Cinderella's Prince Under the Mistletoe

by Cara Colter

  It all sounded very posh, and while she felt awed by it, she became aware she didn’t hear any love for it in his tone.

  “Tell me more,” she encouraged him.

  “The entire palace has to be ready for the unveiling of the tree, so teams of house staff will be hauling decorations—some of them centuries old—from attic spaces and vaults and cellars. The kitchens will be mad with baking.

  “Christmas mass is celebrated in the palace cathedral, and the day after Christmas the doors of the palace are thrown open to all the citizens of Casavalle. Huge buffets of all that baking will be set out, along with vats of mulled wines and hot chocolates. It’s quite magnificent, really.”

  It did sound magnificent. She would be totally awed, except what did she hear in his voice?

  “Magnificent, but?” she pressed.

  He hesitated. “It’s not as you described. It’s not really warm and fuzzy, but rather magnificent and regal and very formal. The day after Christmas, my brother, Antonio, and I will stand for hours, greeting people at the palace doors. As a child, I dreaded it. My feet would get sore, and I’d be bored out of my head, and I was not allowed to squirm or go off script.”

  “Off script?” Imogen murmured, distressed at the picture he was painting.

  “A quick formal greeting. To the inevitable question about what I had received for Christmas, I answered, ‘Everything I had wished for.’”

  “And it wasn’t true,” she guessed quietly from the tone of his voice and his expression.

  He shot her a quick, pained look, then made himself busy readying the fire. Was he deliberately turning away from her so she could not read his expression?

  “Of course it was true,” he said, not looking at her, but crumpling paper, adding kindling and then a log. “I received magnificent gifts. Often I received gifts from other royal families and from around the world. Sometimes, children I did not know sent me things.”

  She could not stand having his back to her. She could not stand it that she could not see his face when she could so clearly detect something in his voice. She got up off the couch and hobbled over beside him, sank down on her knees in front of the hearth.

  A good thing, too, because the fire he was laying was a disaster! Had she really thought a prince would know how to lay a fire?

  “Christmas isn’t really about the things you get,” she said softly, glancing at him and then surreptitiously rearranging his crumpled paper and the too-large bits of kindling he had stacked in a heap.

  “I suppose it isn’t,” he said, his tone stiff.

  “It’s about the way you feel.”

  “And how is that?”

  “Loved. Surrounded by joy. Giving of your heart to others. Hopeful for the coming year. Having faith somehow, that no matter what is going on, it will all work out.”

  He snorted with derision. “You sound like one of those films I was enchanted by as a lad. But this is what few people understand about being a royal—it is a role you play all the time. People are looking at you and to you. Sentiment is not appreciated in leadership. In Casavalle, Christmas is about pageantry for the people. It is about giving the subjects of our small nation a memorable and beautiful Christmas.”

  “Even when you were a boy?” she asked, horrified. “Your own hopes and dreams were usurped by an expectation of you to play a certain role for your subjects?”

  He sighed. “Maybe especially when I was a boy. Isn’t that the best time to teach such things? That duty, that your responsibility to your nation will always come first? That the pursuit of personal happiness is an invitation to caprice, to calamity?”

  She rocked back on her heels, ignoring the pain that caused to her injured foot. She stared at him. “Wanting to be happy is an invitation to calamity?” she sputtered.

  He nodded.

  “But you must have some happy Christmas memories!”

  He contemplated that for way too long, then sighed. “Would you like to know what one of my strongest childhood memories of Christmas is?”

  She nodded, but uncertainly. From the look on his face, Imogen was not sure she wanted to know at all.

  “My parents had to go away on an official engagement. I don’t recall the engagement, precisely, only that that was one of the first times I understood that duty usurped family. Antonio and I spent Christmas with staff. We unwrapped our gifts by ourselves, ate Christmas dinner at the dining room table by ourselves. I seem to recall we debated the existence of Saint Nick, as the jolly old fellow, along with my parents, was a no-show. We got extra pudding, though.”

  “But what did your parents say?” she asked, appalled.

  “If any explanation was offered, I’m afraid I don’t recall.”

  She said nothing, thinking how sad it was that he could remember extra pudding, but not if he had been offered an apology or explanation. But then, to a young child, what explanation could ever take the sting of Christmas missed by parents away?

  She made the mistake of glancing at him. His brows knit together in an intimidating frown.

  “Please do not look at me like that,” he growled.

  “Like what?” she stammered.

  “As if you pity me.”

  She turned quickly away from him. She busied herself striking a match and holding it to the paper, taking satisfaction at the first flicker of flame in her carefully laid hearth.

  She could not look at him, because she knew the truth would be naked in her face. And the truth was that she did pity him.

  And that an audacious plan was forming in her mind. She could tell by the way the snow was piled up outside the window they were going to be here together for a while. Maybe not a week, but a while. She had time.

