He lifted her chin and tilted his head. She braced herself for the onslaught of his kiss. When he held her this way and gazed at her, she turned into a puddle of mush. The kiss was long and leisurely. He took his time with her and every bone in her body melted. Yes, her fiancé knew how to devastate.
“As long as we love each other,” he said, “the obstacles won’t be too great. I don’t expect you to give up your work, Princess. I won’t demand anything of you but your love.”
When he spoke so sincerely, she believed him. She saw her future bright and clear. Nothing was more powerful than their shared love. “You have that, Your Highness.”
His fingertips traced the outline of her lips. “I heard you say you’ll be going in three days.”
“Yes,” she said. “When I’m through researching and authenticating what I can of the Montoro art collection, I’ll head back to the States. I have appointments to keep.”
“And you’ll look into wedding protocols from your native Samforstand?”
“Yes, I know that’s important to you. It is to me, too.”
“Our union should reflect both of our heritages and royal traditions. The wedding must be a melding of both of our countries. The sooner, the better, my love. I can hardly stand the thought of you leaving.” He sent her head swirling with another earth-shattering kiss.
“Well,” she said, licking her lips. “We do have three more days together. And nights.” She arched her brows and slanted her head, playing coy.
Juan Carlos took the bait. With a growl, he lifted her up and carried her to the bed, unceremoniously dropping her so that she bounced on the mattress. A chuckle ripped from her lips. “Your Highness,” she said, staring at the bulge growing in his pants. “It’s half past eleven in the morning.”
“Princess, I don’t see a problem with that, do you?”
She shook her head, giggling. It didn’t take much to tempt her new fiancé and she loved that about him.
He climbed onto the bed and Portia spent the next hour making up for the time she and Juan Carlos would be apart.
Eight
“Wow, Portia, you look beautiful in this dress. I think it’s the one,” Jasmine said, nodding her head in approval. Her friend was having a grand time getting her in and out of wedding dresses, much to the dismay of the shop owner who stood just outside the dressing room, hoping to be called in to aid and assist in the fitting.
Portia stood on a pedestal platform gazing at her reflection in the three-way mirror in the tiny wedding shop in Santa Monica. “You said that about the last three gowns I’ve tried on.”
“I can’t help it. They all look amazing on you. But this one with the ivory tulle and Swarovski crystals.” Jasmine sighed. “It’s heavenly.”
“It is lovely,” Portia said, admiring the lines of the dress. “It’s such a big decision.”
“I’ll say. It’s not every day a friend of mine marries a king. Princess or not.”
Portia chuckled.
Once word of the new king of Alma’s American fiancée had hit the Los Angeles newsstands, Portia had been inundated with offers of gown fittings, hair and makeup, photographers and wedding planners. She’d had requests for radio and television talk shows. She’d refused them all, trying to scale down the hoopla. She hadn’t expected to be crowded at the airport by the paparazzi, or followed home for that matter. Once again, her personal life was under the spotlight.
None of it mattered, though. She was so deeply in love with Juan Carlos, the unwanted attention was manageable. On some level, she understood the public’s desire for a fairy-tale love story. Ghastly news reports of wars, poverty and chilling murders needed some balance. The country craved something positive and lovely to grasp onto, and a newly crowned king marrying a princess, both of whom had lived in America, fit the bill.
Portia stepped out of the gown and redressed in her own clothes before letting Amelia of Amelia’s Elegance into the dressing room. “Thank you for your time,” Portia said to the shop owner. “I will keep this gown in mind. It’s certainly beautiful.”
Jasmine was careful handing the wedding dress over to Amelia. “This is my favorite, with the chapel length veil.”
“I agree. It’s certainly fitting for a princess,” the shop owner said, nodding her head. “It’s from a most talented designer. I shall put it on hold for you, if you’d like?”
Jasmine nodded. “Yes, the princess would like that.”
Portia did a mental eye roll. Jasmine loved using the princess card for special favors.
“Your Highness, thank you for considering my shop for your wedding needs.”
“You’re welcome. I appreciate your time. You do have some stunning things here.”
Amelia beamed with pride. “Thank you. We try to accommodate our clients with only the highest quality material and design.”
“We have a few other stops to make, but I will personally call you when the princess makes up her mind,” Jasmine said.
Amelia thanked them and walked them out the door.
“Did you love the dress?” Jasmine asked. “A bride has to fall in love with her dress. They say as soon as she puts the right one on, she knows. Did you know?”
“Well, I did like it.”
“But you didn’t love it?”
Portia got into the front seat of Jasmine’s car. “No, I didn’t love it.”
Luckily, no one had followed her to the dress shop. Jasmine got into the driver’s seat and glanced around. “Did you hear? Rick Manning just got engaged to the daughter of a United States senator. It’s all over the news. They claim to be crazy about each other.”
Rick Manning, an A-list movie star, was dubbed the man least likely to ever marry. Handsome and charming and very much a ladies’ man. “Yes, it was all over the news this morning. I’ve met Eliza Bennington. She’s a nice person.”
“Well, you can thank them both. Luckily, the tabloids have dropped you like a hot potato. At least, until more royal wedding news is announced. The dogs are on a different scent right now.”
