A Thoroughly Modern Princess

by Wendy Markham

  Emmaline didn’t know quite what to say to that.

  “Daddy’s senile now, poor thing. When I visit him in the home, he thinks I’m my mother. He tells me to get the hell out.”

  “That’s terrible.” Emmaline squirmed and wished that Brynn would stop sharing.

  “Not really. She was a loser. A Vegas showgirl who slapped him with a paternity suit when she got pregnant with me. Daddy got a little girl to raise, lucky him, and she got a million bucks. We never heard from her again.”

  “I’m sorry . . .”

  “Trust me, it’s a blessing. From what I hear, she was a real piece of work.”

  Apparently the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, Emmaline thought, watching Brynn walk to the window.

  She looked out on the street, gasped, and made a face. “That’s a man!”

  “Pardon?”

  “That pile of rags on the curb is a man. I didn’t realize it when I stepped over him as I got out of the cab. Lovely neighborhood.”

  “Isn’t it?” Despite herself, Emmaline almost welcomed this woman’s breezy eccentricities.

  It had been so long since she had spoken to anyone but Granger.

  Brynn turned away from the window, shaking her head, and said, “First I drop by Granger’s office, only to be told that he’s no longer employed at Lockwood Enterprises. Then I pop up to the penthouse, only to discover that he’s moved out and left this unlikely forwarding address with Antonia. Now I find that he’s harboring a missing princess.”

  Emmaline was at a loss for words once again.

  Which didn’t matter, because Brynn had plenty to say.

  “You know, Granger mentioned you a few times, but I had no idea that the two of you were involved.”

  “He mentioned me?” Emmaline felt like a schoolgirl with a crush. “What did he say?”

  “He said that he felt sorry for you, because you were trapped in your golden coop—”

  “I believe his phrase was ‘gilded cage,’ ” Emmaline interrupted stiffly.

  “That’s right, trapped in your gilded cage, and saddled with an arranged marriage to that stuffy prince of Buiron. Personally, I thought the wedding plans had come together rather nicely. Porfirio is divine—he’s doing a little something for me, for a Christmas ball—and the flowers were fabulous.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve seen the television coverage,” Brynn told her with a shrug, “and I have to say, I personally thought you might have been abducted by terrorists. I’m glad you’re alive and well, but that was a hell of a way to break an engagement, Your Highness.”

  Emmaline swallowed hard over the sudden lump in her throat.

  “Oh my goodness, don’t cry!” Brynn said, looking dismayed. “I didn’t mean to be so . . . Look, if Granger had told you a damn thing about me, you’d know that I have a tendency to say the first thing that pops into my head. Granger is always telling me that I should think before I speak. And I guess he’s right. I didn’t mean to make you cry. Please don’t cry. Oh no. You’re crying. Here—have a Kleenex.”

  Brynn snapped open her smart black Prada handbag and handed over a neatly folded tissue.

  Emmaline wiped her eyes—then noticed that the tissue was stained with several scarlet kiss marks.

  “Oh no, I’m sorry—” Brynn reached into her handbag again and produced another tissue. “Take this one. You have lipstick . . . Here, let me help you.” She put one hand on Emmaline’s shoulder and dabbed gently at her face with the other. “There. The lipstick is gone, and so are the tears. I feel absolutely terrible.”

  So do I, Emmaline thought. She had never felt more miserable in her life.

  But she managed a brave “It’s all right,” even as a fresh flood of tears burst forth.

  “Oh, listen, it really is going to be okay,” Brynn said, putting a comforting arm around her and patting her shoulder. The dogs huddled almost protectively at Emmaline’s feet. “Granger is such a wonderful guy. You made the right decision. He’ll take care of you . . . although I have to say, this isn’t an impressive start. What are the two of you doing here? I mean, there must be other places you could hide. Like a suite at the Pierre. Or, say, Bora Bora. I know a wonderful resort in—”

  “But this is all Granger could afford,” Emmaline cut in, sniffling.

