Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love

by Beverly Barton

  It was a small miracle that the police hadn’t shown up asking questions. Any neighbors who’d heard the shots had probably erroneously assumed, like her, that the gunshots were test fireworks for the nightly show in Mission Bay.

  The morning was overcast, the sun hiding behind opaque low clouds blanketing the coast. A perfect morning for burrowing under the covers and catching twenty minutes more sleep. But it was high tide and the waves were rolling in with glassy five-to six-feet faces on the sets. More than a dozen surfers were bobbing in the water. Windansea was one of La Jolla’s favorite spots for surfers.

  Rory trod down the stairs to the beach, the breeze tugging playfully at her ponytail. Huge sandstone boulders hunched over the white sand like beached whales providing private crannies for sunbathing. A hut roofed with palm fronds stood like a sentinel, waiting for the afternoon crowds. Rory filled her lungs with the damp briny air tainted with the tang of seaweed and board wax and felt perfectly safe. Free.

  She needed to take back control of her life. She needed her worries to be lifted from her shoulders by the soothing swell of the ocean’s currents. No one was going to attack her in broad daylight on a beach full of witnesses.

  Rory reached the water’s edge and paused a moment to attach the rainbow-striped surf leash around her right ankle. It prevented her from losing her board when she wiped out. Then she plunged into the chilly sixty-degree water, catching her breath as she was immediately submerged up to her thighs. The beach was steep at Windansea, creating a dangerous shorebreak surf that crashed hard at the shoreline—capable of causing serious injury to unsuspecting surfers and bathers. Sliding onto her board, she quickly reconnoitered her way past the shorebreak surf. Another glassy wave came at her, cresting with a white foamy lip. She took a deep breath and ducked under it. The wave pummeled over her like a steamroller.

  Rory surfaced, laughter bubbling inside her. For the first time since her mother’s lawyer had arrived on her doorstep, she felt like herself again. Dreamy, bookish Rory Kenilworth, a surf diva who loved the ocean. If only Renald and Odette could see her now.

  She paddled hard toward the takeoff zone, riding the swells and judging the waves. The surfers who’d arrived before her were cued, defending their positions. There were rigid rules among surfers for taking off. She got into the lineup, her thoughts drifting to last night and what had happened between her and Sebastian.

  Or what they’d both agreed had not happened. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. After reading her mother’s letters, she’d made some decisions.

  Sebastian had been right to prevent that kiss from going any further. She had been distraught—being shot at was a terrifying experience. She was grappling with too many changes forced upon her at once, and she had reached out to the one person who was offering advice and encouragement and a strong protective shoulder.

  Sebastian was an incredibly handsome man. Intelligent and articulate. She’d have to be blind and deaf not to be attracted to him.

  But no matter how tempted she was by his dark sexiness, she needed to keep an open mind about becoming a princess of Estaire and about this marriage treaty to Prince Laurent. Maybe, just maybe, she would want to rip the buttons off Prince Laurent’s shirt. After all, she hadn’t seen him yet.

  No matter what happened, she was not going to continue to be bullied into living up to someone else’s concept of who she should be. She needed to think for herself, like her mother and Sebastian had both said. Otherwise she could be in danger of losing herself.

  Rory’s turn at the takeoff zone arrived. She eyed the perfect wave coming in and started paddling hard. This was hers. And it was a beaut. She popped up on the board, leaning forward and maintaining her balance as the board shot along the curl. She felt powerful again. First thing after breakfast she was going to call Chandale and cancel the outfits that made her feel like a paper doll.

  And she was going to be the soul of propriety in Sebastian’s presence.

  In her peripheral vision, Rory detected a blur of movement. A rogue surfer in a black wet suit cut across her path on a black short board with a row of shark’s teeth painted across its curved tip.

  Rory arced desperately, trying to avoid a collision and failed. Her board struck the black board and she wiped out, tumbling roughly into the water.

  What did that idiot think he was doing horning in on her wave?

