“Yeah, I was here when I was a little girl, it was fun,” she said, taking a deep breath and shooting a wry smile, “but I haven’t been back in a long time.”
And another bell went off in my head because St. Venetia is a playground for the rich, a resort on the Italian shore. Wealthy people around Europe come here to see and be seen, so I was surprised that someone at finishing school didn’t come regularly. Weren’t these girls from well-off families? It’s like a saying you’ve never been to the South of France, never experienced St. Tropez in the summer.
“Well, where do you usually vacation?” I asked curiously. “Where does your family summer?”
And the girl took a deep breath before answering casually, too casually.
“My family likes to stay put, we’re homebodies most of the time, and when I travel, I’m usually doing charity work. I did a program last summer in Romania, working with the Roma people. It was cool,” she said.
I kept my expression neutral but was internally surprised. Charity work? Hell, most women I knew never got their hands dirty, much less helped those less fortunate. So intrigued, I pressed on.
“What kind of charity work?” I asked curiously. “We’ve got some Roma people in St. Venetia too.”
The girl nodded.
“The Roma, or gypsies as a lot of people call them, are a dispossessed group who’ve been persecuted for thousands of years,” she said carefully. “They were originally nomads, traveling in caravans throughout Europe but lately a lot of them have been pressured to settle down by various governments,” she said carefully. “As a result, they’ve kind of become a ghettoized population, pushed to the fringes of society, living in impoverished circumstances.”
This I knew. Roma have been around a long time, they’re part of the European family now despite their origins in India. But I was curious as to Tina’s role.
“And what did you do with your program?” I asked, “Did you cook meals, help with laundry, look after kids, that kind of thing?” I asked. I admit, it was a little condescending but she must have been what? Twenty maybe?
But the girl looked at me frostily.
“For your information, many Roma are successful entrepreneurs, they often open businesses like bodegas, restaurants, child-care facilities, you name it. A lot of them just need some start-up capital to get going, or some working capital to expand, so that’s where my program comes in. We provide loans to disenfranchised folks who otherwise have no way of accessing capital.”
“You mean microfinance?” I asked surprised. This was a hot topic in the economic development sphere, something that I’d encountered during my duties as Crown Prince. “You’re in the microfinance space?”
“Yeah, kind of,” the brunette acknowledged. “Not exactly microfinance because our loans are bigger. Microfinance usually implies loans of a five hundred dollars or less, like what Grameen did in Bangladesh, but we can do loans up to fifty thousand, so it’s more like small business lending.”
Now I was seriously impressed. I’d been expecting another batch of bimbos, girls who knew nothing about the world around them, heck, probably not even their own countries. But this girl was different. She had some serious smarts, citing Grameen in Bangladesh, the difference between microfinance and small biz lending, heck even start-up capital. I wanted to know more, a lot more, so I pulled out my trump card.
“You know, I’m the Crown Prince of St. Venetia. Maybe I could help you out, hook you up with some connections,” I offered casually.
Most girls melt the minute they hear the phrase Crown Prince, turning into big puddles, but the brunette was different. She paused for a moment, looking me straight in the eye.
“Thank you,” she said evenly, “I’m sure Roma Outreach would be grateful for your patronage and I’d be happy to put you in touch. Like I said, I worked for them last summer so I’m not there anymore, but I know people who’d love to hear from you.”
And I nodded. The girl was a professional. As with any non-profit, you never want to turn away any offers of help, especially from a rich and powerful donor. But that didn’t get me closer to my goal.
“What are you up to nowadays if you’re not with them?” I asked curiously.
And the girl fell silent for a moment.
“I’m at Miss Carroll’s,” she said with a smile, “meeting a lot of new people, like you,” she said, winking at me.
And I had to laugh then. Both of us knew that Miss Carroll’s was a finishing school, a bride factory for the rich and famous of Europe. So for her to describe it as “meeting new folks” was refreshing, a casual take on the very serious business of husband hunting. And I ate it up.
