her surroundings. She was too worried about the Princess to absorb the finely carved mouldings, the squared black and white marble flooring, the elegant staircase that she glimpsed through the doors to the vast inner reception hall.
Okay, so she’d got that much.
But she was definitely too worried to congratulate herself that it had taken her less than twelve hours to breach the defences of this most private of royals. With a potential ally on the inside.
She’d been waiting less than thirty seconds when the door behind her opened, and she spun round prepared to spill out the disaster to some venerable old family retainer.
Instead she found herself confronted by the devil himself. The owner of the face that had been haunting her for the last twenty-four hours. The reason for her presence on the footpath opposite.
Even without the white tie and tails, the blue silk of an Order ribbon, there could be no doubt that she was in the presence of a man who knew he was born to rule. Even in what, for him, were undoubtedly casual clothes—linen chinos, an open-necked shirt, cashmere sweater—he still had an air of authority that made her wish she hadn’t listened to his niece but had gone with her first thought and called an ambulance.
‘Where is Princess Katerina?’
Well, she thought, that was royalty for you. Anyone else would have said, ‘Where is my niece?’ or ‘Where is Katie?’ But they never forgot that they were different. Never let the mask slip.
Prince Alexander hadn’t raised his voice. He didn’t need to. He spoke with the natural authority of his rank, leaving her in no doubt that he expected her to answer him swiftly and truthfully or suffer the consequences, and at this point Laura’s sympathies were all with the Princess. She could certainly see why she’d hoped to keep her escapade from her uncle. But there was no hope of secrecy now. The footman had done what he’d seen as his duty. And the Princess needed warmth and medical attention.
‘She’s outside. I’m afraid she’s broken her ankle.’
‘I see.’ That was it. The man was ice. She’d just told him that his niece was lying hurt on the pavement and he responded with a calm that sent a chill whiffling down her spine. ‘Show me.’
The footman held the door for them and he indicated, wordlessly, that she should lead the way. It was all she could do to stop herself from backing out as, equally wordlessly, she did as she was bid with a silent apology to Kat
ie. So much for her friend on the inside.
‘She’s down there, on the left, in the mews,’ she said as he followed her into the street.
Except, of course, she wasn’t. The cobbled lane was empty. The Princess—and her favourite jacket—had disappeared.
CHAPTER TWO
LAURA came to an abrupt halt. ‘She was here,’ she said, looking around her in confusion.
The Princess might have realised that she could move after all—tried to make herself more comfortable while she waited—but she wasn’t anywhere within a hundred yards. If she could have moved that far, surely she’d have gone home? Even if home meant trouble.
‘I left her just here,’ she insisted, pointing to the spot where they’d both crashed to the cobbles.
‘With a broken ankle?’ Prince Alexander did not sound convinced. He glanced up at the nearby drainpipe. ‘How far did she fall?’ he asked, without waiting for explanations. He evidently knew his niece very well indeed.
‘She didn’t fall,’ she began, then stopped.
She had no wish to dwell on what—or who—had caused the injury. Besides, there were more important things to worry about. Like, what had happened to the Princess? Two minutes ago she’d been lying where they were standing. Injured, unable even to attempt to hobble to the front door. Now she’d vanished into thin air.
‘I left her just here,’ she said. ‘I put my jacket under her head and—’
‘It’s not here now,’ he said, cutting short her explanation.
‘I was just going to say that!’ Then, ‘Oh!’ She turned and stared up at the Prince in total horror as the reality of what must have happened sank in. ‘She’s been kidnapped, hasn’t she? And it’s all my fault!’
‘I doubt that.’ Prince Alexander appeared totally unmoved by her dramatic declaration. Or the fate of his niece. Clearly he didn’t understand what she was telling him.
‘Yes, really!’ she insisted. It was no good. She’d have to own up. ‘Look, I saw her climbing down the drainpipe and I thought she was a burglar, so I tackled her to the ground.’ His dark brows rose imperceptibly. Actually, putting it baldly like that it did seem pretty unlikely, she realised, but after the briefest pause she pressed on with her confession. ‘That’s when she broke her ankle. As I said, my fault. I didn’t want to leave her—’