  To give the man who appeared on the surface to have everything—the finest of clothing, a personal helicopter, staff at his beck and call, wealth and power beyond his wildest dream—a sense of the one thing it seemed he had never had.

  What Christmas was supposed to be all about.

  She was going to give of her heart. To him. Which, if one thought of it sensibly, could turn out to be a very dangerous undertaking, indeed.

  Imogen realized that she had not given of her heart for a long time. Protecting herself, nursing its brokenness, feeling fragile.

  But suddenly, in the growing light of that dazzling fire, she understood her own healing lay in this direction.

  Her healing did not lie in being sensible, in protecting herself from further hurt. If it did, would she not be healed already? No, somehow the key to finding her lost happiness—the happiness she remembered so clearly when she discussed that snowbound Christmas she had experienced as a child—would be found in giving of herself.

  Completely, with no thought of what the repercussions of that giving might be, with no expectation of receiving anything in return.

  The fire took hard, the flames licking greedily at kindling, and racing up the logs, throwing light and warmth across his face, which she could see was deliberately set into lines of remoteness.

  Anyway, how dangerous could it be? Prince Luca would be here for just a short while, and then he would be gone.

  On a rack beside the fireplace, with the fire tools, were several forks with long twisted metal stems and wooden handles.

  “Luca, may I present to you the very ordinary pleasure of cooking a hot dog?”

  She took one from the package, threaded it onto the fork stick and handed it to him, and then took another for herself.

  “Not too close to the flame,” she told him, demonstrating, “This is the proper open-flame cooking technique for a perfect roast.”

  As she had hoped, he laughed at her put-on Julia Child accent.

  His laughter made her feel warmer than the fire, which would be a good thing for her to remember as she tackled the Prince as her good deed. If she got too clo
se to his particular flame, she was going to get burned.

  Doubt suddenly crowded around her.

  It was way too early for Christmas.

  And yet his kingdom already prepared. Why not give the Lodge over to that Christmas feeling, so that he could experience it?

  To be sure, it would be a Christmas feeling that did not involve priceless pageantry, receiving lines, gifts too great to count or appreciate.

  This would be Imogen’s gift to the Prince for the very short time that he would be here. She would show him how very ordinary things could shine with more hidden delights than a priceless ornament with a secret compartment.

  And she would start with a hot dog. She handed him another one threaded onto a stick. An hour later, feeling as full as she had ever felt, not just of hot dogs, but of laughter, they put the sticks down and packed away the remnants of the hot dogs. They sat on the floor, backs braced against the hearth, feet stretched out in front of them.

  Her shoulder was touching his. He had removed his suit jacket. Beneath the exquisite, but thin, silk of his shirt, she could feel his skin, heated from being so close to the fire.

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever eaten anything that good,” Luca groaned, holding his stomach.

  She turned her head to look at him and see if he was serious. He appeared to be!

  “You have a little bit of mustard right—” Imogen turned, reached up. She touched his lip with her finger. After the carefree fun of cooking hot dogs together, nothing could have prepared her for the sudden intense sizzle between them. Her hand froze, his lip moved, ever so slightly, as if he might nuzzle that invading finger.

  She withdrew her finger from his lip hastily. She made the mistake of licking the mustard off it.

  She was aware of his dark eyes sparking on her face with something that was not quite as safe as laughter.

  “I’m exhausted,” she stammered. She got up hastily from where she had sat shoulder to shoulder with him beside the hearth.

  She plunked herself down on the couch, pulled the blanket up to her nose and scrunched her eyelids together, hard.

  She was aware he was watching her.

  She thought, between the awareness of a full tummy, and the awareness of how his lip had felt beneath her fingertip, and the awareness of Luca’s presence in the room with her, she would never sleep.

  But her eyes felt suddenly weighted, and an almost delicious exhaustion stole the strength from her limbs and the inhibitions from her lips.

  “Luca?” Her voice was husky with near sleep.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Have you ever built a snowman?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  EXCEPT FOR THE crackling of the fire, the room had grown very quiet. Luca glanced at his hostess. She was fast asleep on the couch, curled over on her side, the blanket tucked around her. She seemed to have fallen asleep with the ease and speed of a tired child. She had fallen asleep without waiting for his answer.

  In the golden light of the fire, she looked extraordinarily beautiful: creamy, perfect skin; unbelievably thick, long lashes; hair a color that made him think of sunlight passing through a jar of syrup.

  If he was not mistaken, there was a tiny smear of mustard by the corner of her mouth, just as there had been one at the corner of his.

  He frowned. Her mouth was quite lush, that bottom lip full and plump. Since holding her delicate foot in his hand, feeling her shoulder touching his while they cooked and then her finger on his lip, he felt he was aware of Imogen in a very different way than he had been two hours ago. He considered her worst-case scenario that they might be here for a week.

  Already, he could feel a dangerous awareness of her, a letting down of his guard almost from that first unfortunate moment when he had suggested they both be ordinary.

