The Royal Groom (Wrong Way Weddings Book 4)

by Lori Wilde

  After a salad served on a bowl of ice and tiny cucumber sandwiches designed for nibbling, she was as ready as she’d ever be. Albert tapped discreetly on her door at one o’clock—exactly.

  She’d never looked at clothes with a man before—at least, not serious have-to-have-an-outfit shopping—but then, she’d never met a gentleman’s gentleman before, either.

  Albert drove the rented sedan to a complex of stores that were more like cottages in a garden than a shopping mall. She recognized big names on small gold-plated signs—Donna Karan, Ralph Lauren, Calvin Klein. A well-known department store was on a cul-de-sac lined with trendy boutiques whose names passed in a blur.

  “Here we are, miss.” Albert stopped in front of a stucco building with orange roof tiles. A small nameplate beside the door read: SHE. A green-coated valet opened the door for her and slipped behind the wheel the moment Albert vacated the spot.

  If there were other customers, she didn’t see them. Most likely a setup this exclusive had patrons or clients, not casual shoppers. Albert presented a gold-bordered business card to an elegant receptionist in black, and she led them into the inner sanctum—the showroom.

  The show began. Models paraded in the evening collection while Albert made notes on a pad of paper. At first Leigh was awed by the models themselves, tall winsome beauties who should have something more interesting to do with their afternoons than working as animated clothes dummies. Then she realized Albert was asking her opinion on the dresses.

  “I love that chartreuse,” she said just to test him.

  He didn’t bat an eye. “His Highness isn’t fond of that shade.”

  The prince, she learned in the course of the afternoon, also disliked ruffles, platform heels, and double-breasted jackets on women.

  Apparently, he was partial to pale peach and ivory undergarments, especially bras that were cleverly underwired to enhance cleavage. She wasn’t sure how many items Albert ordered, but she thought she’d sure like to be at the resale shop when this donation came in.

  Her feet ached up to her knees, and she longed to duck into the nearest sportswear store and stock up on white T-shirts and jeans. When Albert was finally satisfied, he hustled her back to the Conquistador, where room service delivered her dinner only moments before Hans arrived.

  Hans wasn’t her dinner companion; he was one of Max’s bodyguards, assigned to tutor her on the history and customs of Schwanstein. His Highness had a business function that evening, according to her tutor, a younger blonder version of Albert. Hans seemed pleased that she was a quick learner.

  When he finally left, he pushed out the dinner cart, piled high with superfluous plates and metal covers. The garnishes had been impressive—radish roses, sprigs of parsley, orange spirals and lemon slices with designs cut into the rinds. The dinner had been skimpy—broiled chicken breast, spinach salad, and steamed vegetables.

  It seemed that Albert had her on a diet. She wasn’t pleased. At five foot five, she thought keeping her weight under 130 was reasonable. If that was plump by the prince’s standards, he’d only have to put up with it for a little while.

  She dug into her duffel and found a foil packet of airline peanuts, then sat cross-legged on the pale-blue bedspread and thoughtfully munched them. She was really in over her head this time. It was one thing to coax interviews from the beautiful people, quite another to pretend she was one of them.

  There was more to being a prince’s fiancée than wearing a gown with a high-fashion label and knowing the square mileage of Schwanstein.

  Where was the prince? His plan had seemed simple when she was with him; now she could see all kinds of complications. How could she face the world feeling like a fraud? Would she be labeled an opportunist?

  Would her writing lose credibility just when she was trying to build a reputation for honest, insightful interviews? Saying goodbye to him didn’t seem like a snap anymore, either. What if she started liking him—as a person, not a prince?

  The only immediate remedy for her doubts was a nice hot bath. She ran water in the big sunken tub, threw in one of the luscious bath bombs the hotel provided, and stepped down into it. There was even a headrest so she could lean back and totally relax.

