Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love

by Beverly Barton

  She waited expectantly. “Oh!” A soft sigh—half disappointment, half relief—escaped from her lungs when his strong fingers encircled her hand instead and he brushed a warm, electrifying kiss over her fingers.

  “Happy birthday,” he murmured huskily. He didn’t immediately let go of her hand.

  Rory forgot about the gaffes she’d made this evening. The warmth of Sebastian’s fingers, his imposing presence and the secrets banked in his eyes held her spellbound. How could the closeness of a man’s mouth be so distracting?

  She inhaled, feeling her ribs expand at the swift intake of oxygen filling her lungs. She held up a finger. “Promise me one little thing before you go?”

  One corner of Sebastian’s mouth quirked. A skeptical line creased his cheek. “Just one?” he teased.

  Rory blinked, flustered. Was he flirting with her?

  “Put your mind at ease, madame. I will inquire at the hotel for a doctor to make what you Americans call a house call.”

  She smiled gratefully up at him. Even though she was wearing a pair of fuzzy yellow smiley-faced slippers and a water-filled bra, she felt more confident. More beautiful. “Wise decision, because wilderness first aid is a far cry from medical school. But seriously, promise me you’ll never call me Princess Charlotte Aurora when we’re alone. I’m not going to be able to do this if I lose myself.”

  She saw the objections mount in his eyes, but she wasn’t up for another protocol lecture tonight.

  “I can’t, Sebastian. I won’t,” she said mulishly.

  To her relief, he nodded solemnly and squeezed her hand. “À demain, Rory. Tomorrow is a new beginning.”

  Rory. One tiny victory in a day marked by mishaps. She’d settle for that. “À demain, Sebastian.”

  Rory closed the door after him, taking care to throw the dead bolt and set the security alarm. It couldn’t hurt to be a little bit more conscious about safety. She usually only set the alarm when she was working.

  On the abalone-inlaid table near the front door she noticed the ruined beach sandal resting beside her black evening bag. A tiny band of rhinestones hung precariously by a thread from the sandal. Had Sebastian left it there?

  Rory reached for the broom that Heinrich had leaned against the wall to give the floor another sweep. She didn’t want Brontë, her cat, to get a sliver in her paw. Her gaze shot back to the beach sandal. Funny, this wasn’t how she remembered Cinderella turning out.

  BRONTË ’S PLAINTIVE CRIES roused Rory just before noon. The wooden shutters in her room were closed against the bright glare of the California sunlight. Rory blinked in the shadowy interior of her room, trying to orient herself as the whole embarrassing sequence of her birthday played through her mind like a half-baked comedy. The visit from her mother’s lawyer. Meeting her brother. The gift from her father. Had she really thrown up on Sebastian’s shoes?

  Yes, she must have. Her stomach still felt unsteady, and a headache buzzed in her brain. Her fingers curled into the sheets as she remembered the way Sebastian had shielded her from flying glass last night. She yanked the sheet up over her head. Had he debated kissing her when he’d said good-night? Or was that only a fanciful flight of her imagination?

  Brontë meowed again, the sound oddly muffled.

  Rory sighed. “Brontë? Here, kitty. Did I lock you out last night?” Her cat usually slept curled up at the foot of her bed. She lowered the sheet and checked the door. Bad move. Her brain sloshed inside her skull like the gyrations of a lava lamp.

  The bedroom door was open.

  Brontë meowed again. Her cry sounded closer. Maybe she’d trapped the cat in the closet when she’d gone hunting for a T-shirt for Sebastian.

  Dragging herself out of bed, Rory slid open the white shuttered door to the closet. “Sorry, baby,” she crooned. “I didn’t mean to lock you in.”

  Rory waited for the black long-haired Persian to appear and twist around her ankles, seeking a goodmorning petting. “Come on, girl. Don’t be shy.” But no cat. Rory climbed into the closet to make sure Bronteë wasn’t curled up in her dirty laundry hamper.

  She stubbed her cut toe on a shoe. Ouch.

  Brontë was not in the closet. Rory listened for cries. “Come on, girl. You’ve got to be somewhere. Did the glass falling scare you? Come on out. Everything’s fine now.”