  And then, one mistake leading to another, he had gone on, quite extensively, about Christmas at Casavalle and seen pity darken her eyes to a shade of navy blue that he might have quite enjoyed under other circumstances rather than her feeling sorry for him!

  Imogen Albright, Lodge Manager, feeling sorry for him, Prince Luca of the House of Valenti.

  Right before she had slept, she had asked him, her voice thick and unknowingly beguiling, “Have you ever built a snowman?”

  “What kind of question is that?” he’d asked, a certain snap in his voice that should have shut her down completely.

  Instead, she had said, drowsy and undeterred, “The snow from these early season storms is perfect for it. Heavy and wet.”

  And then she had been asleep, before he could tell her in no uncertain terms he was not building a snowman with her!

  Her easy invitation was his own fault, of course. Jet lag was so disorienting. Luca did not generally let his guard down, and he did not share confidences with strangers. Now she thought they were going to be buddies. Which, admittedly, would have been easier if holding her foot in his hand had not made him so aware of her—and not in an I want to build a snowman with you kind of way.

  Though, if he didn’t generally share confidences with strangers, that did beg the question: Who did he share confidences with?

  The answer made him feel lonely. And annoyed at his loneliness, and even more annoyed at what he had seen in her eyes as they lit the fire together.

  Unless he was mistaken, she was going to make some misguided effort to show him happiness was not a frivolous pursuit, unworthy of any member of the Casavallian royal family. Unless he was mistaken, she was going to try and convince him to build a snowman, as if that was the key to his happiness!

  He doubted he would be here a week, even if it kept snowing. Cristiano was going to be beside himself, even now, no doubt, mounting a rescue operation.

  Until then, Luca would be in charge. There would be no snowman building, and he would avoid faintly playful moments, like jostling their hot dogs together in the fire! Though, the truth was nothing could have prepared him for the pleasure of a hot dog, nicely blackened over an open flame. Also, Imogen had informed him, referred to as wieners, wienies or tube steaks.

  North Americans! They always seemed to want to complicate a dot.

  Imogen looked like she might be a very complicated woman.

  One who was engaged to another man, thank goodness! Luca had better keep that in mind when he was looking at the mustard-specked temptation of her lips, when he was remembering the slenderness of her wounded foot in his hand, when he was way too aware of the sensation caused by her shoulder touching his as they had cooked those hot dogs.

  No, when dawn came, he would set out new rules. He couldn’t exactly ask her to stop calling him by his name, but he could make it clear her sympathy was unwanted and overstepped a boundary.

  When dawn came, he would make it clear that this was a very serious situation they were in. There would be no time for snowmen! He could use his lack of appropriate winter clothing as an excuse to avoid snow play with her.

  Besides, important things needed to be done. From living in a centuries-old palace, he knew about cranky electricity. Though others were designated to look after the frequent problems, he still knew the number one concern of losing power in cold weather was with water freezing.

  So firewood would have to be checked and restocked. An inventory of supplies should be made. It would probably be wise to have a plan for getting out of here if they did run out of either wood or supplies.

  Fires would have to be started in other rooms or water lines would start to freeze. He would have to familiarize himself with the generator. The palace had several for exactly this situation, and though he had never personally had to run one, it felt good to have tasks to do, important things that would put the barriers, which had slipped a bit last night, firmly back in place between him and Imogen.

  These were unfamiliar tasks to him, and yet there was comfort in both having a list of things that nee
ded to be done and in taking charge of the situation.

  All that would have to wait, however. Luca was suddenly aware of complete and utter exhaustion.

  His sense of being in charge lasted all of two seconds.

  This was, currently, the only warm room in the entire Lodge. There was one couch, and she was on it. There appeared to be one blanket and she had it.

  Muttering to himself, he made his way through the darkened Lodge, back to his room. Staying in it was out of the question. He could practically see his breath already.

  He stripped the blankets off the bed, went back down the steps, glanced at her still-sleeping face and made a bed for himself on the floor in front of the fire.

  He thought he would sleep instantly. Instead he listened to her quiet breathing, as contented as the purr of a kitten, and he lay awake until the first light of dawn, leeched of its normal brilliance because of the still heavily falling snow, finally touched the windows.

  * * *

  Imogen woke with a crick in her neck, and a throb in her foot. The air was chilly, and the light was weak and watery, so even before she looked to the window, she knew it was still snowing.

  She sat up and swung her feet off the couch. There was a heap of blankets in front of a fire that had died to embers, and it took her a second to realize the heap was a prince!

  She was almost certain the royal protocol book would not cover this specific situation, but even so she was pretty sure she was not supposed to be on the couch while His Royal Highness slept on the floor. And yet, when she remembered how protective he had been when she had hurt her foot, she doubted he would have allowed it any other way.

  There was something about him that spoke, not of a man who had been pampered, but of a man who had a deeply established sense of honor.