The Prince's Cinderella

by Andrea Bolter

  “She’s really not my girlfriend,” he confirmed to Abella in a barely audible declaration that Marie or Gabin wouldn’t be able to hear.

  “Girl fend,” the baby yelled out, causing a pulse to Zander’s jaw. Marie and Gabin turned toward them. Abella put a piece of the fabric Gabin had given her on top of Zander’s head.

  Gabin returned to finishing Marie’s look. In her wig of blond curls, her face didn’t resemble Monroe’s but the costume was undeniable. A makeup artist would add that extra touch of movie-star panache tomorrow. Although Zander surely thought the real Marie was so pretty, she didn’t need any help with that face.

  She stepped down from the pedestal and excused herself to take the dress and wig off. Then returned to the room in the jeans and button-down shirt she had been wearing, looking relaxed without shoes.

  “Your Highness, may I do your fitting now?”

  “You can call me Zander.”

  “Do you want me to take the baby?” Marie asked Zander.

  While he’d yet to allow her to hold Abella, it occurred to him that he no longer had any reservations. He’d leave it up to Abella and read her reaction. The baby stretched her arms toward Marie, who took her from Zander and gave a tender kiss to the top of her head. Zander paused until he was sure he was confident leaving the room for a few minutes while he changed into his costume.

  Turning, he heard Marie singing to Abella, “Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques. Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?” Warming his heart. Certain she’d make a fine mother someday.

  Playing it to the hilt, Zander soon returned to the living room. Twirling the end of his cane in his poorly fitting suit, dark wig and bowler hat, he was unmistakably dressed as early film star Charlie Chaplin’s famous alter ego, The Tramp. Walking with that toddle Chaplin made famous. Marie and Gabin grinned at each other with delight at the transformation.

  “I can’t wait to see him with the moustache,” the costumer noted.

  “Look at Uncle Zander,” Marie said, hoisting the baby so that she could fully see him.

  “Hi, Bell-bell.”

  “Da!” the baby exclaimed once she made the recognition.

  As Gabin made his adjustments in a final fitting, Zander liked the sight of Maria with Abella. They looked natural together. So much so that he wanted to rush to join them, to put his arms around the two females who were what mattered to him.

  It took all of his will to convince himself that the optic was as phony as the too-large shoes he had on his feet. He and Abella were his life. He still wasn’t planning on making any changes to that family picture.

  * * *

  Marie was a nervous wreck. The guests had begun to arrive for the APCF annual fund-raising gala. All of the pieces had come together and the evening was off and running with a life of its own. There was no one particular thing that Marie was worried about, only that the event would be a success. She’d opened and closed her fists so many times that her fingernails had dug scratches into her palms.

  The makeup artist had come and gone, lacquering onto Marie’s face every nuance of Marilyn Monroe that could be applied. The alabaster complexion, the red lips, the long false eyelashes, the heavy eyeliner and even the one signature mole on her cheek.

  The wig had been set into its perfect curls that surrounded Marie’s face with a sexy wave at the forehead. Shoes on. Earrings replicating the ones Monroe wore with the white dress were attached, and for that matter, pinching her ears. The look was complete.

  In the small office near the mansion’s kitchen that she’d commandeered as her headquarters, Marie did a final check in the mirror.

  “Showtime,” she said aloud to herself. As if on cue, Zander appeared as she exited the office. “Oh. Hi.”

  “Hello, gorgeous,” he replied in a tough-guy voice that completely contradicted his head-to-toe Charlie Chaplin makeover. They both laughed. “Shall we?”

  With his hand on her back, a touch that had become far too regular with all the daring clothing she’d been wearing, Zander led them toward the belly of the beast. They could hear guests reveling and the swing band that was playing on the lawn.

  “Any problems?” Marie asked him.

  “Only keeping this moustache on. It kept falling off with the makeup artist’s usual adhesive so she used a spirit gum that’s like glue.”

  “That will be fun trying to remove later,” she joked.

  “Perhaps you can help me.”

  Marie wasn’t sure why, but her ears perked when he mentioned her helping him later. They had been together so many hours in the past weeks and perhaps she assumed that the minute the gala was over, she’d turn back into a scullery maid and never interact with the handsome prince again. Yet here he was talking about later.

  With the baby and nanny likely to be fast asleep in the hours after the gala, Zander had booked the mansion’s one hospitality suite to spend the night in so as not to disturb them. Whereas Marie was just planning to go home to her single room afterward. So she wasn’t sure exactly when it was that he was talking about her help removing his moustache.

  How much more time had he figured they would spend together? She surely wouldn’t want to get her hopes up that he meant, for example, forever, which was what she’d come to fantasize about. Did he assume she would stay overnight here in the mansion with him?

  The thought of that gave her a forbidden thrill that she worked to mask.

  Zander took her hand and noticed the marks in her palm from her fingernail digs. “We’ve got to break you of that habit or you’re going to hurt yourself.” She wrinkled her nose at his timing as they rounded the corner to the great hall and he exclaimed, “Here we go.”

  Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler were the first to say hello. The green garden party dress from Gone with the Wind had been re-created for Madame Fournier. The bright green leaf-patterned fabric atop the huge pouf of the white skirt was dramatic.

  Monsieur Fournier, whom Zander explained owned the largest chain of pharmacies in Southern France, might have had a few years senior to Clark Gable at the time the film was made. Nonetheless, he held his own in his topcoat with a thin moustache that looked well affixed to his face.

  Zander and Marie greeted the guests as if welcoming them into their own home. What would that be like, she wondered, if they were really a couple receiving guests at their Paris apartment? Regardless of the glam or wealth involved, just the mere closeness of inviting guests into their home filled Marie with a bittersweet glow.

  Next, they greeted Lawrence of Arabia, who took a few minutes before recognizing the prince, his university mate. “Robin Guerin had me for supper on the tennis court every time we met,” Zander told Marie as he gave his old pal a pat on the shoulder.

  Waiters passed out chilled glasses of Tinseltown Fizz, the custom cocktail that contained dark grape juice to give it a gorgeous violet color.

  Zander introduced Marie to the guests, emphasizing her important role at the APCF. Well versed in the programs the agency provided, Marie was able to speak articulately about how crucial the evening’s proceeds would be to the organization.

  As she worked the room, hobnobbing with her prince, she speculated if it was obvious to anyone that she was not of their world, but of the one they were raising funds for. In hers, there was no eco-touring in the Galapagos, like Elizabeth Taylor dressed as Cleopatra was telling her about. In Marie’s life, there were no shopping excursions to New York. No hula dancing in Hawaii. No safaris in Kenya. Not even a slice of pizza in Naples.

  “How’s everything going?” Felice, the APCF director, came up next to her, outstanding in her costume as a crazy Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? “This is quite an event.”

  “No catastrophes so far.”

  One thing Marie knew was that if she could, she would have Zander next to her every minute of every day. A man with both the confi
dence and know-how to take care of the business in front of him and to resolve any obstacle that came his way. He made everything so much better and easier.

  Abella was an incredibly fortunate baby, royal or not, to have this brilliant and conscientious man looking after her. Marie hoped she would always appreciate how lucky she was.

  Applying every relaxation skill she’d ever learned, and trying not to clench her fists, she progressed through the party. When the guests sat down for dinner, she helped a too-tipsy Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, who was holding her ruby slippers in her hand by that point, find a quiet corner to have a cup of coffee and straighten up. Dorothy introduced herself as a real-life real estate tycoon who was going to make a substantial donation in honor of Marie’s special care.

  Marie herself was too nervous to sit and eat so surveyed the room as dinner was being served. Once Zander noticed that she had no interest in sitting down, he stood to join her.

  “The hearts of palm were a nice first course.” The retro dinner Chef Jean Luc created was based on old menus from Hollywood restaurants where the stars used to dine.

  “Now they have the filet mignon with béarnaise sauce and duchess potatoes.”

  “Then the endive salad.”

  “And the dessert buffet.”

  “Followed by Felice’s speech.”

  “We’re getting there, partner,” Zander said as his hand went around Marie’s waist, making her false eyelashes flutter. “I’m so proud of you.”

  Marie racked her brain, but she couldn’t remember a time anyone had ever said those words to her before.

  CHAPTER NINE

  IN THE FINALLY empty great hall, Marie collapsed into a chair at one of the dining tables. Now in the wee hours and no more guests to impress with perfect decorum, she let her body languish, legs outstretched and her arms dangling like a rag doll. Staring up at the ceiling, which had been decorated with a moon-and-stars motif that made it seem as if the room was outdoors, she whooshed out a loud exhale.

  “My sentiments exactly,” Zander’s voice responded. Marie craned her head to see him coming down the grand staircase, a sight for sore eyes if there ever was one. He’d half removed his Charlie Chaplin costume. Gone was the derby hat and dark wig. The moustache remained. With his natural blond hair, the contrast was comical.

  Also gone were the oversize shoes and shabby topcoat he’d donned for the evening. In his remaining white shirt and black pants, along with the expensive-looking loafers he’d slipped on, he took a seat beside her and mimicked her spread-out pose on the dining chair.

  “You did it,” he rasped.

  “We did it, Zander. There’s no reason to pretend I could have done any of this without your guidance.”

  “My princely fairy-tale powers give me an advantage.”

  “No. It’s because of your generosity and dedication and compassion. You don’t get those traits for free just because you’re a royal.” He smiled. “I’ve learned so much through this experience, Zander.”

  Indeed, success at an event of this magnitude was no small feat.

  “You’re a good student.”

  “Yeah, well, let’s see how well I do when I have to orchestrate one of these on my own.”

  “Everything worked out, didn’t it?”

  “I think you missed the part when Maria Von Trapp in full nun regalia tripped and fell into a pan of cherries jubilee.”

  They burst into laughter that echoed in the din of the cavernous hall.

  “What? Where was I at the time?”

  “I think I saw you out on the lawn with Humphrey Bogart. Some of the wait staff came to my rescue. But poor Sister Maria had red syrup in every fold of her habit.”

  “Was she intoxicated?”

  “To the nines, dahling.” Marie used a larger-than-life accent.

