“I don’t think I would believe you,” she said. “I think you might just enjoy shocking people.”
His eyebrow came up and his grin flashed. “You could be right, Clara.”
There was something intimate about the way he said her name. Her pulse began to hammer again. How did he do that?
He gestured with his bottle, a careless flick of the wrist. “So, what would it take to shock you?”
She swallowed. She might be practical but she understood a come-on when she heard it. Ty hadn’t moved an inch but he suddenly seemed much closer. She replayed the conversation she’d heard today to center her thoughts. Ty Diamond is a flirt and a player, the woman had said. It’s as natural to him as breathing.
Clara knew she was nothing special. And if this was Tyson’s way of making this a game, she wasn’t playing. She met his gaze and raised a single eyebrow. “That won’t work with me.”
He laughed. “You’re tougher than you look. Well, here we are anyway, both avoiding all the wedding hoopla. Get you something to drink?”
She shook her head, a bit surprised he seemed to brush off her comment like it was nothing. And he’d called her tough. He probably had no idea how much of a compliment that was. “If Sam and Angela have gone, I should probably be getting home.”
Ty leaned a hip against the counter. “To Butterfly House, right?”
She nodded. It was no secret where she lived, but she didn’t quite like Ty knowing, for some reason. His dark eyes assessed her a little too closely until she felt like a bug under a microscope. She momentarily wondered if Angela had sent Tyson in on purpose to make sure she wasn’t alone. While she appreciated the sentiment, lately she’d found herself chafing against the constant analysis of her every move and thought. Sometimes she just wanted to get on with her life rather than dissect it to pieces.
“Whatever you’re thinking, just ask, Tyson. Don’t try to guess. And don’t stare at me. It makes me uncomfortable.” She was learning to stand up for herself, to set her own boundaries, but even so a quiver of anxiety always followed such a demonstration of self-assurance. It was hard to get past the “don’t rock the boat” mentality.
“I didn’t mean to stare.” His gaze softened. “Angela told me you are a…is client the right word?”
“It works.” Her heart started drumming all over again, and not in the glorious anticipatory way it had before. He was going to ask. People always got curious when they found out she lived at the shelter, like they were somehow entitled to her story and the sordid details. “Is that why you followed me inside? To get the details?”
He put the beer bottle down on the countertop. He’d undone his tie and the black silk hanging against the brilliant white of his shirt made him seem approachable. Touchable. Not for her, though. He probably had a string of buckle bunnies clear down to Texas. A man like Tyson Diamond would eat her alive and spit out the bones before moving on to the next conquest.
She felt a tiny stab in her heart, remembering how she’d fallen for Jackson only to discover the true man underneath after it was too late. Too late for so many things. Her throat tightened as she grieved for all that she’d lost. Jackson had been handsome and charming, too. In the beginning.
Angela had talked to her about not judging every man by the abuser’s yardstick, and in her head Clara knew she was right. Her heart was still a little too bruised, though, to trust her judgment completely. She was perfectly happy going along the way she was. It would be even better when she was completely independent. She couldn’t wait to be one hundred percent in charge of her own life.
“You looked panicked out there. I know the feeling, and I wanted to make sure you were okay, that’s all.”
He wasn’t asking about her past. And he was telling the truth. His words were utterly sincere.
“You don’t strike me as the panic type,” she responded, getting a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water.
“I’m okay—in my element,” he responded smoothly. “Garden weddings? Not so much my element. Neither is this monkey suit.”
“I imagine you are more of a jeans and boots kind of guy.”
“Definitely,” he answered. “Anyway, back to my original question. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Of course I am,” she replied.
“Okay,” he said, sticking his hands in his trouser pockets, making his suit jacket flare away from his hips in a most attractive way. Clara swallowed. She remembered not two months ago, asking Angela about Sam as he chopped wood in the back yard at Butterfly House. She had told Angela there was a big difference between appreciating the package and taking the leap into something more. She’d looked at Sam through the window that day and found him handsome. But Ty…Ty resembled Sam but with an added something she couldn’t put her finger on. For the first time since crawling away from Jackson, battered and bruised, she was definitely appreciating the package, all wrapped up in a suit and patent shoes.
Her tongue snuck out to wet her lips and she saw Ty’s gaze follow the movement. All the air seemed to go out of the room.
She fought to be rational. Other than his hands briefly on her arms as she came barreling out of the bathroom, he hadn’t touched her or made any sort of suggestion that he was interested.
Except…
Except for the dark gleam in his eyes as he stared at her lips. There was just this thing hovering around them. It had been a long time since she’d felt it, but it was like riding a bike. Once you experienced it once, it came back to you in a flash—whether you wanted it to or not. Now she found herself staring at his lips and wondering what it would be like to be kissed.