  “Of course it isn’t. He’s filthy rich. Richer than I am. Richer than most people in New York. The Lockwoods are worth billions.”

  “Well, Granger isn’t. Not anymore.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Emmaline filled her in quickly—leaving out the pregnancy, of course. When she finished, Brynn’s mouth was hanging open.

  “Let me get this straight,” she said. “Granger has decided to live as a pauper?”

  “Precisely.”

  “And he has inflicted this lifestyle on you?”

  “I wouldn’t say inflicted, exactly,” Emmaline said with a twinge of guilt. After all, Granger hadn’t exactly invited her into his newly shoddy world. She had more or less barged into it with little warning and an enormous bombshell.

  “And where is Granger now?” Brynn asked. “Panhandling on some street corner? Plundering Dumpsters, searching for stray crusts of bread?”

  “He’s out. I presume he’s looking for a job.”

  Brynn’s professionally arched eyebrows disappeared beneath her fashionable fringe of frosted bangs. “A job? Where? At the sanitation department? Or a toxic waste dump?” Brynn shook her head in palpable dismay. “This can’t be happening.”

  “I’m afraid it is. Granger is adamant about making a living on his own.”

  “But what is he trying to prove?”

  “That he can survive without his grandfather and the family fortune, I suppose,” Emmaline told Brynn.

  And there was still some part of her that truly admired his noble goal and his tenacity. But the rest of Emmaline—the tired, uncomfortable, worried, pregnant part of her—wished he would hurry and come to his senses.

  After all, she might have fantasized about giving up her royal lifestyle now and then. And yes, she had now done just that. But only because she’d had no choice.

  At this point, she’d sampled quite enough of the commoner’s environment to last her a lifetime, thank you very much.

  Given the option, she would be back at the palace before you could snap your fingers and say “Dom Perignon.”

  Not that champagne—imported or otherwise—was any more an option, in her current state, than her being whisked back to her posh life in Verdunia.

  “You know, I’m not certain Granger can survive on his own,” Brynn said dubiously. “Much less support a princess. I can’t help feeling less than confident about his prospects.”

  And she doesn’t even know about the baby.

  Nor does she know that Granger and I aren’t a . . . a couple.

  Emmaline protested, “But he doesn’t have to support me. I’m only staying here temporarily. Just until things die down a bit and I can venture out on my own.”

  “In that case, I’m afraid you’re in for quite an extended wait,” Brynn told her. “It looks like you’ll have to depend on Granger. And me.”

  And her?

  “I don’t think . . .” Emmaline began feebly.

  “Don’t worry about a thing, Your Highness,” Brynn said breezily. “You’re in good hands now that I’ve come along.”

  The phone rang shrilly, shattering the silent hotel room and Debi Hanson’s dream, in which she was the new anchor of The Today Show.

  She cursed and opened her eyes reluctantly, dissolving the enticing image of herself, flanked by Matt Lauer and Al Roker, greeting the cheering crowd in Rockefeller Plaza—most of whom were carrying posters that read “We love you, Debi.”

  Damn. It wasn’t real. She wasn’t in Rockefeller Plaza; she was in the Traviata Hotel in Verdunia. Damn, damn, damn.

  Reaching for the phone, she saw the illuminated digital clock. It was three
in the morning here—and early evening back in the States. Still, nobody at the network would bother her at this hour unless something important had come up.

  Snatching up the receiver, she propped herself up in bed and croaked, “Hello?”

  “Debi, it’s Jack.” Her boss didn’t bother to apologize for waking her, and she didn’t expect him to. Jack was all business, all the time, never the least bit prone to engaging in small talk—or anything else—with Debi.

  Lord knew she had tried.

  Not the small talk. The something else. After all, her boss possessed the rugged Harrison Ford good looks, and as an added bonus, he had the power to launch her into superstardom.

  But apparently superstardom would only come to Debi Hanson the hard way. When Jack had failed to find her irresistible, she ultimately concluded that he was either secretly gay or the one high-powered news executive she had met who was actually faithful to his wife.

