Not Fit for a King?

by Jane Porter

  Guilt clawed at her. She struggled to hang on to her smile. “Mistakes happen.”

  “Can you forgive me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And will you please stay? I don’t want to host the ball tonight without you at my side.”

  “Yes. Absolutely. I’d love to be there with you.”

  “Thank you.” He sounded relieved but his expression remained grim. “And in that case, I’m to send you straight back to your room for a final fitting for tonight’s ball gown.”

  She nodded, forced another smile and quietly slipped away.

  He watched her leave, listened as the door closed soundlessly behind her.

  For a moment he felt strangely bereft. Hollow and empty and alone. He didn’t like it.

  He’d liked having her in his study. He enjoyed her company. Loved having her around.

  She’d said last night that she knew she wasn’t the woman he’d wanted, but she was wrong. She was exactly what he wanted. Now he just needed to prove it to her.

  It was time he stopped trying to control everything so much. Time to stop defining everything as black or white. Could he open a little? Grow a little? Change for her?

  Yes.

  He pictured her sleeping so trustfully in his arms last night and he wanted that every night. He wanted a life with her, a future together. Marriage and babies and everything that went with it.

  Across the palace in the Queen’s Chambers, Hannah stood in her dressing room on the small, low stool in a thin white Grecian gown that wouldn’t zip closed, her image caught reflected in the numerous mirrors. And no one said anything.

  Not Lady Andrea who sat in the corner with her notebook. Or Camille and Teresa who stood against the far wall. Or Celine, who hovered behind Anton Pierre, the designer from Paris who’d just flown in that morning hand carrying the two commissioned gowns—the ball gown for tonight’s gala and the wedding dress for Saturday’s ceremony.

  No one spoke because what could anyone say?

  The thin, slim chiffon gown should have cascaded effortlessly in an elegant column of white. Instead the fabric rode up in Hannah’s armpits and the back wouldn’t zip. Turning her head, Hannah could see her thin bra strap across her back and even that looked tight.

  “Suck in your stomach,” Anton Pierre said, tugging hard on the zipper of the gown, lips pursed, expression critical.

  “I am,” Hannah answered, wincing a little as the zipper pinched her back, catching at her skin.

  “More,” he insisted.

  She yelped as he zipped another bit of skin. “Ouch, stop! Stop. That hurts.”

  Anton threw his hands up in displeasure. “If this gown is too tight, your wedding gown isn’t going to fit, either. Your breasts and hips are huge, Your Highness. What have you been eating?”

  “Not a lot,” Hannah answered, knowing she’d actually lost weight in the past week, at least five pounds.

  “Nonsense. I think you’re bingeing on butter and bon bons, Your Highness. I’ve dressed you for years and you’ve always asked me to tell you the truth. So I’m telling you the truth. You’re fat. You have chub.” He grabbed an inch on her back near her bra strap and pinched. “This is bad. You must lose ten pounds quickly—immediately—or you won’t be wearing my wedding gown. It’s made for a princess, not a midfielder.”

  “Get out!” Zale’s voice thundered through the dressing room, rattling a mirror on one wall. He looked huge and violently angry as he gestured toward the door. “Get out, Pierre, before I personally throw you out.”

  Then he turned on Lady Andrea. “How dare you allow a designer to speak to Her Highness that way? Where is your loyalty? Where is your allegiance? Perhaps you need to pack up your things, too, and join Monsieur Pierre on his plane home.”

  Lady Andrea covered her mouth, holding back a sob. “Your Majesty, forgive me. I was just about to intervene—”

  “When?” He interrupted. “I stood outside the door listening.

  I heard it all. When were you going to intervene? How far did you intend to let it go?”

  Lady Andrea shook her head and wiped away tears that were falling fast and furious.

  “That’s all the answer I need,” Zale retorted. “Pack your things.”

  He turned to Celine, Camille and Teresa next. “And you three? What is your excuse? Why did none of you protect Her Highness?”

  Celine’s eyes were huge in her face. “I should have, Your Majesty. I wanted to. But I was scared.” “Why?”

  Celine glanced at Hannah and then back to Zale. “I didn’t think it was my place because Monsieur Pierre is so famous and Princess Emmeline’s favorite designer …” Her voice drifted off and she pressed her hands together. “Should I pack my things, too?”

  Zale looked at Hannah who still stood on the stool with the gaping chiffon gown clutched to her chest. His jaw jutted, eyes blazed and for a moment he just looked at her, expression impossible to read, then turned back to Celine. “I will let Her Highness make that decision. But I want all of you to leave us now. I’d like to speak to Princess Emmeline alone.”

