Stepping into the Prince's World

by Marion Lennox

  Once she’d graduated she’d taken a job in Legal Assistance. It had been a great organisation—helping the underprivileged with legal advice and representation when they couldn’t afford it. She’d enjoyed it. Then she’d won a huge legal case that had received national headlines, and she’d been head-hunted by one of the most prestigious law firms in Australia. She had been stupid enough to accept.

  Only she hadn’t been one of them.

  ‘I was the odd one out,’ she told him. ‘An experiment. They select their lawyers on the basis of family and connections, but one of the senior partners had the noble idea that they should try something else—hire someone on merit. They broke their rules when they hired me. Three others were hired at the same time, on the old system. They’d gone to the same school and the same universities. They were the best of friends. But there was a fourth, and because of me he missed out on a job. So they hated me from day one. I tried not to care. I put my head down and worked. But the more I got ahead the more they hated me.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then there was a problem,’ she said, talking almost to herself. ‘Insider trading, they call it. Someone in the firm knew something and passed the information on. There was a deal. Someone outside the company made seven million dollars and the media started asking questions. The company had to point the finger at someone.’

  ‘Was there evidence?’

  ‘Of course there was evidence,’ she told him. ‘A paper trail leading straight back to me. So I was called into the office of the managing director. I had a choice, he said. I could resign and the company’s insurer would repay costs, cover the fiasco and keep the company’s name clean and out of the courts. Or I could go to jail.’ She shrugged. ‘They had the best legal team in Australia covering their backs and I was a nobody. I had nobody. It didn’t seem like much of a choice.’

  ‘But if it wasn’t you...?’

  She sighed. ‘A week after I left Felicity left. For Paris. I have no proof of anything, but Felicity’s partner just happens to be the nephew of the managing director, and Felicity had the desk next to mine. So here I am. I haven’t been charged with anything, but the legal fraternity in Australia is tight. My time as a corporate lawyer is over. I might be able to get back into Legal Assistance, but even there I’m now tainted. I took this job to take some time and think through my options, but I don’t have many.’

  ‘You could sue,’ he said. ‘You could fight.’

  ‘Yeah?’ She shrugged, and then gave a rueful smile. ‘Maybe I could,’ she said. ‘But it’d cost a fortune. I’d risk debt, or worse, and I’d also risk...’

  ‘Risk what?’

  ‘Attention,’ she whispered. ‘The media would be all over it. Ever since I was a kid I knew to keep my head down. To stay unnoticed. It’s always been safest.’ She took a deep breath. ‘When I left to go to university our local publican said, “You’ll be back, girl. A girl like you...raised in the gutter...you’ve got airs if you think you’ll ever get rid of the stink.” But I gave myself airs and this is where it’s left me.’

  ‘I wish you’d punched him.’

  And the thought suddenly cheered her. She thought back to the smirking publican and wished, quite fiercely, that she’d had the skills then that she had now.

  ‘I could have,’ she said, attempting to lighten her voice. ‘I have a black belt in karate. I may like keeping myself to myself, but physically if you mess with me you’re in trouble. Even if I’m one-handed.’

  He looked at her in astonishment. ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Like the publican said, you can take the girl out of the gutter, but you can never take the gutter out of the girl. I learned karate, and the gym I went to taught me base moves as well. I can fight clean or I can fight dirty.’

  ‘That sounds like a warning.’

  She grinned. ‘If you like. Rocky knows to treat me with respect.’ Her smile faded. ‘But respect for me is a bit thin on the ground. Bob Maker was a bully and a drunk, but he did get one thing right. Trying to move away from my roots was a mistake. I’ll never try it again.’

  ‘So you won’t fight? You’ll calmly go back where you came from?’

  She smiled again at that, but ruefully. ‘I wouldn’t fit,’ she said. ‘Legal Assistance is my first love. It’s a fantastic organisation. They helped me when Mum died and I was trying to prove I could live independently, but I’m not sure I can go back there. That’s what this is all about. Rocky and I are taking six months to think about it. So what about you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Meaning you don’t have a mum and dad. I assume your grandparents raised you? Was joining the army a big step?’

  He thought about it for a moment. For a long moment. She’d told him so much about herself. It was only fair to explain his background.

  But a part of him...couldn’t. She was sitting opposite him with total trust. She was relaxed, eating her chips, smiling, and she’d just explained how social class had destroyed her career.

  Over the years Raoul had watched the almost grotesque change in people’s attitudes when his royal title was revealed. Sometimes people fawned. Sometimes people backed away.

  With her background, with her recent hurt and with her desire to stay in the background, he suspected Claire would back away fast, and he didn’t want that. An urgent voice in his head was starting to say, This is important. Give it time. Get to know her on equal terms.

  Had his joining the army been a big step?

  ‘I guess it was,’ he said at last. ‘I’m an officer. I had to fight to get where I was, and to be accepted.’

  And wasn’t that the truth? Of course he’d been seen as different. It had taken him years to break down barriers, and every now and then the barriers would rise back up.

