Billionaire's Runaway Princess

by Mia Caldwell

  “Surely he has, ah, friends.”

  “I’ve not seen many, man or woman since he moved in. His mom comes by, and his little sister, but that’s about it. He works most of the time from what I gather.”

  “I see. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Danny but I need to get going. Oh, can you tell me where the nearest library is?”

  “Library, eh? Sure enough. Let me write the address down. And while we’re at it, I’ll give you the elevator key.”

  Marisol looked for the exit out of the building. She didn’t want to tell him she wasn’t coming back. “Can I get that later?”

  “Sure, Miss Marisol. I’m here until six.”

  “And what direction is the library in?”

  “Let me call Mr. Ryan’s car. He’ll take you wherever you need to go.”

  “You don’t need to—”

  “Mr. Ryan left instructions to call his car if you needed transportation. So, Miss Marisol, I’m calling the car.”

  Danny had a determined look on his face so she relented. “Thanks, Danny.”

  Marisol walked into a bright New York air and waited for the car. She was surprised when it arrived. It wasn’t a limo, but a new Lincoln Town Car.

  “Hi, I’m Jerry,” said the driver.

  “Nice to meet you,” said Marisol.

  After introductions they travelled the clogged New York street to her destination. Soon Marisol was delivered to a branch of the New York Public Library.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be,” she said to Jerry when they got there.

  “That’s okay. I’ll find a place to park not far. If I have to drive around the block until I do that’s okay too. Mr. Kelley told me not to expect a call until around seven tonight, so I have all day.”

  “And this is what you do? Wait for calls to take him somewhere?”

  “Yeah. It’s a great job. For time to time, I’ll get a call to take a business associate somewhere, but it’s mostly Mr. Kelley.”

  Marisol was dying to ask him if he ever drove any ladies with or with Mr. Kelley, but resisted the urge.

  The driver’s phone rang, and he answered it.

  “Sure, I’ll take care of it, Mr. Kelley.” He turned and looked at Marisol. “I’ve got to make a trip to Penn Station, but I’ll be back for you. Shouldn’t take me longer than an hour, even if the traffic is bad.”

  “That’s fine,” said Marisol. “I’m sure it will take some time to do what I came here to do.”

  “See you later then.”

  In the library, Marisol spent several frustrating hours researching her mother and her family. While at first she found nothing, her excitement climbed she found a book about her written by her mother’s brother. The first half of the book was filled with pictures of her mother as a child, and in different dancing costumes as she grew up.

  Marisol couldn’t help but feel pride of the beautiful young woman, but it was also apparent Alonda grew up poor and used dance as a way out of poverty. Unfortunately, the book didn’t have details about where the family lived. However, it was filled with Marisol’s uncle’s ruminations about how Alonda Morrison left behind her family when she became famous. Marisol was taken aback by the bitter tone. Her mother never said anything bad about her family, but then again, she never said anything good either.

  Through the obituary records, she found both her mother’s parents had passed on, but there wasn’t anything on her uncle. Was he alive? Marisol had to find out.

  The librarian that helped her kept staring at Marisol as if she was trying to figure something out.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “You look familiar, but I can’t place you.”

  Marisol’s gut clenched, wondering if the woman was about to figure her out. She needed to finish up here quickly.

  “I’m sure we’ve never met before. Is there a phone I can use?”

  “There’s a public phone in the corner,” the librarian said, pointing to the area.

  Marisol had a few coins in her pocket left from her ill-fated hot dog purchase and used them to make the call. “Hi,” she said, “I’d like to speak to whomever might have information about the writer of ‘The Alonda Morrison Story.’ Wilson Morrison is the author.”

  It took several minutes before Marisol was put through to an editor.

  “Yes, I remember him. Very sad story.”

  “Did he die?” asked Marisol, her stomach sinking at the thought.

  “Just who is this? I’ll tell you he doesn’t have any money. He comes in every so often looking for royalties, but that book is deader than the proverbial doornail.”

  “No, I’m a reporter,” said Marisol, trying to keep the woman on the line. “I thought with all the news of the missing princess, I’d get some background on her mother.”

  “Oh, yes. That is a story. It’s been running in the news day and night.”

  “It has?” said Marisol. She was shocked she got that much interest from the media, but she also felt embarrassed. What was going her father going through? She had to bet a message to him. Then it hit her how her words sounded. “I mean, it has.”

  “Well, I’m not sure you’ll get much out of him, but he likes to hang out at Munson’s Coffee House.”

  Marisol secured the address from the woman and thanked her profusely. Feeling much happier than she had in a long time, she walked toward the entrance of the library. Then she spied the librarian that helped her with a security guard pointing toward the direction of the phone.

  With her heart pounding in her chest, she looked for another way out of the library, but each door she encountered was locked. There was only one thing to do. Keeping her head down, she walked briskly to the front door.

  “There!” the librarian shouted, and she and the guard rushed toward Marisol. She dashed out of the door with the two running after her. Marisol’s heart pounded in her chest as she made her escape. She looked around frantically for the Lincoln and finally saw it ahead on the left-hand side of the street. With her feet slapping the New York pavement, she made the car and jumped in, breathing hard.

