by A. C. Arthur
His family resided in a large wing toward the center of the house with the majority of the rooms overlooking the cliffs that fell off into the glorious turquoise sea. Before Vivienne had come to live in the palace windows had been barred and locked, as one of the former rulers, Marco Vansig, had not been a particularly kind man, thus soliciting more enemies than he could eventually ward off. Under Vivienne’s progressive and feminine hand the barred windows were removed and replaced with practical weather-resistant glass ones that sparkled and brought in every ounce of sunlight and the island’s magnificent view.
Kris’s father, Rafe, had the largest group of rooms in that wing of the house as the reigning prince of the island. Kris and each of his younger siblings, Sam and Roland, had their own rooms situated among the areas of the massive dwelling in a way that provided them all with the privacy they seemed to desire. It wasn’t easy living under the titles they held, finding solace within the walls of their private rooms was sometimes all they could manage. At least it was that way for Kris.
As the crown prince, the one who would ultimately succeed his father in ruling their country, Kris carried a tremendous weight on his shoulders. One which was now causing a great deal of stress for him.
“I am not your average woman, I suspect,” Sam replied to his question with a quirk of her lips. “I love beautiful clothes and accessories, but I like to have the final say in what I wear or purchase for that matter.”
She always looked good, Kris thought, as he stared across his desk at his sister—younger than him by six years—looking vaguely amused by their conversation. Samantha Raine DeSaunters was a beautiful woman with her smooth milk-chocolate complexion, and thick coal-black hair. Her skin tone and assessing eyes came from their father, while her outgoing personality and the innate need to take care of everyone around her were undoubtedly traits obtained from their mother.
“I think it’s safe to say that you are nothing like Malayka Sampson,” was Kris’s dry response.
Sam agreed with the nod of her head. “I don’t know that there is anyone like her. Did you know that she has already begun planning the wedding?”
Kris sat back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap, a position in which he could easily be mistaken for his father. “The date is set for December first. The date has significance to her and she wants a grand celebration. Those were Dad’s exact words.”
“And he plans to give it to her?” Sam asked.
“He does.”
She cursed.
It was soft and way too dainty to carry much weight, still Kris realized the severity of the situation at hand especially because it made his normally pleasant sister vent in such a way.
Malayka Sampson was engaged to their father. She was a thirty-seven-year-old American who would, in just seven months, become the princess of Grand Serenity Island. As such she would manage Wonderland...no, that was his mother’s. It belonged only to her. It always would. Malayka would manage the palace and she would take over much of the community and public relations duties that Sam now held. She would become the new face and voice of the island, while his father continued to rule via business and policy the way his father had before him.
“I don’t like her and neither does Roland,” Sam told him.
Her words came as no surprise to Kris. Sam and Roland tended to agree on a number of things. Kris was the one who was usually treading on the outside of the sibling bond. That was part of his birthright as his father had taught him from the time he’d been old enough to speak. He was the future ruler, thus he had to lead, always.
“She makes Dad happy,” Kris replied. “That is all that matters.” For now, he thought, wisely keeping that last part to himself.
“She makes me want to do bodily harm and you know that is not my character,” Sam added with a slight chuckle.
“I know. But there are more pressing matters at hand. The Children’s Hospital brunch is coming up later this week and the Ambassador’s Ball is later this month. Is everything in order?”
Sam nodded, looking down at the notepad she’d brought with her into his office. “Just a few final details for each event and they’re all set. As I mentioned when I came in, I have meetings with the board of directors at the hospital tomorrow and after that, I’ll be spending the rest of the afternoon at the Bella Club.”
Kris nodded as he reached for a pen to make note of his sister’s whereabouts the following day. He also had access to her business calendar on the private network the monarch shared. Roland’s and Rafe’s business calendars were also available to him. However, Sam had a number of personal ventures that meant a lot to her. Kris respected that and envied his sister’s passion in helping wherever she could. The Bella Club was an organization Sam had started to offer refuge, counseling and rehabilitation to troubled young adults between the ages of thirteen and eighteen.
“That sounds good,” he said as a thought entered his mind. “Would you mind taking Landry Norris with you tomorrow?”
“Who? Oh, the personal stylist?” she asked with a lift of her precisely arched brows. “Why would I do that? She’s Malayka’s employee, not mine.”
“She is a guest in the palace and a tourist. You are on the board of tourism.”
“So are you,” she countered.
Kris didn’t bother to frown, even though he completely recognized the never-ending sibling game that often had each of the royal children pointing out the other’s duties to see who had the most on their plate. Kris always won, hands down. Which was why, this time, he was delegating the responsibility.
“I’m meeting with the finance board at nine. That will take up at least three hours of my day. Dad and I then have a late lunch scheduled with Quirio Denton, the real estate mogul who wants to build his next resort here on the island. I won’t be available again until dinner,” he stated matter-of-factly. “And as you know, because you’ve been doing this since you were sixteen, it is our practice to provide a detailed tour of the island to visitors of the palace within twenty-four hours of their arrival.”