  The wave crushed her. She tumbled around like a sock in a wash cycle, trying to determine which way was up. Something slammed her hard in the back, the impact forcing the air from her lungs. Her board? A rock? The other surfer? She wasn’t sure. She needed a breath soon.

  She started to swim toward the surface, but was stopped short by her leash. There were coral reefs in the water. The leash must have gotten caught on a reef.

  She kicked hard, but the leash held her fast. Rory didn’t waste time. She couldn’t hold her breath much longer. She reached down to undo the leash around her ankle, when something smacked her broadside at her waist.

  What the hell? God, she hoped it wasn’t a shark!

  She twisted around, relief sweeping through her as she saw the dark silhouette of a surfboard rocketing up toward the surface. The glimmer of gleaming white teeth told her it was the rogue surfer’s board.

  Had he gotten caught in the reef, too? What a jerk! This beach wasn’t for novice surfers. The lifeguards weren’t on duty until 9:00 a.m.

  Rory quickly unfastened her leash. Kicking hard, she swam toward the surface. She’d check on the other surfer after she’d gotten some air. But she’d barely broken through and opened her mouth to suck in oxygen when another wave pounded her.

  Silently swearing, Rory had to forget about the other surfer and worry about her own safety. Her chest burned from lack of oxygen.

  She fought her way back to the surface, this time managing to catch a sufficient breath before ducking under another oncoming wave.

  When her head poked free again beside a slimy patch of kelp, she scanned the water and the beach, looking for the other surfer and her board. Fortunately the rogue surfer was being helped out of the shorebreak by two of the Windansea rats. One of the local surfer rats gave the rogue a shove, ousting him from the beach. The rogue scrambled to his feet, his fists clenched, his blond hair hanging around his face like a string mop. Rory hoped there wasn’t going to be a fight. The rats could be pretty territorial against aggressive outsiders.

  A swell lifted her and she saw her board bobbing solo in the water thirty feet from her. She swam toward it. By the time she’d reached it, the other surfer had his board tucked under his arm and was swaggering off the beach.

  Rory suppressed a shudder as she gazed at his stiff back and the hair stringing over his shoulders. Something about him seemed familiar. She didn’t think she’d seen him at Windansea before, but she couldn’t place him. She turned her board around and paddled back toward the takeoff zone. She wasn’t coming in until she’d macked one good ride.

  RORY CURLED UP on the windowseat beside Bronteë, eating a breakfast of blueberry yogurt sprinkled with granola and slices of papaya and strawberries prepared by Alice, her new cook. The tiny Philippino woman had arrived with her own cooking pans and potted herbs, along with Pierce, the butler, while Rory had been surfing.

  Sneaking back into the house this morning had not been as easy as sneaking out. One of Heinrich’s merry men had caught her tiptoeing up the driveway. Remembering that she was taking control of her life, she’d wished him a good morning and told him the waves had been great.

  He’d nodded politely, but she’d had the feeling that she’d never be able to sneak past him again. No problem. She’d realized last night when she’d asked Sebastian to leave that she could draw boundaries and establish rules.

  She’d tried the same tactic on Pierce and Alice when she encountered them getting acquainted in the kitchen. She’d told them what she wanted for breakfast and where she usually took it, then went off to shower.

  And he
re she was, dressed in a misty-blue sleeveless silk dress she’d found hanging on the clothes rack in the great room. It was more sophisticated than the clothes she normally wore to work, but she liked the shell-shaped lace overlays that added pizzazz to the skirt. And while she’d eyed the matching flirty square-heeled shoes with distrust, she’d tried them on and found them surprisingly comfortable.

  Which reminded her that she still needed to call the Hollywood stylist at her hotel. Rory quickly finished her breakfast and did without her daily vitamin because the bottle wasn’t on the counter where she normally kept it, then she asked Pierce to bring her the phone.

  The stylist answered on the first ring.

