The Ordinary Princess

by Liz Fielding

  Xander dropped the basket on the kitchen table. Stowed the champagne in the fridge. Tried not to think about the flashing light on Laura’s telephone. The way the colour had left her face when she saw it. Tried not to care who was that important in her life.

  He had no business caring. No right. He shouldn’t even be here. Feeling like this.

  He wasn’t into fooling himself, but this time he appeared to have managed it wholesale. He’d thought…

  No, scrub that. He hadn’t been thinking. He hadn’t been thinking from the moment he’d walked into the porter’s room and Laura Varndell had turned her big blue eyes on him.

  Since he’d felt the peachy softness of her skin beneath his fingers.

  His imagination would keep taking him on sensory re-run, tempting him to do it again. Take it further. Discover exactly how her mouth would feel beneath his.

  He began to empty the basket—anything to keep his mind from drifting to the murmur of her voice through the wall. The soft sound of her laughter.

  The door opened behind him and he slammed down the shutters on his imagination and carried on emptying the basket.

  ‘Now, that,’ Laura said, grinning, ‘is domesticated.’

  ‘Not ordinary at all, then,’ he said, his own mood deteriorating in direct proportion to her cheerfulness.

  ‘Not in your world, maybe.’

  If she’d picked up on his change of mood she wasn’t letting it affect hers. Maybe she didn’t notice. Maybe her caller had made her too happy to care.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’ she asked, stowing the vegetables in the fridge. ‘We could sit outside in the garden.’

  ‘How very English,’ he said. Feeling suddenly very foreign indeed. Out of his depth. Unimportant. He did not like feeling unimportant, he discovered. Not in Laura Varndell’s life, anyway. ‘Will we have cucumber sandwiches and scones?’

  ‘With home-made strawberry preserve?’ she asked, amused by this, too, apparently. Her mood was beyond dampening. ‘Sorry, this is ordinary life, remember? Not some nostalgic Hollywood version of England. I might have a packet of chocolate biscuits somewhere, though. And you could have coffee if you prefer. Or something cold?’

  ‘What about this curry?’ he said, hell-bent on irritating her. ‘Don’t we have to start chopping onions?’

  ‘Not instantly,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t take long to cook.’ Then, finally responding to his tone, she shut the fridge door and turned to face him. ‘Unless you’ve got a curfew? Will your minions raise the alarm, call out the guard, if you don’t return before dark?’

  He refused to make it that easy for her. ‘If you’d prefer me to leave early, just say.’

  Laura had realised the minute she’d entered the kitchen that Xander had reverted to distant autocrat. Was he really offended that she’d given her attention to her unknown caller? Or just offended that she’d had a caller when she was supposed to be giving him her undivided attention? And in a moment her mood had switched from guilt to anger.

  He might be king of the castle where he came from, but this was her home. Her life.

  ‘That,’ she said, lobbing the ball straight back into his court, ‘is entirely up to you.’

  He shrugged. ‘It occurs to me that you weren’t expecting me to stay all evening,’ he said, not answering her question. But then, she’d not answered his. ‘Maybe you have other plans? A previous commitment?’

  Commitment. Nice word. Covered all eventualities. ‘Do you mean a date?’ she asked. ‘I did invite you to stay, Xander.’

  ‘That’s generous of you, but I believe I invited myself. I forget sometimes that people assume my simplest thought, spoken out loud, is an order.’

  ‘Not me. If I’d had a date, I’d have told you so.’

  ‘If you’ve put someone off—’ He left the sentence hanging, leaving her to fill in the blank.

  So. He’d heard her talking to Jay and instantly assumed that she was breaking some poor sap’s heart on his account. How arrogant could one man get? He didn’t deserve to be put out of his misery. But she wanted to put that smile back on his face.

  ‘The message on the machine was from my aunt, Xander. Someone called for me, wanting to talk about a job.’

  ‘Now?’ He let slip the aristocratic pose. ‘Don’t let me—’

  ‘I won’t! Now, for goodness’ sake, if you don’t want tea, take a beer and go and sit outside in the sun. Relax.’