  “Are you okay?” asked Jerry with concern in his eyes, peering at her from his rearview mirror.

  “Yes. Can we please go to Munson’s Coffee House?”

  ***

  Marisol didn’t know what to expect when she walked into the coffeehouse. Its lighting was dark, and a brooding atmosphere permeated the space. Against the back wall was a wood service counter where a young man stood waiting to take orders. A few people sat at scattered tables, but it generally seemed a place that didn’t get much business.

  She scanned the room, but saw no one that was a candidate for her uncle. A couple of Asian boys sat huddled over a computer, and a woman in torn jeans sipped a cup of coffee while reading a book.

  On the right was a bank of leather booths, so she took one with a good view of the front door. To the right of the double door was a large television suspended from the ceiling. A news channel was playing. Although the sound was off, closed captions ran at the bottom. A picture of Marisol popped up on the screen behind a reporter. Closed captions ran with the reporter’s commentary.

  Princess Marisol Duvaingnon of Dalaysia, twenty-one, is still missing. She disappeared last night from the Grand Wedgewood Hotel during a state dinner celebrating her engagement with Prince Tristan Vattakov of Kriegov, a small, independent state that was once part of the Soviet Union. While police report no clues in the disappearance of the princess, sources inside the The Grand Wedgewood Hotel report a server is being questioned in connection with Princess Marisol’s disappearance. Allegedly, the server was found with several items belonging the to princess, though at this time no charges have been filed. At this time, law enforcement has not stated they suspect foul play, but due to the high-profile nature of this case, the investigation is ongoing. Local and federal law enforcement are working closely with Dalaysian and Kreigov security in following up on leads provided through a tip line set up by the NYPD. P
lease call 555–780-0000 if you have any information that will assist in the investigation.

  Marisol hung her head. Her father must be worried sick. Plus all these people were looking for her, diverting time and resources from the cases that needed their help. She resolved to get a message to her father as soon as she could and let him know searching for her was unnecessary.

  The door opened with the ring of a bell overhead, and a black man walked in. Her breath caught in her throat. Though aged and with graying hair, the man was the spitting image of her mother. She rubbed her arms while she took a deep breath. The man walked haltingly to the counter and spoke to the barista, who frowned before he prepared a cup of coffee for him.

  Marisol watched each movement he made, torn between walking up and introducing herself and flying out the door. She had never met this man, and he’d been around Marisol’s age when her mother left New York to fly off to Dalaysia with a crown prince.

  He turned with coffee in-hand, looking over the room until he spotted Marisol. His eyes narrowed, and he approached Marisol’s booth.

  “You,” he hissed when he got close enough. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for family,” she said.

  “Well, you gave that up when you left. What the hell do you want now?”

  Marisol was confused. What was he talking about?

  “I’ve never met you,” she said. “But I think you’re my uncle Wilson.”

  He blinked as if trying to adjust his world view. He peered at her more closely.

  “I would have sworn you were Alonda.”

  “No. My name is Marisol. Alonda was my mother.”

  “Oh,” he sneered. “The half-white brat.”

  Marisol was shocked by the vehemence in his words.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Our own people weren’t enough for her. She left us for that white—”

  “Excuse me,” said Marisol shaking with her indignation. “My father is a wonderful man, and he loved my mother with all his heart.”

  “And he took such good care of her that she’s dead now.”

  “That wasn’t his fault.”

  “That’s not how I see it,” Wilson said. “If he’d left her alone, she’d be alive right now.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  He raised his cups to his lip with trembling hands, and Marisol saw there was something not right about him.

  “What wrong with you?” she said.

  He barked a short laugh that was full of bitterness. “I’m sick.”

  Marisol’s heart sunk to her stomach.

  “I’m sorry to hear.”

  “No, not that kind of sick. It’s the kind of sick that can be fixed with money. How about it, Princess? Can you spot your uncle some money?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t have any money.”

  “Goddamn selfish bitch,” he spat, rising from the booth. “You were always coldhearted, Alonda, even when you were in New York. Couldn’t be bothered to spot your family money even when you were making it big on Broadway. It’s your fault our parents are dead. You wouldn’t give me the money to make it right for them. Addicts. That what you called them. Said you wouldn’t feed their addiction even when they needed to get well. And they died. So, go back to the big time, Alonda. You couldn’t be bothered with your family then, so don’t bother with us now.”

  Marisol stared at him, beyond shocked as the man swayed when he pushed away from the booth.

  “Don’t bother me again,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away.

  Marisol stared after him in total dismay. Plan A was a total disaster.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Aftermath

  Marisol sat in the booth with her head buried in her arms, trying to make sense of what happened. She had no strength left in her body. The dream of meeting with her New York family was now shattered. The one person with a tie to her mother hated her, though she doubted he made very much sense of his world. It frightened Marisol how easy it was for him to confuse her with her mother.