  Rory chased away the twinges of anxiety that hovered just below her breastbone. Her mother had never hesitated to be individualistic and to express her personality through her clothes, her home and her belongings. As a trendsetter, Sophia had sought out furniture and home accessories that would help other people define themselves.

  Rory’s voice wavered. “Chandale, this is Rory Kenilworth.”

  “Just the person I was thinking of!” Rory could picture Chandale’s hands waving enthusiastically. “I’ve been on the phone all night talking with designers. I’m going to have some drawings and sample outfits for our meeting this afternoon. I think you’re going to love them!”

  Rory swallowed hard. She imagined a whole wardrobe of pastel suits and dresses with matching shoes and handbags. Maybe matching hats. She had to nip this in the bud! She told Chandale how she felt about the majority of yesterday’s outfits. “I just don’t think they’re a reflection of me—although, I love the dress Sebastian Guimond picked out.”

  Heat flooded her belly at the thought of how Sebastian had looked at her when she’d modeled that dress. But it cooled when she realized that he had no doubt been seeing her with the idolatry of a subject fawning over the future queen of his country. He’d warned her that people would treat her differently because of her position. It hurt to discover that he was one of those people.

  “Then we’re on the same page!” Chandale said with a trill in her voice.

  “We are?” Rory was confused.

  “My thoughts were exactly the same, which is why I was on the phone all night. I see you in warmer, more vibrant colors. A modern princess who can surf the Internet and the ocean. We’ll play up your natural beauty, your love for the outdoors and your love for the written word. No pretensions of grandeur—just an intelligent American girl discovering her roots. How does that sound?”

  “Like you’re a miracle worker and my new best friend.”

  The stylist laughed. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

  Rory put down the phone and ran a hand down the curve of Bronteë’s sleek back. “It’s going to be an interesting day, girl,” she whispered so Alice and Pierce wouldn’t hear. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t involve bullets.”

  Brontë’s purr sounded like a chuckle. Rory kissed her beloved pet behind the ears and checked her watch. She’d be late for work if she didn’t hustle. She had no idea how Alice and Pierce were going to keep themselves occupied all day, much less who was paying them and how much, but she didn’t have time to bog herself down with the details.

  Rory brushed her teeth, then stopped in her mother’s room to pick up the birthday necklace commissioned for her by her father. Sebastian hadn’t yet told her if he’d found out anything about the necklace’s making. Maybe it had slipped his mind with everything that had happened.

  To her dismay, her mother’s evening bag felt suspiciously light when she tugged it from the folds of the blanket. Had it felt that light when she’d hidden it?

  Her heart knocking rapidly against her chest, she plucked out the velvet case and opened it.

  The jewelry box was empty.

  Rory sank onto her mother’s bed. Someone had stolen her precious gift from her father.

  How could she have been so careless? The necklace was the only gift from him.

  No, that wasn’t true, she told herself, pressing her fingers to her temples. She had the birthday adventures her father had picked out for her. That showed caring and thoughtfulness. And she had wonderful memories of those adventures, which could never be stolen.

  She tried to think logically. Figure out who had taken the necklace. It was obviously valuable, but thanks to Sebastian’s tutelage, she suspected its theft was purely political—a ploy to cast her in a poor light and create an atmosphere of distrust between the two countries when the theft was reported.

  Although the necklace was a birthday gift, it was a signature piece that she would be expected to wear while performing certain official duties. The people of Estaire and her brother would be insulted by her carelessness. She could imagine the finger pointing that might take place between her brother’s staff and Prince Laurent’s staff if she brought up the theft.

  She went back to her bedroom and checked her jewelry box to see if any other valuables were missing. Her mother’s Rolex and her diamond pear-cut earrings were still nestled in their silk-lined compartments.

  Rory did a head count of the people who’d been in her home yesterday. It was tempting to suspect Renald and Odette because they obviously didn’t approve of her. But the fact that they held high positions of trust made their guilt unlikely. Her best guess was that one of the bodyguards had been bought. It was difficult to imagine Chandale, Pierce or one of the caterers taking the necklace. Sebastian, of course, had been in her home yesterday. But he was the only one she didn’t suspect.

