To Catch a Princess (Entangled Ignite)

by Caridad Piñeiro

  Far below, floating on the cerulean waters of the Mediterranean, the crisp white of sails and boat hulls sparkled in the bright sunshine as the ships moved from the harbor and out to sea. It was heavenly.

  Eventually, Peter slowed the car and pulled into the driveway of a quaint Mediterranean-style villa. The whitewashed stucco walls were gleaming with the early afternoon light and draped with vivid scarlet bougainvillea. The small plot in front of the home boasted a garden filled with a riot of flowers in bloom where colorful butterflies flitted from one blossom to the next.

  “This is lovely,” she said, and meant it. The villa had the feeling of a home and not just a summer place.

  “It was,” Peter replied with a sadness impossible to miss.

  He slid from the car and came around to hold the door open for her. He offered his hand, but she ignored it. She couldn’t bring herself to touch him. She might weaken too easily if she did. They walked toward the front door, which opened as they neared.

  A wizened old couple stood there, ecstatic smiles on their faces. They bowed as she and Peter approached, but quickly rose again, those bright grins evident once more.

  “Princess Tatiana,” they both said in unison, and she returned their warm greeting with one of her own. After she had passed by them into the foyer, the old couple both reached out to hug Peter once he had stepped inside.

  “Prince Pyotr. You have been gone for too long,” the woman said, her voice dripping with affection.

  “We have missed you,” the man added with just as much emotion.

  Peter hugged each of them hard, then stepped away. For a moment Tatiana thought she might have seen the glimmer of tears in his eyes. Possibly tears of joy, given the broad grin on his face as he gazed upon the couple.

  “You haven’t aged a day, Olga,” he said and bent to hug the woman once more. “And you, Gregori. I see she’s been feeding you well,” he teased, and playfully patted the man’s slight paunch.

  “She’s saved the best for you and your guest, Pyotr,” the man said, and lifted his chin to bring their attention to the far side of the building. A wall of windows blessed the room with views of a terrace, a modest infinity pool, lusciously colorful gardens and beyond, the majesty of the Cote d’Azur and the Mediterranean.

  On the terrace sat a wrought iron table and two chairs beneath a deep maroon umbrella. A serving cart rested nearby, laden with the food the man had mentioned.

  The woman started toward the terrace, but Peter laid a gentle hand on her arm and in a tender voice said, “There’s no need for you to serve, Olga. I can take care of this.”

  The woman glanced between the two of them and then to her husband before nodding. “We understand. If you need anything, please call us.”

  The couple hurried away and Peter gestured toward the terrace. “Shall we?”

  Tatiana turned, but a painting on the wall snagged her attention. It was a family portrait that must have been done quite some time ago. A much younger Peter sat in front of a handsome couple. The woman was in a deep merlot-colored gown and wore a set of jewels Tatiana recognized well. The pieces were sitting in the hotel’s ballroom in anticipation of the fashion show.

  Peter’s father, the Grand Duke, wore a dress military uniform while Peter was in a dark blue suit, looking way too grown-up for such a young child.

  There was a somber mood to the painting, nothing like her own family’s portrait where everyone was smiling. If anything, there was sadness, and in the woman an almost vacant look.

  “Your mother is very beautiful,” she said, and despite that lack of vitality, it was impossible not to see where Peter had inherited some of his features, although he was a real mix of the two parents.

  “Was very beautiful,” he said and gazed at the portrait.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. When did she—”

  “I was thirteen when she passed, although I’d lost her well before then.”

  Puzzled by his words, Tatiana narrowed her eyes to examine him, trying to understand.

  At her perusal, he offered an explanation while still gazing at the portrait. “She wasn’t a very strong woman emotionally, and didn’t handle the pressures of public life very well. But she was loving and caring. A great deal of fun when I was younger. We spent many wonderful summers here before—before she started having problems.”

  He jammed his hands in his pockets and looked down. His shoulders drooped as if he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Maybe he was. She felt instinctively that this, whatever he was about to say, was an important part of him.

  Drawn to him by the deep pain she sensed, she forgot all about their trust issues, and laid a comforting hand on his forearm. “What happened, Peter?”

  He shrugged and his head came up again to look at the painting. “Who knows what goes on in someone’s mind as they lose their grip on reality? First it was little things, like not wanting to go to the park. Then it was keeping all the shades and curtains drawn so others couldn’t see in. Eventually she refused to leave the house, and then she wouldn’t even come out of her room. Finally, she just left us. Nothing could bring her back.”

  Not even her little boy’s love, Tatiana thought, her heart nearly breaking at what he must have suffered while he watched his mother withdraw from the world around her.

  “I know words can’t make things better, but I’m so sorry, Peter.”

  “I’m sorry too, Tatiana. I never meant to hurt you by keeping my real identity from you. It’s just that after my mom died and I went away to school, I decided to walk away from everything I thought had made her so unhappy. The media, the total lack of privacy, and all the demands of being on display to satisfy the public.”