  Rory peered under the bed. The space was jammed with books and magazines she’d read but didn’t have room for on her bookshelves. “Hey, Brontë, are you under there?”

  “Me-ow.”

  “You are under there.” Rory pulled out several stacks of books and lay belly down on the hardwood floor. Brontë’s yellow-green eyes gleamed from a cavern of books beneath the center of the bed. She stretched out a hand, shoving piles of books aside to clear a path. “Here, kitty.”

  Brontë didn’t move. There was a pitiful sound to her cry that wasn’t right. Rory forgot about her headache and her sore toe. “What is it, sweetie? Are you stuck?”

  Rory debated shoving the bed to one side, but was worried she might inadvertently topple some books on her pet. Poor Brontë was obviously frightened enough.

  Shoving books out of the way to make a narrow passage, Rory wriggled under the bed until her fingers finally found Brontë’s sleek head.

  “Meow,” the cat cried piteously, licking Rory’s fingers with her sandpaper tongue.

  Rory scratched her beloved pet behind the ears and murmured coaxing words. Brontë started to purr but made no effort to move. Hooking her arm around her pet’s body so she could draw her out gently, Rory scooted backward the way she’d come—and came to an abrupt, painful halt when her hair got caught in the metal frame supporting the mattress. She tried to pull her right arm up to free the snared lock, but the passageway she’d made through the books was too narrow. Her phone started to ring.

  Her head jerked at the jangling, pulling her hair. “Ouch! I’m coming, hold your horses,” she muttered at the phone as she tugged her head to one side, hoping to free herself. But she succeeded only in yanking her hair taut to the roots. “Ow!” The phone rang again, insistently.

  Brontë wailed pitifully.

  It was probably her brother, Olivier, calling to arrange another meeting. Or maybe Sebastian wanting to book a time for her princess lessons.

  Rory’s heart raced at the thought of facing Sebastian again after last night. Would she still feel that undertow of attraction to him today? Or had that been a byproduct of nerves and too much to drink?

  Rory jerked at her hair again, trying to free herself and the cat and get to the phone. “It’s okay, girl. Just another minute.” Her eyes smarted as the hair pulled at her tender scalp. Damn, it was no use. She was stuck. She gave up and collapsed, sneezing at a dust bunny.

  Why did these things always happen to her?

  RORY WASN’T ANSWERING her phone. Laurent hung up when her voice mail came on, choosing not to leave a message. He’d try again in an hour. The princess had told him last night she’d needed time to think. Even though he’d instructed Heinrich to assign two bodyguards to watch over her home last night, Laurent was worried.

  Was she safe? She could have been killed or horribly wounded if the heavy chandelier had struck her. Laurent’s back throbbed. The hotel’s doctor had recommended X-rays to ensure that glass wasn’t embedded under the skin, but Laurent had declined. The doctor stitched three of the wounds and put antibiotic ointment and bandages on the rest. He’d told Laurent he would have a few scars. Scars were the least of Laurent’s concerns.

  Ignoring the twinge of protest in his bruised shoulders, he clasped his hands behind his back and paced in front of the windows of his suite. A panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean stretched toward a horizon shrouded with haze. The sun was burning through a layer of cloud cover, and seagulls dived over the waves. What were the chances of a light fixture crashing to the floor like that? Was it a coincidence? Or had it been an attempt to kill the princess under the guise of an accident?

  Laurent
had immediately alerted Prince Olivier of the incident when he’d returned to the hotel.

  Prince Olivier had been shocked and concerned. They’d discussed the possibility of moving Rory to the hotel or hiring female bodyguards to protect the princess twenty-four hours a day. Olivier had approved of Laurent’s forethought in bringing the fixture back with him so they could have an electrician examine it for signs of tampering, which Laurent planned to accomplish today.

  A discreet knock sounded on the door of his suite.

  “Enter,” he commanded.

  “Good morning, Prince Laurent,” his royal press secretary, Odette Schoenfeldt, said to him in German. “You wished to see me?”