  The staff escaped from the dressing room and closed the outer door to the suite.

  Zale crossed to the stool where Hannah was standing. “Give me your hand.”

  She did and he helped her step off the stool and onto the ground.

  “Turn around,” he instructed.

  She did and he drew the zipper down so she could step from the dress.

  “How could you let him speak to you that way?” He gritted, his features hard, his expression savage. “I’m supposed to be thin,” she whispered.

  “Utter nonsense. You are perfect. I wouldn’t change one thing about you.”

  Her eyes burned and she blinked. “Yes, but fashion designers prefer very slim models. Clothes look better that way.”

  “I couldn’t care less about clothes. I care about you.”

  Her heart staggered a bit inside her chest. “You do?”

  “Can’t you tell? I haven’t kept my hands off you since you arrived.”

  “I figured you had a healthy sex drive.” “I do, but I’ve had no problem managing it until I met you.” She smiled crookedly. “You still make that sound like a problem.”

  “It is. I pride myself on my self-control but you have challenged it, and challenged me, at every turn. But I’m glad. It’s made me realize just how strong my feelings are for you.” He drew a rough breath, his expression darkening all over again. “My God, how dare Pierre talk to you that way? I nearly thrashed him! I still want to go after him, teach him a thing or two.”

  He did sound angry, crazy angry, which was so not Zale Patek, King of Cool. “But what about tonight’s ball? I need something to wear.”

  “We’ll get that one altered,” he said. “I know a Raguvian designer who puts Anton Pierre to shame.”

  “You think she can fix it?”

  “Not just fix. Eva will improve the design.” He looked at her, shook his head. “She’ll take what I think is a rather boring dress and will make it extraordinary. You are an extraordinary woman and deserve no less.”

  Her heart skipped.

  He’d just called her extraordinary. The words her father had used for her late mother. The words she’d always wanted to hear. “Thank you,” she said, her voice breaking.

  He reached for her, pulling her into his arms. His head dipped and his mouth covered hers, lips traveling slowly, leisurely over hers, drawing a hot, hungry response.

  Hannah gloried in his warmth, and slipped her hands up his broad chest to wrap her arms around his neck.

  His hands moved to her hips and he molded her against him. He was hard and hungry for her but after another long, melting kiss he pushed her gently away. “If I don’t make some calls now, and track Eva down, you won’t have a dress to wear tonight.”

  She gave him a naughty smile. “That’s okay. I’ll go naked.”

  “The hell you will,” he said on a growl.

  Ha
nnah laughed as he swatted her backside and was still smiling after he left and she threw herself onto her bed.

  She stretched happily, recalling how Zale had swept into the dressing room and ordered Pierre out. It was like a scene from a movie. Zale Patek, rushing in on his white stallion to save the lady in distress.

  Hannah’s smile faded as she thought of Lady Andrea. Poor Andrea. Hannah wasn’t sure that Andrea deserved to be fired. Monsieur Pierre was intimidating. No one knew how to handle him … well, no one but Zale. Hannah decided she’d talk to Zale and ask him to hire Andrea back.

  Hannah was still lounging on the bed when her phone in the nightstand drawer buzzed with an incoming message.

  Hannah knew it was from Emmeline. She could feel it in her bones. And this time she didn’t want to know what Emmeline had to say.

  A minute passed. And then another. Finally, reluctantly, Hannah retrieved the phone and opened it.

  It was from Emmeline. The text was brief.

  I’m not coming to Raguva. The wedding is off. Once you leave I’ll break the news to Zale. Text me when you’re gone. Sorry.

  Hannah blinked, read it again and when the words were the same, she felt everything tilt and slide, crashing into disaster. It had all been for naught.

  Emmeline wasn’t going to marry Zale. Zale would be embarrassed and angry beyond measure.

  She read the message again. And then again. But each time it was the same.

  Emmeline wasn’t coming. She wouldn’t be marrying Zale after all. And Hannah had to go.

  Little spots danced before Hannah’s eyes. She had to go. Had to leave.

  A knock sounded on the bedroom door. “Your Highness?” It was Celine. “Can I come in?”

  Hannah couldn’t speak. Breathe, breathe, she told herself, air bottled in her lungs.

  “Your Highness?”

  Tears filled Hannah’s eyes. It had happened. She had to leave. But she couldn’t go tonight, not hours before the ball. She couldn’t humiliate Zale like that. No, she’d go in the morning, first thing tomorrow.

