A Princess for Christmas

by Shirley Jump

  But soon, duty demanded her return. As always.

  The bell over the door jingled and Mariabella jerked to attention. The man she and Carmen had seen earlier stood in the doorway, his tall figure cutting an imposing stance.

  “May I help you?” Mariabella said, moving away from the front desk.

  “Just looking, thank you.” He stepped inside, giving Mariabella a better view of him.

  Dark hair, dark eyes. What appeared to be an athletic build beneath the navy pinstriped suit, clearly tailored to fit his frame. She recognized his shoes as designer, his briefcase as fine leather. No ordinary tourist, that was clear. Most people who came to Harborside wore jeans in winter or shorts in the summer—dressed to relax and make the most of the boating, swimming and fishing the coastal town had to offer.

  This man looked ready to steer a corporation, not a catamaran.

  He stood about six feet tall, maybe six-two, and when he moved about the open space of the gallery, he had the stride of a man who knew his place in the world.

  A zing of attraction ran through Mariabella. No wonder Carmen had called him eye candy. He had more to offer than a ten-pound chocolate bar.

  “Our main gallery houses the artist in residence,” she said, falling into step a few feet away from him, “who has some mixed media pieces in his collection as well as a number of portraits. In the west room, you will find our sculptures and art deco pieces, and the east room, which overlooks the ocean, features our landscapes, if you’re looking for a picture of Harborside to take home or back to your office.”

  “I’m not looking for something for my home. Or office.”

  He barely glanced at her as he said the words, but more, he hadn’t looked at a single painting. His gaze went, not to the landscapes, portraits and fresco panels, but to the—

  Walls. The ceiling. The floors.

  Then to her.

  A chill chased up her spine.

  Had they found her? Was her time here over? No, no, it couldn’t be. She had two more months. That was the agreement.

  It was too soon, she wasn’t ready to leave. She loved her home, loved her gallery, and she didn’t want to go back. Not yet.

  Mariabella hung back, watching the stranger. He paused to look out the window, the one that provided a view of the entire boardwalk. He took a few steps, as if assessing all of Harborside, then returned to his perusal of the main room of Harborside Art Gallery.

  Perhaps he hadn’t come here after her. Perhaps he was only sizing up the gallery. Maybe he owned a place in a nearby town and he’d come here to check out the competition.

  Except…

  Doubt nagged at Mariabella. A whisper of more here, a hidden agenda. But what?

  He entered the east room of the gallery, Mariabella’s favorite space because of its location facing the harbor. Most of her sales, at least to outsiders, happened in that room. Tourists often selected a painting that captured a moment from their vacation, an image of a sunset, a burst of a sunrise over the ocean. Mariabella often commissioned works based solely on tourists’ comments, filling the walls with works that held their visions and happy memories of Harborside.

  But this man didn’t stop to notice the view of the ocean outside the window facing the Atlantic. He didn’t glance at a single oil or watercolor. He merely strode the perimeter of the room, then exited, and headed into the third room. Again, not a flicker of his gaze toward the exquisite sculptures, nor a blink of the eye when he passed the multicolored art deco pieces.

  His silence frayed at the edges of Mariabella’s nerves. She paced the small area behind the front desk in the main gallery, unable to concentrate on the catalog. On anything but why he was here.

  She needed to find a way to ask his intentions, without seeming to be asking. When he reentered the main room, she crossed to him. “May I offer you a cup of coffee? Tea?”

  “Coffee. Black.”

  Again, barely a flicker of attention toward her. His mind seemed on something else. She let out a breath of relief as she crossed to the small table holding a carafe of fresh coffee, filled a cup, then loaded a small plate with raspberry thumbprint cookies. She turned—

  And found him right behind her.

  “Here is…here is your coffee. And these cookies—” Mariabella forced herself to breathe, not to betray the nervousness churning in her gut “—were baked by a local chef.”

  His attention perked at that. “Chef? Does he have a restaurant?”

  “She, and no, Savannah Dawson is the owner of Make it Memorable, the catering company in town.”

  He nodded, taking that in, but otherwise not responding to the information. Damn, he made her nervous. Nor did he accept a cookie. Instead, he merely sipped at the coffee, watching her. “And who are you?”

  He didn’t know her name. That meant he wasn’t here for her.

  Unless the question had been a ruse. No, she doubted that. He didn’t look like a reporter, and didn’t have the accent that said he’d been sent by her parents.

  She’d worried for nothing. He was simply another tourist, albeit, not the most friendly one.

  “Mariabella Romano,” she said, putting out her hand, and with it, a smile, “gallery—”

  “Thank you. That’s all I needed.” Then he turned and began to walk toward the door. That was it? No return of his name? No explanation why he had come here?

  On any other day, she would have let this go. Not everyone who walked through the doors of Harborside Art Gallery walked back out with a piece of art. But this man—

  This man had an agenda; she could feel it in her bones. And somewhere on his list, was her gallery.

  A surge of fierce protectiveness rose in Mariabella’s chest, overriding decorum and tact. “Who are you?”

