by Lori Wilde
“There’s nothing normal about the life of a prince.”
“No, there isn’t,” he said wearily, pulling off the road and stopping beside a squat little building with bright-pink siding.
“The Pink Flamingo—cottages to rent by day or week,” she read from a dingy sign featuring a rust-streaked fuchsia bird.
Farther down the gravel drive was a scattering of squat little bungalows that looked too small to contain a double bed. They had the same garish siding, probably a 1950’s renovation.
“Shall I come inside to make sure you can get a tow?” Max asked.
She wanted to suggest a more appropriate place for him to go, but as long as there was a slight chance of an interview, she’d watch what she said.
Would her editor go along with an article on how the prince ran her off the road trying to read her bumper sticker, then refused to be interviewed? Doubtful. Unlike the Insider, her magazine liked to include a few hard facts about the subject.
The office was deserted.
Max impatiently pressed a metal bell sitting on the counter, but Leigh didn’t know how he could summon anyone in a one-room shack. She did spot an antiquated black dial phone on a small desk against the far wall.
“I’ll see if I can find a tow truck,” she said, invading the proprietor’s side of the counter.
“Perhaps you should ask permission to use the phone,” Max suggested.
“I’m only going to make a quick call.”
“Not on that phone you ain’t, missy.” A wizened old man in a yellow slicker and rain hat tramped into the office through the door they’d used, startling her so much she jumped.
Leigh heard a soft chuckle from Max.
“I’ll be glad to pay,” she said. “All I want to do is call a tow truck. My car was forced off the road, and it’s stuck in the mud.”
“Don’t you people listen to the radio? We’re under a hurricane warning. No one’s going to go after your car now.”
“Hurricane Jeff was supposed to miss Florida,” she said.
“Yup, but no one bothered to tell the hurricane.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to call a service station,” Max said. “I may be able to offer some inducement.”
“Only way you can call anybody is to go outside and holler. Phone’s dead. Power’s off, too. If you two got a place to go near here, you’d better get there quick.”
“We don’t.” Max answered for both of them. “We’ll have to ride it out in the car.”
“Bad idea, Mister. Lotta wires down in town. Main Street’s flooded. Took me forty minutes to get back here, and it’s only a couple miles. Had to detour around a toppled tree down the road a piece.”
“Then do you suggest we rent two of your cottages?” Max asked skeptically.
“Could if I had ’em. Got only one left. Two hundred bucks a night, take it or leave it.”
“We’ll leave it. Your rates are right here.” Leigh tapped her finger on a grimy square of cardboard taped to the counter. “Thirty-three dollars a night, but we won’t be staying over. We just need a place this afternoon to weather the storm.”
“That’s the off-season rate. Hurricane rate’s two hundred.”
“We’ll take it.” Max took out his wallet and slapped a credit card on the counter.
“No plastic. Cash only.”
The old man’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his skinny neck, and Leigh could see he was enjoying his moment of power.
“This is a platinum card,” Max argued. “It’s good anywhere in the world.”
“Not in Lavern, Florida, it ain’t. But I’ll forget the tax, seein’ as how the telly-vision ain’t workin’.”
“Big of you.” Max was rummaging in his wallet, sorting out bills—foreign bills. “Here’s twenty, forty. Yes, and some ones. Forty-three dollars. That’s all I have, and it’s more than your usual rate.”
“Too bad.” The old man clicked his dentures. “Too bad for you, not me. With that fancy interstate closed, folks are flocking this way. I’ll fill ’er up, no problem.”
“Let me see what I have,” Leigh reluctantly offered, hating to meet the old crook’s price.
She’d cashed her paycheck just before leaving Miami, and like any good reporter, she carried enough cash for emergencies. The prince watched, tight-lipped and scowling, as she made up the difference from her billfold.
“Are you embarrassed because a woman is paying?” she asked Max under her breath, enjoying the upper hand for a brief moment.
“Of course not.”
His gaze met hers, the whites of his eyes an arresting contrast to his deep-brown pupils, and she felt tingly all over. She was cold from the rain, but his gaze was definitely warming her. Dark brows set close to his eyes made them even more dazzling, and she had to look away first or risk being vaporized by his penetrating stare.
The old man recounted the cash, then made it disappear inside the rubbery depths of his slicker.
“Number seven—lucky number,” he said, banging a key attached to a large chunk of wood on the counter. “No one ever walks away with one of these babies in his pocket. That’ll be two dollars key deposit, refundable when you turn it in.”
“That’s outrageous,” the prince protested. “You’ve already robbed us.”
“Here’s your two dollars.” Leigh was thinking of an exposé to get even. She’d title it: Highway Robbery on Florida’s byways.
“You folks want to rent a lantern? Power’s off.”
“For two hundred dollars you don’t even supply light?” It was her turn to be indignant.
“Kerosene lantern. Don’t suppose you two ever used one, but any fool can figure it out.” He took one from the floor behind the counter. “Raise the wick with this here knob and light it—I’ll throw in a box of wooden matches—then put the globe back on.”
“How much?” Max asked resignedly.
“Just three bucks—gotta cover the cost of kerosene and maintenance.”