She gave a slight nod. “That’s when we know they are arriving and when we’ve invited them. Malayka hired this woman without consulting any of us. I say let her conduct the tour,” Sam rebutted. “It would give her practice since it will soon be one of her duties as princess.”
That title, above Sam’s other words, echoed throughout the room.
“She’s not the princess yet,” Kris remarked, in a tone that was much stronger than he’d anticipated.
Sam tapped her fingers on her notepad. “Fine. I will take the stylist with me. It’ll give me the chance to find out more about Malayka and why she really wants to marry our father.”
“I don’t know if you’ll get much by way of gossip from this Landry Norris. She strikes me as a professional.”
“Oh really?” Sam asked, this time leaning forward tossing him a knowing grin. “What else about her strikes you, big brother?”
Kris looked away. He concentrated on the notes he was jotting down, instead of his sister’s question, which made him uncomfortable.
“I performed a cursory interview of her. I have a copy of her contract with Malayka and I checked the references she provided. This is how I came to the conclusion that she is a professional.”
“Right, because you’re very thorough when it comes to investigating who enters these walls. I get that. But what I’m really asking is, what was going on between you and the stylist when I came in? You know, when you two were standing close enough to have kissed.”
Kris looked up quickly then, staring at his sister in shock. Composure came immediately afterward because even with his siblings, Kris had to remain in control. A leader always set an example.
“As Malayka’s stylist she’s now palace staff. Personal dalliances with the staff are inappropriate.”
&nb
sp; “Hmm.” Sam made a sound and stood with her notepad tucked under one arm. “Tell that to your brother. He’s had more dalliances with staff, visitors and whoever else he could find, than the both of us.”
Kris made a similar sound as he stood, undoubtedly agreeing with his sister. Roland was another matter entirely.
Sam was almost out the door when she looked back at him and said, “Still, I have to admit the two of you looked awfully cozy and mighty cute together.”
She was gone before he could think of another statement of denial where he and Landry Norris were concerned. When he sat back in his chair, he struggled to dismiss any thoughts he’d had when Landry had stood so close to him. When he’d definitely wanted to—against all his training and upbringing—kiss her.
Chapter 2
Classy and elegant, that’s the look Landry was going for tonight. After all, it would be the first time Malayka was presented to the entire royal family. Butterflies danced in Landry’s stomach as she pushed wayward strands of hair from her face and zipped the back of Malayka’s dress.
“There,” Landry said, looking over Malayka’s shoulder into the floor-length mirror.
It was one of four mirrors which had been sealed together in an arch shape situated at the back of the walk-in closet. Who was she kidding? This was not a closet. The room was at least the size of two bedrooms outfitted with racks for hanging clothes, shelves for shoes, medium-sized drawers for purses and smaller ones for scarves and jewelry. Even with all the items that Landry had brought with her and the ones she’d shipped a week before, there was still a good deal of space before Malayka would come close to filling this room. The dresses tried on tonight were specially ordered designs, four of which Landry would have to ship back to the designers first thing tomorrow morning.
“You look stunning,” Landry continued.
Malayka turned to the side. She looked at her plump bottom and rubbed a hand over her flat stomach. Turning again so that she could see herself from another angle, Malayka smoothed her hands over the bodice of the dress. The neckline was cut higher than Malayka was used to but she still seemed pleased. The woman loved to display the cleavage from her size D breasts, something Landry figured Prince Rafferty also appreciated.
“This will be the first time since we’ve announced our engagement that I’ve been in a room with all of Rafe’s children,” Malayka said in that smoky voice that reminded Landry of the time she’d met Grace Jones.
“They’ll certainly have to agree that you are more than ready to dress the part of being princess of this beautiful island,” Landry told her as she moved away from the mirror and began packing up the other gowns that Malayka had tried on.
She’d been in there for the last two hours trying to figure out which dress Malayka would wear. Luckily, the hair stylist and makeup artist had already been there by the time Landry arrived, so that part of getting ready for tonight’s dinner was complete.
From behind her she could hear Malayka making a sound and mumbling something. Landry kept moving. Whatever Malayka had said was apparently not meant for her to hear.
One of the first things Landry learned about working in an industry with wealthy and famous people was to mind her own business. This lesson had come just months after she’d graduated with honors, receiving a bachelor’s degree in Apparel Merchandising and Management from California State Polytechnic University in Ponoma. She’d been ecstatic the day she found out she’d landed one of the coveted internships with Harper’s Bazaar in New York. There, she had assisted with sample trafficking, creating shoot boards and supporting market editors with office duties. It was just a few weeks after she’d been in New York that Landry met Peta Romanti, the A-list actress who was, at that time, launching her own fashion line. Bazaar was doing a full spread and in-depth interview with Peta in the weeks leading up to her launch.
