by Lori Wilde
“Well, pick a time that’s convenient for you. Any day but today.”
She wasn’t sure putting it off was a good idea. She could do the interview anytime. The tape recorder was ready, and she’d jotted down enough questions to write a book. The longer she waited, the more she’d dread it.
“May I call you after I’ve checked my appointment calendar?” he asked in the formal tone that reminded her of his lofty status.
“Fine.”
“If you’re not going to your office today, could I trouble you for your phone number?’
“I could call you— No, I’ll give it to you. Let me find some paper.”
How could this be a five-star hotel when they didn’t provide a notepad? Or was she half-blind from the tears she wouldn’t let surface?
This wasn’t a real breakup, but it sure felt like one. Consider the facts—he had ignored her at the party last night and hadn’t come to her room afterward. If that didn’t add up to being dumped, she’d rather not wait around for the final act in his little farce.
She dug into her purse and found a letter she’d addressed to her mother explaining her pretend engagement. She’d written it instead of calling or texting because she could sort through her feelings much better with pen and paper. She’d never mailed it, so she extracted the letter and used the envelope to jot down her number.
“About last evening,” he said. “I’m afraid you didn’t enjoy yourself.”
“Of course I did. Your friend Peter is delightful. He has a wonderful sense of humor. We must have danced a dozen times.”
She was trilling like that dope, Natasha, but anything was better than admitting how hurt she’d been when Max scarcely paid any attention to her.
“So I noticed,” he said in a sour tone that gave her an instant of hope—which was dashed when he reminded her of the incident with the agent. “I’m sorry you were bothered by that man in the lobby.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t need rescuing, but I have to say you did it with flair.”
“He’s a parasite. I hope he won’t try to contact you again. I don’t think he’s the kind of person to entrust with your career.”
“I won’t be posing nude, if you’re worried about it.”
“I never thought you would.”
He was dressed casually—for him—in a navy blazer and dove-gray slacks. He wasn’t even wearing a tie, and the first button on his polo shirt was open, revealing a few dark hairs on his chest. She was having a hard time believing she’d lain in his arms, her cheek caressed by those silky hairs, her knee tucked between his legs, feeling the softness and the hardness of him.
She turned her back, afraid he’d see the pain and longing in her eyes. If knowing Max had taught her anything, it had to be that she wasn’t an actress. She wasn’t good at pretending to be his fiancée, and she was at a loss when it came to concealing her love for him.
She tried to think of things she really hated about him so she wouldn’t break down. The worst thing she could do was blubber about how much she loved him. Obviously, their lovemaking had meant little to him. He hadn’t even tried to be with her again.
There wasn’t anything about him to hate. He was a prince and a gentleman. Dancing with other women had been his way of showing her there was nothing substantial between them. Maybe he felt guilty for seducing her, but face it, she’d been easy. Even now, hurting as she did, she was ready to fall into his arms if he gave any indication of wanting her.
She entertained a fantasy of making love on top of all the designer clothes. She wanted to spread the silver dress under her and hug him and kiss him and squeeze him until he wanted her more than any man had ever wanted a woman.
Instead, she took one last look at her luxurious suite, hoisted her two bags and purse onto her shoulders, and announced, “I’m ready to leave.”
“Let me help you,” he offered politely.
“No! I mean no, thank you. I’m used to managing on my own. I’ll be just fine.”
“You’re a stubborn female, Leigh Bailey. Would it be so terrible if I carried your luggage to your car?”
“Not terrible, no,” she said thoughtfully, knowing she couldn’t tell him the real reason for rejecting his help. She couldn’t bear to be with this polite stranger a moment longer.
Leaving him was the hardest thing she’d ever had to do, but she wanted to say goodbye with class. No tears or hysterics for this girl. She wouldn’t throw her arms around his neck and cling to him. She wouldn’t put him on the spot by kissing him as no man had ever been kissed.
“I’d like to leave now, Max. I’d rather go alone.”
His eyes were hooded, his expression unreadable.
“Wait,” he said.
She froze, rooted by an involuntary rush of hope. He couldn’t let her walk away. He had to see they were made for each other.
His words quickly brought her back to the real world.
“I want very much to give you a gift. Will you accept this?” He held out the jeweler’s box with the collar. “I only wish they were real pearls.”
“Max, I...” Something inside her died. It didn’t matter whether the choker went to a thrift shop or lay in her drawer for the rest of her life. She’d never wear it again; it certainly didn’t evoke happy memories.
She managed to thank him as though she meant it. Her mother would have been proud; she’d been well taught as a child. She stuffed the box into her bag beside the camera and left him standing in the middle of the room.
Leigh claimed her car and drove home in a fog of misery, certain she was leaving behind the best part of her life.
Her apartment had the dank, deserted atmosphere of a place that had been empty for years. She blamed it on the humidity but suspected the gloom originated in her head. Cinderella must have felt the same way when she went back to the home of her wretched stepmother after the ball.
