by JoAnn Ross
“We’ll want plainclothes people dispersed through the crowd the day of the festival. Along with a visible uniformed detail.”
Burke shrugged. “No problem. I would not want any innocent civilians to be injured by these rabble-rousers.”
“And, although you are the target, we should put guards on Chantal, Noel, and your mother, to prevent them from being used to get to you.”
“You mean as hostages?” That unpalatable idea had not occurred to Burke.
“It’s been known to happen.”
“Definitely the women shall be assigned bodyguards,” Burke said with a decisiveness that Caine suspected would serve him well when he ascended to the throne.
Caine did not want to consider how Chantal would react when she learned that she was about to be put under protection again. It didn’t matter how angry she got, he decided. Because he would do anything to keep his wife safe.
“Can you take care of this?” Burke asked Caine.
“I already have. There’s one thing more.”
Burke frowned. “If it’s about the race—”
“A Grand Prix event is dangerous enough by itself,” Caine interrupted. “Add to that the possibility of someone tampering with your car and you’re just asking for trouble.”
Burke shook his dark head. “I will not cancel the race. The Montacroix Grand Prix has been the most glamorous in the European racing circuit for more than fifty years. The race is an important tourist draw. Why, for the past two years, we have hosted more spectators than Monaco.”
“We are not asking you to cancel anything,” Prince Eduard said. “There is no reason that the race cannot continue as scheduled.”
Burke was on his feet again. “Neither will I forfeit. I have every intention of winning.”
“Winning isn’t everything.” Caine regretted having said the words the moment he heard them leave his mouth. In many ways, he and his brother-in-law were a great deal alike; Caine had never responded well to worn clichés and knew Burke didn’t either.
“Since I’ve always admired you, Caine,” Burke said, “I will pretend I did not hear that.” He folded his arms across the front of his white shirt. “I intend to race. The people expect it of me. Indeed, without meaning to sound immodest, my participation is one of the reasons the Montacroix Grand Prix has become so successful in past years.”
Burke had realized long ago that many of the people showed up out of some dark, slightly warped anticipation, hoping to watch him crash. But money was money, after all, and a lot of it flowed into Montacroix’s coffers during the annual event.
“I also have every intention of winning. This one point is not negotiable.”
Having spent the past two years intimately living with a gorgeous example of Giraudeau tenacity, Caine had learned to recognize when he was licked.
“If we can’t change your mind, we’ll at least want our own people in the pits.”
“Fine.” Having gotten his way on this major point, Burke decided he could afford to be generous. “So long as they don’t get in the way.”
“They won’t.”
Caine stood as well. “Well then, I guess I’d better get to work.”
“Thank you, Caine,” Prince Eduard said. “Once again our family is indebted to you for your assistance.”
“I just hope I can be of help, sir,” Caine said.
“Of that I have no doubt,” the regent responded. “Oh, and please tell my daughter that her mother and I would like the entire family at dinner this evening. We will be having guests.”
“Guests?” Burke asked suspiciously.
As the coronation had grown closer, his father had begun engaging in embarrassingly overt matchmaking. There had been several times over the past six months when Burke had innocently entered the dining room, only to find another candidate—usually some winsome European princess—smiling enticingly up at him.
Burke knew that his father’s heavy-handed matchmaking had one goal: to ensure an heir. Burke realized that some day he would have to marry. It was, after all, his duty. In the meantime, he was enjoying his single life.
“That singing group Chantal recommended for the festival,” his father reminded him. “The Darlings.”
“Oh.” Burke had forgotten. “The daughters of that country singer who recently died.” An image immediately came to mind: one of women wearing beaded, fringed cowgirl outfits and high, towering platinum hair sprayed to a rock-hard consistency.
“That’s right,” Eduard agreed. “Since the young women and their mother have come a very long way to perform, we must extend a warm welcome. Your mother has invited them to stay here at the palace,” he revealed. “We will, of course, expect you at dinner, as well.”
