by Lori Wilde
Conversation had consisted mainly of a continuation of his lecture on Schwanstein; she’d half expected to be quizzed when he finished. He had shyly answered a few personal questions, telling her he had a fiancée who worked at the post office...
Her mind was wandering. Think! She had to concentrate on their arrival at the hotel. Max’s men had handled everything, even though she was reluctant to let the duffel carrying the camera and recorder out of her sight. Max had assured her it was completely safe in their care. He was right—it was sitting on the dresser. But where the heck was the evening gown bag?
Relying on men was always a mistake. She called the desk in the lobby and reported the missing bag.
“I need it right away,” she added.
Checking in at the hotel had gone smoothly with Albert in charge. She almost felt guilty for insisting she could choose her own outfits and order her own room service.
Max had been aloof; in fact, he’d hardly talked to her since they’d gotten back from the private beach in Florida. He gave the impression he was single-handedly running his principality, even burying his nose in papers on the plane.
The flight, check-in... Wait a minute. Was she so dazzled by the royal procession she was getting dense? By some strange coincidence—or scheming contrivance—Natasha had shown up in the lobby just when they’d arrived.
“What a wonderful coincidence,” she’d trilled to Max.
“Think, think, think,” Leigh told herself.
She’d seen something—just a fleeting glimpse buried somewhere in her subconscious.
“That’s it!”
Natasha had seemed to be leaving the hotel when she’d cornered Max, but on the way to the elevator Leigh had seen the back of a very tall raven-haired woman carrying a black bag.
Guests didn’t carry bags at the Jefferson Arms. And how many women in the entire city of Chicago were six foot two and wore heels?
“That supermodel from hell stole my gowns!” Leigh was stunned.
But it made sense. If Cinderella couldn’t go to the ball, the ugly stepsister might have a chance with the prince.
“In your dreams,” Leigh said, quickly dialing the desk to get Natasha’s room number. They were reluctant until she said the model might have picked up the missing garment bag by mistake. Mentioning the prince probably tipped the scale.
Leigh tried phoning her, but there was no answer. She left her room and raced to the elevator but didn’t have any success when she got to Natasha’s room.
She had a premonition: she’d see Natasha again before the evening was over. The real question was, did Max invite her to come to Chicago? Maybe she wasn’t one of the women he was trying to avoid.
Leigh had once spent seven hours watching cars race around and around a track with a date who kept belching from all the bratwurst sausages he ate. She’d rather do that again than go to her faux engagement party with no dress and Natasha hovering around Max.
Not that she had any interest in Max’s love life. It was no concern of hers if he liked a woman with the soul of a cash register. Interviewing Natasha—real name, Debbie Krump—had been a yawn. She should have gotten an award for fiction writer of the year for making the model sound like a human being.
Being mad didn’t solve her problem. When did stores close in Chicago? She started down to the lobby, then realized she didn’t have her purse. By the time she got back to her room, the whole thing seemed hopeless.
Even if she could find a classy store open after five, she’d have to mortgage her future to buy a dress like the ones Max had bought.
She called the desk again, this time working her way up to an assistant manager. He apologized profusely, but the bag was still missing.
A half hour before she had to leave, she called the desk again. The night manager was on duty now. She explained all over again, even though she was pretty sure he’d heard all about the hysterical woman who’d lost her luggage.
It was no use; she’d have to call off the engagement.
But then she might never see Max again.
What did she know about the royal wrath? She’d seen him annoyed, but his sense of humor seemed to put the brakes on his temper. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t call off their deal if she was a no-show.
“This is ridiculous!” She had two suitcases full of new clothes. There had to be something she could wear.
She laid all the possibilities out on the bed: suits, a sleeveless cotton dress, even her own rust skirt and top. A suit might pass; people wore them everywhere—except formal evening parties.
When the dreaded tap came on the door, she was still darting around the bed in her panty hose and bra, trying to decide which outfit would be the lesser evil.
She ran to the door and shouted through it, “I’m nearly ready.”
Ready to die! Max was expecting the spa-perfect woman he’d taken to the Braeworthys’ party in Florida. She’d abandoned all attempts at recreating the upswept do, letting her hair hang loose and straight, and she’d been too agitated to do more with her face than her usual mascara and lipstick.
She looked at the choices spread out on the bed. It would have to be the black suit. She yanked the skirt over her head and worked it over her hips. It was snug and short, perfect with the jacket, but no one wore a dinner suit to a black tie affair.
She didn’t need X-ray eyes to see Max and his entourage waiting impatiently on the other side of the door. On impulse she grabbed a sleeveless white satin shell still lying in the suitcase. She couldn’t even remember buying it, but she slipped it over her head and quickly found her own gold locket. The blouse was made to hang loose, barely touching the waistband of the skirt. It was a go; it had to be. She opened the door.
“Good evening.” Max was standing there alone, his bodyguards hovering near the elevator door down the hall. “You look lovely.”
His compliment sounded spontaneous and heartfelt, but he was so darned polite, how could she be sure?
