From event planner...
To belle of the ball!
Organizing a charity gala on the glamorous French Riviera is a dream come true for event planner Marie. And then she realizes she’ll be working with single dad—and handsome prince—Zander! Marie has never felt she truly belonged anywhere, least of all alongside royalty, but Zander soon sweeps her into his world of toddlers and tiaras! Dare Marie believe she’s found her fairy-tale ending—a family of her own?
Every fiber in her being screamed in protest when he withdrew his arm.
Her soul cried out for him to instead take her into a full embrace. To kiss her again not just on the cheek but on her lips, her neck and even more intimate spots on her body.
That was never to be. She was going to parade around Cannes with a dynamic and noble prince. But that would be that.
Not only would there be no romance with Zander, there couldn’t even be hot reckless nights where she’d satisfy her attraction to him and then be done with it. The prince’s casual-affair days were over. Which was just as well because, if she was being honest, Marie didn’t think she could handle a fling with him that would come to an abrupt end.
Although she knew that she’d spend the rest of her life remembering his one and only kiss on the cheek and his strong arm around her.
But Marie and Zander were in a business relationship. One she was fortunate to have.
Any other thoughts were just pure self-torture.
Dear Reader,
It must have been the wedding of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle, which was taking place while I was writing this book. But this American girl hadn’t given much thought to the role of young royals in a long time, to their unique opportunity to effect good in the world. My book’s hero, Prince Zander, considers it both his privilege and his duty to devote himself to worthy causes (one of them being a little soft-cheeked bundle less than two feet tall). Don’t we all love a powerful hero with a heart of gold?
Marie has had it rough. And the last thing she expects is to develop feelings for a sophisticated, unattainable prince! Between her barriers and his, a future together is highly unlikely. Funny how love has the ability to smash walls to the ground.
So let’s go to the French Riviera and peek in on their story. Expect glamorous parties, gorgeous clothes and the finest bubbly. It can be our little secret that we’re in pajamas, curled up in our favorite chair and sipping tea.
Andrea x
The Prince’s Cinderella
Andrea Bolter
Andrea Bolter has always been fascinated by matters of the heart. In fact, she’s the one her girlfriends turn to for advice with their love lives. A city mouse, she lives in Los Angeles with her husband and daughter. She loves travel, rock ’n’ roll, sitting at cafés and watching romantic comedies she’s already seen a hundred times. Say hi at andreabolter.com.
Books by Andrea Bolter
Harlequin Romance
Her New York Billionaire
Her Las Vegas Wedding
The Italian’s Runaway Princess
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.
For Lauren
Praise for
Andrea Bolter
“This is Ms. Bolter’s debut novel though it doesn’t show.... The characters are well rounded and have a touch of reality that allows them to flow off of the page and into our imagination.”
—Harlequin Junkie on Her New York Billionaire
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
EXCERPT FROM CARRYING THE GREEK TYCOON’S BABY BY JENNIFER FAYE
CHAPTER ONE
“WELCOME TO THE headquarters of the APCF,” Felice Khalif said to Marie as they proceeded down a row of work cubicles. There was a hum in the air, with the people at every desk either on the phone or focused on the computer screens in front of them. At the back of the space, Felice pointed to a small office separated from the central area by a glass wall and door. “Here’s where you’ll be working.”
The partitioned-off room wasn’t large but Marie had never had a private office before so she had to admit it gave her a buzz. Inside, a sleek glass desk was topped with boxes and stacks of paper files. A telephone bank was off to one side. Four chrome chairs sat around a glass meeting table. One large canvas with an abstract design painted in pastel colors adorned the wall.
The lone window didn’t look out to the glitzy beachfront Promenade de la Croisette that Cannes on the French Riviera was known for but it did let in plenty of light. Not that it mattered, though. Marie was here to work, not to daydream out the window.
“When our events manager, Jic Gurov, suddenly quit, Alain at the Toulouse office recommended I bring you in,” Felice continued. “We’ll give it a try temporarily. You’ll have to jump right in. We have so much going on, and I don’t really have anyone to train you.”
“I’ll do my best.” Marie brushed her bangs away from her eyes. This was a career opportunity she could have never seen coming. A million thanks were due to Alain for recommending her for the job. Not only did he understand about the work in Toulouse that she’d had to leave unfinished, he’d also given her a glowing recommendation.
“I prepared this much for you.” Felice handed Marie a single piece of paper. “Here are the upcoming events that I can confirm.”
“Thanks.”
Felice was right that everything was happening so fast. One minute Marie was assistant to the events coordinator for the APCF, Alliance for Parentless Children of France, at its regional office in Toulouse, and now she was at the headquarters in Cannes with a chance to become the permanent events manager if she did a good job.
