by JoAnn Ross
The ultraglamorous princess who had once kept an entire army of tabloid paparazzi working overtime to keep up with her jet-set life-style, brushed cheeks with each woman in turn, enveloping them in a cloud of perfume.
"Bonjour. How grand to see you all again! Everyone has so been looking forward to your arrival. Unfortunately, Martian is in Paris for the afternoon with Noel— a charity event—and asks that I extend her apologies for not being here to greet you personally."
"And Caine, Burke and my father have locked themselves away in the library. Something to do with the coronation, I suppose, but Caine is being frustratingly closemouthed about everything. So I am afraid that I represent the entire welcoming committee."
"You're more than enough, Princess," Dixie said. Her daughters seconded her statement.
"I do hope you had a pleasant journey," Chantal said conversationally.
"The flight was long," Dixie answered. "But the movie was good. It was a Mel Gibson film, and although I couldn't hear a word of dialogue through the plastic earphones, I did enjoy the action."
"And of course watching Mel Gibson is always a treat," Ariel added with a wicked feminine grin reminiscent of her siren daytime character.
"That is so true," Chantal agreed with a smile. "Mel's a long-time friend of the family. He's been invited to the coronation."
Her smile brightened, lighting up her remarkable gypsylike dark eyes. "I'll introduce you," she told Ariel. "You two can talk shop."
"Dear Lord, the plane must've crashed over the Atlantic," Ariel said on a long, dramatic sigh. "Because it's obvious that I've died and gone to heaven."
Chantal laughed. "You must be exhausted. Let me show you to your rooms."
"It's very generous of you to invite us to stay in the palace," Dixie said.
"It's very generous of you to take time away from your busy tour to perform for Burke's festivities,"
Chantal countered. "As I told you when we met in Washington, it was beginning to look as if we'd end up with a group of stuffy old chamber musicians. Not that chamber music isn't quite pleasant, in its place," she amended.
"Unfortunately, my father, bless his heart, can be quite old-fashioned and more than a little rigid. It took a great deal of persuasion to convince him that times had changed since his own coronation."
They followed the princess up the long, ornate curving staircase, down a long hall carpeted in priceless Persian rugs. More nameless ancestors, trapped for eternity in their gilded frames, gazed down from the wall.
"Perhaps you should have started out giving him a rap tape to listen to," Sabrina suggested. "That way we would have sounded mild by comparison."
Chantal stopped and treated Sabrina to another one of her famous smiles that had appeared on magazine covers all over the world. "What a merveilleuse idea! I do wish that I'd thought of it." Then she surprised them with a wink that was worlds away from the glamorous jet-set princess of the tabloids. "Fortunately, Maman is very persuasive."
She stopped in front of a door at the end of the hallway. "I do hope this will be adequate."
The suite was a great deal more than adequate. The sitting room alone was three times the size of Sabrina's entire SoHo apartment.
Her appreciative gaze swept the vast room, taking in the dramatic red silk wall coverings, the crimson roses blooming on the needlepoint carpet. The arched mullion windows were framed in white Belgium lace; that same lace adorned the French doors leading out to the balcony. Both the windows and the white wrought-iron balcony allowed a splendid view of Lake Losange, now draped in a soft, silvery mist.
A welcoming fire blazed in an intricately carved marble fireplace. On a nearby marble-topped table there was a basket of fresh fruit, cheeses, boxes of water crackers and a crystal bowl of caviar nestled on sparkling ice chips. Nearby, wine and bottles of mineral water had also been put on ice, by an unseen servant.
"It's stunning," Sabrina said when she found her voice again. Although the Darlings had been considered wealthy in Nashville, she was beginning to realize that Sonny's annual royalties, as generous as they'd been, probably wouldn't even pay the household expenses on this palace.
Princess Chantal, Sabrina decided, could undoubtedly pay off Sonny's entire tax bill with her weekly clothing allowance.
Sabrina's mother and sisters, appearing a little shell-shocked themselves, murmured their own admiration of the suite.