  He paused at the door, his hand on the brass handle, and turned back to face her. A shadow had dropped over his face, from the awning outside, but more, it seemed, from something inside him that he didn’t want to tell her. “I’m…an investor.”

  “Well, sir, if you are thinking you are going to buy this shop, think again.” She took a step closer to him, emphasizing her point. Like a terrier guarding her territory. “The owner loves this place. She will never sell.”

  A smile took over his face, but it held no trace of friendliness, not a hint of niceness. “Oh, I don’t want this shop.”

  Relief flooded Mariabella. She’d read him wrong, he wanted nothing to do with her precious Harborside Art Gallery. Or her. Thank God. “Good.”

  That smile widened, and dread sunk in Mariabella’s gut. And then she knew—she’d gotten it all wrong. She hadn’t read him right at all.

  “I want the entire block,” he said. “By the end of the week would be convenient.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  JAKE LATTIMORE peered down the boardwalk of Harborside, Massachusetts, and knew he didn’t see the same thing the other people did. The brightly waving flags on the masts of the few covered boats wintered in the marina didn’t beckon to him. The shop windows hawking T-shirts and sunglasses didn’t attract his attention. The cafes and coffee shops, their doors swinging open and shut as people drifted in and out, sending tantalizing scented snippets of their menus into the air didn’t call to his appetite.

  No, what Jake saw wasn’t even there. Yet.

  Condos. A hotel. Maybe even an amusement park, and down the beach, Jet Ski rentals, parasailing stations.

  By this summer, if at all possible, so profits could start rolling in immediately.

  In other words, a vacation mecca, one that would expand his—and that of his financial backers—portfolio, and take this sleepy little town up several notches.

  He glanced again at the boardwalk, at the festive holiday decorations. The notes of a Christmas song carried on the air as someone walked out of the stained-glass shop across the street. The melody struck a memory in Jake’s heart, followed by a sharp pang.

  A long time ago, this kind of place, this kind of setting, would have had
him rushing in to buy a gift. Humming along with the song. Thinking—

  Well, he didn’t think that anymore.

  He got back to business. That was the only place heartache couldn’t take root. Jake returned his attention to the facts and figures in his head, dismissing the sentimental images around him.

  He’d done his research, ran his numbers, and knew without a doubt, Harborside was the perfect location for the next Lattimore Resort. Located along the Eastern seaboard, beneath Boston and above NewYork, away from the already congested areas of Cape Cod and Martha’s Vineyard, the tiny town had been tucked away all this time, hardly noticed by tourists, just waiting for someone like him to come along and see its potential.

  This was his specialty—find hidden treasures and turn them into profit machines.

  This town would be no different. He’d find each shop owner’s price, and pay it. Everyone, Jake had found, had a price.

  He wouldn’t let a little thing like dollars and cents get in the way of adding this resort to the Lattimore Properties empire. Not with so much on the line.

  If he didn’t land this deal, and went back to New York empty-handed, he knew what would happen. The whispers would start again. People saying he’d only been promoted to CEO because he was the Lattimore heir. Not because he had the chops to handle a project of this scope.

  His father had handed him a challenge, sent him to prove he could achieve the goal on his own, and Jake had no intentions of doing anything but exactly that. He’d worked side by side with Lawrence Lattimore for five years, learning the business from the ground up. In the last year or two, though, his father had begun to lose his magic touch. Lawrence’s decision making had become less sound, and the Lattimore Properties balance sheet showed the signs of his uneven hand.

  The board began talking forced retirement, so his father had put Jake in charge and given him one directive:

  Pull off a miracle.

  When Jake returned to New York triumphant, with the Harborside jewel in his back pocket, no one could say the junior Lattimore wasn’t up to the task of helming the multimillion dollar corporation. Lattimore Properties would once again be on the way to being the powerful company it had once been, and the downward slide that had begun under the last two years of Lawrence’s tenure would be reversed.

  “Who are you?”

  He turned around and found the brunette from the art gallery standing behind him, fists propped on her hips, green eyes ablaze. She had a fiery demeanor about her, one that spoke of passion, in everything she did.

  And that intrigued Jake. Very much.

  “I told you. I’m an investor,” he said. “In towns like this one.”

  Her lips pursed. “Let me save you some trouble. No one here is looking to sell their shops.”

  He arched a brow. “And you know this because…?”

  “Because I live here. And I’m the chair of the Community Development Committee. It is my job to know.”

  He smirked. “And that makes you an expert on every resident?”

  “It certainly gives me more insight than you.”

  He loved her accent. Lilting, lyrical. Even when she argued with him, it sounded like a song.

  “You think so?” he said, taking a step closer to her. When he did, he caught a whiff of the floral notes of her perfume. Sweet, light. Tantalizing. “I’ve seen hundreds of towns like Harborside. And met dozens of people like you, people who have this romanticized vision of their town.”

