The Prince's Cinderella Bride

by Christine Rimmer

  “Not for you, maybe. I have to whine constantly. It’s part of my process.”

  He laughed again. Then he said, “I’ll let you get back to it, but I want to see you tonight.”

  “Yes,” she said, without even stopping to think about it. Because she wanted to see him. Because every time she saw him, she only wanted to be with him some more. And all the other stuff, all her worries and doubts? Lately, all that stuff was starting to feel like lead weights pulling her down, trying to drag her back, to keep her from finding happiness. Maybe she only needed to let go of them, to stop giving them such unnecessary power over her. “How’s Connie?”

  “Dr. Montaigne says she can go to school tomorrow.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear—and about tonight?”

  “You already said yes,” he reminded her gruffly. “You can’t change your mind now.”

  “I have no intention of changing my mind.”

  “Now, that’s what I wanted to hear.”

  “I have a request, though.”

  “Name it.”

  “I don’t feel like going out. Would you come here and we could stay in?”

  “I’d like that. I’ll bring dinner.”

  “I think you just might be the perfect man.”

  “Hold that thought. I’ll see you at seven.”

  She hung up, smiling, and went back to that awful, unworkable sentence. And what do you know? There was nothing wrong with it. She kept going, pressing ahead as Max had suggested, refusing to edit or second-guess herself.

  By one-thirty, she had nine good pages, which got her thinking that she had to stop staying up all night worrying. Having an actual love life could be good for her writing, if she would only allow it to be.

  After a quick sandwich break, she did a little website research and ended up requesting more information from two designers whose portfolios appealed to her. Then she wrote a couple of totally lame tweets, because she had to get used to the whole Twitter thing. Finally, she checked email.

  She had messages in the in-box of the email account she’d linked to Facebook and Twitter, messages from people she’d never heard of. Four of them came right out and said they wanted to talk with her about her relationship with the prince of Montedoro. She trashed those.

  Three of them said they’d read about her sale in Publisher’s Marketplace and wanted to congratulate her and learn more about her books.

  Yesterday, she would have been totally jazzed that she was already getting interest. But after last night and the man with the camera, she couldn’t help wondering if those potential interviewers really only wanted what the others wanted: a hot scoop on what was going on between her and Prince Max. She didn’t trash those three messages, but she didn’t answer them either. She just called it a day, shut down her laptop and treated herself to a long, relaxing bath.

  Max arrived with a shopping bag in one hand and a picnic basket in the other. She took the basket from him and set it on the counter of her little kitchen nook.

  He dropped the shopping bag on a chair, threw his jacket on top of it and swept her into his arms. His wonderful mouth closed over hers and his tongue slipped between her parted lips, and she thought that there really was no place she would rather be than held nice and tight in Max’s embrace.

  “I missed you,” he said, after he finished kissing her senseless.

  She stared up at him. She could do that endlessly. “Do you know that you have to be the best-looking guy on the planet? I love the way your brows draw together, as though you’re constantly thinking very deep thoughts. And what about the wonderful, manly shape of your nose? Oh, and the scent of you. I could stand here and smell you forever.”

  One side of his gorgeous mouth kicked up. “Please do—but did you miss me?”

  “I did.”

  “Tell me all about it.”

  “It’s been awful. Twenty-four hours without you. I don’t know how I survived.”

  “You’re right,” he agreed with enthusiasm. “It’s been much too long.”

  “Though I do feel kind of bad about taking you away from Nick and Connie.”

  He bent close again and whispered in her ear. “Tomorrow night come up to the palace. We’ll have dinner together, the four of us.”

  “Yes.”

  His lips brushed her temple, setting off sparks. “You’re saying yes a lot recently. Yes works for me in a big way.”

  She stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “Something seems to be happening to all my fears and doubts.”

  “Tell me. Don’t hold back.”

  “They could be...vanishing. I feel freer without them, but a little bit naked, too.”

  “You. Naked. Nothing wrong with that.” He tipped up her chin and caught her mouth again, starting out with a gentle brushing of his lips across hers and then slowly deepening the caress, until her senses were swimming and desire began to pool low in her belly.

  She took his face between her hands and gently broke the scorching kiss. “If you keep doing that, we’ll end up in bed before dinner.”

  He arched a brow at her. “Would that be such a bad thing?”

  She took a moment to think about it. “Hmm. You know, now that you put it that way, I have to tell you...”

  He bent, buried his face in the crook of her neck and growled, “Tell me what?”

  She stroked her fingers up into his silky, unruly hair. “I don’t think it would be such a bad thing at all.”

  That was all the encouragement he needed. She let out a happy cry of surprise as he scooped her high against his chest and carried her the short distance to her tiny bedroom. She’d drawn the blinds earlier and the room was dark. He put her down on the bed, switched on the lamp and stood back to get out of his clothes.

  She gazed up at him in the pool of lamplight, dazed and admiring—and then it occurred to her she was wasting precious time. She might as well get busy getting rid of her clothes, too.