"There are four bedrooms," Chantal said, waving a beringed hand toward a pair of doors. "Two on this side of the sitting room and an additional two on the other. They both have their own bathrooms, of course, and you'll undoubtedly be pleased to know that the plumbing is modern."
"Monique will be in momentarily to tend to your luggage. She'll be your maid while you are staying in the palace. Although she's young, she comes from a good family. I believe you'll be pleased."
Their own personal maid. Sabrina knew that Ariel would absolutely love the idea. So would Dixie. And even possibly, Raven. Sabrina, always independent, did not. But not wanting to offend Chantal, she kept her opinion to herself, vowing simply to unpack her clothes herself.
"Dinner is served at eight. The family's very eager to meet you, of course, but if you'd prefer, trays will be sent up from the kitchen."
"Of course we'll eat with the family," Dixie said quickly, answering for her daughters, who did not protest.
"Bien. It is our custom to have cocktails in the library before dinner. Since the palace has a great many twists and turns, and I would hate for you to get lost your first night here, Caine and I will be at your door at seven-thirty."
"In the meantime, if there is anything you wish— anything at all—Monique will be happy to get it for you."
Twenty minutes later, after sharing some cheese and crackers with the others, Sabrina was wandering around her spacious bedroom, examining the antique furniture that, while centuries old, revealed signs of tender loving care. A high canopied poster bed draped in diaphanous white gauze took up much of the room.
Walking over to the window, she sipped her wine— a crisp, dry sauvignon blanc from the Giraudeau vineyards—and gazed out at the enchanting, mist-draped view below.
In the distance, near the lake, she caught a glimpse of something red streaking through the trees. A closer inspection revealed it to be a race car, tearing around the curves at neck-breaking speed.
Undoubtedly the playboy prince, Sabrina decided. Her lips drew into a disapproving frown even as she found herself unable to drag her gaze away from the dangerous sight.
The car handled like a dream. Burke guided the sleek Formula One racing Ferrari around the tight curves, pleased when it responded to the lightest touch.
He had not been bragging when he'd told his father and brother-in-law that he would win the race this year; arrogance was not Burke's style. But he was confident. And he'd been working toward this goal for the past five years.
Like so many other rulers-in-waiting, Burke had been forced to practice patience until his father relinquished power. Not that he hadn't found plenty to keep himself occupied in the meantime. He oversaw the tourist council, which was an important sector of his country's economy, served as chairman of the board of the Giraudeau Bank, and was active in promoting sports.
He'd become captain of the Montacroix polo team specifically to draw more of the international horse set to his country. He had succeeded. During the season, the narrow cobblestone streets were packed with European luxury cars parked bumper to gleaming bumper.
His Grand Prix racing, and the dashing reputation he'd developed as a driver, had also succeeded in bringing much-needed wealth into Montacroix, a country that Burke would be the first to admit was part high-class tourist resort, part anachronism.
Indeed, a reporter for the International Herald Tribune had written that Montacroix had become the premier vacation destination for people whose idea of a second car was a Bentley.
The wide tires hugged the slick pavement. Burke could hardly hear
himself think over the roar of the enormous rear-mounted engine situated millimeters from the back of his helmet.
After the coronation, he would probably give up this sport he'd come to love. After all, it was one thing for an heir to the throne to be perceived as a reckless, hedonistic playboy; it was quite another for the regent to be cast in that same light.
Once he ascended to the throne, his life would inexorably change. Since duty had been drilled into him from the cradle, Burke would never think to resent what he could not change. But damn, how he wanted to go out a winner!
Suddenly, puffs of gray smoke began drifting into the cockpit. Before he had time to consider what could have gone wrong, the red Ferrari spun out of control.
Cursing, Burke twisted the steering wheel, trying to keep the race car from crashing into the storm-tossed lake.
The rain continued nonstop, wrapping the palace in a soft silvery cloud that reminded Sabrina of the mists cloaking Brigadoon. After a brief, failed attempt at a nap, and a long hot bath, she'd dressed and, along with her mother and sisters, had joined the royal family for cocktails.
Chantal looked stunning, as always, in a slender tube of flame colored silk, her throat and earlobes adorned with exquisite glowing pearls. Her American husband, clad in a navy suit, was suitably handsome, providing a perfect consort for the glamorous princess, as Dixie had whispered in Sabrina's ear.