Leigh counted out her change to pay him.
“Checkout time is noon. If you want to stay another day, let me know then.”
Max made a low sound in his throat that intimidated Leigh but not the jolly innkeeper. Of course, he didn’t know he was dealing with royalty.
“We’ll only be here a few hours,” she said with more confidence than she felt.
Meanwhile, it occurred to her the prince couldn’t possibly be too mean-spirited to grant her an interview after she’d paid for most of the room.
2
“I admit I shouldn’t have pulled so close to read your bumper sticker,” Max said. “But you were barely moving. I’ll reimburse you for the room and your car, but don’t think of this as an opportunity to blackmail me into an interview. I don’t pay my debts by baring my soul.”
She made a chuffing noise.
He looked around the small room with distaste. It was the first time he’d ever been in a room with paneled walls and a ceiling to match.
The knotty pine had a thick yellow varnish, and the narrow windows admitted a minimum of light. He put the lantern on a scarred dresser and wondered if it wouldn’t be better to leave the woman here and take his chances in the car.
“That’s not what I’m suggesting,” she said, sounding a little miffed. “I just thought, since we’re both stranded here, we might...chat.”
“And will you swear no word of our conversation will ever appear in print?” he challenged, surprised to realize he enjoyed verbally sparring with the attractive reporter.
“Maybe we should just play a game to pass the time—say twenty questions?” she asked hopefully, still holding her duffel bag in one hand and her purse in the other, perhaps at a loss where to put them.
“There’s room for your bag here,” he said, taking the duffel and moving the lantern to one side. “Shall I light this?”
“I guess it’s better than sitting in the gloom. I’ve never heard the wind so loud.” She glanced around as though doubting that
the walls were strong enough to withstand hurricane-force gales.
“We’re probably far enough inland to escape the worst of it.” He wanted to be reassuring, but he didn’t know what to expect from his first hurricane.
“I’m going to see if towels come with the room. I’d love to dry off.” She unsnapped her dripping red poncho and hung it on a narrow metal rack using one of three wire hangers.
He’d wondered if her figure would be as eye-catching as her face. It was. A sleeveless brown top clung to full breasts and trim waist.
She wore a small gold locket around her neck, and he wondered if it held her boyfriend’s picture. A woman this beautiful surely must have a man in her life. The thought sparked a totally irrational surge of envy.
When she turned toward the bathroom, he couldn’t help admiring her slender shapely legs. She was wearing short shorts, and her backside was nicely rounded. Her skin was honey tan and as smooth as polished ivory, and he caught his breath at the impact she had on him.
She reached for the knob of the closed door, and he noticed how graceful her arms were. Her wrists were delicate, the left encircled by a narrow gold watchband.
“I’ll be a few minutes,” she said. “My hair is soaked.”
“No doubt we’ll be here a while,” he said. “The storm seems to be getting worse.”
“We’re blessed with towels,” she said, poking her head through the doorway. “Would you like one?”
She dangled it from one pink-nailed hand.
“Very much, thank you.”
He walked the few steps necessary to take it from her, wondering what color her hair would be when it was dry. In fact, he was eager to see it hanging long and silky to her shoulders. When she closed the door, he hoped she’d hurry back.
What was he thinking? Of all the women on the face of the earth, a reporter was the one he absolutely shouldn’t seduce. His first criterion in a woman was discretion; he shuddered thinking of the kind of kiss-and-tell article she might write.
If he’d stuck to his itinerary, he wouldn’t be in this fix. He was familiar enough with the U.S. to expect the unexpected whenever he visited, which was fairly often. He’d been coming here since childhood because his mother had been an American.
His parents’ courtship had been the stuff of fairy tales: a handsome young prince falling madly in love with a commoner.
He shivered and realized he was in a deplorable state, wet enough to wring a gallon of rainwater from his clothing. His jacket had not lived up to its water-repellent label. Below his waist he was soaked to the skin, his trousers clammy on his legs.
His clothes were at the hotel in Paradise Beach, perhaps being brushed and pressed by his valet at this very moment. He should have gone straight to meet the stamp collectors.
It was sheer bad luck that his decision to drive alone on a side trip to see an old acquaintance—a model on a shoot—had resulted in an auto mishap. With a reporter, no less. She was probably the only person between the airport and his destination who’d have recognized him.
He couldn’t change the situation now, although he would gladly have hired a limo to take her off his hands. But he was stuck, so he might as well take off his pants and try to get dry. With a wary glance at the closed door, he started undressing.
The bathroom was cramped and dingy—in fact, it was only a cubicle with a shower—but Leigh was in no hurry to leave it.
No, that wasn’t true. She was dying to get back to the prince. She just needed to think of a way to wear down his resistance. How could she convince him to give her an interview? He was as evasive as he was sure of himself.
He also had a face to inspire dreams. All his features were totally in harmony: the long sweep of his lightly shadowed jaw, the slight cleft in his chin, and those full pouty lips. She shivered and tried to blame it on being chilled, scrubbing at her arms with a dry towel to warm up.