Landry had recognized the woman immediately and used every method of control she could think of to resist acting like a complete groupie. Throughout the day Peta barked orders, sending interns and even editors scrambling to do her bidding. Landry had been busy with other assignments all that morning, but in the afternoon she’d offered to help out during a photo shoot. Happy to have someone else go into the lion’s den, Landry’s supervisor had given her an armful of dresses and instructions to take into the dressing room and see which one Peta wanted to wear. The actress-turned-designer had decided to capitalize on this interview by modeling clothes from her own line for the spread in the magazine. As she’d walked up to the dressing room door Landry could hear the argument. Something about Peta’s boyfriend being arrested for public nudity as he’d stood on a sidewalk arguing with the hooker he’d hired, who he was then accusing of stealing his wallet. Landry stood at the door, not sure whether she should knock and go in, or come back later—even though there wasn’t really a “later” since they had already been behind with the shoot.
The decision was made for her as the door abruptly swung open and Peta yelled in her face, “What are you doing there? Are you listening to my conversation? You’d better not speak one word of it!”
All Landry could manage to say was, “I have your dresses if you’re ready to try them on.”
The afternoon had proceeded with Peta—once she’d asked Landry her name—calling her every five seconds to do any-and everything for her. That day led to Landry being invited to Peta’s Paris fashion show three weeks after that and later to receiving personal invitations and previewings to Peta’s collection from the moment Landry opened her doors for business. Keeping her mouth shut had been an invaluable lesson and Landry reminded herself of that constantly.
Now well versed in the ins and outs of the personal stylist business, Landry admitted, there wasn’t much to be said about Malayka Sampson. She’d been in LA for just about a year when Landry had first met her. When she’d queried her services, Landry had discreetly asked around about the woman, who was neither an actor nor singer, or notable figure. All that could be said was that Malayka had been at all the right parties and premiers. She had dinner with the governor and lunch with a senator. There were pictures of her with record producers and none other than Peta Romanti, which had been the deciding factor in Landry choosing to work with her.
Landry figured that was enough of a platform to style Malayka for the months leading up to her wedding. Add that to the gorgeous scenery that Landry was already aching to see more of, and this was a good opportunity for her career. Her family, however, would say otherwise.
“The men are never a problem,” Malayka was saying, loudly this time. “It’s the females who are always jealous.”
Landry had been closing the box filled with jewelry she’d brought into the room with her. The sound echoed throughout the high-ceilinged room. She cleared her throat.
“I’ll see you in the dining room in a bit,” she said as she quickly clasped the lock on the box and picked it up.
The dresses to be returned were all bagged and hung on a rolling rack she’d pushed down the long marble-floored hallway to get to Malayka’s private rooms. In her estimate, the palace was roughly the size of at least two Beverly Hills hotels, and that was only a hunch. Earlier that day Landry had been met outside of Prince Kristian’s door by a pinch-faced older woman with a heavy accent who escorted her to a room that seemed a couple city blocks away. She figured her approximation was almost accurate.
“You’re going to dinner?”
Apparently that surprised Malayka, whose dramatically arched brows were raised as she touched the diamonds glittering at her neck. The woman was just a shade or so lighter in complexion than Landry. They probably maxed out at the same height when neither were wearing heels—five feet six inches tall. She was older than Landry who had just turned twenty-six last week. A marvelous plastic surgeon and a good regimen of weight loss supplements were most likely responsible for Malayka’s
slim, but stacked, size six frame. Her hair, or rather the expensive wigs she wore, were of the highest quality and were always on point. As was her makeup, courtesy of the other two stylists she’d brought to the island with her. She was perfect to look at, but not the friendliest person in the world.
“Yes. I was told to be ready at six,” Landry said as she lifted her arm and looked down to her watch. “I’ve got twenty minutes to make it or the stern warden lady that gave me the directive might pop a button in that crisp uniform she wears.” Landry made sure to chuckle after her words. She wouldn’t have the future princess thinking she had no respect for the staff.
Malayka only blinked, the long fake eyelashes fanning dramatically over her smooth skin. “I thought it would be a private dinner tonight. Family only.”
Landry nodded and headed out of the closet. “See you in a little bit,” she yelled over her shoulder without turning back.
She moved through the sitting area of Malayka’s room. It was the size of the entire front end of Landry’s studio in LA, plush cream-colored carpet and gorgeous antique furnishings, complete with stunning oil paintings of what she suspected might be the landscape of the island draping the walls. The knobs on the double doors were crystal and reminded Landry of the old doorknobs in her grandparents’ house. She was certain these were real, as opposed to the ones Nana used to joke about selling and becoming rich.
When the rack and the other two bags she’d left on the couch in the sitting room were through the doors, Landry turned back and closed them with a quiet click. Then she sighed. The last couple of hours had been taxing but worth it, she supposed. Malayka did look good and that was her sole purpose for being there, so she whispered a job well done to herself and headed back in the direction she’d remembered traveling to get there.
These were the glossiest and prettiest floors she’d ever seen and Landry had been to a lot of sophisticated venues. Nothing compared to this palace. The word palace alone meant this place was classier than anything she could ever imagine. It was certainly living up to its hype, and she was only in the hallway.