  The hotel phone disturbed a hazy dream. She’d dozed off in the tub, and someone wasn’t about to hang up. Her first impulse was to jump out and race to the desk in the outer room of the suite, but it wasn’t necessary. There was a phone within reach on a recessed shelf running the length of the pale-green tiled wall. She reached above her head and grasped the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Did I wake you?”

  There was no mistaking the prince’s voice.

  “No, I was taking a bath.” She still had a hard time calling him Max, but Your Highness seemed too stuffy for a fiancé.

  “Would it be all right if I came to your suite just for a few minutes?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  He didn’t say goodbye. She belatedly realized she should have asked for time to get dressed. Hearing his voice when she was sleepy and off guard had been like feeling a mild current of electricity passing through the bath. She tingled from her shoulders to her toes.

  No time to panic. She scrambled out and grabbed a thick white towel, losing herself in several yards of incredibly plush terry.

  This hotel thought of everything—a robe made of the same luxurious cloth was neatly folded beside the stacks of spare towels. She slipped into it and securely knotted the belt, trying to think of what to wear as she finished drying her puckered toes.

  She made it as far as the bedroom when she heard a knock—three firm measured taps. Her face was flushed from the heat of the bath, and her hair hung down to her shoulders in complete disarray.

  Remember, this is only a business arrangement, she told herself as she rushed barefoot to the door, then took a deep breath and opened it without thinking to look through the peephole.

  “Good evening.” He smiled, and the warmth of the smile reached his eyes.

  “Hi.”

  She stepped back, floored by the man who stepped into the room. He cut a dashing princely figure in midnight-black formal wear. His black tie was loose, hanging askew against the sharp pleats of his shirt, and his jaw was lightly shadowed. He looked rakish and a bit tired, but so handsome he literally left her speechless.

  “I thought there were a few things we should go over before tomorrow evening.” He closed the door behind him.

  She nodded, fighting an impulse to curtsy. He wasn’t Max anymore; he was Maximilian of Schwanstein, a prince from his dark-mahogany hair to the mirrorlike surface of his patent-leather shoes.

  “Are you pleased with your wardrobe?” Max asked, feeling awkward in the presence of a member of the opposite sex for the first time in years.

  “Not entirely.”

  He raised his eyebrows, surprised that Albert had failed to accommodate her tastes.

  “If you don’t have something you need...”

  “No, that’s not the trouble. I have too much. We’ll be traveling, so I can wear the same dresses in different cities. It’s a terrible waste, buying so much...”

  He laughed softly, amused and pleased by her thrifty nature and entranced by her pink-cheeked earnestness.

  The robe was much too large, enveloping her in its folds and revealing nothing of the curvaceous beauty of her body. Perhaps because he had to use his imagination, she seemed all the more desirable. He wanted to untie the sash she was worrying between her thumb and forefinger and peel back the thick layer of cloth.

  What had possessed him when he promised not to seduce her? His fingers were charged with the urge to reach inside her chaste white cocoon and caress the swell of her luscious breasts. The real waste wasn’t buying her too much; it was being honor-bound not to take advantage of their arrangement.

  “Albert could return the black column dress—it’s probably too tight, anyway. And I certain
ly won’t need four dinner suits.”

  “Poor Albert. You rejected half of what he chose for you, and I berated him for being so stingy.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “Don’t worry. He’s been with me more than half my life, and he’s usually the one who does the scolding.”

  “I guess I can believe that. He is a bit— He was very nice to me.”

  She shrugged, clearly making a conscious choice not to criticize his valet. This, too, pleased him.

  “Were you going to say ‘intimidating’?” Max laughed again, relaxing for the first time since he’d begun his long day of social and business obligations. “I can’t believe a reporter would be cowed by Albert.”

  “I’m not,” she quickly denied, her eyes meeting his, the depths sparkling in a sudden burst of mischief. “In fact, I think you should punish him by making him eat the meals he’s been ordering for me. He’s trying to shrink me to a size two by tomorrow night, I think.”

  “I’ll mention it to him.”

  “No! He worked so hard today, I wouldn’t want to offend him.”