  So she did. She grabbed the hem of her sweater and ripped it up and off over her head. Her bra came next. She wiggled out of it as he kicked off his shoes and hopped on one foot to tear off a sock.

  It became something of a competition, both of them whipping off articles of clothing and tossing them out of the way. She started laughing. And then he started laughing.

  He tossed two condoms on the nightstand and came down to the bed with her. They laughed as they kissed.

  And then, somehow, neither of them was laughing anymore. He was touching her everywhere and whispering her name and she held on so tight to him, her body aching with longing, stunned with sweet delight, her mind a hot whirl of wonder and happiness.

  Was this really possible? This magic, this beauty? In the long years since her eighteenth summer, she had let herself give up on ever finding this kind of joy.

  She’d become careful, cautious of both her body and her wounded heart. The girl she’d once been, bold and sure, afraid of nothing, had been lost to her, stolen away by her own headstrong, youthful choices, by a thoughtless, selfish man more than twice her age.

  But now...

  Yes. Now.

  This was hope, wasn’t it? This was happiness calling her, opening to her again.

  She closed her eyes and she whispered, “Max.”

  He answered, “Lani,” rough and low and tender, too.

  All thought whirled away and there was only sensation, only the two of them, locked together, only the promise in her heart, the press of skin on skin, and the sweet, endless pulse of their mutual pleasure.

  * * *

  Sometime later, they gathered up their scattered clothes and put them on again. In the living room, he presented her with the shopping bag he’d tossed on the chair when he came in.

  “What’s this?”

/>   “Open it.”

  In the bag was a shoebox and in the box, a brand-new pair of gray suede pumps identical to the ones she’d worn the morning before. With a shout of pure glee, still holding a shoe in each hand, she threw her arms around his neck.

  He grinned down at her and she thought how young he looked, and how totally pleased with himself. “You did say you loved those shoes.”

  “Thank you.” She went on tiptoe and captured his mouth. They shared a long, lovely toe-curling kiss. When he lifted his head, she asked, “How did you get them in just one day?”

  “You’d be surprised what a little money and a lot of determination can accomplish.”

  * * *

  Over roast chicken and pommes rissoles—pan-fried, herb-crusted potatoes—she told him about the man with the camera the night before and also about the suspicious messages in her in-box.

  “Welcome to my world.” He sipped the wine Marceline had packed with the meal. “Where your privacy will be gleefully invaded at every turn.” He set down the glass. “If you can describe the paparazzo, I might be able to see to it that he leaves Montedoro once and for all.”

  “It’s tempting. The guy really freaked me out at first. But no.”

  The lines between his brows deepened. “You mean you can describe him, but you won’t?”

  “It was dark and it happened too fast for me to get a good look at him. But even if I could tell you exactly what he looked like, you’re right. I don’t know if I would. It was awful only because I wasn’t expecting it. And even sleazy photographers have to make a living.”

  “Not by ambush, they don’t, not in Montedoro. And they know it, too. They all know the rules here. They can take all the pictures they want, snap away to their venal little hearts’ content—but they have to keep their distance while they do it. The fellow last night? Completely over the line. He deserves to be sent away and not allowed back.”

  She ate a bite of the delicious potatoes. “Sorry. Can’t help you.”

  He didn’t look happy, but at least he let it go. “As to the emails, can you simply ignore them?”

  “I deleted the ones that were fishing for information about you. A few of them, though, look as though they might be legit, bloggers in publishing just interested in interviewing a budding author. I thought I might write them back and ask for the interview questions. When I get those, I’ll have a better idea of what I’m dealing with.”

  “Be careful.”

  She promised that she would. And then she asked him about his day.

  He told her about the weekly meeting with the ministers of state and then added, almost as an afterthought, “I met with my mother alone afterward.”

  Something in his voice warned her. “Did you talk about me?”

  He held her gaze. “We did. It was all good.”

  Somehow, she didn’t quite believe him. “Why do I think there’s more going on here than you’re telling me?”

  He reached across the narrow table and snared her hand. “She’s glad for me, that I’ve found someone who makes me happy.”

  “Well.” She felt a smile kind of tremble its way across her mouth. “That’s nice to hear.” He looked down at their joined hands and then back up at her, a glance that seemed just a little evasive. She asked, “You’re sure that’s all?”

  He squeezed her hand, made a low noise that could have meant yes—or could have been a tactic to avoid answering her question.

  “Max. Why do I feel that you’re not telling me everything?”

  “Mothers worry,” he gave out grudgingly. That did it. She pulled her hand free. He glared at her. “Damn it, Lani.”

  She schooled her voice to gentleness. “You’re not telling me everything.”

  “It’s nothing for you to worry about, take my word for it.”

  “I don’t believe you.” For that, she got an angry shrug. “Oh, Max...”

  He shot her a look from under his brows. “Let’s change the subject, shall we?”

