The Prince's Cinderella

by Andrea Bolter

  As he slid one arm and then the other through the sleeves of his tuxedo jacket, Zander finished dressing and begged himself to stop thinking about Marie. She’d be accompanying him tonight and to a few more events. They’d do the APCF benefit and then have no reason to spend time together. If the fund-raiser was a hit, perhaps Marie would get the permanent job in Cannes and he’d see her once a year if he continued to chair the gala. Other than that, there would be no cause for their worlds to collide after this season.

  The babbling he heard from Abella’s baby monitor fortified Zander’s priority. This precious baby was what mattered, and everything else took second place. Besides, he’d only just gotten acquainted with Marie. One side of his brain questioned the wisdom of even having her in the apartment. Though he’d bet his life that she wasn’t out to deceive him in any way, some people were masters at concealing things.

  Were he ever to decide to be with a woman he’d need to spend months, if not years, vetting her before he’d begin to trust her around Abella, which his mistake with Henriette reinforced.

  After grabbing his phone and wallet, he slipped into Abella’s room. Iris had the crown princess in her lap on the rocking chair.

  “Are you okay for the evening?” he asked the nanny.

  “Thank you, yes. Have a good time.”

  Zander couldn’t resist tiptoeing over to give Abella a little kiss on the top of her head. As he stepped out of the room she clucked, “Bye, Da.”

  In front of the building where Marie was staying, Zander had his driver park so that he could greet her as she came out of the lobby. The pewter-colored gown with the geometric cutouts looked even more stunning and sexy on her than he had remembered when they bought it together.

  “You are absolutely breathtaking,” he couldn’t help commenting as she walked toward him.

  “Thank you for sending the hair and makeup squad again,” she demurred with a modest smile. “I feel very glamorous.” Her locks had doubled in volume and some kind of tiny shimmers were magically affixed to various strands, highlighting her expertly made-up face.

  “You’d better, since the Hollywood A-list is going to be at this party.”

  “Just another ordinary evening for me,” she joked, the sweetest blush coming to her cheeks.

  Zander’s chest swelled with a particular pride as he helped Marie, and the formidable train of her evening gown, into the car. He hoped he’d done enough to make sure she felt put together, knowing that meeting movie stars wasn’t exactly something she was used to.

  When they arrived at the Carlsmon, Zander repeated his ministrations to help Marie and the dress through the car door.

  Over a hundred years old, the Carlsmon Hotel was a masterful example of French Art Nouveau architecture. It had always been one of the key meeting places for the film festival set. Countless movies and music videos had been filmed there. An enormous structure, its two distinctive domes on both the seaward corners were rumored to be inspired in design by the breasts of the architect’s wife. It was, without question, the most recognizable building in Cannes.

  Hundreds of cameras greeted Zander and Marie with blinding flashes. He had figured that a prince of a tiny principality was not so interesting at an event where award-winning actors and actresses would be in attendance.

  Nonetheless, there was always a hungry market for photos of young royals doing anything at all. He didn’t know if his appearance at this party would warrant enough attention that the press would recognize Marie as the woman he was with at the Mexico party. She wasn’t used to having her name in the papers and gossip sites, so he hoped they could just pass under the radar on a night filled with brighter stars.

  He gestured to take Marie’s arm, which was becoming a much too familiar habit. His shoulders arched on their own volition when she gripped his bicep as they made their way down the red carpet to enter the hotel.

  Behind barricades, members of the general public were allowed to congregate and take photos, calling out to the stars who waved and posed.

  Marie’s eyes went wide at the sight of some very recognizable faces.

  Incoming party guests were ushered into the event space, a ballroom that had been converted into a screening room for the night. Ten or so movie screens were erected around the room with comfortable seating arrangements set up in clusters in front of each. With about three hundred in attendance, guests would enjoy finger foods and cocktails while they watched a documentary produced by two notable actresses on the issues of illiteracy. Proceeds from the evening were to benefit an international education organization.

  “Zander!”

  He recognized the voice of Asher Kraus, the Austrian race car driver he’d known for years. In years gone by, Zander and Asher had been known to rent a ski chalet where they entertained the party people of Europe for winter getaways. A time in Zander’s life that seemed so shallow now.

  Zander let go of Marie, noting the disquieting change to his body chemistry without her touch, in order to give his old pal a proper hug.

  “This is my colleague, Marie Paquet.”

  “Colleague?” Asher raised an eyebrow, as if Zander had been using that word as a metaphor for something else.

  As a matter of fact, he’d been making a point of introducing Marie as a colleague to as many people as possible to help her build a reputation as a relevant fund-raiser. Plus, he didn’t want anyone to have a cheapened image of her, to assume she was merely eye candy on the bachelor prince’s arm.

  Nobody would understand the turmoil that rollicked through Zander as he referred to her as a professional contact.

  “Sit with us,” Asher interrupted Zander’s contemplations as he guided the prince and Marie over to the group he was sitting with. A stylish bunch, to be sure. Bendy women held wineglasses while the urbane men argued about which country produced the best cabernets.