France’s largest nonprofit agency supporting orphaned children was a well-known organization with several field offices throughout the country. The agency was able to aid parentless children who were in the foster care system with case management, social services and transitional assistance into adulthood. An orphan herself, Marie had utilized the agency’s help when she was a teenager, and the organization hired her for a job after university.
“As you know, the most important date on the calendar is our annual fund-raising gala in three weeks. The proceeds from that evening finance all of our operations for the year.”
“Alain told me.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t think Jic has compiled all of the components for this event. Zander is coming by today to go over it with you in detail.”
“Who’s Zander?”
Felice heard her phone’s ping and answered it. “Yes? I’ll call her right back.”
Marie imagined that as the agency’s executive director, Felice must have many balls to juggle in the air at once. She had a matter-of-fact manner that was very professional. In her cream-colored suit, Felice lifted her eyeglasses from the chain hanging around her neck and put them on to respond to something else on her phone.
After smoothing the front of her gray trousers to try to straighten out any creases, Marie stood as tall as she could. She subtly reached behind her to tuck her blouse in tighter. At the office in Toulouse she did occasionally meet with important donors and was included in meetings, so she never dressed too informally for work. But if Felice’s high-end suit was any indication, Marie might need to up her look here. After all, this was Cannes, land of the rich and famous.
At this point, she certainly didn’t have money to go out and buy a new wardrobe, as much fun as that sounded. Taking a mental inventory of the clothes she did have, she figured she could put together a week of decent outfits to get started.
If she let it, Marie’s mind could start swirling. There hadn’t been any chance for the logistics of this unexpected job switch to be worked out. The agency was able to provide a room for her to stay in for the time being in one of its housing facilities in Cannes. But if the job became permanent, she’d have to find an apartment and give up the room she leased in Toulouse. Cannes would be a much more expensive place to live so she didn’t know what she’d be able to afford. Then again, if she were to get this position permanently, there’d be a substantial salary increase.
She’d have to keep the uncertainty from getting to her during this trial period. Temporary things didn’t always work out for her. One thing Marie Paquet had known all of her life was impermanence. There might be more of it to accept. Would that ever stop, would there ever be something in her life that she could count on?
Taking in the slow, measured breaths that her years spent in counseling taught her, she centered herself.
A young man came into the office and handed Felice a laptop. “Thank you, Clive.”
Marie followed Felice’s lead in bringing their chairs close together so that they could sit down at the table and huddle in front of the laptop. “This will be for your use. The login you had in Toulouse will work for general access. I’ll give you another password to get into the files we keep confidential because they contain donor information.”
“Do you know if the system logs the events chronologically, or alphabetically, or in some other order?”
“Let’s hope it’s chronologically so that you can prioritize.” Felice opened the laptop and clicked through several folders until she found what she was looking for. “Voila.”
“Great.” Marie was relieved that the files were located. She was going to need all the help she could get.
“Look at your list and tell me if this corresponds. Of course, the gala in May. The Regional Managers Retreat Weekend in June?”
Marie reviewed her list. “Yes. The entry says five meals. Two dinners, two breakfasts and one lunch. Continuous snack and beverage service for both days. Transportation to and from the hotel. Multiple media setups. Breakout classrooms. Writing supplies. Goody bags. Then there’s a handwritten note in red to check the hotel.”
Felice opened another folder. “Donor Appreciation Luncheon in July?”
“Yes, I have that on the list although there are no specifics except winery picnic.”
“Goodness, there’s almost nothing in here,” Felice sighed as she opened that file. “You’ll have to look though this yourself and see if there’s anything useful. It looks like Jic recorded his notes from meetings but didn’t highlight any decisions.”
Marie grabbed a pen and jotted Felice’s instructions onto her printed list.
“Next, Back-to-School Support Suppers in September.”
Marie’s fists opened and closed repeatedly. How well she remembered those suppers that the agency hosted to aid kids in foster care who were beginning their new school years. For some, including Marie, the start of the school year was wrought with either dread or apprehension. Dread if the previous year hadn’t gone well but they were returning to the same school. And apprehension if they were starting at a new school.
Kids could be cruel. But to orphans and other children in foster care, mercilessly so. The unkind ones already knew who the foster kids were, and would find ways to taunt and tease them. They’d yell out meanness to Marie that she was unwanted. That she had no family. That nobody loved her. Like many in her situation, Marie grew a thick outer shell and learned not to cry in front of the bullies. Not that she didn’t shed a million tears in private.
The September suppers the agency held had been a godsend for Marie. Psychologists, social workers and education specialists were all on hand to discuss problems and develop strategies. Without them, the pressure of the new school year might have swallowed Marie up and left her too isolated and anxious to have succeeded in her classes.
Now she was going to be part of creating those dinners that had meant so much to her. As an adult, she had long accepted the fact that she would never be part of a typical family. But by working at the agency she was in some small way making other orphans feel that somebody cared about them. In that, she felt great pride and satisfaction.