“I’m sorry I’m not wearing an evening gown. My bag was stolen—at least, it’s missing.”
“How fortuitous. I can’t imagine a gown that would make you more beautiful than you are now. Simplicity suits you.”
“You look very nice, too,” she said. It was easily the understatement of her life. The man was born to wear a tuxedo. The black satin cummerbund called attention to his slim waist in contrast to his broad chest covered by the gleaming white pleats of his shirt. She embarrassed herself by staring a moment too long.
They took the limo, Albert in front beside the driver, and Hans and the other bodyguard, Fred, sitting on jump seats facing them.
“I hope you’ll enjoy my grandfather’s museum,” Max said in the same tone Hans used for his Schwanstein lectures.
“The Goth Museum of Functional Art,” she said, remembering the name the meatpacker baron had given the museum he’d endowed. “I’m not quite sure what to expect.”
“His hobby was collecting what’s sometimes called industrial art—objects manufactured from the late 1800s through the 1940s. Some are actually beautiful.”
He looked directly at her; she could almost imagine he was thinking about her, not the collection. “I’ll let you be surprised. You’re always surprising me.”
Her skirt was made for standing; this was the first time she’d sat in it, and she didn’t dare cross her legs or move the small silver evening purse off her lap. She’d goofed on that, as well. It was too dressy for her outfit and didn’t go with her yellow-gold locket.
She felt like squirming, but three pairs of eyes kept her pinned to the spot. She’d give a month’s salary to see herself as Max was seeing her. He was too polite to even hint she’d be as out of place as a bag lady at a fashion show.
“I know your mother was Madeline Goth, but how did the daughter of a Chicago meatpacker come to marry your father?”
“She very nearly didn’t. My aunt, her older sister, was hosting a party and insisted she come. Aunt Ruthie was noto
rious for her matchmaking antics, so my mother absolutely refused to agree to be there. Then she met my father at the home of a family friend. He was their houseguest, and he was so taken with her he persuaded her to let him escort her to a party that evening.”
“Let me guess! He took her to her own sister’s party.”
“You guessed it.”
“What a wonderful story.”
“I used to tease her that their meeting was a fairy tale come true. She never denied it. Ah, here we are.”
Whatever she’d expected, it wasn’t this hulking brick building. It looked more like a place for a hockey game than a posh party.
“The outside doesn’t look like much, but my grandfather was instrumental in having it placed on the historical register. It was built shortly after the great fire—the one supposedly started by a cow kicking over a lantern.”
“That would be Mrs. O’Leary’s cow.” She wasn’t about to tell him she had O’Leary cousins. Her genealogy wasn’t quite on a par with his.
“It started as a corset factory, then became the liveliest brothel in the city during the 1920s, according to my grandfather. It housed a speakeasy when liquor was illegal and later several other businesses. He bought it to use as a warehouse and had it totally renovated before his death.” Another history lesson, she thought, a little disappointed because Max was being so polite—not that there was anything wrong with good manners.
She loved his, but he could be talking to a tour group from Dubuque. She wanted to know important things. Did he hate her outfit? Was he planning to kiss her again?
Their reception inside the building was superbly orchestrated, with the museum director and several wealthy patrons doing the honors. Everyone adored Max, even those who were meeting him for the first time.
Was it gratitude for his grandfather’s generosity—or did they appreciate the fact that the prince stayed in his little principality most of the time and let them run things?
Or maybe it was the royal mystique in action again. Whatever the reason, they loved him.
She was having a pretty good time, all things considered. Who would have guessed toasters and vacuum cleaners could be fascinating? All she ever did with her household appliances was burn toast and sweep floors.
Max was talking to a silver-haired couple when Leigh saw Natasha hovering near a display of meat-slicing equipment. She looked like a stalk of celery towering over her tubby little escort. To Leigh’s immense satisfaction, she was wearing a long gown in chartreuse, the color Max hated.
As the guest of honor, Max had to be first at a buffet table the length of a city block. Because there were so many guests at the five-hundred-dollar-a-plate benefit, the sponsors had opted for a casual arrangement of round tables, closely packed in the large reception room.
It was after nine o’clock, and hungry men and women hovered in the vicinity of the food, waiting to descend on salmon molded into fish shapes, immense mounds of beef and ham, huge bowls heaped high with salads, and platters of other goodies. Max chose this moment of great gastronomic anticipation for his announcement.
“Ladies and gentlemen, friends,” he said in a resonant voice that commanded attention, “I’m greatly honored to be with you tonight. Of all my grandfather’s accomplishments, none brought him more pleasure than assembling this collection for the Goth Museum of Functional Art. Because of the great affection I had for him, I’ve chosen this reception to make a very important announcement. I’d like to present to you Miss Leigh Bailey of Florida. Some of you may know of her as a writer for Celebrity magazine.”
He inclined his head toward the photographers clustered off to the right where they wouldn’t hold up the stampede to the food.
“Miss Bailey has done me the honor of consenting to be my bride.”
She knew it was coming, but there was no way a girl could prepare for a taste of paradise. Max put his arms around her and bent his head. She should have shut her eyes, but she was mesmerized by his dark spiky lashes and warm brown eyes.