Reality hit like a splash of cold water. “I really should go,” she said, taking a step backwards. Her voice sounded higher than normal and she swallowed. “Your mother will be expecting me here on time tomorrow. Weddings are all well and good, but real life has a tendency to intrude, and your dad has physio in the morning. It was nice meeting you, Ty.”
“You’re not going to stay for a dance or two?”
“God, no.”
The answer came so quickly and with such force that she didn’t have time to think about not saying it. There was acknowledging the presence of some sort of…chemistry, she supposed was a good word for it. But dancing—touching—in front of people? She swallowed. Her progress hadn’t quite extended that far. She’d even said no to Sam—who she trusted more than she’d trusted any man since leaving her ex—when he asked for a dance. He’d been perfectly understanding, but she’d stood by the sidelines watching everyone else dance, feeling silly. Like a coward.
Ty’s gaze darkened until it was almost black, and she felt his cool withdrawal. Leaving the half-full bottle, he headed towards the deck doors, stopping for just a moment beside her. She could feel the heat from his body and the crisp scent of whatever aftershave he wore surrounded her in a cloud of masculinity. “Miss Ferguson.” He nodded, then continued on his way. The click of the French door let her know that he was gone in a swell of country music that was immediately muted; she couldn’t bear to turn around and watch him stride away.
She hadn’t meant it how it sounded. She’d only been thinking of the idea of being held close in a man’s arms. The very prospect was laughable. Dancing was so intimate. The one thing she still hadn’t managed to shake in all the therapy sessions and the time that had passed was her aversion to having her personal space invaded. She hadn’t been held by a man since walking away. It triggered too many memories of how Jackson had held her and told her he loved her, only to turn around and use those same loving hands to…
She shuddered. But she knew how it must have sounded to Ty. It had been an indirect invitation on his part and she’d refused before he’d been able to take a breath. Right after he’d called himself the adopted bastard. He’d looked at her lips and she’d acted like she was r
epulsed.
He would think she considered herself just like Amy—a cut above. But he was wrong, so very wrong.
Tomorrow she’d have to face him. He was living here now, and she would be here every day, helping Molly with the household chores and putting Virgil through his physio exercises. It would be incredibly awkward at best if they left things the way they were now. She should at least explain that it wasn’t him, right?
She rolled her shoulders back and resolved that she would not have an anxiety attack in the next fifteen minutes. Instead she would take another step towards having a normal life. She couldn’t lean on Angela and Sam any longer. “Living in fear is not living,” she repeated to the empty room. Wasn’t it about time she started putting that mantra into practice? Wasn’t it time she did something about the one thing that still held her back?
Her hand tightened on the handle of the French door. She’d be able to face herself—and Tyson Diamond—in the morning.
It was time to move on.
NOT-SO-PERFECT PRINCESS
Melissa McClone
When ordinary girls get their fairy-tale endings!
Who says fairy tales can’t come true?
Once Upon a Kiss… is our brand-new miniseries
featuring up-to-the-minute retellings of classic,
well-loved stories. Immerse yourself in a little bit
of fantasy for the modern-day girl, and be whisked
away, along with our down-to-earth heroines,
to the romances of your wildest daydreams!
This month’s Not-So-Perfect Princess
by Melissa McClone is a royal story with a twist!
We hope you enjoy
Sleeping Beauty—Harlequin Romance® style.
In September, look out for
Shirley Jump’s The Princess Test—a fun and
contemporary retelling of Princess and the Pea.
Carrie Santaro has never wanted to be royal—
all she craves is a normal life! Yet when she leaves
home and meets gorgeous single dad Daniel,
she begins to realize that being a real princess
means far more than simply wearing a tiara.
Dear Reader,
Once upon a time, I wrote a story that introduced a secondary character, Princess Julianna of Aliestle. I always thought she would be the perfect heroine to use in a Sleeping Beauty tale if the opportunity to write one ever presented itself.
In 2010, it finally did!
I was so excited to be asked to contribute to the Once Upon a Kiss… miniseries. I knew exactly what fairy tale I wanted to modernize and retell. When my editor told me I could do Sleeping Beauty, I actually squealed.
Of course, thinking about writing a contemporary fairy tale was easier than actually writing it. Not too many fairies and ogre queens around these days! I hope you’ll see how I used elements from the classic tale as a springboard into this modern romance.
Princess Julianna has been sleepwalking through life far too long. It will take a special man—make that prince—to wake her up and make her see all that she is missing out on. A happily ever after is waiting for her if she’ll just open her eyes and follow her heart!