If Chantal was fire, her younger sister, the princess Noel—dressed in a silvery blue cocktail dress, her pale blond hair twisted into a tidy chignon at the nape of her slender neck—was ice. But the genuine welcome in her greeting and the warmth in her violet blue eyes belied her cool appearance.
Jessica Giraudeau, Prince Eduard's wife, was also a shining example of warm hospitality. A superb hostess, she surprised each of her guests by revealing her knowledge of some special achievement. A former actress herself, she also made Ariel promise to tell her all the changes that had occurred in Hollywood since she'd willingly turned her back on a very successful film career for the man she loved.
Prince Eduard, too, greeted them with enthusiasm, but Sabrina could tell that he was distracted. Although he pretended to follow the polite conversation, his gaze kept drifting first to the rain-streaked windows. Then the door.
Watching him out of the corner of her eye, Sabrina could guess what had him so out of sorts. Or, more to the point, who. The object of his ill-concealed irritation was obviously the missing member of the Giraudeau family. The playboy prince himself.
Finally, in an attempt to maintain a facade, the little group moved to the dining room.
The vast room, which Sabrina decided could probably seat the entire New York Giants football team, was terribly overdecorated. Like much of the house it was a monument to unbridled opulence. The high ceiling was gilded, frescoes covered the walls, baroque riches filled every niche. The candlesticks on the French-lace-draped table were of Venetian rock crystal. A rare Aubusson carpet covered the floor.
Porcelain vases held more roses from the garden, orchids from the greenhouses. The chairs were gilt and appropriately spindly, save for one high-backed one at the end of the massive table that appeared more throne than chair.
"I think I know what it would feel like to dine inside a Faberge egg," Sabrina murmured after the butler had silently whisked away their soup bowls and placed their salad plates in front of them.
Chantal, seated to Sabrina's right, glanced around the vast room as if seeing it for the first time. "Maman has been trying to redecorate this house since she and my father married. Unfortunately since there are a great many rooms in the palace and my father detests change, things have moved a bit more slowly than she would have liked."
"I've never seen a room like this one," Sabrina said. "Outside a museum."
"Most visitors are initially shocked by the grandeur," Chantal allowed. "In fact, the first time Caine saw it, I was afraid he'd retract his proposal and take the next plane back to Washington, alone."
"Fortunately, he resisted the impulse," she said, smiling at her husband who was seated across the table and currently involved in conversation with Raven. "Although, as you'll soon realize," Chantal said, "we live quite informally."
That may be, Sabrina considered silently, but the fact remained that this dining room alone could inspire a year's worth of sermons on conspicuous consumption.
The meal was, unsurprisingly, superb. The glazed partridge was so tender it fell off the bone, the potatoes were seasoned with fresh parsley and dressed in melted butter. Conversation flowed easily, but as the evening progressed, Sabrina noticed that Prince Eduard was glaring more and more often at the empty chair beside her.
As if conjured up by the regent's dark thoughts, Burke suddenly appeared in the dining room doorway. His face was streaked with oil, he was drenched from the rain, and a faint aroma of smoke entered the room with him.
"Good evening."
"You are late," Prince Eduard ground out with the air of a man unaccustomed to having his instructions challenged. "We are about to have dessert."
"I'm sorry about that," Burke said easily, ignoring his father's glower. "But there was a slight problem."
"Oh, dear." Jessica eyed him with motherly concern. "Is that smoke I smell?"
Burke shrugged. "A minor glitch with an oil line. Don't worry, Martian, it was not serious."
The fact that Jessica failed to introduce the prince to the Darlings revealed exactly how deep her concern went. "I always worry when you're in that car."
"I raced cars when you and I met," Eduard reminded his wife.
"True. But having a beau who races is a great deal different from having a son who takes unnecessary risks," Jessica pointed out.
