Читать книгу Her Own Prince Charming - Eva Rutland - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

THE Ashfords arose late the Sunday after the game. After all, it had been an exhausting week, with one social gathering after another. It was raining steadily and was a little chilly outside but warm and cozy in the cheerful breakfast room. The ladies lingered long over the delicious brunch Paula had prepared.

Sunday was officially Paula’s day off. But if she had nowhere to go, which was often the case, the Ashfords considered her at their disposal. Even if she retreated to her uncle’s quarters over the garage, she was easily on call. This morning she didn’t mind. She wanted to hear about the game. She had never seen one, and knew nothing about polo. But she knew horses. It must take exceptionally skilled horsemanship to play a game in which horses were engaged. Her ears were alert as she replenished the basket of hot homemade rolls and poured cup after cup of coffee. But it was as if they had not seen the game. The conversation centered on who sat with whom in which spectator’s box and who danced with whom when they retreated to the clubhouse.

“I don’t think he saw me,” Whitney complained. “Aunt Sally’s box is in that far corner, next to the Goosbys, who have all those guests. They blocked us off completely. We shouldn’t have sat there.”

Her mother sniffed. “And just where would you have us sit, missy! Nobody offered to share their box but my dear cousin. You should be grateful.”

“But it is so disappointing that he never found where I was sitting.”

“He found where Sheila Moody was sitting,” Rae interjected.

Whitney stiffened. “That was her doing! She was smiling and simpering and hanging onto him like glue!”

Rae giggled. “I guess your view wasn’t blocked by the Goosbys. You were watching them every minute.”

“I was not! I only—”

“Girls, girls!” Mamie Ashford intervened.

“Well, I don’t see why she’s so het up about Brad Vandercamp,” Rae said. “He’s not the only interesting man who’s here.”

“He’s the most interesting! And you needn’t be so smug because his friend, Lord Carl Wormsley, earl of something or other, danced with you three times. He might have a title, but anything else he has is in hock!”

“I suppose you have checked the financial records of all the potential—”

“Word gets around!” Whitney snapped. “Rumor has it that his title is up for sale to the highest bidder, and I’m afraid that lets you out!”

Paula stopped listening. All she was hearing was that Whitney was in a snit. A few days later, she was in more of a snit. The prince had paid a call upon Sheila Moody.

Mrs. Ashford had heard of it at the bridge table. “One visit,” she exclaimed. “And Ada Moody is hinting at a romance. I bet she’s already looking at bridal clothes.”

However, it seemed that the romance quickly cooled, and Whitney was somewhat mollified when the Ashfords received an invitation for a sojourn on Renegade, the Vandercamp yacht They would be among the many guests who would dine and dance during a moonlight sail down the coast.

Paula received an invitation, too. Harry was catering, and he pleaded with her. To no avail. She couldn’t take the risk.

What risk? He had probably forgotten all about her if he thought of her at all, and she...

All right. She was as anxious to view his yacht as she was to see him play polo.

Wrong. You’re anxious to see him, idiot!

Well... out of sight, out of mind. She gave Harry a definite no.

Well, not exactly definite. When Harry persisted, she hesitated.

She’d never been on a sailboat, much less a yacht. And, from what she’d heard, the Vandercamp yacht was something to be seen.

Why not? With so many guests, he’d hardly notice one serving maid. Especially if she kept well out of his sight.

He recognized her the minute she stepped on the gangplank. He handed the binoculars to his steward, who stood beside him on the upper deck, and pointed. “That is she.”

The steward nodded and hurried away.

Brad focused the binoculars on Paula. Caught by the buoyant enthusiasm reflected in her face, he felt his pulse quicken. That was why he had searched. For another glimpse of that face. Bright, smiling, bubbling with expectant wonder, as if always on the verge of some happy, exciting adventure.

Paula’s eyes were wide as she ran up the gangplank. This wasn’t a yacht, it was a ship! She tried to take it all in as she followed Harry and other workers across a deck that had been scrubbed and polished to a shining perfection. Down a hall and several spiral staircases to an oversize kitchen. No. It was called a galley, and it was equipped with ovens, refrigerators, counters and other appurtenances adequate for the average hotel. Certainly enough to accommodate one—

“Paula, honey, give me a hand here,” Ruth, Harry’s chief assistant, called. “These better go in the fridge. This here’s some boat, ain’t it?”

“Sure is.” Paula lifted a carton of shrimp. “Guess he likes to travel in style.”

“Shoot, he don’t travel on it. Least he didn’t coming here.”

