The cashier rolled her eyes.
“She’s an honest-to-God princess,” Leo added, not because he was going to let her pay. He wasn’t. But he was enjoying watching her try to conduct a retail transaction on royal credit. She had even turned up an accent that Leo had only heard flashes of before. Previously, she had spoken mostly unaccented, if slightly formal, English.
“We don’t take princess credit at CVS, honey.” The clerk examined her manicure as she spoke.
Laughing, Leo laid his credit card down.
“I’m sorry!” Marie exclaimed as they emerged onto the street, where it had just started to snow. A big, fat flake landed on one of her absurdly long eyelashes. “I can’t even buy you a slice of pizza.” The dejection that had crept into her tone would have been comical if it hadn’t seemed so sincere.
But she quickly perked up. “Oh!” It was hard keeping up with her. Her mind moved fast, and her expressive face reflected the rapid cycling of emotions she seemed to engage in. Princess Marie did not have a poker face. Leo settled in to try to get a read on her current mood. Her eyebrows were high. She was buoyed by whatever thought had popped into her head. “You could come up to my suite, and we could order room service!”
He didn’t answer right away—because it was tempting. Which was ridiculous, because whatever kind of food she would order at the Plaza would not be his kind of food. It would be like Dani wasting the fancy ice cream on him. And anyway, he needed to get going so Dani could go home.
He had been silent too long, though, because Marie gasped as if a horrible thought had just occurred to her. “I didn’t mean . . .” She looked at the ground.
“You didn’t mean what?”
Leo had a pretty good idea what she was thinking, given the way she was looking everywhere but at him, but bastard that he was, he wanted to hear what she, with her prim, formal way of speaking, would say.
“Well . . . I understand from American television that the late-night invitation to visit one’s quarters can be a . . . euphemism for other activities.”
One’s quarters. He bit back a laugh. “Really?” He schooled his face to look confused. “What activities?”
She blushed. It was apparent even in the diffuse glow of a New York night.
“Ohhhh . . .” He let the single syllable stretch out over his tongue. “You mean a booty call.” He remembered those. Barely. That was another thing that had mostly fallen by the wayside since his parents died. He opened the pizza parlor door for her, but she made no move to enter.
“A what call?”
“Booty call. Booty being American slang for ass.” He let his eyes drop. Her dress was too puffy for him to see hers, but he let his gaze linger in the general vicinity anyway. Princess Marie whatever whatever—she had a lot of names—was a very pretty woman. Those dimples. Those eyelashes. If he were a betting man, he’d say everything under that dress was probably equally enticing.
He would also bet that she never got told that. That people deferred and kept her at arm’s length. Or were catty bitches like Cruella De Vil Von Whatever.
It was nice sometimes to be appreciated for one’s . . . assets. So he let his gaze linger even longer, and because Marie was oddly innocent—he wasn’t sure if it was because of her royalness or her non-Americanness—waggled his eyebrows to make sure she got the point. “You’d better get your royal booty inside, Your Splendidness. We’re letting all the cold air into this fine establishment. I’m sorry to say I’m going to have to pass on the booty call, but pizza’s on me.”
He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but she blushed even more. And the dimples—the real ones—came back as she brushed past him.
At the counter, she treated the dilemma of what kind of slice to get like it was an exam question. In the end she settled on one pepperoni and one mushroom, which he approved of. She’d surprised him. He would have thought she’d go for vegetarian, or some chicken-with-white-sauce nonsense.
“Will you join me?” she asked as the guy behind the counter heated her slices. “We can sit in the window and watch the snow.”
He really wanted to. Which was a little unsettling. But it didn’t matter, because he couldn’t. Responsibility was something he could have a tiny vacation from, but that was the extent of it. “I have to go home. I have a neighbor sitting with Gabby.”
“Oh, yes! How selfish of me! I’ll take my pizza to go.”
Outside, the snow was picking up. She paused in the middle of getting into the cab and looked up at the sky.
“You like winter?” he asked.
“It reminds me of home.”
That wasn’t really an answer. “Are you homesick?”
“That is a complicated question, Mr. Ricci.” She flashed another of her sad-princess smiles. “But I do love the snow. It’s different here, against the backdrop of the city, but lovely in its own way.”
When they pulled up to the hotel, Marie stuck out her hand for him to shake. “Mr. Ricci. You rescued me twice today. And what’s more, you’ve made it so I’ve ended this evening on a pleasant note. I would not have thought that possible. Thank you.”
She was so formal in her speech but so earnest. He took the proffered hand.
It was really fucking soft. Just like her back.
He nodded meaningfully at the CVS bag. “Thank you.” Then he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it.
Because why not? A cabdriver from the Bronx didn’t have that many opportunities to spend the evening with a princess, and when he did—especially if she was a sad princess—he should probably seize the chance to kiss her hand.
The moment passed, and as she took her hand back, she peered out her window at the hotel. Something about the way she held herself changed. She stiffened a bit. Then she did the chin-lifting thing he now recognized as one of her signature mannerisms. Except whereas before he’d thought it signaled snootiness, now he suspected it was more about steeling herself. Working herself up to duty.