She had kept to her agreement to not use her cell phone while they were pretend engaged. Now that it was over, it was time to face the real world. Her voicemail was flashing with the urgency of a four-alarm fire. She started listening to messages.
“Bailey, call me as soon as you can.”
At least half were from her editor, but she was too depressed to open that can of worms by calling him.
The last message was the only one that surprised her.
“Leigh, my calendar is clear tomorrow afternoon. If you would like to interview me at the hotel, I’ll be in my room at three o’clock. If this isn’t satisfactory, please call me.”
Max gave a number, but she erased it along with all her other messages. She wished her memories of the prince could be eradicated so easily.
She woke up the next morning grimly determined to put Prince Maximilian behind her. It hurt. Oh, how it hurt! But what were her choices? She could delude herself into thinking something good might come of interviewing him—or she could face reality. Princes didn’t fall in love with female reporters.
Max loathed the attention he got from the tabloids, and he didn’t rate Celebrity magazine any higher than the sleaziest rag. He would hate anything she wrote, and she’d hate herself for writing it.
She couldn’t do the article.
Anything she wrote would be a mockery of what she felt for him. She couldn’t get past her emotions; she especially couldn’t exploit him for the sake of a pat on the back from Ed Waverly or a chance at a job she no longer wanted.
There was no way she could interview Max, not even if her career depended on it—and it probably did.
Waverly would freak out. He was counting on a juicy expose, and he’d be getting zilch. Her only decision was whether to resign or let him fire her.
Pride urged her to quit, but her finances suggested it might be better to get kicked out and collect unemployment while she job-hunted.
What could a reporter do when she lost her edge? Even a job at a car wash would be better than a kiss-and-tell article: How I Slept with a Prince or The Case of the
Mangled Heart.
The polite thing to do was phone and cancel the interview, but she couldn’t do it. She felt sick to her stomach every time she tried to pick up the phone.
Max canceled his lunch with Peter and worked out in the hotel fitness center until he’d expended his last ounce of energy. Then he showered, dressed, and waited.
With an hour to go before Leigh was due, he made sure they wouldn’t be interrupted by any of his men, then went over dozens of possible questions in his head.
“Tell me, Your Highness,” he mimicked aloud, “what are your marriage plans? I understand Schwanstein needs an heir or the country becomes part of Austria.”
He didn’t have an answer to that one. In fact, he was woefully inarticulate when it came to responding to any question of importance. It was as though his life was on hold. He was burning up with anticipation but too confused to make plans.
Three o’clock came and went.
She was late.
At four, he called her. She didn’t pick up the phone. He left a terse but polite message.
At four thirty, his message was less courteous; at five, he was wildly impatient.
“Leigh, please call me immediately. This interview has to be done today. I can be available this evening if that’s more convenient, and I’ll meet you anywhere you choose.”
He regretted every word the instant he hung up. What he wanted to say to her couldn’t be left on a voicemail. He picked up the envelope again. There, in the upper left-hand corner, she’d printed the return address—her address—in neat block letters: The El Camino Apartments, Number Forty-Two.
Leigh went through the motions of going to bed. She brushed her hair and teeth, put on her sleep shirt, and crawled between sheets she’d just laundered.
She even flipped on the small TV on her dresser and channel surfed until all the images on the screen began to look the same.
She was playing a losing game.
Instead of going away, her sense of loss kept growing. Nothing in her ordinary routine was comforting. She couldn’t bring herself to call friends or seek out their companionship.
She got up and replayed Max’s messages, knowing she should erase them. It hurt to hear his voice over and over, but the thought of never hearing it again was worse.
The last thing she expected was a summons from the intercom in the lobby. Someone wanted to come up to her apartment, not exactly a soothing prospect for a woman living alone. Her caller buzzed again and again, and she had visions of her editor down below with handcuffs to chain her to her desk until she produced the article he wanted.
She pressed her intercom button. “Who is it?” she asked, trying to sound groggy with sleep in case she wanted to get rid of her midnight caller.
“Max. May I come up, please?”
It was an order, not a request. She didn’t even consider refusing.
He was wearing the suede jacket with tight black jeans and a silk shirt so white it gleamed in the dim light from the single floor lamp in her living room. She saw her geometric-patterned couch and light oak tables through his eyes, but it didn’t matter if he liked her taste.
“Why didn’t you come for the interview?” he demanded.
She belatedly remembered how revealing her pajamas were and folded her arms across her chest.
“I didn’t want to interview you. There won’t be an article.”
He didn’t say anything. Instead, he stared at her, his eyes blazing with strong emotion.
“I can’t write it,” she said defensively. “I’m sorry if you’re disappointed.”
“Disappointed?” He sounded incredulous.
“Oh, go away! I can’t write the article or anything else. I never will. Now leave me alone!”
“No, Leigh, that’s exactly what I’m not going to do. Come with me.”
“Where? Why?”