“I don’t envy them. It’s no fun having your every move analyzed.”
“I hear you,” Jasmine said, and pulled out of the parking spot. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving. Let’s have lunch.”
“Okay, but afterward, the great wedding dress search goes on.”
Portia agreed to that plan and looked out the window. Jasmine was taking her maid of honor duties seriously. The truth was, Portia had a hundred loose ends to tie up before the wedding, and she missed Juan Carlos like crazy. They spoke at least twice a day since she’d left him at the airport in Alma.
“You are perfect for me, Princess. Always remember that,” were his last words to her as she boarded his private airplane.
It was after six in the evening when Jasmine dropped her off at home. She climbed the few steps of her one-level Brentwood condo, knowing she had another hunt on her hands. She’d promised Juan Carlos she’d look up royal wedding protocols from Samforstand. She’d been too busy with rescheduling her work appointments and dress shopping to dig into her old files until now.
She dropped her purse on the couch and then strode to the fridge and grabbed a Coke. Sipping from the can, she walked into her bedroom and pulled out the old cedar trunk from the back of her walk-in closet. The trunk held the few remaining things she had left of her parents.
Unlatching the lid, she found a massive amount of papers, deeds, bank account records and folders upon folders of news clippings about her parents when they were a young royal couple in exile. She lifted out an article written about them from the New York Times, just days before the tragic car accident that claimed their lives. Her eyes misted as she looked at a picture of the loving couple that accompanied the article. Her father was decked out in royal reg
alia with her mother by his side. They were young and happy and it hurt her heart still to look at them and think about all they had lost.
Her mother’s wedding ring was in its original sapphire-blue velvet box, her father’s tie clips and a gold wedding band were stored in a polished walnut case. She assumed most of their other possessions were sold to keep her comfortable and pay for her expenses. She’d been raised by her grandmother Joanna. But now all she had was her great-aunt, Margreta, who was a little senile. Portia paid for her care in a nursing home and visited her whenever she could.
As the evening wore on, she pored over every piece of paper in the trunk. She read every article and viewed every picture taken. Yet nowhere could she find any research that dated back to her great-grandparents’ era of rule before they’d migrated to the United States after World War II. Surely, there had to be something? Having lost her parents early in life, she had only a fragmentary account of her heritage from her grandmother. Grandma Joanna hadn’t liked to talk about the old days. It was too painful, a past wrought with the loss of her only son. Portia’s questions about her parents were met with hushed tones and sadness and she’d never really learned much about them. She did remember her mother’s bright smile and her father’s light blue eyes. But even now, she wondered if those were true memories, or just recollections of the pictures she’d seen.
Her cell phone rang and a name popped up on the screen. She answered before the second ring. “Juan Carlos.” She sighed.
His baritone voice drifted to her over thousands of miles. “Hello, Princess. I had to hear your voice once more before I started my day. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
She glanced at the clock. It was 8:00 a.m. in Alma. “No, not at all. I’m doing some research right now. I’m glad you called. How are you?”
“Besides missing you, I’m doing well. I’m scheduled to do a television interview later this morning. All of Alma is rejoicing over our art find, sweetheart. But I have a feeling the interviewer is more interested in our engagement. I’m sure I will be barraged with questions about our wedding.”
“I’m sure you can handle it, Your Highness.”
“What I can’t handle is not being with my perfect princess. When will you be returning to me?”
“Give me a week, Juan Carlos,” she said. “I need the time to get some things in order.”
“Sounds like an eternity.”
“For me, too, but I have a lot to accomplish. Jasmine has been persistent. We are very close to choosing a wedding gown.”
“I can’t wait to see you in it. No matter which you choose you’ll be beautiful. But what have you decided about your work?”
“I’ve managed to take a three months’ leave of absence. I’m thinking of relocating to Europe. There are many American art collectors living abroad who might need my services. I...I don’t have it all figured out yet.”
“Take your time, sweetheart. I want you to be happy with whatever you choose.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“I’ve been thinking. How does a Christmas wedding sound?”
“A Christmas wedding?” She pictured lush holly wreaths, bright red poinsettias and twinkling lights decorating the palace. “Sounds heavenly. But it’s less than two months away.”
Her fiancé was eager to make her his wife. She couldn’t complain, yet her mind spun. She had so very much to do.
“We can make it work, Portia.”
“Yes, yes. Okay,” she said, smiling. The idea was too tempting to pass up. “Let’s have a Christmas wedding.”
There was a pause, and she pictured him smiling. “I love you, Portia.”
“I love you, too, Juan Carlos.”
* * *
The nursing home smelled of lye soap and disinfectant. Yet somehow the word sterile didn’t come to mind as Portia walked the halls toward her great-aunt Margreta’s room. Her aunt had once told her, “The odors of old age are too strong to conceal.” Sharp old bird, Aunt Margreta was, back in the day. But Portia never knew what she’d find when she visited. Some days, her great-aunt was lucid, her wits about her. And some days, it was as if she’d fallen into a dark hole and didn’t know how to get out.