  ‘What about Sean?’ he persisted.

  ‘What is this? Twenty questions?’

  ‘Won’t he be dropping in for…coffee?’

  He wasn’t suspicious, or on his aristocratic high horse, she realised, belatedly. He was just plain jealous.

  This man, this prince who had a whole country at his feet, who could snap his fingers and have his pick of the beauties of Montorino—or anywhere else for that matter—was jealous of her narcissistic neighbour.

  She didn’t know whether to be cross with him, laugh at him, or hug him. She did none of those things, too touched, moved, by this unexpected evidence of self-doubt. Uncertainty.

  It was so…human.

  So ordinary.

  ‘Sean’s got a walk-on part as a spear-carrier at the National this season. He won’t be home until very late.’

  It was unkind not to be totally reassuring. But he wasn’t the only one needing a little reassurance here.

  Xander had come within a whisper’s breath of kissing her back there, outside the wine shop. Really kissing her. And she’d come within a whisper’s breath of letting him.

  ‘How late?’ he demanded. Reassuringly.

  ‘Early or late makes no difference, Xander. Coffee is all he’d ever get from me.’

  ‘You’re not…?’ She didn’t answer, merely raised her eyebrows as if she didn’t understand what he was asking. Forcing him to be explicit. ‘You and Sean?’

  A little short on content, perhaps, but the meaning was unmistakable. He wanted to know if they were lovers.

  ‘I don’t date my tenants, Xander. Not even the good-looking ones.’ And she took a beer out of the fridge and put it in his hand. ‘Outside, now, while I put this stuff away.’

  She joined him in her tiny garden. He was stretched out on one of the huge old-fashioned bamboo recliners that Jay had brought back from somewhere in the Far East, eyes closed, feet up, a tiny give away smile suggesting that he was well pleased with life.

  ‘This is good,’ he said. ‘I could get used to ordinary.’

  ‘If the peasants revolt you won’t be too unhappy, then?’

  ‘My people are not peasants,’ he said sharply, not as sleepy as he looked.

  ‘It was simply an expression, Xander.’

  ‘I know. Even so. They are highly educated, forward-thinking—’

  ‘They are disenfranchised.’

  ‘You think so?’ That appeared to amuse him. ‘Montorinans are mountain people. No one can make them do anything against their will. They have their own way of making their feelings known. Local councils to speak for their communities. But, all appearances to the contrary, I’m a benevolent tyrant. I don’t even beat the servants, despite the way that silly girl behaved yesterday.’

  ‘No?’ she asked, as if she needed convincing.

  ‘It appears that it was her first day and she was nervous. I spoke to her this morning. Made sure to wear my best smile in an effort to reassure her that she wasn’t about to become an unemployment statistic. Please don’t tell anyone about that.’ His expression remained deadpan. ‘It’ll be bad for my image. I’m supposed to be autocratic and unfeeling.’

  ‘You look the part,’ she assured him. ‘I have to tell you, as a neutral observer—’ neutral? ‘—that you’ve failed the practical. You are, however, living in the past.’

  ‘When you’re dealing with a thousand years of tradition, change is slow. And my grandfather is an old man. Fixed in his ways.’

  Oh, right. So she’d been wrong about that, too. ‘You’ll make
changes when…’ Her turn to stop and consider what she was saying.

  ‘When he dies and I become head of state in name as well as reality?’ he completed for her. She got a re-run of his wry smile. ‘You see my problem. It’s not like a board-room coup where the loser just gets to spend more time working on his golf handicap. Retirement from this job is final.’

  ‘Tell me about Montorino,’ she encouraged. ‘I’ve seen photographs in the travel supplements and it looks beautiful.’

  ‘It is beautiful, Laura. Mountains, vineyards, lakes. Peaceful villages. Even the capital city looks like something out of a fairy story.’

  ‘But behind the medieval architecture is a modern banking industry.’

  ‘Bankers like peace.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s something to be said for being off the beaten track of history. If we’d been strategically important we’d have been overrun centuries ago.’