He knew that feeling.
She reached for the door handle, but he held out an arm to stop her. “Hold on. Wait here.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to come around and help you out.” He jogged around front, offered her an arm, and helped marshal her dress. She’d had trouble getting out of the car at the pizza place, but she’d triumphed over the voluminous fabric before he could help.
When they were standing face-to-face, she asked, “Did you help me out of the car because I am a princess?”
Uh-oh. Was she going to get pissy? Had he offended her feminist sensibilities? He was a sucker for a damsel in distress, but it wasn’t like he thought women actually needed men to help them out of cars and through doors and shit. If he had ever harbored such an antiquated notion, five minutes of eavesdropping on Gabby and her friends plotting world domination had cured him of that. No, it was just a reflex. Manners.
Leo had a sudden memory of his dad pulling up in front of Our Lady of Mount Carmel on Sunday mornings. He would always drop them off before parking, and he would run around the car to help Mom out, taking extra care with her church dress.
The princess was waiting for an answer, so he told her the truth. “Nope. I don’t give a crap about the princess stuff. I just did it because my dad always did that for my mom. Especially when she was dressed up.”
She huffed a small laugh that seemed to signal delight. It was cold enough that a puff of steam accompanied it. It called to mind a dragon. If dragons had dimples.
“Mr. Ricci, I have a proposition for you.”
Chapter Four
In the light of day, the princess’s proposition seemed ludicrous. It was like she’d put the whammy on him. Which was funny, because in fairy tales—Gabby still made Leo read to her from a compendium their mom had given her—the princess was always the one being passively manipulated either by an evil stepmother or by a prince kissing her awake or some shit. In stories, the princess was never the one doing the wha
mmying.
But here he was pulling up to the Plaza on a Friday morning to pick up the goddamn heiress to the throne of Eldovia like he was one of those frogs turned into footmen.
But not, he told himself, because there had been any whammying. He was not under her spell or anyone else’s. It was the cash. She’d offered him five grand a day to be her chauffeur. For three days. That was a ridiculous amount of money. Enough for him to get caught up on their bills, buy Gabby some nice Christmas presents, and still have a chunk left over for her college fund. Or maybe they’d throw caution to the wind and take a vacation—he’d just been thinking how much he could use one. Gabby’s last day of school was today, and she didn’t have to be back until after New Year’s, so maybe they’d head down to Florida and heat their bones for a week after Christmas.
Marie was waiting out front as she’d said she would be—she had insisted he not park and come inside to get her. Leo was impressed: a self-sufficient princess. She’d been that way last night, too, when she’d dismissed her handlers.
But hang on, now. There was no call to get carried away admiring a freaking princess because she could take an elevator in a luxury hotel downstairs by herself.
She hadn’t seen him yet—she was probably expecting the taxi. It didn’t seem right to honk at her, so he got out of the car.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Good morning!”
She hurried toward him. There was no formal gown today. She was wearing a royal blue . . . dress? Coat? It was like it was both at once—a dress made out of heavy material that was belted like a coat. She had a huge brooch on one shoulder, a green stone the size of a Ping-Pong ball surrounded by diamonds. She also wore black tights, black leather ankle boots, and black leather gloves. The sleeves of her coat only went to her elbows, but the gloves were long, fancy-lady ones.
His first thought was that she looked amazing. The dress-coat thingy, which was fitted on the top and had a swingy skirt, was the same color as her eyes, and it made them pop. As she took his hand and smiled at him as he guided her to the passenger side of the car, it was like looking into a pair of sapphires.
Okay, maybe he was in danger of being whammied if he was comparing her eyes to gemstones.
But no. Because his second thought was eminently practical: she wasn’t dressed warmly enough for the weather. Last night’s snow had brought with it a serious dip in the temperature. But it probably didn’t matter. For all he knew, she was going to be inside all day. He had agreed to act as her chauffeur for the rest of her trip, but he hadn’t inquired as to what that actually meant.
“Let’s go!” She seemed a little on edge.
“Just you?” He had half expected the big beefy guy to be tagging along.
“Yes!” She seemed surprised by her own answer.
But she was also incorrect, because Jack Sprat and the Terminator suddenly appeared.
She glared at them.
They glared back. Well, the butler dude did. Mr. Benz—Leo remembered his name because he’d wondered if he was related to the fancy car brand. The bigger one whose name Leo did not remember—he suspected he was the princess’s bodyguard—was busy scanning their surroundings.
It seemed that the butler and the princess were having a staring contest. She lost. After she looked away, she allowed herself to be led a few feet away, where the two of them had a short, whispered argument in German. Mr. Benz must have won it. He marched back over to the car and, without speaking to Leo, opened the backseat door and slid in. Marie huffed a defeated little sigh. Leo wasn’t sure why she didn’t just dismiss these dudes like she’d done yesterday, but, hey, not his problem. He was just the chauffeur.
Even though she didn’t have a big poufy gown on, he helped her into the car under the big guy’s watchful eye. After the bodyguard, too, had gotten into the back, Leo turned to Marie. “So, where to, Your Loftiness?” She rolled her eyes but smiled a little, even as there was a distinct sniff from the back seat. “Erickson’s on Fifth Avenue at East Fifty-Third. It’s a watch shop.”