  Like now. If a normal soldier went AWOL questions would be asked, but unless there was a suggestion of foul play the army usually adopted a policy of wait and see. After weeks of tough field exercise some men got drunk, found women, got themselves into places that took them a while to get out of. No one would put out an international alert on their disappearance.

  Whereas for him...

  He had no doubts about the scale of the hue and cry that would be happening. Heir to the throne of Marétal disappears. He closed his eyes, thinking of the distress. The fuss. He’d been so stupid.

  ‘You’re still tired,’ Claire told him, and he thought about explaining and decided again that he didn’t want to. Not yet.

  He was tired. ‘I guess...’

  ‘Let’s both sleep,’ she told him. ‘Leave the dishes. They’ll wait until morning. I’m beat.’

  ‘The drugs will still be making you dozy.’

  ‘And being tossed around in a bathtub for two days and almost drowned will be making you dozy,’ she told him. She rose and took a glass of water. ‘Pick a bedroom. Any bedroom but mine. Marigold leaves toiletries for her guests—there’ll be razors and toothbrushes...everything you need. Raoul, thank you for the meal. Thank you for everything. I’m going to bed.’

  She headed for the door. He watched her go. Then... ‘Claire?’

  She paused and looked back at him. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said softly. ‘Thank you for saving my life and thank you...for just being you. And if I ever meet the appalling Felicity it’ll be more than karate that comes into play. It would be my privilege to fight for you.’

  She smiled, but absently. ‘Thank you, but don’t get your hopes up,’ she told him. ‘It’s money and power that keeps the Felicitys of this world out of trouble, and neither of us have even close to what they have. But there are compensations. That was an awesome steak.’

  And then she raised her glass, as if in a toast.

  ‘Here’s to what we do have,’ she told him. ‘And here’s to never aspiri
ng to more.’ She gave a rueful smile and turned and disappeared.

  He didn’t follow. Yes, he’d been battered, but he had already slept and there was no way he could sleep now.

  He washed the dishes, because that was what you did. Once upon a time he hadn’t known what a dishcloth was, but years of roughing it in army camps had knocked that out of him.

  Then he figured he should check the damage to the radio transmitter. He’d look pretty stupid if it was just a case of the antenna falling over. And he also needed something to occupy his mind that wasn’t Claire.

  That was a hard ask. She’d gone to bed, but in a way she was still with him.

  She’d told a stark tale and it had hurt her to tell it. He’d been able to tell by the way her face had set as she’d told it. By the way she’d laughed afterwards. He had just been able to...tell.

  She was right under his skin.

  He wanted to find the unknown Felicity and send her to the gutter in Claire’s place. He wanted to ruin the entire firm she’d worked for.

  He could. Maybe he would.

  He thought of what he had—the resources, the power—and thought he should tell her.

  Why? What good would it possibly do for Claire to know now what power he could wield?

  She was treating him as a companion. He had no doubt that her dreadful little story wouldn’t have been told if he’d first appeared to her in royal regalia. But he’d been in army gear, and she’d have had no way of recognising the discreet crown emblazoned on the sleeve. To her he was just a soldier—someone who’d come up through the ranks. A kid with no parents.

  She thought he was the same as she was, and he didn’t mind her thinking it. No, he wanted her to think it.

  Why? Tired as he was, the warning bells that seemed to have been installed in his brain since his parents’ death were suddenly jangling. He’d been a loner since then—or maybe even earlier. The royal household was always full of people, but whenever he needed comfort he never knew who it was who’d do the comforting. Whose job it was that week...

  He’d learned not to need comfort. People came and went. He didn’t get attached.

  Why was he suddenly thinking of this in relation to Claire?

  He shook his head, trying to rid himself of thoughts that were jumbling. He was overtired, he thought, still battered, still not thinking straight. He needed to be practical.

  First things first. He didn’t intend to spend the rest of his time here wearing Don’s clothes. He found the laundry and put his and Claire’s salt-laden clothes in the washing machine.

  But that was weirdly intimate, too. He shoved them in without looking at them, but as he closed the machine door and the clothes started to tumble he saw Claire’s wispy bra tangling with his army gear.

  Maybe he should have hand-washed it, he thought, but then again...maybe not.

  He turned his back on the laundry, thinking as he did that it was over the top—a vast wet room with every machine a laundry could ever hold.

  How was it all powered? There was no mains power here, and if there had been it would have surely been knocked out by the storm.

  He did a quick reconnaissance of the house, avoiding the passage to Claire’s self-contained apartment. Claire’s apartment was sparsely furnished, but the rest of the house not so much. Every room was enormous. Every room was lavish. He had a choice of bedrooms, all made up and ready. The unknown Don and Marigold might obviously sweep in at a moment’s notice with a bevy of guests.

  The refrigerators would cope.

  But the power...?

  He ended up in the basement and found his answer. Here was a vast bank of batteries, presumably linked to solar panels. This explained why the house was still warm, the refrigerators still operating.

