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Chapter Three

Ella grimaced at her reflection. The black silk cocktail dress was simple and elegant, but she couldn’t help wondering if it looked like she was trying too hard. Like she wanted to impress the prince, which of course she didn’t.

He’d been surprisingly amenable to the change in dinner plans. “Mr. Bryant is a busy man,” he’d said, a teasing lilt to his voice, and Ella had bristled.

“I’m afraid it’s an emergency,” she’d said, although she had no idea what was keeping Chase from wooing his client. This sudden absence was utterly out of character for him, and she was starting to get worried.

“In any case, I shall look forward to having dinner with you,” Philippe had said, and Ella had smiled tightly. She couldn’t say the same; although, really, the problem was that she could. She didn’t want to like Prince Philippe, but so far he wasn’t what she’d expected. Underneath that easy veneer of arrogant charm he seemed surprisingly easygoing, sometimes whimsical. Which was the real man? She knew men could put on two very different faces…and she had proven herself incapable of telling which one was real.

She turned away from the mirror and headed for the Mandarin’s restaurant in Columbus Circle. It was only a short walk from her apartment, and the early December night was glittering and cold. The prince was waiting by the maître d’s desk when she entered the restaurant, on the thirty-fifth floor of the hotel with a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the city.

“Prince Philippe.” She just kept herself from clicking her heels as she stopped to stand in front of him. He smiled.

“Please, call me Philippe. I don’t stand on formality.”

Was he flirting? She didn’t think so, but it still seemed like a line. He was just too smooth. He made her both suspicious and stiff.

She nodded, and the maître d’ led them to the best table in the restaurant, a private alcove with deep chairs and a view of Central Park, now shrouded in darkness. Ella busied herself with the menu, not sure what to do with her hands, or even her face. She was trying to look coolly professional, but the intimate, romantic atmosphere of their private table was making that expression feel like a mask. Her heart was beating far too hard.

Philippe leaned forward to get a better view of the city, Columbus Circle visible just beyond the park, glittering with neon lights.

“Amazing.”

“What is your first impression of New York?”

“Frenetic.” He sat back, his smile turning wry. “I must admit, I prefer a quieter life in Montvidant, but as many have said before me, it’s nice to visit New York.”

“A quieter life?” Ella heard the skepticism in her own voice. “But your life is far from quiet, Prince—”

“Just Philippe.” He arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you knew so much about my life.”

“I don’t,” Ella said quickly. “Just what I’ve seen in the newspapers.”

“Ah, the newspapers.” He nodded, his eyes flicking away from her.

What was he saying? That what the newspapers reported wasn’t true? “You seem to have a rather jet-setting lifestyle,” Ella said carefully.

“Of course I do.” He shrugged carelessly and reached for his wine. “I’m a prince.”

Ella glanced at him uncertainly, for she’d heard something dark and unfathomable in his tone. Then he looked up, his expression clearing, although for the first time his smile didn’t seem quite sincere.

“Enough of that,” he said lightly. “Now shall we order?”