“But not Philip Gregory’s watch shop.” He probably wasn’t supposed to know about Philip Gregory, but since she was carrying on as if they didn’t have an audience, he was gonna do the same.
Another, louder sniff was issued by the butler. She turned and glared at him.
“Maybe I should have come in the taxi,” he said. “We could have closed the partition.”
“If you”—she pointed over the seat—“are going to insist on being here, I must ask that you remain silent.” Her words were right, but her tone was all wrong, if her aim was to assert her independence. Her voice was soft, and she sounded like she was asking, not telling.
But again, not his concern.
Marie returned to Leo’s question. “Erickson’s is not owned by Philip Gregory. I’m going to spend the morning visiting some of the other retailers that stock our brand. I have appointments at three establishments between now and noon. So that should leave enough cushioning for you to make your two o’clock engagement, I believe?”
“Your Royal Highness,” the butler said, “we have another car. We don’t need to—”
She turned around, looking very much like a mother about to issue an If you two don’t stop, so help me, I will pull this car over threat. It was kind of funny the way the two of them seemed to communicate with no words.
When she won that round, Marie repeated herself, more firmly this time. “I wouldn’t want you to miss your two o’clock engagement.”
His two o’clock “engagement” was The Wizard of Oz. When the princess had made her proposal last night, he’d told her he could clear his schedule of everything except Gabby’s play this afternoon and counterproposed that she pay him only for half a day. She’d refused. He was planning to argue it with her later.
“All right then.” He started the car, and off they went.
“What happened to the taxi?” Marie asked.
“I don’t own it. The medallion belongs to a family friend. So I drive it, but I effectively pay for the right to do so.” It was owned by one of their old neighbors on Belmont, in fact, an old drinking buddy of his dad’s.
“Like rent?”
“Exactly. He gives me first dibs on schedule, so I can have the cab whenever I want, but I have to pay him whether I’m using it or not. If I’m not using it, someone else can drive it.” In addition to first crack at the schedule, Leo suspected that Mr. Bianchi was undercharging him, though he insisted he wasn’t. One of these days, Leo was going to have to push the issue. While he’d been willing to swallow his pride enough to take the handouts necessary to get him and Gabby on their feet after the accident, he wouldn’t live on charity forever.
“So this is your car.”
“Yep.”
He eyed the backseat passengers in the rearview mirror, irrationally wondering if they could see through the lie. The big guy was looking out the window, but the butler was staring right back at him.
The car was a rental, but he didn’t want to get into it with her—she’d probably insist on paying for it. He’d calculated that renting a car would cost about the same as what he’d have to pay for the use of the taxi, and the black sedan seemed . . . classier. More fit for a princess.
Not that he cared about any of that shit. “So are these meetings going to be stressful like last night?”
“Oh, no.” She did seem more at ease today, despite her annoyance over her royal babysitters. “These are courtesy calls. I’ll chat with them about upcoming orders, see if they have any concerns or technical questions.”
“You can answer technical questions about watches?”
“I can.”
Leo racked his brain to think of one. He wasn’t sure why. “Is it true that some people have weird magnetic fields that make watches stop?”
She laughed. It was more gratifying than it should have been. And it was getting a little easier to ignore her handlers since the butler had quit his sniffling. “I can’t answer tha
t one. Our watches don’t have batteries.”
“They don’t?” He’d never heard of that.
“High-end watches don’t. You have to wind them. They’re powered by a spring and a series of gears.”
Well. He felt like an idiot. They had an old clock in the apartment that had been his great-grandmother’s, and it needed to be wound—which was why it was always stopped. “Wind the clock” wasn’t something that ever made it to the top of his to-do list.
“But it’s a good question. And actually, you don’t have to wind all our watches. Some of them are self-winding. They have a rotor that captures energy from normal movement and transfers it . . .” Just when it seemed like she was ramping up, she trailed off. “Sorry. I get carried away. I studied engineering at university.”
A princess and a brainiac. It figured. “Where was that?”
“Oxford.”
Of course.
“Did you attend an institution of higher learning or undertake any postsecondary studies?”
He swallowed a chuckle. The formal way she sometimes spoke tickled him. “Nope.”
That was another lie. He’d spent four years working toward a bachelor’s degree in architecture at the City College of New York—which he’d chosen over the other, more prestigious colleges with architecture programs in the city because it was much cheaper. He’d only been going part-time, though, so when the accident happened, he only had two years’ worth of actual credit. He couldn’t see his way through to sticking with it. He had student loans already, which was one thing when it was just him, but he couldn’t have a negative income and keep a roof over Gabby’s head.
Maybe someday he’d be able to return, although at twenty-five he already felt too old to be an undergrad.
Anyway, it wasn’t like he’d been very good at it to begin with. He’d been holding on by his fingernails, his status as the first Ricci ever to attend college the only thing keeping him going some days.
He didn’t want to get into it with Princess Smartypants, though. Especially with the audience in the back seat. He didn’t need her pity. He didn’t need anyone’s pity.
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