Читать книгу The Duke's Covert Mission - Julie Miller - Страница 9

“I am Princess Lucia Carradigne of Korosol.”

Liar. Eleanor Standish shook her head at the reflection in the compact mirror she held in her left hand. She didn’t feel particularly princesslike at the moment.

A head-to-toe makeover, courtesy of her new friends—CeCe, Amelia and Lucia Carradigne, the American granddaughters of Ellie’s employer, King Easton of Korosol—had done nothing to change the woman inside.

CeCe’s hairdresser had added highlights to Ellie’s mousy brown curls and swept them up into an elegant French roll. Amelia had hired the staff from a trendy New York spa to paint her fingernails and toenails, and massage and loofah body parts in between. Lucia, the youngest Carradigne sister, had lent Ellie a smashing gown of beaded red silk so that Ellie could attend the Inferno Charity Ball in her place. Meanwhile, Lucia planned to be whisked out of town on her honeymoon with her brand-new husband.

Princess for a night. A dream come true.

Ellie huffed a sigh through her clenched teeth and tugged at the low-cut bodice of her gown. “Some Cinderella I turned out to be.”

She might look like a princess on the outside, but inside Ellie still felt like that shy secretary who’d grown up on a sheep ranch in the western mountains of Korosol. That quiet country girl who fantasized about life’s grand adventures while balancing accounts and chasing lambs in from the pasture. The dutiful daughter who had put her dreams on hold to keep her family together after her older brother ran away to save the world all by himself.

Her three fairy godmothers might have transformed her outward appearance with stylists and a gown, but no one had waved a magic wand over her self-confidence.

Ellie looked into the compact mirror and repeated her message, wondering if she’d believe it any more the second time around. “I am Princess Lucia Carradigne of Korosol.”

“Miss?”

Startled by the intrusion into her conflicting world of self-talk and self-doubt, Ellie jumped. The compact snapped together and clattered to the sidewalk at her feet. She lifted her fingers to adjust the rims of her glasses and nearly poked herself in the eye.

“Drat.” She’d forgotten. There were no glasses tonight. No pink metal rims weighed down by thick lenses to hide behind. No fuzzy world mere inches beyond the end of her nose. Tonight she wore contact lenses and could see without her glasses.

Tonight the world could see her.

She pushed her way past the billowing skirt of scarlet taffeta and knelt to retrieve the mirror. But the man in the black chauffeur’s uniform beat her to it.

“Sorry, miss. Didn’t mean to startle you.” Ellie froze, bent over, eye to eye with the sandy-haired, middle-aged man. He looked pleasant enough, a tad stout, and his uniform smelled of cigarette smoke. But he possessed the drawl of a native New Yorker. He smiled as his black-gloved fingers brushed against hers. “Here you go.”

Was this the prince she’d fantasized about meeting tonight? One of those rough, rugged Americans she’d seen in movies? An independent scoundrel who owned a fast car and a heart of gold? True, he wasn’t handing her a glass slipper, only the silver compact that had belonged to her godmother, the late Queen Cassandra, wife and royal consort to King Easton.

But he was being polite. He had noticed her when he could have just as well ignored her.

Her heart beat a bit faster at the possibility of her fantasy coming to life. He might really be a prince in disguise. He might whisk her off in his long black limo and serve her champagne or that milk-frothed coffee that Americans seemed to thrive on. He’d twirl her onto the dance floor and they’d waltz, a courtly dance that reflected the elegance of her borrowed gown, and set the romantic stage for a man and woman falling in love.

“Thank you.” Small talk had never been her forte, but at least she’d managed to speak.

“Allow me.” The chauffeur extended his hand and Ellie took it, wrapping her fingers around his and balancing herself as she stood. Maybe this was the sweeping-her-off-her-feet part.

Or not.

Somehow reality never lived up to fantasy.

The man’s dark gaze focused at a point well below her eyes. She snatched her hand away in a rush of dignified self-defense as she realized his fascination centered on the two rounded swells above her plunging neckline, not herself.

So much for Prince Charming.

Ellie flipped the matching silk stole across her chest and shoulder, hiding everything from her neck to her cleavage from his view. She tilted her chin at a regal angle and ignored the clicking sound of disappointment he made with his tongue.

“Where’s Paulo?” she asked. Paulo was the Carradignes’ regular driver, a young and unassuming man who tended to mind his own business. How unpleasant that he’d been replaced with this leering fellow.

“I’m just the substitute, miss, called in from the driving service for the night.” He walked to the rear door of the limousine and opened it for her. “Can’t tell you why the regular guy didn’t show.”

“And you know the way to the Inferno Ball?” She clutched her silver beaded purse, which contained the invitation to the gala.

He smiled again. She found the effect less charming this time. “Yes, Your Highness. I have my instructions.”

Ellie climbed in and slid to the center of the black leather seat, pulling her skirts along behind her before he could reach down and tuck the hem of her gown inside the car.

Your Highness.

Would anyone besides this cad really believe she was a princess?

After he got behind the wheel and pulled the limo into traffic, Ellie opened the silver compact and looked into the mirror once more.

Staring back at her with eyes a mite too big to be pretty was that country girl who knew more about breeding the sheep that produced her native country’s fine wool than she did about high fashion. She could balance numbers, take dictation and jury-rig a computer program better than she could carry on a casual conversation. She understood the intricacies of government duty better than she understood a man’s flirtation.

And though her heart longed for adventure—while she longed to be a woman who lived adventures—she was content to mind her place in the world.

Except for tonight.