Personally, Burke thought that the women’s long trip hadn’t exactly been a sacrifice. Not when you considered what performing at the precoronation festival could do to their careers. Still, knowing his mother’s feelings about hospitality, he realized that tonight’s dinner was a command performance.
“I’ll be there,” he agreed, deciding that he’d just have to test his car’s new engine earlier in the day than planned.
“Of course you will,” Prince Eduard agreed, obviously not having expected any other answer.
At that moment the phone on his desk rang. As he answered it, Burke and Caine left the library.
For a man who could afford to purchase whatever in the world might strike his fancy, there was one thing that was extremely difficult for Burke to obtain: privacy.
And now, thanks to a noisy, undoubtedly impotent group of malcontents, he’d just lost a bit more.
As he strode across the brick driveway, headed toward the garage, Burke’s scowl mirrored the threatening clouds gathering overhead.
Despite the enviable fact that he would soon ascend to the throne of one of Europe’s richest—albeit smallest—countries, Prince Burke Giraudeau de Montacroix was definitely not a happy man.
* * *
IN THE LIBRARY of a baronial estate a mere five kilometers from the Giraudeau palace, a cadre of well-dressed gentlemen sat in priceless antique chairs, sipping hundred-year-old cognac while discussing the upcoming coronation.
One silver-haired man, the owner of the estate, stood. “My friends, we are living in exciting times. In a mere ten days, that upstart Prince Burke will have been eliminated, allowing the principality of Montacroix, after nearly two-hundred long years, to finally be returned to its rightful owner.”
He lifted his Baccarat balloon glass. “Vive la France.”
Outside the leaded glass windows, a roll of thunder echoed ominously on the horizon.
The other five men stood and raised their own glasses. “Vive la France,” they echoed as a jagged line of sulfurous lightning streaked across the darkening sky.
CHAPTER 2
THE NARROW ROAD from the palace twisted like a corkscrew through the woods. Snowcapped mountains rose in the distance; dark green pine trees scented the air.
“It says here,” Dixie read aloud from her travel guide, “that Montacroix was purchased by the Giraudeau family from the French government after Napoleon’s disastrous Russian campaign.”
They were in a gray limousine currently winding its way through the thick forest. The liveried driver had greeted them politely, stashed what luggage he could in the massive trunk, arranged with the boatman to have the rest delivered to the palace, then demonstrated the limo’s various accoutrements: television, telephone, a bar and even a VCR.
Having ridden in limousines many times before, Sabrina refused to be impressed by the trappings of royalty. Still, the snowy orchids blooming in crystal vases on either side of the back doors were a nice touch, she admitted.
“Apparently France was nearly broke from funding the wars and had begun selling off land to local noblemen to replenish its treasury,” Dixie read.
“Well, I can certainly identify with that,” Sabrina muttered, thinking back to the devastating day of her father’s f
uneral.
Everyone who was anybody in the country music business had turned out to say goodbye to Sonny Darling. Every hotel and motel in town had been booked for what had become Nashville’s social event of the year.
Fans from all corners of the world sent flowers. When local florists ran out of blooms, florists from as far away as Memphis had been enlisted to help fill the telegraphed orders. Floral arrangements, ranging from the overly elaborate to the sweetly simple, filled the chapel.
Sonny Darling’s name was legend, known even to those who’d never tuned their car radios to a country station.
The seventh son of a seventh son, Sonny had been born into a sharecropping family in Alabama. When he was five years old, he’d joined the rest of his family in the fields picking cotton and peanuts. Since there wasn’t any money for birthday presents, for Sonny’s sixth birthday his father had taken a wooden cigar box and a copper coil from a rusting old car and fashioned a crude, but workable guitar.
