Startled by the proximity of the sound, Josephine saw that Genevieve had left her cell phone behind.
Josephine popped the sugar-dusted berry into her mouth and picked up the phone and flipped it open. “Right on time as always, darling,” she said sweetly into the miniature black receiver.
“Genevieve?”
The familiar voice that greeted her didn’t belong to her future brother-in-law.
“Emmaline?” Josephine asked, her eyes widening.
There was a pause on the line. “Josephine? I thought I was calling Gen—”
“You were.” Josephine narrowed her eyes, wounded. “Why aren’t you calling me?”
“Why are you answering Genevieve’s phone? Where is she?”
“Oh, around here somewhere. More importantly, Emmaline, where are you?”
“I’d rather not say.”
Josephine quickly lowered the phone from her ear and glanced at the small screen that displayed the call’s origination. She instantly recognized the area code—and the name. Lockwood, Granger.
“Emmaline, what on earth are you doing in Manhattan with that American playboy?” Josephine asked, again marveling at her sister’s spirit.
Emmaline gasped. “How did you—”
“Caller ID,” Josephine said brusquely. “Do tell, Emmaline—have you been seeing that delicious Granger Lockwood behind Remi’s back?”
“No!”
“Then why—”
“Josephine, you mustn’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Do you understand? Not Papa or Mother, not Remi—”
“Not even Genevieve,” Josephine said, pleased to be privy to her sister’s secret for a change. Honestly, sometimes she and Genevieve acted as though Josephine were a pesky child. It was about time somebody made her a confidante . . . even if it was by default.
“How long are you staying in New York?” Josephine asked, thinking of Remi. If her sister had gone and fallen in love with another man, the prince would be eligible once again.
“I’m not staying in New York,” Emmaline replied. “I’m going to rest for a few hours, and then head for the airport. I’ll be home before night falls in Verdunia.”
“Oh.” Josephine deflated. “Then you’re coming back to Remi?”
There was a long moment of silence on the other end of the line. “I’m not certain about that,” Emmaline said softly. “All I know is that I’ve made a tremendous mistake . . . and that I can’t possibly stay here with . . . with him.”
“Oh, why not give him a chance, Emmaline?” Josephine urged. “You never know. He might grow on you. And you and Remi are all wrong for each other.”
She heard a choking sound on the other end of the line.
“Emmaline . . . are you crying? Whatever is the matter?”
“Everything is the matter,” Emmaline said on a sob. “Oh, Josephine, I don’t know where to turn. I—I—”
“You can turn to me, Emmaline,” Josephine said. “What is it?”
Her sister sniffled. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Of course!” Josephine said indignantly.
“All right. I simply must tell somebody. Josephine, do you remember that night in June when I left the charity dinner early to—”
“Josephine! Are you talking to Reginaldo? Why didn’t you tell me?” Genevieve had materialized on the terrace once again.
“Shh! I’ll be off in a moment,” Josephine said, turning her back on her sister and returning her attention to the phone.
It was too late.
“Don’t say a word to anyone, Josephine,” Emmaline said, her voice hushed and harried. “Remember . . . you promised.”
“But—”
“Goodbye, Josephine. I’ll see you tonight.” The connection was broken instantly.
Josephine scowled. She flipped the phone closed and tossed it to Genevieve, who scrambled to catch it.
“Josephine! What are you do—”
“It wasn’t Reginaldo,” she said. “It was just a wrong number.”
“A wrong number? But it sounded as though you were chattering to whoever was on the other end.”
“Well, one shouldn’t be rude to anyone,” Josephine replied, impressed by her own quick-thinking duplicity. “Not even a wrong number.”
Genevieve seemed satisfied with that.
As her sister marched back toward the palace, phone in hand, Josephine leaned back in her seat and thought about Emmaline.
And Granger Lockwood.
He was yummier than one of those ripe red berries, Josephine thought, sprinkling sugar over another one and popping it into her mouth.
Who could fault Emmaline for falling in love with him?
And who could fault her younger sister for offering comfort to the bereft Prince Remi in his time of need?
Five
Granger was midway through his third cup of coffee, seated in the den in front of the television set with Newman and Kramer dozing at his feet, when he heard the guest room door open.
Both dogs heard it, too, lifting their heads and growling.
“It’s okay, guys,” Granger said as he quickly reached for the remote. “It’s only Emmaline.”
Reassured, the dogs settled down again.
Aiming the remote at the television, Granger pressed Mute, then changed the channel from CNN to one of the networks.
No luck.
An enormous close-up of Emmaline’s face filled the screen.
He flipped again, to another network. And then another.
Like the Cable News Network, every local station was showing coverage of the biggest story to hit television news in months. Rumors were rampant: that there was some vast political conspiracy involving the governments of Verdunia and Buiron, that the princess had been abducted, that the disappearance was a shameless publicity stunt, or that she had gotten cold feet and abandoned Prince Remi at the altar.
Oddly, from what Granger could tell, that last theory was regarded as the least likely.
There was much talk about what appeared to be a tragic end to a fairy-tale romance, casting Emmaline and Remi in the role of star-crossed lovers. The prince was said to be distraught and in seclusion with his parents back in Buiron.