She should have her head examined for even thinking of the prince as a hunk. She’d been propositioned by rock musicians and pinched by their managers, but never ever had she responded to a come-on from a man she wanted to interview.
Prince Max wouldn’t get past her guard—though it annoyed her that he wasn’t likely to try. She wasn’t in the same league as supermodels and heiresses.
Was there any chance he’d do what princes in fairy tales did: grant her one wish? Or maybe that was genies and fairy godmothers who did that. Still, there had to be a way to get her story.
Without her brush, which was packed away in her clothes in the trunk of the car, there wasn’t much more she could do with her hair. She let it hang loose in a tangled cascade.
Just as she was leaving the bathroom, the whole cottage shuddered under the impact of the wind. Some shelter! The big bad wolf could blow this place down without even exerting himself.
She stepped into the bedroom. And laughed out loud.
She hadn’t seen a costume this silly since Greek week at the university.
“Are you trying to look like Julius Caesar?”
“Please, at least let me be Mark Anthony.” Max grinned and did a security check on the tuck holding up his toga, a sheet stripped from the now-rumpled double bed.
She couldn’t stop giggling.
“Am I that ridiculous?” he asked.
“No, you look like you were born to the sheet—toga.”
“My trousers are soaked. I’ll hang them over the shower rod, if you don’t mind.”
He quickly made a bundle of them, but not before she got a glimpse of a silky black triangle. No jockey shorts or shapeless boxers for this prince! They were the sexiest men’s briefs she’d ever seen outside of a men’s store.
“They’ll never dry in the bathroom. It’s too damp. Hang them over the chair and move it closer to the lantern.”
“That wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“I grew up with an older brother. I’ve seen men’s underwear.”
He gave her a withering look and hung his pants on the chair, but not before he stuffed the briefs into one of the pockets.
He wasn’t disappointed about her hair. It had dried to a lustrous dark-golden blond.
She slipped out of her sandals and propped one of the two pillows against the headboard of the bed. With the ease of a cat curling up on its cushion, she sat and leaned against it, crooking her legs and hugging her knees.
“Will you at least answer one question for me—off the record?” she asked.
“Will you promise not to repeat it in your magazine?”
“Yes, I promise I won’t write about it.”
He eyed her skeptically. “Is your word any more reliable than the claim on your bumper sticker?”
“Yes, I keep my word.” She didn’t sound happy about it.
“Very well, ask.”
“Why were you reading the Insider?”
He took a deep breath, deciding how much to reveal. She smiled encouragingly, hunching her shoulders in a way that made him imagine putting his arm around them.
“I’m concerned about one of the people in the article,” he said.
“You really were hoping to marry Darcy Wolridge?”
To her credit, she sounded genuinely astonished. It was good to know not everyone swallowed a story like that.
“Not exactly.”
He walked over to stare out one of the two rain-fogged windows, feeling ridiculous but considerably drier in his makeshift wrappings.
This reporter was beautiful by any man’s standards, and he thought his were high. So many women were thrust into his path that he sometimes felt like a breeding stud being led to the mares. This visit in the States was going to be especially bad, thanks to the press. He was still seething over another tabloid’s story that had linked him to a thrice-married actress.
When he married—and he’d get around to it in his own good time—it would be to a woman who had the qualities he respected: honesty, loyalty, dignity, and strength of character. Beauty would be only an added b
onus, but not one in short supply in his circle. How could he make a reporter understand his feelings?
He decided not to try.
“Even if I were inclined to marry my own cousin, I’d hesitate to form a union with Darcy. We know each other’s weaknesses too well.”
“She’s your cousin?”
He couldn’t hold back a grin of triumph. “If you’d researched thoroughly...”
“I didn’t have time to be thorough.” She slid off the bed and glared at him. “My uncle Paul saw on the internet you were going to Paradise Beach.”
“How on earth...?”
“The stamp collector connection. Isn’t one of your stops a visit to the president of the Schwanstein Stamp Collectors Society in Paradise Beach?” It was her turn to grin.
“It’s on my itinerary. Selling stamps to collectors is a significant source of revenue in my country.”
“Let’s get back to Darcy.”
“She’s actually my mother’s cousin’s daughter,” he said, wondering why he had an uncharacteristic urge to explain things to her. “We played together on holidays when we were children. Since I don’t have any siblings, I look on her as an errant little sister.”
“Then you don’t approve of the bullfighter?”
He shrugged. “It won’t last. It’s only a matter of how much of her fortune he’ll be able to appropriate.”
“That’s a cold-blooded assessment. Maybe they really love each other.”
“Do you believe marriages are sure to be happy if the bride and groom are besotted with each other?”
“No, I guess not. It didn’t work out that way with my parents.” A loud noise made her jump. “What was that?”
“Something hit the cottage. I’ll take a look.” He flung open the door with predictable results. The small overhang wasn’t enough to keep rain from gusting through the opening.
“Hey, don’t go out there! It was probably only a branch!” She grabbed his arm and attempted to pull him back.
“You’re probably right.” He had to push hard to close the door again. “The wind isn’t strong enough to flatten this place, or the owner would have boarded up the windows.” He wasn’t entirely convinced, but it certainly sounded good.