That simple instrument was to prove the turning point in young Sonny’s life. By age ten, he was singing and plucking in the streets for pocket money. Although his road to success had been a rocky one, by the time he was thirty-three, he’d performed at the White House and was a featured regular on the Grand Ole Opry before winning his own weekly television variety show. That was the same year Sabrina had been rescued from her ill-tempered grandmother; and before she could get used to the idea that she even had a father, let alone such a famous one, she found herself appearing on the television show with Ariel and Raven, Sonny’s other daughters. Billed as the Little Darlings, they had appeared on the show for five memorable years.
And then, he was gone. Without warning, his heart had simply stopped when he was onstage at the Celebrity Theater in Phoenix, singing the second verse of his latest megahit, “Here Comes Trouble Again.”
As stricken as she had been by her father’s sudden death, Sabrina had managed to find some comfort in the fact that he’d died doing what he’d always loved best.
Hand-lettered signs of support and grief and encouragement had been held up as the limousine left the cemetery. Alone for the first time since they’d received the news, Dixie had taken the opportunity to drop her bombshell: Sonny had died owing a virtual fortune in ten years’ worth of back taxes to the IRS.
Apparently the accountant had filled out all the forms, and Dixie and Sonny had believed they always paid right on time. But according to the hateful little man from the IRS, Sonny’s manager had embezzled the money for himself, using it to pay off his gambling debts. This was the man the girls had always called “Uncle Dan,” the same man who’d been their father’s best friend since Sonny’s early days in Nashville, when he’d spent every waking hour trudging up and down Music Row, trying to push his tapes on anyone who’d listen.
Naturally Sonny’s daughters offered to help. Raven expressed disappointment that all she could get her hands on was a few thousand. A successful producer of music videos, she’d recently tied up her funds buying a studio in downtown Atlanta.
Ariel, who lived comfortably in the flats of Beverly Hills, had offered to sell her racing-green Jaguar convertible. Like her famous father, she tended to spend more money than she saved, so, despite the generous salary she received from the television soap opera, her bank account was nothing to brag about.
Sabrina also lacked savings. Divorced from one of Broadway’s brightest and most successful playwrights, she had learned the hard way what happened when a starry-eyed prospective bride failed to read her prenuptial agreement.
When her six-year marriage had broken up last spring, her former husband had ended up with almost everything, and Sabrina had left the marriage the same way she’d come into it—nearly broke with only the clothes on her back. But a great deal wiser.
Although the recession had hit Broadway, along with the rest of the country, she managed to find steady work in commercials and public service announcements, with an occasional short-run so far off Broadway as to be in other states. And while it definitely wasn’t Shakespeare, it paid the rent. Most of the time.
After thanking her daughters for their generosity, Dixie had tearfully gone on to say that their proffered help wouldn’t be enough. Because according to her new accountant, after she sold the thoroughbred horses that had been Sonny’s pride and joy, and the farm, and all Sonny’s cars and paintings, the IRS debt came to a staggering three million dollars. Plus change.
Raven, the businesswoman in the group, had immediately advised Dixie to declare bankruptcy.
But Dixie had just as quickly rejected that suggestion, refusing to tarnish her husband’s reputation.
But they weren’t to worry, she had insisted with renewed strength. Because she had a plan.
Silence had settled over the funeral-home limo like a shroud. Dixie finally broke it, professing that there was only one answer: the girls should record an album. And go on tour to promote it.
As stunned as Sabrina had been by that idea—after all, it had been years since she and her sisters had sung together publicly—Sabrina had known that it was not her own livelihood Dixie had been worried about. It was Sonny’s reputation. Something Dixie had guarded over the years with all the ferocity of a mother bear. And so, by the time they had reached the Colonial-Williamsburg-style Opryland Hotel, Sonny Darling’s daughters had reluctantly agreed to their mother’s proposal. Just as Dixie had always known they would.
The storm that had been threatening finally arrived; the gray skies over Montacroix opened up. Sabrina watched the raindrops streak down the window of the limousine weaving through the mist-bound trees on its way to the palace.
“The principal industries are tourism and banking,” Dixie continued to read, pulling Sabrina out of her reverie, “along with a steady growth in wine production. The per capita income is among the highest in the world, and taxes are among the lowest.”