“How about I help you out?” I asked in a rush. God, I was like a happy golden retriever, bouncing at her heels, hoping to be petted. “I’ll put in a word with Miss Carroll’s, there are some Roma here that you could work with. I’ll set it up.”
And for the first time, the brunette cracked a smile, the rays basking me in warmth.
“Would you?” she asked breathlessly, that beautiful rack lifting as she inhaled. “Would you? I feel like it’s the only way I could get away, they practically have us chained up at the house. But if you, the Prince, put in a good word maybe I could get away for an afternoon.”
“Sure,” I said with my best grin. I couldn’t help but smile back, she was so joyous suddenly, lit up from within, eyes flashing with light. “Just give me a couple days and I’ll figure it out.”
“Thanks,” she said softly, for the first time shy in my presence. Ah ha, so the alpha female had a feminine side too huh? When she wasn’t protecting her precious Roma, she was a woman still, with emotions, feelings, and real vulnerabilities. “I’d like that,” she said.
And so I took her hand again, my big fingers circling that delicate limb, and kissed her wrist on the inside again, my lips trailing against the sensitive skin. Her eyes grew wide, pupils enlarging, and she gasped a little, her pulse fluttering under my fingers.
“I’ll see you around,” I rumbled with a smile before turning away. My head felt light, my heart singing because I hadn’t met someone this fresh, this lovely … well, ever in my life. And I was definitely going to be seeing Tina again soon. Very soon, if I had anything to do with it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tina
It was surprising meeting Prince Kristian. I hadn’t wanted to approach him because he looked so much like Karl and Kato, the resemblance eerie and astonishing. It was like being in an episode of the Twilight Zone, and I felt weird, discomfited, a tingling sensation crawling over my skin.
But my friend was too fast.
“Come on Tina,” said Millie, grabbing my elbow and practically dragging me across the room. “Let’s meet him before other people do.”
And I understood why she was jumping the gun. Again, we need to marry rich men, and those guys are usually really old. There were precious few first-born sons set to inherit fortunes large enough to save our families, so Millie knew a good catch when she saw one. She dragged me, wriggling, across the floor, even as I tried to pull back, look a little less eager.
“Millie,” I gasped, “Kristian probably has girls throwing themselves at him all the time!” I protested. “We don’t want to look desperate.”
“Seriously Tina,” she said, shaking her head, stopping for a moment to look me square in the eye. “We are desperate. If we don’t land someone like Prince Kristian, we’re going to end up with someone like Sumner Redstone.”
And I giggled because Sumner Redstone, the entertainment mogul, was probably a good comparison. The tycoon was ninety, rich as Midas, and still dating ladies right and left. Heck, my parents would probably be ecstatic if I ended up with someone like him, but eeew! The thought of his gnarled, wrinkled hands touching me made my skin crawl.
Anyways it was too late because we were already in front of the prince. And I had to admit, up close he was positively gorgeous, even better than from across the ballroom. His f
eatures were masculine, chiseled, dazzling, with a tall, imposing physique. And god, but the resemblance to Karl and Kato was even more striking from a few feet away, those same deep blue eyes, the particular set of the jaw.
He looked amused when the two of us landed in front of him, huffing and puffing.
“Hey,” he drawled laconically, “and you are?”
Millie made the introductions as I tried to look calm, even with my heart beating a million miles an hour, revving even faster as the Prince looked me up and down. Because this was a man who wasn’t holding back, obviously interested in my curvy form, my brown curls. So I almost jumped when he took my wrist and kissed it on the inside, like we knew each other already. I could feel the whisper of his breath across my sensitive skin, my cunny moistening from his touch.
“Beautiful,” he breathed under his voice, for my ears only, and I flushed, my body tingling with delight. I half-expected to be swept off my feet right there, but somehow we got talking about the Roma people, the underclass of Europe.