  “Yes,” she called out at last, her voice faint, strangled. “Please, come in, Celine.”

  Celine opened the door and saw Hannah sitting on the bed wiping away tears. “Is everything all right, Your Highness?”

  “Everything’s great.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE ball was less than three hours away, and Hannah was getting a Swedish massage on a special table in her dressing room. The lights were dimmed, candles burned and soft instrumental music played. It was supposed to be a treat, something Zale had arranged for her, but Hannah was too keyed-up to enjoy it.

  “Take a nice slow, deep breath,” the masseuse said soothingly, rubbing fragrant lavender oil into Hannah’s tense shoulders. “Now exhale. Slowly, slowly, Your Royal Highness. Good. Now again.”

  Hannah tried to do as she was told, she did, but it was hard to relax when everything inside her was tied up in knots.

  She hated Emmeline right now. Hated Emmeline for what she’d done. Hannah should have never come here. She shouldn’t have ever agreed to play acting for an afternoon much less a week.

  If only she hadn’t gotten on the plane. If only she’d refused to continue the charade at that point.

  But she hadn’t. She’d been too worried, afraid that the princess was facing a crisis all alone.

  “Your Highness,” the masseuse said gently, but firmly, kneading Hannah’s shoulders. “Let go of everything. Just focus on your breathing. Focus on feeling good for the next half hour.”

  And somehow, beneath the magic hands of the masseuse, Hannah did relax, shutting everything from her mind for the next thirty minutes, but once she was in her bathroom, showering off the oil and shampooing her hair, the anxiety returned.

  So how did she fix this with Zale? There had to be something she could do … some magical fix, but standing in the shower, hot water pounding down, Hannah could think of nothing.

  Hannah had always prided herself on being able to handle whatever her difficult, demanding boss, Sheikh Koury, sent her way. The Sheikh had been through a dozen secretaries before he found Hannah who could speak four languages fluently and handle the endless and challenging work he tossed her way.

  No matter what he dropped in her lap, she handled it with aplomb. Arrange an environmental awareness meeting with the world’s leading oil executives? No problem.

  Plan activities for the oil executives’ wives, many of whom had to be segregated from men? Hannah didn’t even blink.

  Organize an international polo tournament in Dubai? Then move it to Buenos Aires? And provide transportation for all players and horses? Consider it done.

  Hannah loved puzzles and thrived on good challenges, but the one thing she couldn’t do, and the one thing she was desperate to do, was protect Zale from what was to come.

  The truth.

  Eva, the Raguvian designer, had reworked the ball gown for Hannah, changing the design from a simple off-white column dress, to a shimmering chiffon gown with jeweled embroidered flowers unfurling across the bodice and to bloom down one hip in a profusion of purple and amethyst jewel petals that reached her feet.

  She wore pale gold sling-back heels with more jewels at the toe, and her blond hair was piled high on her head and held in place with glittering citrine and amethyst hairpins. Rectangular rose-gold, diamond and amethyst earrings hung from her ears, a cuff circled her wrist, and on Zale’s arm she felt like a princess.

  “You’re a goddess tonight,” Zale said as they paused inside the ballroom doors and took in the glittering winter wonderland anchored by a dozen massive ice columns. “More beautiful than any woman has a right to be.”

  She flushed with pleasure, heat radiating out from the tight coil of desire in her belly to the tingle in her fingers and toes. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Zale was dressed in black coat and tails, white shirt, white vest and tie and looked devastatingly attractive, especially when he smiled, and he was smiling now. “Just say thank you.”

  And then they were being announced and swept into the immense white and gold palace ballroom that glittered with floor-to-ceiling ice sculptures and potted trees brought in just for the occasion. The trees’ white, frosted limbs were covered by strands of miniature white lights and the only spot of color in the glittering white room was the ladies’ elegant gowns in shades of purple, violet and lavender.

  Zale and Hannah circled the room on their way to the head table, Zale’s hand resting lightly on her back. She could feel the heat from Zale’s hand and she shivered as exquisite sensation raced through her. There was something about his touch … something in the way her body responded to him that made her feel so alive.

  “What do you think?” he asked as they took their places on the platform, several feet higher than the rest of the room.

  “It’s absolutely magical. I feel like a princess from a fairy tale.”

  He grinned. “Which one?”

  “Cinderella.” She reached down to lightly touch one of the jeweled blossoms on her waist. “Eva waved her magic wand and voilà! I’m a princess at your ball.”