“Oh?” Paula tried to remember. The Ashfords had been so excited when the yacht—

“Guess it don’t travel fast enough for him. He flew in from France or Italy... some fancy place on the Riviera where he was playing whatever game he plays there.”

“So why the yacht?”

Ruth shrugged. “Who knows?” Guess no San Diego hotel is grand enough for him. Anyway, this boat, the Renegade, sailed in while he was still frolicking in Italy, and he’s living abroad while here. Pretty decent living quarters, wouldn’t you say?”

“Nice.”

“One thing about working with Harry,” Ruth said. “You get to know how the other half lives.”

Right, Paula thought. At least Ruth certainly knew more about the prince than Whitney did. Heck, I’m learning more than Whitney while fixing shrimp, she thought, as Ruth rattled on.

“Costs a pretty penny just to park it—more than two thousand a day for a big one like this—and don’t forget the crew that’s always on hand, whether anybody’s aboard or not...eight or ten I heard.”

“That many?” Paula asked, incredulous.

“Oh, sure. Who’s gonna maintain and sail the ship? There are those who maintain and sail this thing, as well as those who serve His Highness and guests who don’t know how to pick up a plate for themselves.”

“And all for one person.”

“Oh, I don’t think he’s alone much, honey. I hear he’s always got some special lady aboard.”

“Oh?” Something else Whitney had missed. Was a lady—

“No lady with him now,” Ruth said, answering the question Paula had not asked. “Some Italian woman back where he come from, but I guess he left her there. Seems like he gets bored pretty quick.”

Paula remembered the mischievous eyes, the engaging smile. He hadn’t looked bored. But maybe that was the way it began, and then... She felt her face grow hot and shook her head in irritation. As if something had begun the night of the costume ball! Good Lord! She was as foolish as Whitney. One impromptu dance and—

“And ’course there’s always lots of entertaining, like this,” Ruth went on.

“Plenty of bedrooms for overnight cruises. And we didn’t have to supply no linen or china, stuff like that. And, Lord, if you’d seen the wine racks. I never—” She broke off at the appearance of a man, immaculate in a white tuxedo.

Harry turned from one of the ovens to greet him. “This is Mr. McCoy,” he said, addressing his employees. “He is chief steward on the Renegade, and we are pleased to be working with him and his staff tonight. Now, as to procedure, as you know, bars and buffets are being set up on the two decks and at various indoor parlors. Each of you will now be assigned to certain sections where you will be assisted by one or more members of the regular Renegade staff.”

After a short conference between the two men, assignments and directions were made. Paula, who had received no assignment, assumed that she was to remain in the kitchen arranging the platters and hot dishes that would go up on dummy waiters to the various levels. But when Mr. McCoy arose from the table, he nodded to her. “Please, will you come with me?”

Puzzled, she followed him from the galley and up more and more staircases. After what seemed like an endless climb, they reached a landing, which he crossed to a door. He unlocked it with a card key and stepped back for her to enter.

She walked in, looked around. Commodious, but definitely a private parlor, she thought, noting a small table set for two.

She was to serve only two people? She turned to question the steward, but he inclined his head and quickly withdrew, closing the door behind him.

She looked at the table, the ice bucket with champagne beside it, a loaded buffet within easy reach. Serving only two would be a piece of cake. Since they weren’t dining with the other guests, they obviously wanted to be alone. After serving them, she supposed she should, like Mr. McCoy, quietly withdraw. She chuckled. The only difficulty might be in finding her way to the galley.

Meanwhile, what had Ruth said? Yep, this was a good chance to see how the other half lives.

The sofa curving around the conversational area in one corner of the room was cushioned in shades of blue, somehow reminiscent of the tossing waves of the sea. The table centering the area held a big bowl of chrysanthemums that seemed to catch their color from the sunlit coastline displayed in the oversize picture on the wall. Everything spoke of good taste and money. She spotted a door, which she opened to a bedroom also tastefully done in shades of ocean blue.

Just as she started in, she felt the roll of the boat beneath her feet. They were off! Whoever she was to serve might come in at any moment, and she didn’t want to be caught peeking. She quickly shut the door.

Just in time, she thought, as she heard the click of the card key and saw the other door open. She was standing at attention when he came in.

The prince himself.

Of course. Who else? Why hadn’t it occurred to her before? Anybody who would sneak a servant he didn’t even know on to a dance floor where she should not be would think nothing of sneaking away from his own guests to have a private rendezvous with...how had Ruth put it? His present interest.

She was surprised at her own indignation. Why should she care what he did, when and with whom?

Curiosity got the best of her, and she looked beyond him. Where was she?