  ‘It sounds heavenly.’

  ‘No, this is heaven.’

  She surveyed her little garden. The early roses were scenting the air, and the vivid plantings of petunias and impatiens were practically bursting out of their pots.

  ‘The slugs certainly think so,’ she said, lying back on the other recliner.

  If she was honest with herself, this wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind when she proposed His Highness try a taste of life without the princely trappings. She’d been hoping he’d suffer, just a little.

  But what the heck. She closed her eyes. There was no rush.

  The onions could wait.

  Xander watched her for a while, marvelling at the way she had just closed her eyes and fallen asleep almost in the same instant.

  Who was she, this girl who’d erupted into his life? Karl, the only person who knew where he was today—even when he was suspending his own life for an hour or two someone had to know where he was in case of an emergency—had earned his unwarranted wrath for raising doubt. Urging caution.

  He did not want to doubt her. He wanted to throw caution to the wind and let down his guard, responding to that reflection of his own loneliness that he saw in her. Something that urged him to reach out to her. Take her hand with a reckless disregard for the consequences.

  But why should she be lonely? She was lovely, full of life. Refreshingly full of opinions that she was happy to share with him, whether he wanted to hear them or not. A joyful woman, to whom any man would gladly give his heart.

  So, bearing all that in mind, maybe it was time to ask himself exactly what she had been doing outside his house last night. Where had she been going?

  It was as if he had suspended all his critical faculties from the moment he set eyes on Laura Varndell. As if his well-honed instinct for self-preservation had deserted him.

  Or maybe he had simply wanted to believe that she was exactly what she said she was. A public-spirited citizen who happened to be passing at the critical moment.

  As Katie would say, How likely was that?

  This was his opportunity to find out.

  He left her sleeping in the garden and went into her sitting room. It was small but welcoming, the dark polished floor covered with an old tribal rug. Small, precious curios from distant places were tucked away on shelves. There was a cream linen-covered sofa. A saggy armchair. Book-lined walls. He scanned the titles. Travel, biographies, mountaineering. An odd interest for someone afraid of heights. But then her father had been a mountaineer, she’d said.

  Varndell wasn’t a common name. It should be easy enough to check.

  Even as he thought it he saw a little row of books with the name Bruce Varndell on the spines. The photograph of a fair, open-faced man on the back dispelled any doubt. The family likeness was clear enough. He slid it back into place, feeling dangerously light-hearted. And he continued to look around.

  Only a copy of Celebrity magazine, the one with his photograph on the cover, which had slipped down behind the small writing table in the window, seemed out of place.

  Jarred.

  Suggested that he was right to doubt that her fortuitous appearance last night had been pure chance.

  He picked it up, placed it next to her shoulder bag, abandoned on the table when she’d listened to her messages. It was an old bag, well used, undoubtedly a favourite or it would have been long abandoned.

  His hand paused briefly over the leather, but he couldn’t bring himself to open it and instead moved on to the telephone with its built-in answering machine. The answering machine had been turned off. Well, that was to be expected since she was home. But the telephone had been unplugged from its socket. Which was not.

  It was time, then, for a reality check and he plugged in the phone, lifted the receiver and hit ‘redial’ before he could think of some excuse not to.

  The phone rang twice before it was picked up and a clear, bright voice said, ‘Jay Varndell.’

  He replaced the receiver, unplugged the phone and went back out into the garden to watch the gentle rise and fall of Laura’s quiet breathing as she slept.

  Wishing, with all his heart, he hadn’t done that, but instead trust to his own instincts.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  LAURA woke with a start. The sun had dipped behind the houses so that her garden was in shade and she shivered a little as she sat up, stretching and yawning widely. Then nearly broke her jaw trying to snap her mouth shut as, too late, she saw Xander watching her.

  She groaned. ‘I’m so sorry! How long have I been asleep?’ Then she groaned again. ‘Please tell me I didn’t snore,’ she begged.

  ‘You didn’t snore,’ he said, but with the kind of grin that cancelled out any possibility of reassurance.