No one answered. The truth was, none of them were really listening all that closely to their mother. They’d grown accustomed to her ongoing travelogues. Indeed, taking a driving vacation with Dixie always took twice as long as originally planned because they were continually having to stop at some local tourist site. Sonny had always joked that Dixie had never met a historical marker she didn’t like.
The limousine turned the corner and suddenly the woods gave way to a rolling expanse of dewy velvet the brilliant green of Oz’s Emerald City. A yellow sign, posted along the side of the narrow, curving road, announced a peacock crossing. Dark, glossy animals rustled in topiary gardens, seemingly disciplined by the precise hand of a sculptor.
Formal gardens were ablaze with roses, rhododendrons, oleanders and magnolias, and the terra-cotta urns flanking the curving pathways were spilling over with colorful blossoms of crimson, mauve, salmon, pink, yellow and white. “It reminds me of Fantasyland,” Ariel murmured.
“The book describes Montacroix as a place where fantasy and reality meld together as they do nowhere else in the world,” Dixie agreed. “Oh, this is interesting.”
“What’s that?” Sabrina asked distractedly.
It was happening again; she could feel herself falling under the spell of an enchanting scene that could have been born in her dreams. She would not have been the least bit surprised if a horse-drawn gilt carriage had suddenly pulled through the elaborately stylized wrought-iron gates, carrying a fairy-tale princess on her way to the ball.
“Succession to the Montacroix throne is through the male line. If any succeeding prince fails to produce an heir, title to the principality reverts to France.”
“That is interesting,” Raven agreed.
“I wonder if that means Prince Burke is in the market for a bride,” Ariel mused. “Boy, it sure would solve all our financial problems if one of us got lucky!”
Dixie and Raven laughed at the outrageous suggestion. Sabrina, gazing out the rain-streaked window, failed to comment.
* * *
THEY’D REACHED THE PALACE. The driver pu
lled the car beneath the porte cochere. Dark green ivy climbed up the walls, red and white rosebushes flanked the cobblestone path. Nearby towering poplars shaded aged white stone.
A pair of footmen, carrying enormous black umbrellas, hurried to open the limousine doors, ushering them indoors. The entry hall resembled an enormous stage set. Graceful Ionic columns fashioned from black-veined gold marble lined the walls. The floor was paved with black marble; a crystal chandelier dripped golden light from the domed ceiling where chubby-cheeked cherubs frolicked across an ancient fresco; Renaissance Flemish tapestries woven in silk and gold threads shared wall space with ornately framed portraits of Giraudeau ancestors.
“Well, we’re definitely not in Kansas anymore,” Sabrina murmured.
The words had no sooner left her mouth than a woman appeared, descending the curving stairway. Having discovered at a young age that clothes were theater, Princess Chantal Giraudeau de Montacroix had developed her own style, a dramatic image that enabled her, even when wearing a simple silk blouse and jeans, to steal the show without even trying.
Today she was wearing a scarlet silk blouse that set off her dark hair and eyes, and a pair of white silk trousers. The famed Giraudeau rubies flashed warmly at her ears.
“Dearest Dixie,” Chantal greeted them with outstretched hands and genuine warmth. “Raven. Ariel. And dear Sabrina. Don’t you all look wonderful!”
The ultraglamorous princess who had once kept an entire army of tabloid paparazzi working overtime to keep up with her jet-set life-style, brushed cheeks with each woman in turn, enveloping them in a cloud of perfume.
“Bonjour. How grand to see you all again! Everyone has so been looking forward to your arrival. Unfortunately, Maman is in Paris for the afternoon with Noel—a charity event—and asks that I extend her apologies for not being here to greet you personally.
“And Caine, Burke and my father have locked themselves away in the library. Something to do with the coronation, I suppose, but Caine is being frustratingly closemouthed about everything. So I am afraid that I represent the entire welcoming committee.”