“Hello, again,” he said.

Her gaze flew to him. She had been too immersed in speculation to remember that he might recognize her.

She played it straight. “Good evening, sir. May I get you something? A drink or—”

“Allow me.” He took the champagne from the ice bucket, uncorked it with practiced dexterity and poured two glasses. He handed one to her, touched it with his own. “To us.”

What was going on? She set the glass down. “Thank you, sir, but I don’t drink while working.”

“You are not working. Tonight you are my guest.”

“I—I . . . Beg pardon?” What kind of game was this?

“I said tonight you are my guest. So, please...” He pulled out a chair and smiled.

She did not move.

“Come now,” he coaxed. “I’ve gone to a deal of trouble to arrange this bit of time. Let’s relax and enjoy.”

She saw the mischief lurking in his eyes. Remembered all she had heard of him.

She didn’t like this arrangement. Didn’t like being alone with a well-known lover boy, somewhere out in the Pacific, in his private quarters at the top of his yacht, locked...

Locked? Her throat felt dry. She moved to the door. It swung easily open, and she felt a flush of shame.

“You’re not going to run away again, are you, Cinderella?” he asked, laughing.

Anger replaced the shame. “My name is not Cinderella.”

“Oh? But you did run away at the stroke of midnight. Deserted—”

She was halfway out the door, but he blocked her way. “Wait. Don’t go. Why are you so angry?”

“I’m not angry. I just—” She bit back the words don’t intend to be one of your easy pickups. “I don’t indulge in fairy-tale games, Mr. Vandercamp.”

“This isn’t a game.”

“Whatever you call it, I don’t like it. I came here to work, and I find myself tricked into . . . into this!” Her gesture expressed what she couldn’t bring herself to say.

“What’s wrong with this? How else was I to find you?”

“What?”

“No name. No place of residence. I didn’t even know where you worked. Naturally I assumed you were in the employ of the Moodys, and made several calls there. Saw no trace of you. It was only by lucky chance that during one of these visits, Sam, Moody’s son, dropped a hint. The costume ball was served by an outfit called Harry’s Catering Service. So—”

Paula, who had been fascinated into silence as much by his clipped British accent as his rapid words, broke in. “So why didn’t you just ask Harry? That would have been simple.”

“You think so? Of course I considered that avenue. But it seems Mr. Harry is reluctant to release information concerning his employees, ostensibly for their protection but, I surmise, more for his own. According to my father, one hates to have key personnel stolen from one.”

“Oh.”

“And what could I say? Blond hair...no, more gold than blond. Laughing blue eyes. About five foot four, with a just-right figure. Great dancer... light as a feather in my arms.” His mouth twitched. “Such a description might have a certain . . . well, unsavory connotation. I would not like to create such an impression. You do understand?”

“Of course.” In spite of herself, her lips curved in accord with his infectious grin.

“Likewise, the idea of a detective was abhorrent to me. As if I were in pursuit of a criminal or had some devious intent.”

“Yes, that would be rather tacky,” she said, entering into the game.

“Right. So you see why there’s a party aboard the Renegade tonight. And why it’s being catered by . . . guess who?”

She stared at him. “All that trouble. All these people. Why?”

“I just told you. I was having the devil of a time. I didn’t know your name. Still don’t, incidentally. Nor—”

“No. I mean why did you want to find me?”

The question seemed to puzzle him. He hesitated, smiled. “We do dance well together, don’t we?”

“That’s no reason.”

“It’s a beginning. There may be other things we do well together. Wouldn’t you like to find out?”

Again she saw the mischief in his eyes. “I . . . I don’t think—”

“Oh, don’t be so wary. I am a gentleman. And,” he added quickly as if he just remembered, “there was another reason I had to find you. I had something of yours that I was anxious to return to you. See?” He reached into his pocket and held it out to her.

“My necklace! You found it.” She was genuinely pleased.

“Actually, you left it with me when you withdrew. The chain snapped and—”

“And you had it fixed. No, replaced it,” she corrected, examining the new chain, a little heavier and obviously more expensive. Some basic rule about accepting expensive jewelry from a man... Maybe she ought not to accept. But she was so pleased to have it back. She looked at him, her face glowing. “Thank you. It’s very special to me.”

He touched the small charm. “You like horses?”

“Oh, yes!”

“I knew it! A lady after my own heart.” He took her arm and ushered her to the table. “Sit down. Let’s eat, drink and be merry while finding what else we have in common.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Vandercamp. I do appreciate what you’ve done, but—”

He picked up her glass and handed it to her. “My name’s Brad. What’s yours?”