  “Listen, something’s come up,” he said tersely.

  A bawdy and utterly inappropriate comeback crossed her mind, but she pushed it away, leaning lazily against the pillows again and asking only, “Really? What’s come up, Jack?”

  “How quickly can you get from your hotel in Chimera to the palace in Buiron?”

  Her heart skipped a beat and she sat up again, clutching the phone hard against her ear. “An hour or two. Why?”

  As he told her, Debi Hanson realized that she would never again need to consider sleeping her way to success. She would never again have to worry about being eclipsed by Naomi Finkelmeyer.

  She had just been handed an assignment that was guaranteed to launch her straight to the top.

  Granger plodded up the fourth flight of steps, his stomach grumbling loudly. He hadn’t eaten since the bagel he’d grabbed from a pushcart for breakfast, and that was—what? Fifteen hours ago?

  Sixteen, he realized as he fumbled in his suit pocket for his keys. Make that key.

  Now that he no longer had access to various Lockwood dwellings, offices, automobiles, and bank deposit boxes, he was no longer required to carry enough keys to give a hotel chambermaid a run for her money.

  Yesterday he had felt exhilarated at having lightened his load.

  Today, the thrill had worn off. Now he couldn’t help wishing that he had just stepped off an express elevator and was about to unlock the door to his opulent penthouse. What he wouldn’t give to find a hot meal waiting in the oven, courtesy of Antonia.

  Instead he clutched a pizza box under one arm, certain the contents had grown lukewarm and the congealed cheese melded to the cardboard during the subway ride back downtown and the ten-block walk from the station to Eldridge Street.

  He couldn’t help acknowledging that he’d have been home an hour earlier if he’d had Jimmy and the limo at his disposal. But then, if he had Jimmy and the limo at his disposal, he wouldn’t have spent the entire day—and much of the evening—splashing along the rain-soaked midtown pavement in his futile search for financial backing.

  He couldn’t help feeling guilty, as he unlocked the battered, paint-chipped metal door leading to the crummy studio apartment, where he would undoubtedly discover a moping, bored Emmaline. The mother of his child—princess or not—deserved far better than—

  “What the hell?” Granger stopped short in the doorway, gaping in disbelief.

  He backed up a step and checked the door.

  5D.

  This was the right place . . .

  But somehow, the hovel he’d left this morning had been miraculously transformed in his absence.

  It was still small, yes. But now it appeared charmingly cozy, bathed in soft light and smelling like roses.

  It must be the potpourri, he thought, seeing a bowl of it on the table beside the door.

  Table? Where had the table come from?

  There was more.

  Much, much more.

  There were draperies. Lamps. Rugs.

  The dingy walls were obscured behind framed artwork—and not reproductions, according to his practiced eye.

  There was furniture, too. The twin bed had been replaced by a queen-sized one swathed in luxurious piles of pillows and a puffy down comforter whose duvet matched the curtains and the upholstery that covered a sofa and a couple of easy chairs.

  There were tables, and mirrors, and an armoire.

  There was a television set with a built-in DVD player and a computer and a stereo that played classical music at a low volume.

  There were Newman and Kramer, napping side by side on dog beds he had seen in the latest Orvis catalogue.

  And there was Emmaline . . .

  Looking, once again, like the regal princess she was.

  She was standing on the far end of the room, watching him.

  Gone was the gloriously tousled hair he’d fought to keep from touching as he watched her finger-comb it that morning.

  Gone were the sweatpants that had ridden too low on her narrow hips, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of barely swollen belly.

  Gone was the vulnerable, uncertain, homesick girl he had left sixteen hours earlier.

  She, like the shabby surroundings, had been replaced by something far more elegant.

  Granger might not miss the scent of stale cigarette smoke and sour milk that had still pervaded the apartment that morning, but he found himself longing for the casual Emmaline as the new—or rather, the former—aristocratic Emmaline regarded him through a fringe of lashes that had been lavished with black mascara.