It’s always been a thing of mine, these poor, disenfranchised people, and my interest in them stemmed from my childhood, when I first saw a little Roma girl standing on a street corner in Andorra begging.
“Daddy,” I said, tugging my dad’s sleeve. “Shouldn’t we give her something? Maybe a lirah or two?”
And my dad, to my shame, turned his face away.
“They’re just gypsies,” he said, ignoring the child’s dirty face, the big eyes that implored us. “She’s probably faking it.”
I couldn’t believe it, that someone so young would fake destitution, hunger even, but as I got older I realized that a lot of Andorrans and Europeans shared my dad’s distaste. The Roma were rumored to be con men, petty thieves teaching their children the “art” of begging, one hand extended for food and alms while the other picked your pocket.
But I ended up getting involved because the Roma have a long history in Andorra and my interest in my country ran deep. So I volunteered last year with Roma Outreach, helping loan officers do outreach in the community, providing capital to appropriate borrowers. And I loved it, loved every second of working with the community, getting to know their hopes, dreams, and aspirations as legitimate small business owners, trying to make it in a society that was hostile to them.
And I was surprised when Prince Kristian evinced an interest. A lot of people will listen politely as I prattle on about my cause, make a plea from the heart, but he was more than that. He was genuinely interested and actually knew quite a lot from his experience patronizing charities and working on behalf of his country. So I was grateful when he offered to help.
“Maybe I can set something up for you,” he offered, his eyes looking me over.
And I hesitated because I’d just met him, unsure, biting my lip, but then took a deep breath. Beggars can’t be choosers and non-profits have to take whenever help is offered, especially from such a promising source.
“Yes, thank you, I’d appreciate it, I can put you in touch with the right people,” I said, smiling at him, grateful.
But it went further than that.
“Maybe I can set something up for us to do together,” he offered. “Work with the Roma people hands-on, figure something out.”
And it was then that my smile shone out, emitting ten thousand watts of pure happiness. Because most people would rather give money than actually work with their hands, put in the blood, sweat and tears, so I respected Kristian all that much more, unable to stop smiling.
“If you could set something up, I’d be so grateful,” I said softly. “Especially since it’ll give me a chance to get away from Miss Carroll’s,” I added mischievously under my breath.
And the big man threw his head back and laughed, the rumble deep and oh so masculine. God, the man really was gorgeous, everything about him was devastatingly beautiful … as well as kind and thoughtful, uncommon for a man of power.
“Sure honey, I’ll set something up,” he said with mirth dancing in his eyes. “Now we better circulate, otherwise everyone’s going to be on our cases,” he said mischievously, and with another kiss on the inside of my wrist, moved away.
But it was too late because I knew, just knew, that everyone had already noticed us, noticed the instant connection. And when I got back that night, Crikers actually congratulated me, the old lady knocking on my door around midnight.
“You did well,” she cackled, an old, tatty bathrobe tied tight around her waist, those rimless glasses perched on her nose.
“Oh really?” I asked slowly. I didn’t want to presume. I’d been doing better in the looks department, regularly getting mani-pedis, my hair professionally styled once a week although the curls were still unruly. So maybe she was referring to my improved appearance, the fact that I looked more like a “princess,” desirable, beautiful, stately, instead of my usual curvy, casual self. But no such thing.
“Prince Kristian of course,” wheezed the old lady. “He liked you, everyone saw.”
I nodded, that was true, but I wasn’t counting my chickens before they hatched. Maybe Kristian picked a girl at every event, making a certain someone feel special only to be forgotten the next day.
“Yeah, we talked about the Roma people, their unfortunate plight,” I said carefully. “He offered to help but I wouldn’t count on it,” I added. The prince had a lot of things on his plate, maybe he’d already forgotten me.
But the old woman just cackled and wheezed more.
“Yes, his office has already called to arrange a meeting with some local Roma who run a general store downtown,” she said. “Tomorrow afternoon, you’ll be meeting him there.”