  Once again Max laughed, and he wondered why everything she said amused him. He was world-weary and jaded, perhaps too inclined to see the baser side of people’s motives. Why did she have this effect on him, like a cool breeze blowing off the lake behind his family’s palace?

  “It’s better to avoid offending Albert. I depend on him not to let me wear navy socks with black trousers.”

  What an idiotic thing to say. He was trying to impress her with lighthearted banter, which wasn’t his style. He touched his bottom lip with his tongue, wanting to sample the sweetness of her mouth but held back by his own word. He’d been a fool to offer assurances she hadn’t requested. His groin ached just thinking of what might have been.

  “I’m sorry about this robe. I’m not exactly dressed for company.” She gave him a little smile that was anything but apologetic. He was the one intruding on her privacy.

  “I’ll have an itinerary for you tomorrow, but I thought you might like to know my plans—our plans—for our first public appearance.”

  “Yes, please.”

  He dropped his gaze, only to become enchanted by her shapely ankles and slender feet. They were still slightly pink from the bath. He caught a faint scent of jasmine and inhaled deeply.

  “I didn’t ask Albert about perfume. Did you find something to your liking?”

  “You don’t need to buy me any. I have some of my favorite with me—Waterlily.”

  “I’m not familiar with it. You’ll have an opportunity to make some selections at the spa tomorrow.”

  “The spa?”

  “That’s the message from Albert. He’s ordered a six a.m. wake-up call and a makeover day. We have to leave the hotel at seven forty tomorrow evening. Our debut will be informal. One of your cocktail dresses will be appropriate.”

  “About all those clothes...”

  “How can you, a reporter, forget about the press?”

  “Pictures?” She seemed to shrink in the oversized wrap.

  “Pictures.” He smiled wickedly. “Sleep well, my love.”

  She pouted at the closed door after he left, not appreciating his flippant use of the endearment. Of course, he was only trying it out, practicing for his role as her fiancé, but it annoyed her immensely. When a man called her his love, she wanted him to mean it.

  She slept just fine—from three to six a.m. Tossing and turning before that, she’d thought about the next day with foreboding. She wavered between running away in the night and telling Max she’d changed her mind.

  She did neither. They had a deal, and for better or worse, she was a woman of her word. She was stuck.

  At least Albert didn’t personally supervise her makeover. He did show up at exactly seven a.m. to escort her to the faux-marble splendor of the Conquistador’s torture chamber for women. There he turned her over to Miss Yvonne, who promised to pamper her as only the spa could. Since Leigh’s idea of pampering was sleeping until noon, then eating cold pizza washed down by a diet cola, they didn’t engage in much sparkling conversation.

  She did manage to snatch a few short naps as she endured the exotic rites: a eucalyptus steam bath, an herbal wrap, aromatherapy, reflexology, and some therapeutic yoga thrown in for good measure. Her masseuse, Olga, soon made her long for Albert; at least he didn’t knead her like bread dough.

  Escorted from one curtained station to the next, she caught only glimpses of the spa’s rich and famous patrons, their modesty preserved in the same pink cotton robes that she wore. Enthusiastic practitioners of the beautician’s arts repeatedly assured her that her skin would feel like velvet.

  After a luncheon that made Albert’s selections seem generous, she was led to the roof of the hotel for her air bath wearing only little paper slippers and a pink towel. Here the spa’s patrons weren’t segregated from each other.

  She recognized the ex-wife of an American millionaire and the alleged mistress of an internationally acclaimed opera star, and she saw far more of them than she cared to. The women were sunning their well-oiled bodies stark naked.

  Overhead the sky was blue and empty, but it didn’t take much imagination to visualize a fleet of low-flying helicopters hovering over the roof. It would be the ultimate in aerial tours.

  She declined to drop her towel. She was the only woman still wearing one, but she wasn’t getting naked with a bunch of bare-bottomed strangers.