  It still wasn’t safe for Claire to be here, he thought. Not alone.

  Which led to figuring out the radio. He’d found the second transmitter in the study. It was huge and it was useless.

  Frustrated, he found a torch and ventured outside. The wind was still up, catching him in its icy chill, but he’d been in conditions far worse than this during his service. The antenna had been attached to one of the outbuildings and it had crashed down during the storm. It lay smashed across the rocks, and with it lay the remains of a satellite dish.

  This had been some communications system. A much smaller one would have been far less prone to damage.

  Someone had wanted the best—so they could tune into a football game in Outer Mongolia if they wished. He stared bitterly at the over-the-top equipment and thought they could even have used this to talk to Mars if there had been anyone on Mars to hear.

  But not now. A small radio might have been within his power to fix. This, he hadn’t a hope of fixing.

  In this day and age surely there must be some method of communicating with the mainland.

  Smoke signals?

  Right.

  He’d seen the maps. This island was far away from normal shipping channels. There might be the odd fishing trawler around, but after the storm the sea would be churned for days. Fishing fleets would stay in port until things settled.

  He thought of his grandparents and felt ill.

  There was nothing he could do about their distress. Nothing.

  He could go to bed and worry about it there.

  He did go to bed—in the smallest of the over-the-top bedrooms. He lay in the dark and decided that worrying achieved nothing. He should turn his mind off tomorrow and simply appreciate that he was in a warm bed, his world had stopped rocking and he was safe.

  He did manage to turn his mind off worrying.

  He didn’t quite succeed in turning his mind off Claire.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SHE WOKE AND the sun was streaming into her little bedroom. She was safe in her own bed, Rocky was asleep on her feet—and she was sore.

  Very sore. She shifted a little and her arm protested in no uncertain terms.

  She opened her eyes and saw a note propped against a glass of water.

  Pills, it said. Pain. When you wake take these. Don’t try and move until they take effect.

  That seemed like great advice. She took the pills that were magically laid out beside the glass and forced herself to relax. If she lay very still it didn’t hurt.

  Some time during the night Raoul had come into her bedroom and left the pills. He’d checked on her.

  Maybe it was creepy.

  Maybe it was...safe.

  She let the thought drift and found it comforting. No, it was more than that, she thought. He cared.

  For Claire, the concept of care was almost foreign. She’d been an unwanted baby. Her mother had done her best by her, but there’d been little affection—her mother had been too stressed taking care of the basics. Claire had been a latchkey kid from the time she could first remember, getting home to an empty house, getting herself dinner, going to bed telling herself stories to keep the dark at bay.

  She’d gone to bed last night aching and sore and battered, but so had Raoul. She’d seen the bruises. She was under no illusion that he was hurting almost as much as she was, and he must be far more traumatised.

  And yet he’d taken the time to check on her during the night. He’d thought about her waking in pain and he’d done something about it.

  ‘I’m a sad woman,’ she said out loud. ‘One act of kindness and I turn to mush. And he owes me. I saved his life. Or I think I did.’

  ‘You did.’

  The voice outside the door made her jump.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘I...yes.’

  She tugged the bedcovers up to her chin and Rocky assumed the defensive position—right behind the hump of her thigh, so he could look like a watch dog but had Claire between him and a
ny enemy.

  And he could be an enemy, she conceded as he pushed open the door. He was back in his army gear. It was a bit battered and torn but it was still decent. He was wearing khaki camouflage pants and a shirt. His shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, his sleeves were rolled back to make him a soldier at ease, but he still looked every inch a soldier. He was shaved and clean and neat, but he still looked...dangerous.

  He was carrying juice.

  ‘You have great refrigerators,’ he told her, and the image of a lean and dangerous soldier receded to be replaced by...just Raoul. The guy with the smile. ‘I poured myself some juice and then thought I might check if you were awake. It seems presumptuous to forage in the fridge without my hostess’s consent.’

  ‘Forage away,’ she said. ‘You gave me drugs.’

  ‘They’re your drugs.’

  ‘They’re Marigold’s drugs,’ she told him. ‘But I’m taking them anyway.’ She struggled to sit up, and found with one arm it was tricky. But then she had help. The juice was set on the bedside table as Raoul stooped and put an arm around her, pushing a pillow underneath.

  He was so close. He smelled clean. He felt...

  Yeah, don’t go there.

  ‘How sore? Scale of one to ten?’ he asked, withdrawing a little.

  And she hated him withdrawing, even though it was really dumb to want him to stay. To want him to keep holding her.

  How sore? Less since he’d walked into the room, she thought. How could a woman focus on her arm when he was there?

  ‘Maybe five,’ she managed. ‘Compared to about nine last night. Five’s manageable.’

  ‘It’ll ease. The pills will take off the edge.’

  ‘How do you know?’ she asked curiously, and he shrugged.

  ‘I’m in the army. Accidents happen.’

  ‘And sometimes...not accidents?’

  ‘Mostly accidents,’ he told her, and gave that lopsided smile that was half-mocking, half-fun.