  How many times had she wished for the same? That desire had prompted her brother to expand the family business to Atlantic City, so they could both live a life away from the aggressive paparazzi that stalked the royals throughout Europe. The last few days in Monaco had only served as a painful reminder of how difficult being in the public life could be.

  She couldn’t imagine how much more difficult it was with Peter’s past history.

  And yet— “You know there must have been more to her decline than just the lack of privacy, right?”

  Another uneasy shrug shuddered across his shoulders. “At thirteen I was too young, or maybe too naïve, to understand that she was mentally ill. Even now, it’s difficult to accept. I didn’t want to see my mother as anything less than perfect. I didn’t want to think that I might be like her in that way.”

  Tatiana stroked her hand along his arm and up to touch his hair, which she smoothed in a calming gesture. “So you did what you could in order to avoid having her life. To not be in the spotlight, ever.”

  “It was easy enough at boarding school. Lots of kids there weren’t royal, just rich. That was where I met Alexander. Kind of. We were too far apart in age to really spend time together, but he knew who I was, just as I knew who he was.”

  “Neither of you should have kept it from me, who you really are,” she chastised.

  Peter finally met her gaze. “Don’t blame Alexander. When I realized he had moved to Atlantic City and we’d be in contact again, I asked him to keep my secret, and he promised he would. I like my life. It’s one I made for myself with my own efforts. I didn’t want to get sucked back in to all this,” he said, motioning to the expensive furnishings in the room, and to the portrait. “I also didn’t want to tell others about my mother. Didn’t want to share that secret with anyone. To let them think badly of her because of her illness. Of course, I didn’t expect to fall in love with you.”

  Her heart swelled with the admission, and for what it had cost him on so many levels. In many ways, she understood his dilemma. His mother’s condition was a highly private subject. He didn’t want to share it with anyone, not even the closest of friends. Tatiana hated to acknowledge they hadn’t been close enough friends for him to confide in her something that private. Not until t
he past couple of days, anyway.

  But now?

  Things were different.

  She hadn’t meant to fall in love with Peter, either, but it had happened. She had fallen in love with the man her parents had arranged for her to marry. How ironic was that?

  “I think we’re a lot alike in some ways,” she told him. “Neither Alexander nor I cared for a public life, although we dealt with it differently. Not wanting that lifestyle was a part of the reason I didn’t want to go through with the marriage our parents had arranged. The other part was that I wanted to pick the man I fell in love with. I still do.”

  He nodded. “I wanted the same things. Only, fate has a funny way of making things happen. I was afraid falling in love with you would ruin the life I had built for myself. Force me to be a prince again. Not to mention, I wanted you to fall in love with me not because of my title or that stupid marriage arrangement, but because of the kind of man I am.”

  She understood perfectly, but had to press. “What kind of man is that, Peter?”

  A look of chagrin skipped across his features. “Protective. Hard-working. Honest.”

  She chuckled and shook her head. “That last one is a little tough to swallow at the moment. You lied to me about who you are, Peter. Even after you became my friend, not just my brother’s.”

  “I know, and I was wrong to do so. I never meant to hurt you.”

  “But you did,” she admitted. “I understand why you didn’t tell me when we first met, but we’ve known each other for years. It hurts that you didn’t tell me before now. That it took all this happening for me to know, but maybe with time I’ll get over it.”

  …

  Peter took hope at her words that she was willing to forgive him, even if it took a while. “I’m a patient man, Tatochka. I’m willing to prove that you can trust me. That I can be the kind of man you want to spend the rest of your life with.”

  “Even though it means revealing your identity, and being on display for all to see?”

  He shrugged. “It’s harder to handle here in Europe, but this isn’t my home anymore. Back in Atlantic City, I think we could balance what we are with the lives we’ve made. I’d still be a cop and you’d still be my princess.”

  She nodded and glanced out toward the table on the terrace. “I hope so, Peter. For now, let’s have lunch and head back. I did only give you until three,” she added with a hint of a smile.

  He felt like a man on death row who had gotten a last minute reprieve. He also felt freer than he had in a very long time. Sharing his past with her, his pain, had helped close one chapter in his life and open another. One he hoped he could share with her.

  Olga had outdone herself with a cold borscht soup, and blinis with an assortment of fillings plus his favorite dessert—a thick and decadently rich chocolate pudding.

  As they ate, Tatiana complimented the meal and the lovely landscaping surrounding the terrace and pool and spilling over onto the adjacent hillside. It was a riotous mix of evergreens, wildflowers, and bougainvillea.

  “Gregori always had a green thumb. He’s done a wonderful job of keeping the place in shape.”

  “You’re very fond of them,” she said, and paused with a blini halfway to her mouth.

  “They were always here for me, especially toward the end. I’ve missed them. But…it’s tough coming back here.” He pushed away his half-eaten plate of blinis, earning a quick squeeze of his hand from Tatiana.

  “Maybe you should focus on the good times you spent here. It seems like you had a lot of them.”

  He had, truth be told. With a nod, he picked up his fork, and it wasn’t long before he finished the plate, and Olga came out to serve them coffee to go with their dessert.