Enjoy,
Melissa
With a degree in mechanical engineering from Stanford University, the last thing Melissa McClone ever thought she would be doing was writing romance novels. But analyzing engines for a major U.S. airline just couldn’t compete with her “happily-ever-afters.” When she isn’t writing, caring for her three young children or doing laundry, Melissa loves to curl up on the couch with a cup of tea, her cats and a good book. She enjoys watching home decorating shows to get ideas for her house—a 1939 cottage that is slowly being renovated. Melissa lives in Lake Oswego, Oregon, with her own real-life hero husband, two daughters, a son, two loveable but oh-so-spoiled indoor cats and a no-longer-stray outdoor kitty that decided to call the garage home. Melissa loves to her from her readers. You can write to her at P.O. Box 63, Lake Oswego, OR 97034, USA, or contact her via her website at www.melissamcclone.com.
For Tom
Special thanks to:
Elizabeth Boyle, Terri Reed,
Schmidt Chiropractic Center and the
Harlequin Romance team for letting me
tell Julianna’s tale!
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
“THREE ARRANGED marriages and not one has made it to the altar. That is unacceptable!” King Alaric of Aliestle’s voice thundered through the throne room like a lion’s roar. Even the castle’s tapestry-covered stone walls appeared to tremble. “If men think something is wrong with you, no amount of dowry will convince one to marry you.”
Princess Julianna Louise Marie Von Schneckle didn’t allow her father’s harsh words to affect her posture. She stood erect with her shoulders back and her chin up, maximizing her five-foot-eight-inch-stature. The way she’d been taught to do by a bevy of governesses and nannies. Her stepmother didn’t take a personal interest in her, but was diligent in ensuring she’d received the necessary training to be a perfect princess and queen.
“Father,” Jules said evenly, not about to display an ounce of emotion. Tears and histrionics would play into her country’s outdated gender stereotypes. They also wouldn’t sway her father. “I was willing to marry Prince Niko, but he discovered Princess Isabel was alive and legally his wife. He had no choice but to end our arrangement.”
Her father’s nostrils flared. “The reason your match ended doesn’t matter.”
Jules understood why he was upset. He wanted to marry her off to a crown prince in order to put one of his grandchildren on a throne outside of Aliestle. He was willing to pay a king’s ransom to make that happen. She’d become the wealthiest royal broodmare around. Unfortunately.
He glared down his patrician nose at her. “The result is the same. Three times now—”
“If I may, Father.” Indignation made Jules speak up. She rarely interrupted her father. Okay, never. She was a dutiful daughter, but she wasn’t going to take the blame for this. “You may have forgotten with all the other important matters on your mind, but you canceled my first match with Prince Christian. And Prince Richard was in love with an American when I arrived on San Montico.”
“These failed engagements are still an embarrassment.” Her father’s frown deepened the lines on his face. The wrinkles reminded Jules of the valley crags in the Alps surrounding their small country. “A stain on our family name and Aliestle.”
A lump of guilt lodged in her throat. Jules had been relieved when she found out Niko wouldn’t be able to annul his first marriage and marry her. From the start, she’d hoped he would fall in love with his long-lost wife so Jules wouldn’t have to get married.
Oh, she’d liked Vernonia with its loyal people and lovely lakes for sailing. The handsome crown prince wanted to modernize his country, not be held back by antiquated customs. She would have had more freedom than she’d ever imagined as his wife and future queen. But she didn’t love Niko.
Silly, given her country’s tradition of arranged marriages. The realist in her knew the odds of marrying for love were slim to none, but the dream wouldn’t die. It grew stronger with the end of each arranged match.
Too bad dreams didn’t matter in Aliestle. Only duty.
Alaric shook his head. “If your mother were alive…”
Mother. Not stepmother.
Jules felt a pang in her heart. “If my mother were alive, I hope she would understand I tried my best.”
She didn’t rem
ember her mother, Queen Brigitta, who had brought progressive, almost shocking, ideas to Aliestle when she married King Alaric. Though the match had been arranged, he fell so deeply in love with his young wife that he’d listened to her differing views on gender equality and proposed new laws at her urging, including higher education opportunities for women. He even took trips with her so she could indulge her passion for sailing despite vocal disapproval from the Council of Elders.
But after Brigitta died competing in a sailing race in the South Pacific when Jules was two, a heartbroken Alaric vowed never to go against convention again. He didn’t rescind the legislation regarding education opportunities for women, but he placed limitations on the jobs females could hold and did nothing to improve their career prospects. He also remarried, taking as his wife and queen a proper Aliestlian noblewoman, one who knew her role and place in society.
“I’d hope my mother would see I’ve spent my life doing what was expected of me out of respect and love for you, my family and our country,” Jules added.
But she knew a lifetime of pleasing others and doing good works didn’t matter. Not in this patriarchal society where daughters, whether royal or commoner, were bartered like chattel. If Jules didn’t marry and put at least one of her children on a throne somewhere, she would be considered a total failure. The obligation and pressure dragged Jules down like a steel anchor.
Her father narrowed his eyes. “I concede you’re not to blame for the three matches ending. You’ve always been a good girl and obeyed my orders.”
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