  “Yes.” Laurent cast an appraising eye on Odette who looked cool and elegant in a pale-lavender suit that accentuated her willowy figure and her high cheekbones. Her ice-blond hair was twisted into a knot at her nape and her gray-green eyes held a measure of calm that Laurent always appreciated when chaos threatened. He gestured for her to be seated. She demurely crossed her legs at the ankles, the hem of her skirt short enough to be sexy, yet well within the confines of propriety.

  Laurent had known Odette since they were children. Her family, with their blood ties to the royal houses of Greece, the Netherlands and Great Britain, had always been part of the Falkenberg royal circle. Laurent could not remember a birthday when Odette had not been present. He’d even kissed her once on one of her birthdays. He couldn’t remember how old they’d been, but they were young enough to hide in a coat closet and she’d been wearing braces.

  He trusted no other with the diplomacy of his mission to California. He was counting on Odette to assist him with tutoring Rory in how to act and dress the part of a princess and future queen. And to deal with the press.

  “How are the arrangements coming along?” he asked her.

  She smiled. “Nearly finished. I’ve booked a top Beverly Hills hairstylist and a makeup artist to give Princess Charlotte Aurora a complete makeover at a nearby spa—appointment time to be confirmed. They’ve both signed confidentiality agreements. And I’m negotiating with a Hollywood stylist to attend to her wardrobe. The press will go crazy when they discover they’ve had a princess living in their midst. We want her looking and feeling her best.”

  “What about the French and German lessons?”

  “Handled. A tutor is on retainer.”

  “Excellent. There is one other small matter I would like you to attend to—immediately.”

  “Certainly, Prince Laurent.”

  He gave her an abbreviated account of the incident and showed her the skeleton of the light fixture that he’d salvaged. “I’m quite all right,” he assured her when she paled. “But I would like you to find an electrician. Have him examine this for signs of tampering.”

  “Tampering?” Odette frowned delicately. “Are you suggesting someone tried to harm the princess?”

  “We both know that there are factions within Estaire—and within Ducharme—that may be opposed to this marriage.”

  Reproach rose faintly in the calm gray-green wash of her eyes. “Why did you not inform me of this last night?”

  “It was late. The princess was not injured and I was assured by the hotel management that the doctor who examined me is the soul of discretion.”

  “Very well, then.” She rose and curtsied. “I will locate an electrician immediately.” She slid the fixture back into the bag to take with her.

  Laurent delayed her on her way out. “Odette, be careful. Don’t mention this to anyone on Prince Olivier’s staff. There may be a leak.”

  “Understood.”

  OOOMPH! RORY BRACED one arm on the floor and lifted herself onto her toes, taking the weight of the bed onto her back. All she had to do was lift the mattress and box spring high enough so that she could wiggle her right arm free and untangle her hair from the metal crosspiece supporting the box spring. She was never going to use the space beneath her bed for a bookcase again.

  Brontë mewled as the box spring rose. Rory freed her right arm and tugged viciously at the lock of hair that was caught in the crosspiece, hearing strands break. But hey, at least she was free. She lowered the bed down, then hooked her arm around her pet and slid out the rest of the way. Brontë hissed and sank her claws into Rory’s arm.

  Rory felt sick to her stomach when she saw Brontë’s right front paw. It was swollen and misshapen. Definitely broken.

  Her phone rang again as she was rushing Brontë out the door to the cat hospital. Rory ignored the summons. She put Brontë’s carrier in the back seat and revved up the engine. Being a princess would have to wait.

  THE LISTENING DEVICE had been worth the investment. Prince Olivier’s personal secretary, Renald Dartois, frowned with concern as he eavesdropped on the private conversation between Prince Laurent and his press secretary taking place in the suite across the hall. So, Prince Laurent feared a plot was afoot to kill his intended bride.

  Renald was not surprised. Why should Estairians embrace as their princess an uncouth American who’d been raised on a beach and who clerked in a bookstore? Renald shuddered at the very idea. Equally appalling was the prospect of Estaire’s return to Falkenberg rule after three centuries of independence.