  “Still the best, Olga,” Peter teased, and wrapped an arm around her thick waist to pull her close for a hug.

  “I’m glad I could make your homecoming enjoyable, Pyotr,” she said with a broad smile. He didn’t want to disappoint her with a reminder that he was only there for a few hours, so he said nothing, just smiled back. Maybe in time he could do what Tatiana had said, and think of only the good times he’d had here. Maybe then he could come back for more than a short few hours.

  When the meal was done, he escorted Tatiana through the house to the front door. Gregori stood there, waiting for them.

  “I’ve put the top up on the car, Pyotr. There may be too many pests on the way back to Monte Carlo,” the caretaker said. Pests was their old code word for paparazzi.

  “Are there a lot of pests outside?” Peter asked.

  “Only a pair of them, but they’ve been buzzing around the area for the last hour.”

  Tatiana eyed him, her concern apparent.

  “Nothing to worry about, Princess. I can handle them.”

  He opened the door of the villa and did a quick perusal. No sign of the paparazzi so far.

  He quickly got Tatiana settled in the car and then slipped behind the wheel. Wasting no time, he pulled away from the villa, but they had gone no more than fifty feet when he caught sight of a car that slowed by the driveway for a too long look, and then sped in their direction.

  He wanted to race away, but he knew the risks of speeding along the hairpin curves along the Corniche. Unfortunately, the car behind him was leaving him no choice but to increase his speed as it raced closer and nearly creamed his back bumper.

  The stupid bastard was going to get them all killed.

  …

  Tatiana glanced at Peter, noting the tight set of his jaw and the way his hands were clenching the wheel. He took a turn and the tires squealed. She braced her hand on the dash and asked, “What’s wrong?”

  He shot a quick look at the rearview mirror and jerked his head toward the back of the vehicle. “We’ve got two paparazzi almost attached to our bumper.” With another squeal and a slight lurch of the car, he took another sharp turn.

  She risked a look over her shoulder. The car behind them skidded a bit, the vehicle clearly not as steady as their Bentley. The driver wrangled the car back under control, then to her surprise, whipped around them to pass along the wrong side of the road.

  A photographer leaned out the open window, camera in hand, and began snapping photos of them.

  “Damn fool,” Peter said and slowed, but the other car kept pace, boxing them in-between their vehicle and the stony wall of the mountain. He slowed down some more.

  She was terrified they’d either push the Bentley into the hillside or hit an oncoming vehicle. She was terrified they’d get killed before she and Peter had a chance to set things to right.

  “Peter,” she said, her voice tight as she laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “It’ll be all right. Trust me,” he said and in that second, she knew she did. With her life and with her heart. God help her have the time to be able to tell him that.

  As the paparazzi’s car inched closer, Tatiana gripped Peter’s shoulder and held on as he tried to steer clear of the other car and the rocky hillside.

  The driver of the other car didn’t seem to care. He kept on making a dangerous nuisance of himself, but suddenly, on one of the turns, another vehicle came around, heading straight for the paparazzi’s car.

  Tires squealed loudly and both drivers tried to stop before impact. The paparazzi’s car went careening to the left and over the unprotected edge of the road.

  “Oh my God!” she gasped.

  With a quick check to make sure no one was behind him, Peter brought their car to a hard stop near where the other two cars had almost collided.

  “Stay here,” he commanded, whipped off his seatbelt, and raced to the ledge where the paparazzi’s car had gone over.

  She heard him instructing the driver of the other car to call for assistance, then vanished down the side of the mountain.

  Tatiana wasn’t about to sit there doing nothing. She needed to know Peter was safe and not doing any crazy hero stuff.

  Rushing to where she had seen Peter disappear, she real
ized he was climbing his way down to the car, which had clearly flipped a few times. To her dismay, the first lick of flames appeared from beneath the mangled hood. They didn’t stop Peter.

  He approached the car, and reached in through the shattered window of the driver’s side to check the driver’s pulse.

  He must have been alive because Peter struggled with getting the damaged door open as the flames grew ever larger and grey smoke wafted from beneath the hood.

  She couldn’t let him struggle all alone and risk his life.

  Disregarding her heels and her designer suit, she raced down the hillside to check on the photographer in the other side of the car.

  “Get out of here, Tatiana. This could blow at any moment,” Peter shouted as he yanked over and over on the driver’s door handle in an attempt to free the driver.

  The photographer in the passenger seat was moaning and feebly trying to unlock his door when she reached him. Hands shaking, she somehow unlocked the door through the window, and wrestled it open since it wasn’t as badly mangled as the other side. The photographer staggered out and fell to his knees, disoriented. His face was a bloody mess. She slipped her arm beneath his and half-carried, half-dragged him a few feet away, his weight almost too much for her to handle. The other motorist raced down the hillside and took over her burden, helping the photographer away from the burning car.

  Peter was still battling the driver side door, ignoring the danger he was in as the fire quickly spread. Every now and then a long lick of flame shot out in his direction and he jerked back. But he kept at it. The driver had roused and was screaming frantically, aware that death was possible at any moment. The fire had engulfed the entire front half of the car.