  Her heart flinched with humiliation as she relived his rejection of her last night. But not for a minute did she think he would betray her or act against the best interests of his country. He’d proven that when he’d refused her advances. His prince wanted this marriage. Ducharme had so much to gain.

  Rory’s skin grew clammy as she considered that the necklace might have been stolen on Sunday. She hadn’t checked that it was in its box after she’d arrived back from the vet’s and discovered Sebastian inside her home. He’d told her he’d found her door unlocked. Had the person who had rigged her chandelier returned? She’d left her evening bag within plain sight on the foyer table.

  But now that she knew the necklace was gone, what was she going to do about it? Inform her brother? Inform Sebastian? Or keep quiet and hope the thief would give him or herself away?

  Pierce tapped on her door and told her that the car was ready to take her to work.

  “Coming.” She returned the royal blue velvet case to its hiding place in her mother’s closet, then grabbed her purse and double-checked that the check from her new trust fund was still safely inside. She knew exactly what to do with the money. But she’d have to ask Otto for a favor.

  PRINCESS PENELOPE RECEIVED an update from her faithful spy as she lay in her silk dressing gown on the bed, resting before dressing for dinner. She’d had an exhausting day touring the children’s hospital and hosting a luncheon to raise funds for new equipment.

  Olivier had informed her that an assassin had fired at Charlotte Aurora minutes before he’d arrived at his sister’s home for dinner. No one had been hurt, but the assassin had escaped.

  Penelope’s limbs turned to ice at the thought of what might have happened if Olivier had been present. Meeting the children today had been painful. All of them so beautiful and so vibrantly alive in the face of the terrible illnesses they were struggling to overcome. It had made her long for a Valcourt heir growing in her womb. A boy.

  “Did the guards manage to get a description of the shooter?” she demanded. Olivier had not told her.

  Renald sniffed disdainfully. “It was too dark.”

  Princess Penelope silently cursed the bodyguards’ incompetence.

  She rubbed her flat abdomen. She missed Olivier. Missed his smile and the adoration in his eyes when he tenderly made love to her. They had made so many plans together…she couldn’t bear to think of Olivier placing Estaire’s future in the hands of an Americaine—a
Beach Boys’ “California Girl,” as Renald had described her.

  Princess Penelope shuddered. At least Princess Charlotte Aurora was not illiterate—and an alliance with Ducharme would benefit Estaire.

  But Charlotte Aurora was not taking away everything Princess Penelope had worked for. She and Olivier had tried hormonal therapies and artificial insemination. In vitro fertilization was their last hope to conceive a child. Renald had helped her research several clinics and their success rates. She’d finally chosen this clinic in France.

  Princess Penelope pursed her mouth. “Prince Olivier’s security must be your top priority, Renald. With this assassin roaming free, the prince could still be in danger. Our appointment at the clinic is next week.” By autumn, she hoped the palace would be issuing an official announcement that Their Serene Highnesses were expecting a child.

  “I understand.”

  “I know that you do, Renald.” She thought of the stories Olivier had told her about Renald’s parents. Dark and elegant with a body like a swan, Emilie Dartois had been a lady-in-waiting to Olivier’s mother. She had dutifully nursed the princess during her last difficult pregnancy, which had ended sadly in the princess’s—and the baby’s—deaths. Emilie’s husband had held a high position in the treasury. Renald was making that awkward transition from boy to man when his father died in a train accident on his way to Geneva. Prince August had taken a special interest in Renald after that. The prince had encouraged him in his studies and handpicked him for service in the palace.

  Gratitude touched her voice. “Your loyalty is a gift I cherish.” Just as she would cherish a Valcourt heir.

  STILL FRETTING about the theft of the necklace, Rory worked her shift at the Book Nook anxiously keeping one eye on the clock. She had her pepper spray and her panic button. And her bodyguards frequently checked on her.