  “Well? What do you think, Granger?”

  Granger.

  He would never tire of hearing her say that.

  In fact, he was so struck, at first, by the sound of his name on her lips, that he didn’t respond to her question. He found himself recalling the throaty, breathless way she had uttered his name in the throes of passion, that day in his bed uptown.

  Oh, Granger . . .

  What he wouldn’t give to hear her say it again, in just that way.

  But that wasn’t going to happen.

  He had promised himself that it wasn’t going to happen again. He had to focus every ounce of energy on piecing together a new life for himself and securing a future for his child.

  Their child.

  “What do you think?” she repeated.

  He looked around, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to think. What happened? How did you do this?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Who did? Your fairy godmother?”

  “You could say that.”

  Emmaline nodded, a faint smile curving her lips—which were precisely the shade of a plump, luscious August tomato.

  Granger noted, somewhere in the back of his mind, that she usually didn’t wear such red lipstick even when she did have on makeup.

  Hmm.

  Red lipstick.

  He knew somebody who considered red lipstick her trademark—that, and a certain spicy perfume that he could swear he smelled wafting in the air along with the rose-petal potpourri.

  “You have a fairy godmother?” he asked Emmaline. “Would her name, by any chance, be Brynn Halloway?”

  Emmaline’s jaw dropped. “How did you . . . ?”

  “Lucky guess,” he said brusquely, plunking the pizza box down on the nearest table.

  “Wait, is that hot?” Emmaline rushed toward it.

  “It was an hour ago.”

  “Careful—the table is an antique. The heat will ruin the finish.” She picked up the box and carried it over to the counter in the kitchenette.

  He saw that nothing in that corner of the room had changed much.

  “What is this? No Thermador six-burner range?” he asked sardonically, following Emmaline.

  “Viking, only four burners. And it won’t be delivered until next week,” she said, opening the pizza box and peering inside. “Do you mind if I have a slice? I’m famished.”

  “Didn’t your fairy godmother feed you?”

  “She brought in sushi, but that w
as hours ago.”

  “Sushi? Should you be eating raw fish in your condition?” he asked, swept by sudden concern for the helpless child in her womb. He liked sushi himself, but wasn’t it laden with potentially harmful parasites? That fact had never bothered him when he, personally, indulged, but it seemed like needlessly reckless behavior for an expectant mother.

  “Don’t worry. I checked that book you bought me first, and then I only had crab and shrimp and eel, all of it cooked.”

  “Good. Did you remember to drink three glasses of milk today?”

  She made a face. “I don’t think that’s necessar—”

  “Of course it’s necessary. You need plenty of calcium so that—”

  “I think I know what I need, thank you,” she cut in primly.

  “I don’t think you do. In fact, you’ll need to see a doctor. I was thinking that we could go to the clinic up in—”

  “Brynn has taken care of that,” Emmaline said.

  “Oh, she has, has she?”

  Emmaline nodded.

  “So you told her that you’re pregnant, just like that?”

  “Of course I didn’t tell her. She figured it out, just as she figured out who I am as soon as she laid eyes on me.”

  “Well, that’s a no-brainer. You look just like yourself. But how did she figure out that you’re pregnant? You aren’t showing yet, despite the fact that you claim your waistbands are too—hey, is that a new outfit?” he broke off to ask.

  “Yes. It’s my first maternity dress. What do you think?”

  He eyed the black knit jumper, which seemed to accentuate her breasts, which seemed to have grown since the last time he’d checked . . . and he checked often.

  Doing his best to quell a surge of desire, he asked, “Don’t you think it’s a bit formal for knocking around the apartment?”

  She shrugged. “I like it. I like everything she bought for me.”

  “There’s more?”

  “A whole new wardrobe. Brynn has a designer friend on the Upper East Side who runs a little boutique that specializes in maternity clothes.”

  “You went shopping with her?”

  “Of course I didn’t! Brynn called the shop and had them send over a selection. I hid in the bathroom while they were making the delivery.”