  She had no hope of refuge with her uncle, and she couldn’t stay with Ryan anymore. Her choices were narrowing from slim to none rapidly. And to top it all off, the police were looking for her. If she was recognized, she’d be returned to her father.

  “Miss,” said a voice.

  Marisol raised her head to see the barista standing over her.

  “Sorry. It’s the rules. If you don’t buy something, you can’t stay.”

  “Of course. I’ll go.”

  With a heavy heart, she stood and left the coffeehouse. Jerry stood against the Town Car waiting for her.

  “Where to now?” asked Jerry looking at her with concern.

  “Take me back to the apartment,” she said with a heavy heart. On the ride to Ryan’s apartment she went over again the sum and substance of her life. She had nothing on her own, nothing that didn’t come with being Princess of Dalayasia. Her father asked her to do one thing to secure the future of her country, but she couldn’t do it. Wilson was right. She was selfish. At that moment she changed her mind.

  “Take me to the Grand Wedgewood Hotel.”

  “Okay, Miss Marisol,” said Jerry though there was doubt in his voice.

  “It is better this way,” she thought. “Better I should do what I was born to do than to be a burden on other people.”

  ***

  A mob of people waited at the hotel. Reporters lined the sidewalks, and police stood guard at the entrance.

  “This is because of that runaway princess,” said Jerry derisively.

  “Runaway Princess?” asked Marisol.

  “Yeah, the princess of Dalay-what-ever-it-is. She took off and didn’t tell people anything.”

  “That was selfish of her,” said Marisol.

  Jerry shrugged. “Who knows why she did it? She might have had a good reason.”

  “To worry that many people, I don’t think so.” Marisol opened the door as they were still in the street because of a clog in traffic.

  “I’ll wait for you,” said Jerry.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Yes, I do. It’s my job.”

  “Bye, Jerry,” she said. “It was nice to meet you.” Without a backward glance, she pushed past the people on the sidewalk to the entrance of the hotel. Here, she was stopped by a police officer. The beefy cop easily stood a head taller to her, and he held out his hand to barring entrance to the hotel.

  “This is a crime scene, Miss. You can’t enter.”

  “But I’m Marisol, the Princess of Dalyasia.”

  The cop laughed. “And I’m King Vattakov. Move along, princess. No one is getting in this hotel without authorization.”

  “Look!” she said indignantly. “Check it out. I am Princess Marisol. Call my father. He’ll identify me.”

  “And I said move along,” said the cop roughly. “Or I’ll be forced to put you in jail with the rest of the Princess Marisols that showed up here today.”

  Marisol stood there stunned. Never for a minute did anyone doubt who she was.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder, and she turned to see Jerry’s concerned face.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “This isn’t a good idea.”

  “But—” protested Marisol.

  He shook his head. “You don’t want to get in bad with these cops. If they arrest you, it might be days before anyone can find you to get you out. Come on. I’ll take you back to the apartment.”

  She brooded all the way back to Ryan’s apartment, and even Danny’s cheerful face could bring her out of her funk. He gave her the key to the elevator and showed her how to use it. Marisol thanked him, but half-heartedly.

  On the ride up to Ryan’s apartment, she continued worrying about the situation. She’d already done it several times, and each replay only made things worse. She had nothing on her own, nothing that didn’t come with being Princess of Dalayasia. Her father had asked her to do one thing to s
ecure the future of her country, but she couldn’t do it. Wilson was right. She was selfish.

  When she’d tried to make things right, she was turned away. Add to that she couldn’t do the simple job of housekeeper, and her one remaining family member in the world didn’t want her around.

  Could this day get any worse?

  Marisol felt it couldn’t. What was she going to do now? Hang around in the house of a millionaire who had prior commitments? Moon over a man while he walked around near naked in a bath towel.

  How did her life get so messed up?

  The door to the elevator opened, and she stepped into Ryan’s apartment. As she opened the service entrance, she almost collided with an older blonde woman holding a broom.

  Oh great. Ryan couldn’t trust her with the housework, so he’d brought in the cleaning service.

  “Hello, you must be Marisol,” said the woman. “I’m Cheryl Kelley, Ryan’s mom.”

  “Ryan’s mom?”

  “Yes. My son called me this morning and said you could use some help settling in.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes. And, no offense, but from the looks of things, you can definitely use some help.”

  At that moment the day, the morning with Ryan, searching for her uncle, and the rejection at hotel, overwhelmed her and she started crying.

  “Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Kelley. “I didn’t mean to sound harsh.”

  “You..you didn’t,” stammered Marisol. “It’s true. I’m completely useless.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second. My son has a good eye for good people, and if he has you in his house, you’re one.”

  “You don’t know,” said Marisol in full distress. “I’ve messed everything up.”

  “Let’s have a cup of tea, and talk about it,” said Mrs. Kelley.

  “There isn’t anything to talk about. I have no job skills. I can’t use a broom to save my life, and I have no idea how to use that thing.” She pointed dramatically to the washer-dryer set. “And if it weren’t for Danny the doorman, Ryan wouldn’t have had his breakfast this morning or the suit he wanted.”