  Renald had been groomed all of his life for a position of importance in the palace. His mother had been a close friend of Prince August’s first wife. When Renald had finished school with high marks, he’d been singled out for an entry position on Prince August’s personal staff. While Renald had held the prince in the highest regard, the treaty he’d negotiated with King Wilhelm of Ducharme was proving as disastrous as his marriage to that hussy Sophia Kenilworth.

  Estaire must remain under the rule of the Valcourt family. Despite Prince Olivier’s fears that modern technology would not be able to help him father a child, Renald was confident that Prince Olivier and Princess Penelope would soon be the proud parents of a Valcourt heir. He had researched everything—including DNA. The clinic had provided him with detailed information about its procedures, and he knew exactly what to do if the first cycle failed to prove successful. DNA would prove the child was a Valcourt.

  “I will locate an electrician immediately,” he heard Odette Schoenfeldt assure Prince Laurent, followed by the sound of plastic being rumpled.

  “Odette, be careful. Don’t mention this to anyone on Prince Olivier’s staff. There may be a leak.”

  Renald smiled to himself and hurried to the door to his suite. He waited, listening. The door to Prince Laurent’s suite opened and footsteps passed by his room. Renald eased the door open a crack. Odette was leaving. She was carrying a large green garbage bag.

  He slipped into the hallway after her. He would make sure there was no evidence. Then he would call Princess Penelope in Estaire and ask for further instructions.

  Chapter Five

  It was late afternoon before Rory zipped into her driveway in her red convertible with Brontë in her animal carrier on the back seat. She’d bought a fish taco and a soda from a fast-food drive-through on the way home, but she was exhausted and worried sick over Brontë’s broken paw and cracked rib. She’d thought her beloved pet might have fallen or been hit by a car, but the veterinarian believed Brontë had been kicked.

  What kind of sick person kicked a cat?

  Rory was furious. She hated to think one of her neighbors capable of such an act. It must have happened after she’d left for dinner because while she was dressing Brontë had been fine. The curious cat had jumped up onto Rory’s dresser and attacked the tissue in the shoe box.

  The more she considered the warning her brother had given her last night about keeping her princess status a secret, the more worried Rory became that Brontë’s injuries had not come from a neighbor. What if someone had entered her house while she was out and had tampered with that light fixture? Rory planned to call an electrician to have a look at it first thing Monday morning.

  She climbed out of the car and lifted Brontë’s carrier
from the back seat. Now that she was home she planned to make herself a cup of herbal tea and snuggle with Bronteë on the kitchen windowseat. They could both have a snooze.

  As she headed up the cobblestone walk, Rory paused. An eerie sensation prickled over her scalp and spread down her back. Her front door was standing open.

  Had she forgotten to close it when she’d raced out of the house earlier? Or had an intruder broken in while she was gone? She’d been too worried about Brontëto bother setting the alarm.

  And her birthday necklace was in her evening bag, in plain sight on the table near the door! Rory hurried forward. How could she have been so careless? She’d never forgive herself if the only gift she would ever receive from her father was stolen.

  She’d almost reached the door when the distinctive double tap of hard-soled shoes on the marble floor in the foyer froze her in her tracks.

  Oh, God, someone was in her house!

  What should she do? Go next door and call the police?

  She didn’t have a cell phone; she didn’t have anyone in her life whom she could call from the grocery store to ask if she should bring home milk or lunch meat. Clutching Brontë’s carrier protectively, she backed down the walk. She’d cut through the shrubbery to the Krugers’ house—

  “Aaah!” Rory screamed, nearly dropping Brontëas a hawk-nosed, dark-suited man appeared in her doorway. His stone-cold eyes narrowed on her. Fear catapulted to her chest and hammered at her heart. Brontë hissed. The man could be one of her brother’s bodyguards, but Rory wasn’t taking any chances. For all she knew she was facing down the person who’d kicked her cat and had rigged that light fixture to kill her.

  “Stay away from me,” she warned, her voice shaking. “I’ve just called the police.”

  Her heel hit a stone as she retreated another step. She stumbled, but quickly regained her balance as a second man appeared in the doorway.