  “How dare—”

  “What they don’t realize is that underneath all that coziness,” he went on, “is a struggling seaport town that depends on one season of the year, maybe two, for all its financial needs. How much money do you think the people here make off the tourists who visit between the three months of summer and few weeks of Christmas? Enough to sustain every business and every resident for the other eight months of the year?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You and I both know it isn’t.” He gestured toward the town, from one end of the boardwalk to the other. This town—and this woman—didn’t even realize what a boon a Lattimore resort would be. How it could bring twelve months of financial return. Every resident could benefit from a hotel like this, if they’d just imagine something different. “This place is quaint. Off the beaten path. And that’s half the problem. Without something to draw visitors in, and really keep them here year-round, you might as well hang up the Going Out of Business signs now.”

  She glared at him. “We are doing fine.”

  He arched a brow. He’d read the statistics on Harborside. Talked to several of the business owners. He knew the tax base, the annual business revenue of each of the cottage industries lining the boardwalk.

  They needed a bigger draw for tourists to sustain them—they knew it, he knew it. The only one not facing reality was Mariabella Romano.

  “We do not need you,” she insisted. “Or your coldhearted analysis of our town. Go find someplace else to expand your control of the world.”

  “Sorry. I’m here to stay.”

  The fist went back to her hip. She drew herself up, facing him down. Frustration colored her face. “Do not bother to unpack because you will not find anyone who will sell to you here. We all love Harborside just the way it is.”

  This woman didn’t have any idea what she was up against. This was going to be fun. A challenge. Something Jake hadn’t had in a long time.

  His pulse raced, and he found himself looking forward to the days ahead. To interacting with her especially. “I can be pretty persuasive, Miss Romano. We’ll see how you feel about holding onto that little gallery after you hear my arguments for selling.”

  “And I can be terribly stubborn.” She flashed him a smile of her own, one that held a hundred watts of power, but not a trace of neighborly greeting. “And you will never persuade me to sell so much as a coloring page to you.”

  Mariabella stood in her gallery and seethed. To think she’d found that man attractive!

  No longer. He clearly had some kind of plans for Harborside and for that, she wouldn’t give him so much as a single line in her social notebook. Christmas was only a few days away, surely the man would have somewhere to go—some fool who wanted to spend time with him over the holiday—and he could leave, taking his “investment” ideas with him.

  Her cell phone rang, the vibrations sending the slim device dancing across the countertop. Mariabella grabbed the phone, just before it waltzed itself right off the edge. “Hello?”

  “Mia bella! How are you?” her mother asked in their native language, one that was close to the Italian spoken in the country bordering their own country of Uccelli. Their small little monarchy, almost forgotten in Europe, had its own flavor, a mix of the heritages surrounding it.

  “Mama!” Immediately, Mariabella also slipped into her home language, the musical syllables falling from her tongue with ease. Mariabella settled onto the seat behind her and held the phone close, wishing she could do the same with her mother. “I’m fine. And you? Papa?”

  “Ah, we are about the same as always. Some of us are getting older and more stubborn.”

  Mariabella sighed. That meant nothing had changed at home. After all this time, Mariabella had hoped maybe her father had softened. Maybe he might begin to see his daughter’s need for independence, for a life away from the castle.

  He never had. He’d predestined his firstborn’s path from the moment she’d been conceived, and never considered another option.

  “But…” Her mother paused. “Your father is…”

  The hesitation caused an alarm to ring in Mariabella’s heart. Her mother, a strong, tall, confident woman never hesitated. Never paused a moment for anything. She had sat steadfast by her husband’s side for forty years as he led Uccelli, weathering the roller coaster of changes that came with a monarchy. She’d done it without complaint. Without a moment of wavering from her commitment.

  “Papa is what?”

  “Havi
ng a little heart trouble. Nothing to worry about. We have the best doctors here, cara. You know that.”

  The letter in her back pocket seemed to weigh ten times more than it had this morning. Her father’s demand that she return home immediately and take her rightful place in the family. She’d brushed it off when it had arrived, but maybe he’d sent the missive because his illness was worse than her mother was saying. Mariabella sent up a silent prayer for her father’s health. He’d always been so hearty, so indestructible. And now—

  “Is he going to be all right?”

  “He’ll be fine. Allegra has been wonderful about stepping in for him.”

  Her middle sister. The one who had always enjoyed palace life. Of the three Santaro girls, Allegra was the one who loved the state dinners, the conversations with dignitaries, the museum openings and policy discussions. She had sat by their father’s side for more state business than any of the Santaro women—and for naught, because as the second-born, she was not first in line for the throne.

  “I’m glad she’s there,” Mariabella said.

  “I am, too. Your father misses you, of course, but he is happy to have Allegra with him. For now.” Unspoken words hung in her mother’s sentence.

  Mariabella’s father had made it clear he expected his eldest to return and take her place as the heir to the throne. Allegra was merely a placeholder.

  Her father had voiced his displeasure several times about Mariabella’s choice to leave the castle and pursue her dream of painting. At first, he’d talked of disowning her, until her mother had intervened. He’d relented, and given her a deadline. She’d been given a little over a year and a half—the time between college graduation and her twenty-fifth birthday, in February—and then she had to return.

  Or—

  Abdicate the crown and give up her family forever.

  That was what her father had written. Choose the throne or be disowned. Mariabella hadn’t told her mother, and suspected neither had her father.