And my cheeks colored. Tomorrow? So soon? Evidently, my chickens had already hatched and I hadn’t even been aware of it. My heart caught in my throat, going at a million miles a minute.
“So soon?” I said weakly.
“Tomorrow,” confirmed Crikers, cinching her belt even tighter before heading out of my room. “So look pretty! You only get one chance to catch a prince!” she cawed before stepping out into the darkness.
And it was true. My face flushed and I sat down slowly, hardly able to believe the changes in my life. I was going to meet with Kristian one on one again … and I couldn’t wait.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Kristian
The girl was beautiful, intelligent and practical. When my limo pulled up to Miss Carroll’s, she got in, decorously sweeping her skirt over her knees before looking up at me with those big brown eyes.
“Hi,” I rumbled, lifting her hand to my mouth for another inside kiss on the wrist. God, she was delectable, a whiff of perfume tickling my nostrils, those creamy, meaty thighs outlined under the soft fabric of her dress. I was ready to jump her right then, but stopped myself because of the look her eyes.
“What is it?” I asked, curious. The girl looked a little jumpy, almost nervous, and I had no idea why. She’d been lovely yesterday, curvy, funny, with a mischievous sense of humor. But the brunette looked around the car, surveying the interior, before turning to me with a big sigh.
“We can’t go in this,” she said.
“What?” I asked. I’d been traveling by limo since I was a kid, it was rare that I that I arrived in anything other than some sort of black car. “Why not?”
“Because,” she said, waving her hand at the leather interior, the bottled watered stashed in the side pockets, the warm nuts already set out on the entertainment console, “it’s too fancy. They have so little and this is beyond what they could ever afford,” she concluded quietly. “I don’t want to throw your wealth in their face.”
And I almost smacked my forehead with my hand then, cursing myself for being a dunce. Of course the limo was all wrong, what had I been thinking? But then again, I was so used to being chauffeured that I hadn’t questioned it, sliding into the car without a second thought, getting comfortable immediately.
“Of course not,” I said quickly, popping open the door and j
umping out. The driver got out as well with a confused, “Sire?”
But by now Tina had gotten out too and we stood on the curb looking at each other. What to do for transportation? St. Venetia is a walking city but the Roma enclave was too far to walk, plus not exactly safe. So I looked around, spotting a little red Mini parked at a stop sign, sprinting over before it could zoom off.
“Stop,” I yelled, coming to a halt beside the driver’s side window. “Stop,” I repeated, a little more commanding than I meant to. A young man was inside, maybe about twenty or so, looking up at me with confusion.
“Can I help you?” he asked, shaking his head, craning his neck to look around. Because by now, Tina had run up as well and stood next to me, panting with exertion, a beautiful flush running across her chest.
“We need your car,” I said peremptorily. “Get out.”
“What?” sputtered the young man, his hands gripping the steering wheel. “Make me,” he retorted.
I almost yanked open the door and hauled him out right there, but Tina intervened.
“We just need to borrow your car for a half day,” she said breathlessly. “For children in need. Please,” she added.
But the guy wasn’t budging.
“No,” he said flatly. “I don’t know you, I have no idea who you are, this is crazy.”
It was then that I drew myself up, tall, imposing, fixing him with a stare.
“For the country,” I commanded, meeting his eyes, and something clicked. I think the man finally recognized me as Kristian, Crown Prince of the Kingdom, and got out of the car slowly.
“Sire, I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you, but I can’t just give up my car either,” he mumbled, looking down.
And it was then that I took a signet ring off my finger, handing it him.
“As security for your ride,” I rumbled, dropping it into his outstretched hand. “We’ll expect it back when your car is returned.”
And the man gasped because the ring was solid gold with a ruby flanked by two emeralds, clearly worth far more than his Mini. He gaped, unable to make any sound, his eyes glued to the ring.
Falling for My Dad's Best Friend Page 18