  Oh, she was tempted. How simple, to let it be. To move on to some other, happier topic. But when you really cared about someone, you didn’t always get to just drop it when things got difficult. “I can take it,” she whispered. “I promise you I can. Won’t you give me a chance?” He folded his big arms across his broad chest and sat back in the chair. She kept after him. “I know I haven’t made it easy for you, up till now. I know you had to do all the work and that for a very long time, I gave you so little.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yes it is. I created a whole new meaning for the word reluctant. I know you understand why now, because I finally drummed up the nerve to tell you about the hardest things. It’s just, well, it’s taken over a decade, for me to forgive myself for Thomas, for my poor lost baby, for...all of it. The therapy I had helped. Sydney helped, by making a place for me in her life, by being the best friend I’ve ever had and never, ever judging me. And you, Max. I think you’ve helped most of all.”

  “My God, Lani.” He leaned in at last and reached for her hand again.

  Instead of giving it, she raised it between them. “No. Wait. It’s important, if we want to go on together, that we’re honest with each other, that you don’t sugar-coat things for me. If your mother has issues with you and me together, I need to know about it.”

  He picked up his wine again and saw it was empty. With a low, impatient sound, he set it back down. “You have to understand. My mother is about as egalitarian as a ruling monarch could be. She wants us—my brothers and sisters and me—to be happy above all, to build relationships based on love and respect first and foremost. But it’s a little different for me.”

  “Because you’re the heir.”

  “Exactly. There are other things to consider when I become serious about a woman.”

  Serious. It was one of those words. Enormous and yet so simple, both at the same time. “You told her that you’re serious about me?”

  “I did. Because I am.”

  Her throat clutched. “That, um, sounds really good.”

  He almost smiled. But his eyes remained somber. “My mother has to consider our allies and their possible reactions to any woman I become close to.”

  Lani knew her Montedoran history. “The French, right? Her French ministers. For them, an ordinary American girl just won’t do.”

  “Yes, the French. She said they wouldn’t be happy. I said they would get over it.”

  “Well, they got over your mother marrying your father.”

  He did smile then. “You’re taking this so well and you understand perfectly.”

  “See? You should have just told me. What else?”

  “Lani, I...” He let the words trail off. She could tell he really didn’t know how to answer.

  And by then, she knew. A cold shiver traveled up her spine. “Scandal, right? Your mother wanted to know if there was anything about me that might make tabloid fodder.”

  He gave it up. “That’s right.”

  Her chest felt tight, and her stomach churned. “And you told her...?”

  “I said you had secrets, things you regretted, as we all do. She wanted to know what those secrets were. I refused to break your confidence. She said she could make inquiries. I asked her not to.”

  “Will she do it anyway?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But did she say that she wouldn’t?”

  “No.” He stared at her so hard, as though he could pin her in place with just that look. “I don’t care.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t care?”

  “Whatever happens, we deal with it. We don’t let it break us.”

  “Someone could find out though, right?” she asked in a hollow voice. “Someone could dig it all up again. The whole worl
d could read about...all of it.” She shook her head slowly, back and forth and back again, absorbing the enormous ugliness of that. “I should have thought of this. I can’t believe I didn’t. But then, why would I ever want to face that someday the whole world could know? I thought it was more than bad enough just making myself tell you.”

  His eyes were storm-cloud gray and his lips twisted cruelly. “Are you bailing out on me? Is that what you’re doing?”

  She stared at him, wide-eyed and blinking, feeling like someone startled by a bright light in a very dark room. “You shouldn’t continue with me. It’s not a good idea for you.”

  “How many ways can I say it?” Shoving back his chair, he stood.

  She gasped and blinked up at him. “Um. Say what?”

  He turned his back to her. She sat there, not sure what to do or say, as he paced to the living area, all the way to the sliding door, where he gazed out at the night for several seconds that seemed to stretch to an infinity.

  Finally, he whirled and faced her again. “I always knew there was something that kept you from coming to me. I knew and I didn’t care. I just wanted to get through it, to be the one you reached for when you were ready at last, to be the one to gain your trust and know your truth. And when you finally did tell me, you didn’t shock me. It all made complete sense to me, those choices you made as an eighteen-year-old girl. I didn’t—I don’t—judge you for those choices. They caused you great pain and loss and almost killed you. But you survived. They changed you. They are you, a part of you anyway, a part of what brought you here, to Montedoro, to me.

  “I don’t really care who knows, who finds out something that happened years and years ago. To me, that’s just another possible storm to weather, along with all the others we have to get through in this life. What I care about is you. That you know you can trust me. That I can count on you, that when the latest storm has played itself out, you’re still there, where I need you, at my side.”

  Lani pushed her chair back and got up. Somewhere in the middle of all those beautiful things he’d just said, she’d stopped feeling stunned and broken and scared. Somewhere in there, it had become crystal clear to her what she had to do.