“Next you’ll ask me who, what, when, and how. Isn’t that the formula reporters follow?”
“I’m probably not a reporter anymore, but that’s not your concern. What are you doing?”
He’d located the coat closet and found her red rain poncho.
“Getting your coat.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Trust me, you are.”
He dropped the poncho over her head and gave her no choice but to stuff her arms through the holes.
“Max, are you crazy? What—”
“Where are your shoes? Never mind, I’ll find a pair.”
He disappeared into her bedroom and came back with her best black pumps, three-inch heels with delicate straps.
Max dropped to his knees and lifted first one foot, then the other, sliding the shoes over her bare toes. She didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or hug him.
He gave her just enough time to snatch her purse and hope her apartment key was in it, then he propelled her down the stairs and through the entryway.
The parking lot was well lit, so it didn’t take a full moon to spot his transportation: a white stretch limo with, of all things, a sticker on the rear bumper.
“What on earth?” She broke free of his hand on her arm and hurried over to read it.
HERE COMES THE BRIDE!
“Here comes the bride?”
“The limo just came back from a wedding. It was all I could get on short notice, and there wasn’t time to have it cleaned. If you don’t want to sit on rice and confetti, I suggest you ride in front with the driver.”
She walked to the front and looked inside through the door he was holding open.
“There isn’t a driver.”
“Yes, ma’am, there is.”
He took her hand, helped her into the front seat, shut the door, and came around to sit behind the wheel.
“Do you know how to drive this?”
“I’m learning.”
“Max! Where are you taking me?”
“On a mystery trip.” He smiled and wouldn’t say any more.
Max drove faster than she liked, but the limo felt as safe as an armored truck. With nothing but oncoming headlights to watch, she became increasingly sleepy. After a while she dozed off.
“Wake up, darling.”
“Where are we?”
“See for yourself.”
If this was a dream, she didn’t want to wake up. The limo had stopped near a weakly flickering sign featuring a grotesque long-legged bird.
“The Pink Flamingo!”
“I’ll get the key.”
Raindrops splashed against the dark windshield as he ran into the weirdly familiar office. There couldn’t be two places like this in the state of Florida.
He was back in practically no time and eased the big car forward, stopping near the end of the parking area.
“Why are you taking me to the cottage where we waited out the hurricane?”
“Actually, the highway pirate claims that one’s occupied. For a small extra charge, he’s giving us his best—the honeymoon suite.”
“Max, this is insane!”
“Probably.”
“What are we doing here?”
“I’m apologizing.”
“It’s starting to rain harder.”
He rushed around to open the door for her, and the dome light showed dark rain spots on the shoulders of his jacket. He was carrying a key attached to a hunk of wood the size of his fist and a plastic shopping bag he’d taken with him into the motel office.
“You’ll get your shoes wet,” he said.
He scooped her up, giving her no choice but to cling to his neck while he hurried toward a blocky cottage with a dim naked bulb over the door. Somehow, he inserted the key and kicked open the door without dropping her or his sack.
When he flipped on the light switch, she saw that it really was a suite—if size didn’t count. A tiny sitting room had a pair of bamboo chairs with garish fuchsia-and-lime flowers on black cushions.
Max didn’t stop there. He bumped the door shut and slid the bolt without putting her down an
d carried her into the second little room.
“Oh, good grief!” she gasped.
The bed was suspended from the ceiling on brassy chains, and the mirror on the ceiling reflected the whole expanse of a faded pink chenille spread.
“Were you expecting this?” she asked as he put her down on the edge of the bed, which began to undulate gently.
“It exceeds my expectations.” He laughed as she scrambled off.
“You kidnapped me in my pajamas and brought me to this...this love nest? When do I hear the why?”
“To apologize.”
“It doesn’t matter about the party. I don’t think this is a good idea.”
He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a wooden straight chair. She stuffed her hands into the pockets of the poncho, showing she had no intention of getting cozy.
“That was the least of my sins, and I was punished by watching you dance with other men.”
He sounded sad, regretful. She wanted to put her arms around him and comfort him, but he was still Prince Maximilian of Schwanstein. A night in a cheap motel wouldn’t change that. Or the fact he was leaving her.
“I lied to you. It began here. That’s why I felt we had to come back here.”
He sat on the edge of the swinging bed and took her hand, drawing her down beside him. They both looked up at the ceiling, then laughed softly.
“I guess it’ll hold for one more night,” she said, trying to mask her curiosity. She’d never felt so vulnerable. She braced herself, afraid to hear what he was going to say.
“I came to this country in search of a wife.”
“But our agreement...”
“...was part of the lie. An excuse to keep you with me.”
“All the women you danced with...”
“Prospective brides. Peter was most industrious in gathering a good selection.”
“Then you’ve found someone.” How could he be so cruel to bring her here to tell her this?
“Yes, but I don’t know if she’ll have me.”
“No doubt she will. What woman doesn’t want to be a princess?”