The Verdunian royals, repeatedly shown in fleeting news footage as they were hustled out of the abbey in their wedding finery, were holed up at the palace in Chimera.
Neither family had issued any kind of official statement. No mention was made of the reassuring note Emmaline said she had left for her father—or, Granger had noted smugly, of the helicopter that had landed on the palace lawn.
He hurriedly turned off the television and removed his feet from the coffee table, sitting up just as Princess Emmaline stepped into the adjacent hallway from the guest room.
Granger frowned, noticing that she was already fully dressed. As she took a few steps in the opposite direction, he saw that her movements seemed almost . . . furtive? What the heck was she up to?
“Good morning,” he called.
He heard her startled gasp as she stopped short, her back to him.
“Going somewhere, Princess?”
She turned around with obvious reluctance. He saw that her handbag was over her shoulder, and she was wearing the sunglasses. And the blond wig.
He hadn’t planned to tell her right away about the wall-to-wall media coverage of her disappearance, but if she was planning on going out for a walk or a bagel or something, he had to stop her. If anyone spotted her on the street, she’d be mobbed in an instant.
“You’re going to need to disguise yourself more than that if you’re leaving the apartment,” he warned her, rising from the couch and walking toward her in his bare feet. The dogs trotted along at his side. “A paper bag over your head might do it, but even then, you’re taking a chance.”
“You’re up early,” she responded, clearly not thrilled to see him, much less Newman and Kramer.
“Nice seeing you, too,” he said dryly, watching as Newman’s w
et black nose made a beeline for her crotch.
She deftly reached down and headed him off with a firm half pat–half shove against his head.
Panting, the dog made another feeble attempt, but the princess pat-shoved him again and shot a pointed look at Granger. He noticed that her nose was wrinkled.
Well, okay, the boys could use a bath. He wondered if his housekeeper had skipped the regular Saturday appointment with the pet grooming service.
“Move it, Newman,” he said, collaring the Lab and giving him a nudge down the hall. “You, too, Kramer. Out of here. Would you like some coffee?” Granger asked the princess, as Newman trotted back to the den, with Kramer at his heels. “Or are you in too much of a hurry?”
She put a hand against the wall, almost as though she were trying to brace herself. “No, no coffee.”
“Tea? Orange juice?”
“No,” she said, and he heard her gulp audibly.
“I can make you some breakfast if you’d like,” he offered. “Nothing fancy. My housekeeper, Antonia, is off on Sundays. Which is a shame, because she makes the richest, creamiest hollandaise sauce I’ve ever tasted. But I can do toast, and eggs—scrambled, sunny-side up, poached—fried in bacon fat is my favor—hey, where are you going?”
He stared in disbelief as Emmaline bolted back into her bedroom.
She was actually running away from him.
“Was it something I said?” Puzzled, he followed her.
The bedroom was empty. The cream brocade drapes, which matched the wallpaper and the bedding, were open to reveal a sweeping view of the city.
“Maybe she really can vanish into thin air,” Granger muttered, seeing no evidence of the princess.
He noticed that the door to the adjoining bathroom was slightly ajar. Then came the most horrible retching sound he had heard since his college days, and he knew what it meant.
“You’re throwing up,” he marveled, his voice carrying through the crack in the door. He could see her kneeling in front of the toilet.
She broke off, panting, long enough to bite out, “Thank you, I had no idea,” before launching into another round of vomiting as she kicked the door closed with her heel.
He cringed. “Are you okay?”
“Go away,” she managed.
Granger retreated to the den, where he paced across the navy Berber carpet to the window. The sun was coming up, tinting the charcoal sky pink and casting golden rays over the leafy expanse of Central Park.
Poor Emmaline. She had been through so much. No wonder she was sick to her stomach.
He wondered if she had slept any better than he had. Possibly—since he hadn’t slept a wink. He had spent the night tossing restlessly in bed before giving up and brewing a pot of coffee at about four a.m. and retreating to the den, his favorite place to kick back.
It was the only room in the apartment that he’d decorated himself. The rest of the place had been professionally done, but when it came to this room, Granger had locked horns with the designer over everything from the color scheme to the projection screen television and massive, surround-sound stereo system. The woman had proclaimed the media center and the navy and maroon palette too overwhelming for the room. But then, what did he expect? She was monochromatic in every way, from her design style to her personality to her name: Ann Smith.
Granger would have preferred somebody with more flair. But Grandfather had hired the bland Ann Smith and was footing the bill, as usual.
Not that any of it mattered now.
After depositing the princess in his guest room last night, Granger had checked his mail and messages. That was when he learned, courtesy of Deegan, MacDuff, and Hart, Attorneys at Law, that he was expected to vacate the apartment by Monday morning at the latest.
Twenty-four hours from now, he would be out on the street, presumably with the runaway princess bride in tow.
Granger retrieved his cup of coffee and plopped down on the recliner—the most comfortable piece of furniture in the apartment. Naturally, Ann Smith had regarded it with the utmost distaste when she saw it.
“Where did you find that?” she had asked. “On the curb?”
“I bought it at Crate and Barrel,” he informed her.