  “That was Hyacinth Jones, an American widow who lives in Sweden. She’s the unofficial cougar at all of these parties, her eyes on the younger men.”

  “As a matter of fact, the Good Sister squealed when a hunky waiter had to carry her away because she had cherries in her shoes. Fortunately, not a lot of guests had to witness the debacle.”

  “I hope she writes a fat check for the evening.”

  Marie sat up to take off the high-heeled white sandals that had been part of her Marilyn Monroe ensemble. She crossed one leg over the other knee so that she could rub her foot. “I danced so long with Frankenstein I thought my feet were going to fall off. Then Groucho Marx wanted a turn.”

  “Here.” Zander turned his chair and took Marie’s legs onto his lap. “Allow me.”

  When he wrapped his two hands around her right foot, it was as if someone had just covered her in a plush heated blanket. Her head fell backward. Even if she had wanted to object she wouldn’t have been able to, his fingers were that therapeutic. With the skill of a masseuse, he kneaded and soothed her tired muscles, first one foot than the other.

  “And you do foot massages, too?”

  He batted his eyelashes in an adorable way.

  How much fun this was to sit with Zander and have a recap. Actually, doing anything with Zander was fun. That was something she had never faced head-on. The inalterable fact that sharing both the good and bad times with someone made everything nicer, and might even make the intolerable tolerable. And not just with anyone but to be one of the lucky few in life who met that special person who made them feel whole, complete and part of something.

  Truthfully, in the dark of lonely nights after hard days, Marie’s soul did cry out for that someone she thought she’d never meet. She turned her head toward Zander and something wordless but significant passed between them.

  Her legs felt the jostling when he adjusted himself in the chair.

  “That feels amazing,” she let slip. The words ricocheted from one side of the room to the other. “Unfortunately, I’m going to have to get those shoes back on and gather my things. It’s time to go home.”

  “Marie, I’m sorry, I let my driver go. You know I rented the hospitality suite upstairs in the mansion for the night.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll just call a rideshare.”

  “At this hour? No. Why don’t you stay here with me? There’s plenty of room.”

  No, Marie. Whatever you do, say no to that offer. It had been a struggle all along to keep her attraction to Zander under wraps. She’d endured the casual touching and the not-so-innocent kissing. How much further could she go?

  Oh, those kisses.

  Bliss rang through her as she recounted the night of the Carlsmon party, replaying every second of what were most certainly the most exciting kisses she’d ever had. Marie’s mouth yielding to Zander’s. Accepting his every move. Initiating some of her own. Their lips, their tongues, fitting exactly to each other’s. Both wanting more, knowing to deny themselves. Her eyelashes still flickered every time she thought of those kisses. They probably always would.

  It would be too risky to share the suite with him tonight, regardless of the sleeping arrangements. That proximity would fill her head with too many what-ifs, silly unrealities about things that could never happen. Like making love. Like until eternity. The stuff dreams were made of.

  “No.” She eked out a sound that was sort of a half question. After a few measured breaths she tried again with, “I’d best be going.”

  She swung her legs off Zander’s oh-so-comfortable lap and jammed her feet into her shoes. They seemed to have shrunk two sizes since she’d taken them off. Or maybe it was that her feet grew when out of the confines of the leather and in Zander’s hands. When she stood up, she all but crumbled with tiredness. Having to take even one more step seemed an impossible demand.

  There’d be no harm in spending the night here at the mansion with Zander, she decided.

  The truth was that she wanted to make love with him. To experience th
e passion that they’d doled out to each other only in small amounts so far.

  But she was too afraid of the hurt it would cause her afterward, when the certainty that they could never be together would be a knife to her heart.

  “You must be hungry. I have a tray of cheese and fruit waiting for a bedtime snack,” he coaxed as he rose from his chair.

  He moved over to one of the waiter stations. From a silver ice bucket, he extracted an unopened bottle of frosty champagne. And from the glassware cart he threaded the stems of two crystal flutes in his fingers.

  After a kind smile that pierced into her weary eyes, Zander lifted Marie into his arms.

  A moan escaped from her throat as she wrapped her arms around his neck. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

  As they kept their gaze on each other, he carried her up the grand staircase.

  Once in the suite, Zander gently placed Marie down. She immediately stepped out of her shoes, grateful to be barefoot again.

  The two-room suite was as well designed and tasteful as the rest of the mansion. Built in the 1800s, it had been upgraded with every modern convenience anyone could want. The sitting room furnishings were done in dark woods and the upholstery a forest green. French doors were left open to allow in the moonlight and cool night air. To one side was a separate bedroom with a gigantic bed, carved wood posts and a dozen inviting pillows.

  “May I freshen up a minute?”

  “Of course,” Zander replied as he uncorked the champagne bottle. He gestured toward the bathroom.

  There, marble walls and surfaces were accented with gold fixtures. A glass shower had a built-in bench inside and a rain shower faucet. It looked glorious, though if Marie did use the facilities, she’d probably rather try the soaking tub. It was big enough for two people to fit in, and the whirlpool jets promised to turn sore muscles to jelly.