  The lights dimmed for the screening. Zander and Marie sat next to each other on a small sofa. Her gown’s halter top and cutouts left quite a lot of her skin uncovered and, before even meaning to, Zander made one long slide with his hand down her back as a way of ensuring she was comfortable.

  The motion left him anything but, as the silken feel of her shot a maddening craving to his very center. After flashing on the number of things he’d like to explore with her while in the dark of a movie screening, he straightened up and vowed to keep his hands to himself.

  One of the film’s producers took to the central podium to introduce the screening.

  “I love how they’ve done the food.” Marie gestured to the cocktail tables in front of them, which adorned every grouping throughout the room. Movie theater food had been elevated to a Carlsmon Hotel level of posh. Old-timey red-and-white boxes held four different flavors of popcorn. Hot buttered, spicy, chocolate caramel and cheddar cheese all looked tempting.

  “Let’s try these.” Zander popped one kernel into Marie’s mouth and another into his own. He figured she wouldn’t want to risk getting any popcorn dust on her dress. Or he wanted an excuse to feed her. He acknowledged both possibilities. Careful not to let his fingers touch her lips in the process, he fed them one of each flavor. As if they were merely conducting an inspection. Which they were.

  And which shouldn’t have bordered on the erotic.

  Even though it did.

  “That chocolate caramel is to die for,” she voted in.

  Bottles of old-fashioned sodas were kept cold in ice buckets. Trays with several types of sausages inside brioche rolls were the evening’s equivalent of American hot dogs.

  Small plastic bags lay on a tray next to bowls of assorted candies. Guests were invited to fill the bags to their liking so that they could nibble during the movie.

  “Would you like me to make you a bag?” Zander asked. Asher and his friends made their selections, as well.

  “I can do it,” Marie insist
ed, helping herself to a box of the popcorn, an orange soda and a mix of every candy offered. So much for concern about her dress. Zander grinned with satisfaction. He liked a girl who chose candy over worrying about her designer gown.

  Admittedly, he found himself wanting to watch her more than he did the film, but he put his attention to the screening once it began. It was quite effective in its discussion about the literacy issue and its impact on education, identity and employment.

  Once the screening was over, the Carlsmon staff worked like rapid fire to remove the movie-watching groupings and turn the space back to a ballroom so that dancing and coffee service could begin.

  “Let’s go look at the auction items.”

  “Yes, I’d like to see them.”

  Zander took Marie’s hand, oh, so supple, to navigate them over to the silent auction area.

  “Yowza!” he exclaimed when they reached one of the display tables. “These are going to bring in serious money. That yellow gold and diamond watch could fetch a quarter of a million on its own.”

  Marie read aloud the description that accompanied a photo collage of a tropical retreat. “Weeklong stay on a private island in the South Pacific. You and eleven guests, plus a full staff, will be the only inhabitants on this hundred-acre island. Small boats and everything else you’ll need to indulge in water sports and leisure pursuits will be provided. Your fun in the sun will be rewarded with meals prepared by a Michelin-starred chef. This unique property has eight bedrooms and ten bathrooms. Bidding begins at five hundred thousand.”

  “Nice package.”

  “You people live in an entirely parallel universe to the rest of us.”

  “You people?” he laughed.

  “Let’s not pretend I know what a 1963 B-Series convertible is.”

  Zander read the description. “Considered the best in class, this classic design has been fully updated with electronic ignition, modern sound system, wireless navigation and top-speed capability. The interior’s luxury will be the envy of every motorist on the road. Bidding begins at nine hundred thousand.”

  Marie bugged out her eyes. “And all of these auction items were donated?”

  “The gauntlet has been thrown down to us for the APCF gala, Mademoiselle Paquet. Let’s see what we can do.”

  She filled her cheeks with air like balloons about to pop.

  The band started up with a slow song, a baritone voice belting out endearments of love. People took to the dance floor.

  “May I have this dance?”

  As the prince led Marie to the dance floor, she was immediately swept into the music. The five-piece band was fronted by a charismatic crooner who sang about love being there all along if someone was looking for it.

  When Zander circled his arm around Marie’s waist for the slow dance, hearing the word love being sung at the same time made her light-headed. It wasn’t a word she’d heard a lot in her life.

  With his hand flat against her back, Zander brought her in close to him. She stiffened to his touch at first. It was simply too pleasurable, and rather than get pulled into those hands like they were a mighty wave of the ocean she tried to bolster herself at shore. While she couldn’t keep a physical distance, she knew that she had to keep an emotional one.

  Taking her hand in his spare one, Zander swayed them in a one-and-two, one-and-two that was something in between ballroom dancing and a more contemporary slide. They were joined so tightly that she could only press her face into the lapel of his tux. If there was a better spot on earth, Marie surely didn’t know of it.

  The formal fabric of his jacket smelled of a light musky cologne, nothing overbearing. The rock-hard muscles of his chest matched the solidly built arms she’d become quite familiar with. In fact, physical proximity to Zander was something she was starting to get used to, although she suspected it wasn’t a very good idea.