  Forget snoring. Had she talked in her sleep? She’d used to do that when she was disturbed, and Xander Orsino was the most disturbing man she’d ever met.

  ‘And don’t apologise. You must have been tired,’ Xander said. ‘You had a late night, courtesy of Katie. You really shouldn’t have stayed up worrying about her.’

  ‘No, I shouldn’t.’ She should have turned in her story and gone to bed like any sensible journalist. But then, according to Trevor, ‘sensible’ and ‘journalist’ were not words he’d ever use to describe her. ‘She’s clearly more than capable of looking after herself.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go as far as that. But she did have her minder keeping an eye on her.’

  ‘I know, but I felt responsible. For letting her fool me. I’m just so gullible.’

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself.’

  ‘No, really, it’s true. I was at this rock festival once when a girl asked me to hold her baby while she went to the loo. I didn’t see her again for two days.’

  ‘Let me guess. You did not immediately hand the baby over to the Social Services.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that! They might have taken her into care. The poor girl just needed a break. She’d left her bag. With the nappies and formula and everything.’ She shrugged. ‘Of course I didn’t see much of the festival.’ She hadn’t seen much of anything. Babies, she’d discovered, were a full-time job. Which, since she’d been sent, as the youngest member of the team, to report on the festival scene, wasn’t good.

  ‘If anyone else had told me that story,’ Xander said, getting to his feet, ‘I might have doubted it.’

  ‘But you’ve had first-hand experience of just how gullible I can be.’

  ‘You are kind, Laura. Thoughtful. Caring. And I have no doubt that faced with a similar situation you’d act in exactly the same way.’

  ‘I’m not sure whether to be flattered or insulted.’

  ‘No?’ His brows kinked upwards as he extended a hand to help her to her feet. ‘I thought my meaning was clear enough.’

  ‘I’m a fool?’ she offered, taking his hand. He didn’t step back as she got up and she wobbled uncertainly in an attempt not to crash into him. He looped his arm around her waist to steady her. Hold her close. ‘But a kind fool.’ And to prove it, she lifted herself up on her toes to kiss his cheek before
disengaging his hand from her waist and, keeping it firmly in hers, she headed for the kitchen. ‘Come along, Your Highness. It’s time to demonstrate that I’m not a total pushover.’

  ‘You’re wishing you’d never agreed to this, aren’t you?’ Laura said, tugging on her lower lip as she tried hard not to laugh.

  ‘No, really.’ Xander continued to slice onions, promising himself never to take the humble vegetable for granted again. He lifted his hand to wipe away the tears, but she reached out and grabbed it before he could. And for a moment neither of them felt like laughing.

  Then she dropped his hand, turned quickly away. ‘You’ll get the juice in your eyes and then you’ll really have something to cry about.’ She opened her bag, which had somehow migrated from the living room, found a clean handkerchief and reached up, leaning into him as she blotted his cheeks with the lightest touch.

  He caught her at the waist to steady her, his fingers flaring out over her hips. In that moment he would have given anything to be just an ordinary man—not just for a week, but for the rest of his life—so that he could bury his face in her soft, sweet-smelling hair, warm from the sun.

  ‘You’d better chop the beans and leave the chillies to me before you do yourself some real mischief,’ she said, pulling back, rescuing him from a temptation that had been shockingly real. Not quite meeting his eyes. ‘There, is that better?’

  For a moment he considered saying no. Insist she do the decent thing and kiss him better. Reprise the rush of hot desire that had flooded through him as she’d kissed his cheek. Reprise the sheer pleasure of watching her blush scarlet again, at her own boldness.

  When he didn’t immediately answer she lifted her lashes, met his gaze head on, and he got a lot more than he’d bargained for. A thousand-megawatt jolt from the arc lamps of her eyes, jump-starting his heart as well as his body.

  Still feeling guilty for spying on her, he made a valiant effort at self-restraint.

  ‘Don’t let the tears fool you. I can handle a few chillies,’ he said. He picked up the knife, used it to push away the pile of onions. ‘How difficult can it be?’