Sabrina remembered that Burke was actually Jessica's stepson. Prince Eduard had been married—to an unstable woman who'd been hospitalized for a lifetime of mental problems—when he and the American actress first met. Their very public love affair had scandalized Europe for five years—the time it took the prince to get a divorce. That same illicit love affair had also resulted in the birth of Chantal, Sabrina remembered.
Burke crossed the priceless carpet, apparently mindless of the water sluicing off him. "I promise not to take any unnecessary risks," he said, brushing his lips against his mother's cheek. The light kiss left a smudge of oil.
After Jessica belatedly remembered her manners and introduced her son to their guests, Burke treated the women to a bold, yet repentant smile.
"I do apologize for not arriving on time to greet you all properly," he said. "But if you will forgive me, I shall excuse myself to wash the road dirt away."
His gaze, as it circled the room, treating each of the Darling women in turn to its warmth, lingered momentarily on Sabrina.
All the Darling women were surprisingly attractive, Burke conceded. Including the mother. But this one was absolutely stunning.
Her face was a classical oval, her complexion a flawless roses and cream. Her hair was a sleek flow of gold that reminded him of winter wheat warmed by a benevolent sun. Her eyes were a muted gray, touched with silver facets that glowed like moonbeams. They were fringed with a thick row of lashes and tilted up the slightest bit at the corners.
Her mouth was so full and shapely that Burke wondered if those rosy lips would be as soft as they looked. He suspected they would. The woman's only flaw was a stubborn chin, Burke decided.
As he continued to study her, color tinged her high cheekbones.
She was wearing an off-the-shoulder silky gown of hues ranging from scintillating pink to sinfully scarlet. Sparkling gold gypsy hoops hung almost to her smooth bare shoulders.
Most women Burke knew—with the exception of Chantal, who gave a new definition to the word glamour—were cut from the same expensive cloth. Sleek, rich, intelligent, and coolly sophisticated, they were women perfectly at home in European drawing rooms smelling of hothouse flowers, furniture oil and expensive, custom-blended perfumes. If they'd been cars, they wou
ld have ranked among Rolls-Royces. Or Bent-leys.
This woman was more like a Ferrari. And she was not at all what he'd been expecting. So much for the cheap rhinestones and stiff cotton-candy hair, he mused, realizing that he'd been guilty of stereotyping the Darling sisters.
While Burke was studying Sabrina, she in turn was examining him. The prince had a lean, intelligent face, with good bones and nicely chiseled features, she admitted reluctantly.
Disapproving of the man's sybaritic life-style, she hadn't expected to admire anything about him. He had thick dark hair with warm sun streaks—visible proof that he didn't spend all his time inside the family palace. Sabrina had always liked brown eyes, and Prince Burke's velvet eyes were the rich hue of chocolate. And they looked as if they never missed a thing. His gaze was dark, direct, disturbing. It was hot enough to turn water to steam.
She found it difficult to think straight when he was looking at her so intently; Sabrina couldn't remember ever being so nervous. Not even seven years ago, when she'd walked onto that Broadway stage for the first time to star in her new husband's play, Take Three.
The blatantly autobiographical play had depicted their courtship and subsequent marriage. Unsurprisingly, given her husband's Broadway track record, it had instantly become a smash hit.
Reminding herself that she'd given up on waiting for Prince Charming to show up a very long time ago, Sabrina forced her muscles to relax.
"Burke, dear," Jessica said, her smooth silky voice finally, blessedly, shattering the expanded moment, "I believe you were about to go upstairs to change?"
"Of course."
He was speaking to his stepmother, but his eyes did not leave Sabrina's. Something stirred inside him. Desire. Burke recognized it, then chose to ignore it. For now.
"I shall return shortly."
As she watched him leave the dining room, Sabrina could not decide whether to take Prince Burke's words as a promise. Or a threat.
3
The white-gloved butler had already served dessert—sweet strawberries in champagne—when Burke returned to the dining room. He was wearing a charcoal gray Italian suit, white shirt and a red silk tie imprinted with the Giraudeau crest—a crowned lion, which thanks to Dixie's omnipresent tour book, Sabrina knew stood for the family motto honneur, fidelite, et courage—honor, loyalty, and bravery. His hair, still damp from his shower, was combed straight back.