  In a few days’ time, she’d been transformed from a dowdy nonprofit worker dressed in creased trousers to a woman immersed in the glitzy lifestyle of the Cannes social scene. Zander was right when he’d told her this was something she’d need to get comfortable with if she was going to be a force in the fund-raising world. With pride that she’d gotten off to an excellent start, one problem loomed large.

  How could anyone be expected to spend night and day with His Highness Prince Zander de Nellay of Charlegin and not become romantically attracted to him? And wish for something beyond their professional connection? Especially when, so far, he’d kissed her on the cheek, put his arm around her, walked arm in arm and now danced with her.

  Innocent enough encounters but, nonetheless, moments that awoke her from the inside and made her entire body respond. And birthed deliberations about belonging and permanence and a life shared.

  On top of all of that, not only was the prince spectacularly good-looking, he was moral and caring and had a great sense of fun. Traits that would make him a fine father figure.

  Even if Abella wasn’t in the picture, Marie knew that royalty had an obligation to their subjects to marry the right people. After all, there were ceremonies to preside over, elders to appease and history to uphold. Royal marriages were still the serious and exclusive business that they had been for centuries.

  In a million years, Marie Paquet would never be approved as a mate for Zander. A fact she kept repeating to herself as the influence of his hands directed her across the dance floor and his low vibrato murmured in her ear, “We certainly are spending a lot of time together.”

  “Felice had told me to report directly to you and to put any other work aside until the gala.”

  “Report directly to me,” Zander hummed and started to say something, then decided against it. Had he been about to say that he liked the sound of that, having Marie at his beck and call? Part of her wished he did, as confirmation that he was enjoying being thrown together as much as she was.

  Which was ridiculous thinking. Yet she couldn’t help musing.

  If only she could meet a man like Zander someday. One whom she could actually have and hold and cherish, of course.

  Photographers circled the dance floor. Several were documenting the evening for the film producers who would be able to point to a successful launch at Cannes to bring attention to their film. But Marie suspected some of the pictures being snapped were going to entertainment magazines and gossip websites, as the public never tired of gawking at celebrities.

  One woman dressed in a black T-shirt and black pants swooped down and around the dancing couples as she worked to get her shots. And who could blame her?

  The auburn-haired actress who’d received critical acclaim for her performance as a Holocaust survivor was grinding raunchily up against the award-winning actor now making a fortune with his action hero franchise.

  There was the middle-aged couple, a respected director and his television star wife, who had reportedly split up but had eyes for only each other tonight.

  A camera’s flash came toward Zander and Marie, temporarily blinding her with the power of its brightness. Marie hoped the media would have no interest in finding out whom Prince Zander was spotted with in Cannes. Although royal gossip hounds noted his every public move, clearly Marie wasn’t famous. Even if they were to dig, there’d probably be little or no available information about her.

  She hoped not, anyway. Prince Zander shouldn’t be mixed up with the likes of someone who had a background such as hers.

  When the music changed, Zander expertly twirled Marie around the dance floor while continuing their conversation. “Tomorrow we have to finalize the costume theme.”

  “Okay,” Marie acknowledged although now her mind had wandered far, far away. To those facts she’d rather keep private. To the eleven-year-old who had to carry in her gut the information that her parents were drug dealers who were killed during street warfare.

  “We have to meet with the ca
terer, as well. I want to design a signature cocktail for the evening.”

  Marie nodded but her mind was still years back, on those same parents who were addicted to drugs themselves and made one careless mistake after the other until rival dealers were easily able to trip them up.

  After some focused breathing, Marie was able to return her attention to the tall, powerful, sure prince she was dancing with. “Signature cocktail? I’ve never heard of that.”

  “When you’ve gone to a hundred of these parties, believe me it’s the little niceties that make an impression.”

  He’d certainly made an impression on her. This man, with his selfless commitment to his orphaned niece, would make it his business to be sure Abella was never put in dangerous situations or in harm’s way. It’s what decent people did for their children.

  As she continued to dance with Zander, she looked around the ballroom. Well-tended people chitchatted and sipped espressos. Marie knew that money or privilege didn’t guarantee happiness. Had any of them known the embarrassment she had? The loss, the loneliness? Different circumstances, but the same pain?

  Zander tightened his grip on her, an action she didn’t protest. No, quite the opposite. She leaned into him, his broad chest and long arms providing the shelter that she rarely had the opportunity to seek.

  Just for a minute, she told herself, as she closed her eyes and let the world slip away. She pressed into Zander to let him become her talisman, her beacon in the dark seas, her good luck charm, her hope. Just for a minute.

  * * *

  Marie wanted to dance for a long time, with no protest from Zander. Eventually, they stepped off the dance floor to check out the desserts. He was sure something had changed within her while they were dancing, although he couldn’t put his finger on what. Now, when he looked over to see if she liked the lavish chocolate fountains, one dark, one milk and one white, Marie was not focused on the sweets. She had a distant, almost scared, look on her face.