This kind of aging was a slow, eternally sad process. Yet, as Portia popped her head into her aunt’s room, she was greeted with cheery buttercup-colored walls and fresh flowers. Aunt Margreta sat in a chair, reading a crime thriller. A good sign.
“Hello, Auntie,” Portia said. “It’s me, Portia.”
Her aunt looked over her thick eyeglasses and hesitated a moment. “Portia?”
Her voice was weak, her body frail and thin. “Yes, it’s me.”
The old woman smiled. “Come in, dear.” She put the book down on her lap. “Nice of you to visit.”
Thank heaven. Her aunt was having a good day. Maybe now, she could gather information about the Lindstrom monarchy that Portia hadn’t been able to find anywhere else. She’d used up every one of her massive tools of research, including going through newspaper archives searching for an inkling about her family’s rule and traditions carried out in Samforstand. She found nothing, which was very odd, and that lack of information brought her here today. Maybe Aunt Margreta could shed some light. She was her grandmother’s sister and had lived in the homeland before the war.
Portia pulled up a chair and sat down beside her. “How are you, Auntie?”
“I can’t complain. Well, I could, but it would do no good. I’m old, Portia. And you,” she said, gazing over her glasses again. “You are as beautiful as I remember.”
Portia took her hand and smiled. Aunt Margreta’s hands were always soft, the skin loose and smooth over the aging bones. At ninety-three years old, she was as physically fit as one could expect, but for daily bouts of arthritis. But her mind wasn’t holding up as well as her body and that worried Portia. “So are you, Aunt Margreta. You’re a beautiful lady.”
She’d always been a sweet woman, though as Portia remembered, she’d also been feisty in her day and not always in agreement with her sister, Joanna. The two would argue when they thought Portia couldn’t hear. She never knew what they argued about, but as soon as Portia would step into the room, they’d shoot each other a glare and stop arguing, pretending things were all fine and dandy. Which they were, most of the time. Portia missed her parents, but she’d never discount the love Grandma Joanna and Great-Aunt Margreta bestowed upon her. It was the least she could do for her aunt to see to her care here at Somerset Village.
“Auntie, are they treating you well here?”
She nodded. “I’m fine, dear. The food’s better now. We have a new chef and he doesn’t cut corners. You’ll see. You’ll stay for lunch?”
“Of course I will. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Then I’ll get dressed up and we’ll go to the dining room later.”
“Okay. Auntie, I have good news.” She lifted her left hand and wiggled her fingers. “I’m engaged.”
Margreta squeezed her eyes closed. “Is it to Johnny Valente? That boy wouldn’t leave you alone when you were younger. I never liked him. “
Johnny Valente? Portia used to play with him in grade school, two decades ago. He was a bully who’d called her Polar Bear Portia, because of her light hair and skin tone. “Gosh no, Auntie. I never liked him, either.” She hoped her aunt wasn’t digressing. “I’m engaged to...” How should she say this? “I met this wonderful man when I was visiting Alma.”
“What’s Alma?”
“It’s this beautiful island country just off the coast of Spain. I met him at his coronation. Auntie, he was just crowned king. His name is Juan Carlos Salazar, King Montoro of Alma.”
Aunt Margreta put her head down. “I see.”
Her aunt’s odd reaction surprised her. “Do you like my ring?”
She
gave Portia’s left hand a glance. “It sparkles.”
“Yes, it does.”
“But it looks old.”
“Yes, I suppose it’s at least fifty years old. It was his mother’s ring. He...lost his family at a young age also.”
“In a car accident, just like your mother and father?”
“Yes, the same way. We have a lot in common.”
Pain entered her aunt’s eyes. “That’s terribly sad, isn’t it?” Her aunt made a move to get up from the chair. “Is it time for lunch yet, dear?”
Portia’s eye twitched. “Not yet, Auntie.”
Her aunt relaxed back into her seat.
“Auntie, I have a question to ask you. It’s very important to me, so please try to concentrate. I will be marrying a king and, well, since I also have royal bloodlines, my fiancé wants very much for me to carry out the protocols of my homeland during our wedding. Do you know where I might find that information? I can’t seem to find anything about our family’s rule before World War II.”
Aunt Margreta put her head down again.
“Auntie, please. Try to remember.”
“There are no protocols from the family,” she said stoically.
“But surely...there have to be. Have you forgotten?”
“No, my dear. I have not forgotten. Your grandmother and I never saw eye to eye about this.”
“About what, Auntie?”
Margreta stilled. “Tell no one. Tell no one. Tell no one,” she repeated.
“Not even me, Auntie? What is it you’re not supposed to tell?”
Margreta looked straight ahead, as if Portia wasn’t there. As if she was going back in time, remembering. “Don’t tell Portia. She must never know the truth.”
“What?” Portia absorbed her words, but they didn’t make any sense. “What do you mean, I must never know the truth? What truth?” Portia grabbed her aunt’s hand, gently squeezing. “Auntie, please. You have to tell me.”
Her aunt turned to stare at her. “You are not a princess,” she said. Her voice was sorrowful, etched in pain and Portia’s heart sunk at her earnest tone. “Our family never ruled in Samforstand. Your mother wasn’t royalty and neither was my sister, Joanna. It’s all a lie.”
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