  The hairdresser was Mr. Melvin, and he really knew his stuff. He trimmed and tamed her hair, working like part of a surgical team with a colorist and an eyebrow specialist. Leigh couldn’t disapprove of the results—a stunningly elaborate upsweep. Her own mother wouldn’t have recognized her.

  When she was finally discharged from the makeover mill, her pink nails sparkled like polished gemstones, and her skin had a radiant glow, artfully produced by the makeup consultant.

  Her outfit for the evening was a periwinkle dinner dress, scoop-necked in front and plunging nearly to her waist in back, with long sleeves and a minimal skirt. She was mildly embarrassed to see that Albert had laid out everything—one of the underwired ivory bras, nude panty hose, pearl-gray clutch purse and matching heels. Panties were conspicuously absent.

  Was the valet reticent about handling them, or did he think she should go without in the interest of avoiding panty lines?

  She pulled out deep mahogany veneered drawers until she found her new undergarments, folded and lined up with military precision. Some things a woman had to decide for herself.

  She was ready early but couldn’t sit still. Expecting to be fetched by Albert, she heard a muffled knock, three evenly spaced taps, neither overbearing nor impatient. After counting slowly to ten so she wouldn’t appear too eager, she sauntered over and opened the door.

  Max was standing in the corridor, solemn-faced and silent, elegant in a smoky-gray silk suit with an off-white shirt and a marbled dove-and-charcoal tie.

  She said the first thing that came to mind. “Good grief, we’re color-coordinated.”

  He slowly studied her from head to toe, grinning when he saw that the dove-gray leather of her pumps was identical to one of the shades in his tie.

  “Albert does have a good eye for color.” He threw dignity to the wind, lifted one foot and hiked up his trouser leg to display his woven silk hosiery.

  She laughed, a soft, pretty sound that broke down the wall of reserve between them and brought a broad smile to his face.

  “You’re ravishing tonight, Miss Leigh Bailey,” he said, taking her hand in his and lightly touching his lips to her fingertips.

  “I’m having a hard time remembering who I am; so many people have worked on me today.”

  “I’ll remember for you. You’re beautiful tonight, but no more so than when I first saw you standing in the rain.”

  “Your Highness, you take my breath away.”

  “If you call me anything but Max, you’ll incur my royal wrath. I�
�ll be forced to punish you.”

  “I’m not sure you have jurisdiction here.”

  Her eyes sparkled in a way that had nothing to do with the art of cosmetology. For perhaps the first time in his life, Max wished he did have the power of a royal despot. There were things he wanted to do to this American that had nothing to do with punishment and everything to do with pleasure.

  “I’m a guest in your country,” he said, offering her his arm. “I will endeavor to observe your laws and traditions.”

  “That’s encouraging.” She smiled, and he felt warm all over.

  He wasn’t displeased when the lift was slow in coming. In fact, he was sorry it was an express. He would have liked to prolong this brief time together. They rode down to the lobby in comfortable silence. After a day filled with incessant talk, it was restful to be with a woman who didn’t feel compelled to fill every quiet moment with chatter. Being with her restored his energy level and left him pleasantly relaxed.

  Leigh was an unusual woman. No one who saw her could doubt her suitability as a prince’s fiancée. Darcy had done him a favor by eloping with the bullfighter, and fate had smiled when he’d tried to read Leigh’s bumper sticker.

  The paparazzi were lying in wait on the street outside the mansion where Mr. and Mrs. Charles Braeworthy were waiting to introduce the prince to their closest friends and business associates at a small dinner party.

  Albert was doubling as chauffeur, followed in another car by Hans and the other bodyguard, whose name Leigh didn’t know. She rode in the back seat, only a hand’s span apart from the prince—from Max. She had to remember to call him Max.

  “Your peers are waiting,” he teased, obviously enjoying the fact that she’d have to run the gauntlet of news-hungry reporters with him.

  “I’m sure they’re mostly local. Anyway, Celebrity magazine interviews by appointment,” she said in a tone intended to put him in his place. “I’m afraid you’re big news only in Paradise Beach—and in the tabloids.”