Her expression revealed that for her, there was little difference between the upscale retail chain—where anybody could shop—and the curb. All of the furniture she had selected was custom-made by renowned artisans.
Leaning his aching shoulders back in the chair and raising the footrest, Granger wearily sipped his coffee and contemplated his situation.
Granger Lockwood II meant business. He had informed his grandson—through his lawyers, of course—that he would no longer enjoy any perks and privileges connected to Lockwood Enterprises.
Granger suspected that the official legal notification was a ploy to convince him to reconsider his resignation. Grandfather must not believe that he had what it took to make it on his own out in the world without the Lockwood fortune.
Well, the old man was sorely mistaken. Granger was determined to show his grandfather—and anyone else who doubted him—that he could survive.
As soon as he finished this much-needed dose of caffeine, he would go out and pick up the Sunday Times. He no longer subscribed, as his weekends were generally too action-packed for sitting around reading. But even he knew that if you sought an apartment in Manhattan, your best chance of finding it was in the Sunday classifieds.
Come to think of it, the Real Estate section wasn’t all he needed. He’d better check Help Wanted while he was at it.
For the first time today, he felt a renewed flicker of excitement. There were so many interesting careers to choose from. He was eager to try his hand at something new, even if he had to begin at entry level and work his way—
The sound of a toilet flushing jarred him back to awareness.
He lowered the footrest and sat up, setting his cup on the table beside the chair. Poised, he listened as Emmaline’s footsteps retreated from the bathroom.
When, after a few minutes, she hadn’t reappeared in the hallway, he got up and went to look for her.
Knocking on the guest room door, which was still ajar, as he’d left it, he called tentatively, “Are you okay in there?”
The reply was a barely audible moan.
Alarmed, he pushed the door open and peered into the room.
The princess was curled up on the bed, her back to him.
Granger walked quickly around the foot of the bed and bent over her. A shaft of sunlight streamed in the window and fell across her face. Her eyes were closed, and her skin was pale. She had discarded the sunglasses and the wig. Her own dark hair was tousled on the pillow. He had seen it like that once before, also in the early morning light, in his hotel room.
He hurriedly shoved that image from his mind and touched her forehead. Her eyelids flew open.
“I’m fine,” she said abruptly. “It must be something I ate.”
“Last night? On the plane?” He remembered how she had pushed the pasta around on the plate halfheartedly. “But you didn’t eat.”
“Oh . . .” She closed her eyes again. “Maybe that’s it, then.”
“You need to eat,” he decided, his mind racing. “I’ll make you something.”
“No!” She stared up at him in alarm. “No, please don’t cook anything. I won’t be able to take the smell.”
Clearly, the palace kitchen was well out of range of her delicate royal nostrils. She certainly was spoiled. Well, Granger decided, now that she was in the real world, it was time for her to wake up and smell the coffee. And eggs and toast.
Not that he was accustomed to making breakfast for overnight guests—or even for himself, for that matter. On the housekeeper’s days off, he generally had breakfast delivered from a neighborhood restaurant, caught a bagel and coffee on the run, or went out for brunch.
But he knew that his Sub-Zero refrigerator would be filled with fresh ingredients, and that the cabinets we
re equipped with frying pans, or griddles, or whatever one needed to cook eggs. He had seen Antonia operate in the kitchen several times. Not that he’d been paying close attention—but he was sure he could prepare a simple meal. He wanted to, for some reason. For her.
He headed for the door, then paused on the threshold and glanced back at the bed. The princess was motionless, her arms wrapped around her middle.
Granger was swept away by an unexpected tide of tenderness. She looked so small and helpless, a displaced princess cast adrift on a queen-sized mattress in a foreign land.
She had nowhere to turn but to him—and he was determined not to let her down.
“You’ll be okay,” he said softly. “Just rest. I’ll take care of you.”
And he meant it, confident, as he went off to the kitchen, whistling jauntily, that a good, hearty breakfast would surely cure whatever ailed Princess Emmaline.
“What . . . what is it?” Swallowing hard, Emmaline lifted her fork and cautiously poked the congealed substance on the plate Granger had set before her.
“It’s an omelet,” he said proudly, passing a bottle across the table. “Ketchup?”
“No, thank you.”
She swallowed again, watching him douse his own so-called omelet in sticky-looking red goo.
He looked up, and she summoned a halfhearted effort to erase the disgust from her expression.
Apparently it didn’t work.
“What’s the matter, Princess? I take it you don’t like ketchup?”
“I’ve never tried it, but—”
“You’ve never tried ketchup? You’ve got to be kidding me. Here.” Again he thrust the bottle at her. “Try it.”
“No, thank you, really. I just . . .” She took a deep breath. “What kind of . . . omelet”—and she certainly used the term loosely—“is this?”
“Just what I had on hand in the fridge. Goat cheese, tomatoes, and some kind of sprouts. Alfalfa, maybe. My housekeeper does all my grocery shopping. The cooking, too. Though I have no idea what concoctions Antonia’s been hiding sprouts in if she’s been serving them to me. I never noticed them before. But they’re not bad,” he added, munching contentedly.
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