In a few weeks she and the king and his entourage would return to Korosol, a tiny seaside country nestled between France and Spain. She’d don her glasses and put on her sensible suit. She’d fade into the woodwork and do her job with impeccable reliability and the satisfaction of knowing she worked for a kindhearted, generous man.

She had to play Cinderella now—or never.

Ellie squared her chin and picked up a champagne flute from the console in the side wall of the limo. She didn’t fill it. She didn’t want any alcohol to impair her memories of this special night.

The Carradignes had given her so much. She couldn’t let them down by surrendering to shyness and self-doubt.

She lifted the glass and toasted her alter ego for the night. “I am Princess Lucia Carradigne of Korosol.”

She let her silk stole fall down around her elbows. A princess would carry herself with precise posture. She fingered the choker of diamonds and rubies that matched the teardrop earrings hanging from her earlobes, marveling at how the facets caught and reflected in the limo’s back window.

Ellie frowned and moved her face closer to the smoked glass and peered outside at the buildings towering above her on either side of the street. She hiked her skirt and petticoats up to her knees, climbed over to the opposite seat and knocked on the see-through partition. “Driver?” The partition opened halfway. “Are you sure you know the way to the ball? I have a pretty good sense of direction. We should be heading east, but we’re going north.”

He muttered something under his breath before smiling at her reflection in the rearview mirror. “I have to take the long way around, miss, because of construction. Don’t worry. I’ll get you where you need to be.”

A detour hadn’t been part of her Cinderella fantasy. “Are you sure? I don’t want to be late.”

“We’re almost there.”

The partition closed before she could ask the name of the street they were on. She raised her fist to knock again, but then pulled it back down to her lap. A princess wouldn’t crawl around the back of a limo, hounding the hired help.

A vague sense of unease that had nothing to do with her shyness rippled down her spine.

She put the champagne glass back in its slot and returned to her seat in the back. The endless city lights, which had beckoned to her small-town heart like stars in the sky, now seemed to be flashing some kind of warning.

Ellie pushed at the boning that pinched her ribs and pulled up the draped neckline to cover more of her chest. She realized she was squirming and forced herself to sit still. A princess would be comfortable with her figure, even if it wasn’t as willowy thin as the woman the dress had been made for.

“I am Princess Lucia—”

The limousine pulled to a stop. Ellie reached for her glasses before remembering they weren’t there. She caught the mistake and moved her fingers to touch the diamond at her ear.

“All I want is one dance.”

One dance. One waltz.

Ellie’s face relaxed into a smile.

“One dance, Cinderella,” she promised herself.

Her confidence swelled with the less-daunting task.

Even if she had to grab one of the waiters, she would have her dance.

Then she could run home to Korosol before she turned into a pumpkin and embarrassed herself any further.

“Princess Lucia?”

The door beside her opened and the driver reached in to help her out.

Ellie softened her lips into a serene smile.

She stepped outside and her smile vanished.

Where was the red carpet? Where were the photographers? Where was the doorman with the white gloves to announce her arrival?

What was that gas pump doing in the middle of the parking lot?

Ellie rubbed at her temple. Why was she standing in the middle of an empty parking lot?

“Driver?” Ellie turned, but he had disappeared around the front of the car. She followed him, her uneasiness swelling to outright suspicion. “Did we need to stop for gas?”

When she rounded the front fender, Ellie screamed. A huge, hulking mountain of a man materialized from the shadows. With her hand at her throat she backed away. “Driver!”

The giant wore black from head to toe, including the stocking mask that covered his face. Black-gloved hands the size of bear traps reached for her.

“Stay away from me!” Ellie screamed, then spun around to run, but smacked into the belly of a second man. “No!”

Stocky, and more than a foot shorter than the giant, this one wore the same faceless outfit. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her back. “Load her up,” he ordered.

She slammed into the wall of the giant. His arms closed around her like a vise, trapping her hands at her sides. The short man stuffed a pungent cloth into her mouth, muffling her cry for help. The big man slapped his hand over the gag and picked her up. Ellie gasped for air, but the sting of chemicals burned her sinuses and brought tears to her eyes. The short man jogged ahead of them to a black car hidden in the shadows beside the gas station.

Actions drilled into her long ago by an overprotective big brother kicked in. She twisted and jerked and jabbed the heel of her silver sandal into her attacker’s shin.

He cursed and her small victory thrilled her, giving her a rush of adrenaline and the strength to pry herself from his grasp. Ellie landed hard on her knees on the concrete. But as the pain jolted through her bones all the way to her skull, she pulled the gag from her mouth and screamed.

“Stop her!”

Ellie tried to crawl, and her legs and petticoats tangled with the giant’s feet and he tripped. He crashed to the ground and she dodged to the side.

She didn’t get far. Her head was swimming. It was too dark. It was happening too fast.

Raw with fear, Ellie slapped at the hands that lifted her. The words were vile, the touches rough. A third man got out of the car and opened the trunk.

Ellie twisted, fought, struggled for air and begged for her life before they dumped her in. She landed beside a bundle of black laundry. She clawed at it to right herself, but succeeded only in rolling the bundle over and revealing a cold, colorless face with blank, staring eyes.

Ellie screamed.

But Paulo Giovanni, the Carradignes’ chauffeur, never heard her.

“Shut her up!”

She didn’t understand. Crazy observations floated through her blurring vision. Ski masks in June. Big man. Little man. Dead man.

Something sharp pricked her shoulder, and she yelped between sobs. A numbing sensation turned her limbs to jelly and her brain to mush.

By the time the trunk lid closed above her and she slumped into the inescapable darkness, she could think of only one thing.

She’d never gotten her dance.