Then he kissed her. She saw his closed lids, beautiful under sharply defined eyebrows. Her own lids dropped, creating a darkness that concentrated her whole being on the lips gently moving against hers.
It was a long kiss, but a sensation like this could never last too long.
Not until he released her did she notice the excited buzzing of voices or the lightning-bug effect of camera flashes.
Now she was supposed to walk the length of the table and fill a plate with princess-size portions. Max handed her a gold-rimmed china plate and motioned her forward.
How did potential princesses eat? She didn’t know whether to take tiny dibs and dabs of a few things or heap her plate in appreciation of the sumptuous feast. How could she possibly use lips blessed by a prince’s kiss for something as mundane as eating?
More to the point, was her skirt too tight for a big meal?
“You’re scarcely taking anything,” Max said when they reached the midway point at the table.
She looked down and saw an olive and a smear of something green.
“I’m saving room for”—she quickly glanced ahead to see what was there—“carrot salad. I love carrots and raisins.”
At the end of the table he wasn’t satisfied that she had her fill.
“Here, allow me.” He took her plate and held it out to the chef carving a generous portion of juicy pink roast beef.
With his help, she managed to escape a barrage of congratulations from all sides and reach the table reserved for them. Slumping down on a chair and concealing half of herself under a long linen tablecloth gave her some perspective on the situation.
“For a minute there I must have gotten stage fright,” she candidly admitted to him.
“I’m the only one who noticed.” He smiled, and she felt surrounded by the glow of a thousand candles.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“Whatever for?” He didn’t take his eyes off her.
She shrugged. “For being so nice.”
That didn’t begin to tell him how she felt, but others were joining them. He squeezed her hand under the table and went back to being the prince.
She couldn’t eat. She tried, but food seemed to stick in her throat. People included her in the conversation. She heard herself answering—sometimes she was actually witty—but her real self felt detached from the small talk around her.
She knew what was wrong with her. It was the bane of her existence not being able to fool herself. This was one big phony act, and she wanted it to be real.
Max rested his hand on her thigh for a moment, and she brushed it away. It hurt to be caressed when she was only a temporary convenience.
Suddenly, she had to get away from this circle of tuxedoed heads and bejeweled bosoms. She couldn’t stand to hear another inane question about the glorious principality of Schwanstein. She needed to touch base with reality.
“Will you excuse me, please?” she said to the table in general.
Max stood as she rose to leave, and several other men followed his example.
“I’ll be right back,” she lied, hurrying away as fast as decorum and her tight skirt allowed.
She needed a strong dose of gritty realism, and she knew where to get it. Guided by her strong survival instinct, not her faulty sense of direction, she found the public-entry area with a phone on the desk behind the counter.
She didn’t have room for her cell phone in the dinky little evening bag, but Waverly would think a collect call from her had to be important. Like any good reporter, she knew her editor’s phone number by heart.
“What’s up?” he asked after agreeing to accept the charge.
“I’m engaged.”
“Congratulations.”
“Don’t take it seriously. It’s only a business arrangement.”
“I knew that already. You’ve told me repeatedly.” To his credit, he didn’t mention that he was paying for the call. “So what’s up?”
�
��I’m just keeping you informed. Could you do me one small favor? I’d like to take a week’s vacation starting now.”
“Why?”
Why? She didn’t know. It just didn’t feel right to be working for the magazine—and for Max. She had to face facts. This magical interlude was a charade. She had a vague hope that doing it on her own time might make her less uncomfortable.
“I won’t have time to do any writing. It just seems fair.”
“You’ve got it.”
“I’ll call you after my vacation,” she promised.
Until Leigh left the table, Max had been having a marvelous time. Now the chitchat seemed stifling; he was too restless to sit still another moment.
“If you’ll excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I believe I’ll see what’s keeping Miss Bailey—my fiancée.”
He had no intention of checking the ladies’ room. He had a hunch she wasn’t there. Acting on some instinct he didn’t want to examine, he started toward the main entrance. Fortunately, he heard her voice before she saw him. He had no right to spy on her, but he heard her mention being engaged. She had to be talking to someone connected with her magazine.
What had he expected from her? That she play the blushing bride-to-be and ignore the news value of his announcement?
He left before she saw him, angry at her for rushing to the phone to report her news immediately. He was even angrier at himself for getting mixed up in such a ridiculous situation. She was beautiful, but so were lots of women. He knew better than to get involved with a reporter. What had he been thinking?
He steeled himself to return to his duties. Most of what he did as prince was playacting, but playing the loving fiancé was going to be a stretch after this episode.
He wanted to admonish the conniving little reporter—or take her to bed. But that was a complication he could not allow to happen.
He clenched his fists, took a deep breath, and returned to the table where the museum director and dignitaries were waiting for him.
She didn’t return. At first it was a relief not having to play the doting fiancé while he was angry. But then his anger subsided, and he started to worry. The neighborhood south of the museum had an unsavory reputation. If she decided to leave on her own...