“There’s a note on my list to check the budget after the gala,” Marie reported to Felice.
“We’ll have to see what funding the gala brings in, in order to determine how much money we can spend on the September suppers and how many of them we can offer throughout the country.”
“Of course.”
As a teen, it had never occurred to Marie how programs the APCF provided were financed. Only that they were able to help with the extra services people might not be able to afford. Orphaned children sometimes had mental health issues such as depression or post-traumatic stress disorder. Others had learning disabilities or physical conditions. And, maybe most important, once they reached adulthood there was often no place for them to turn for transitional help into higher education or the workforce. The APCF did as much as it could for as many as it could.
Once she started working for the organization, Marie understood that any money it spent on its programs came from outside donations. She glanced up from her powwow with Felice and thanked the air surrounding her that this agency existed and that she was brought into it by one of her few schoolteachers who cared. A quick wince reminded her of some who didn’t.
“I need to return a call.” Felice looked up from her phone to Marie. “Why don’t you continue to match up your notes and see how much information you have?”
“Okay.”
“Zander has all of the data for the gala on his own computer. He’s very specific about what he wants. He’ll go over that with you. We’re lucky to have him chairing the event this year, so let’s make every effort to facilitate his plans.”
“Who’s Zander?” Marie realized that Felice hadn’t answered when she’d asked the first time.
“Felice!” a shrill voice called out from the main office space.
“Let me go deal with that—” Felice stood up “—and let’s touch base at the end of the day. After Zander comes.”
As the director charged out the door, Marie asked yet again, this time to the back of her jacket, “Who is Zander?”
* * *
What a difference a year made.
Zander de Nellay surveyed the sweeping view of the Cannes shoreline through the floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors of his posh penthouse. The palm-tree-lined promenade of La Croisette followed the crescent-shaped curve of the sparkling Gulf of Napoule and its white-sand beaches. It was a sight to behold, indeed.
Little, if nothing, of the vista appeared any different from how it had last spring. Although then, as he had in years past, Zander had stayed in an elegant suite at one of the grand dame hotels on the promenade. And had partied every night with Hollywood film producers and the glamorati who flocked to Cannes from all over the world.
This season, he’d instead be ensconced in a penthouse apartment that kept the town’s constant revelry at arm’s length.
Gliding one of the doors open, he stepped out onto the terrace. The sun was bright but the air was crisp, a combination he’d always enjoyed. Cannes in late spring was a marvelous place to be.
Fortunately, to Zander’s precise specifications, the rental agent was able to find him a suitable penthouse with a terrace that was walled-in cement rather than the typical iron balcony railing, which he wouldn’t have trusted was safe enough for eighteen-month-old Abella, even though he knew she would never be outside on her own. But securely enclosed, Zander cou
ld create a little play area out here for her so that she could get plenty of the fresh sea air. He’d just need a patio umbrella or other covering to shelter her from the strength of the sun.
He shook his head to himself. A year ago Zander was an unattached bachelor, much to his mother’s chagrin, with thoughts only of what suited him. He rotated his life between time spent in his native Charlegin, his apartment in Paris’s tony Sixth Arrondissement and his travels throughout the world on behalf of his charitable endeavors.
Now his mind was on baby-safe balconies.
Stepping back into the penthouse’s sitting room, he watched the deliveries arriving. Movers carried in the petal-pink upholstered rocking chair he’d had sent from his apartment in Paris. Rather than buying one here in Cannes, he wanted the exact chair that Abella had become comfortable with. Truth be told, he was accustomed to it, too. He loved quietly sitting in that chair with her.
Yes, one of the most eligible playboys in Europe now found himself preferring to rock baby Abella in his arms than cavorting with the high society he’d always been surrounded by. And Zander was keenly aware of the realness exchanged between them in those moments.
Heading toward the master bedroom suite, he saw Iris, a compact woman in her sixties who had been Abella’s nanny since the day she was born. “Is she asleep?”
“She’s just starting to rouse.”
There went that funny tap in the center of Zander’s chest. It was a sensation that had arrived around a year ago. The mere thought of seeing Abella pulled at his heart. Her cherubic pink cheeks and that cute way she stretched her back after a nap as if she’d been farming in the fields all day.
“The wardrobe is here,” one of his assistants announced as Zander entered the master suite. “I believe you wanted to go over it.”
Zander didn’t really envision himself as fussy when it came to clothes. But with all the charitable organizations he endorsed and all of the fund-raising benefits and balls he attended, his wardrobe had to be appropriate. He’d come to Cannes for the spring social season and would be attending a dozen formal events and countless others that called for business attire. Even the black slacks and black shirt he wore at the moment were bespoke from the finest tailor in London.
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