Читать книгу Princess in the Making - Michelle Celmer - Страница 8

From a mile in the air, the coast of Varieo, with its crystal blue ocean and pristine sandy beaches, looked like paradise.

At twenty-four, Vanessa Reynolds had lived on more continents and in more cities than most people visited in a lifetime—typical story for an army brat—but she was hoping that this small principality on the Mediterranean coast would become her forever home.

“This is it, Mia,” she whispered to her six-month-old daughter, who after spending the majority of the thirteen-hour flight alternating between fits of restless sleep and bouts of screaming bloody murder, had finally succumbed to sheer exhaustion and now slept peacefully in her car seat. The plane made its final descent to the private airstrip where they would be greeted by Gabriel, Vanessa’s … it seemed silly and a little juvenile to call him her boyfriend, considering he was fifty-six. But he wasn’t exactly her fiancé either. At least, not yet. When he asked her to marry him she hadn’t said yes, but she hadn’t said no either. That’s what this visit would determine, if she wanted to marry a man who was not only thirty-two years her senior and lived halfway around the world, but a king.

She gazed out the window, and as the buildings below grew larger, nervous kinks knotted her insides.

Vanessa, what have you gotten yourself into this time?

That’s what her father would probably say if she’d had the guts to tell him the truth about this visit. He would tell her that she was making another huge mistake. And, okay, so maybe she hadn’t exactly had the best luck with men since … well, puberty. But this time it was different.

Her best friend Jessy had questioned her decision as well. “He seems nice now,” she’d said as she sat on Vanessa’s bed, watching her pack, “but what if you get there and he turns out to be an overbearing tyrant?”

“So I’ll come home.”

“What if he holds you hostage? What if he forces you to marry him against your will? I’ve heard horror stories. They treat women like second-class citizens.”

“That’s the other side of the Mediterranean. Varieo is on the European side.”

Jessy frowned. “I don’t care, I still don’t like it.”

It’s not as if Vanessa didn’t realize she was taking a chance. In the past this sort of thing had backfired miserably, but Gabriel was a real gentleman. He genuinely cared about her. He would never steal her car and leave her stranded at a diner in the middle of the Arizona desert. He wouldn’t open a credit card in her name, max it out and decimate her good credit. He wouldn’t pretend to like her just so he could talk her into writing his American history term paper then dump her for a cheerleader. And he certainly would never knock her up then disappear and leave her and his unborn child to fend for themselves.

The private jet hit a pocket of turbulence and gave a violent lurch, jolting Mia awake. She blinked, her pink bottom lip began to tremble, then she let out an ear-piercing wail that only intensified the relentless throb in Vanessa’s temples.

“Shh, baby, it’s okay,” Vanessa cooed, squeezing her chubby fist. “We’re almost there.”

The wheels of the plane touched down and Vanessa’s heart climbed up into her throat. She was nervous and excited and relieved, and about a dozen other emotions too jumbled to sort out. Though they had chatted via Skype almost daily since Gabriel left Los Angeles, she hadn’t been face-to-face with him in nearly a month. What if he took one look at her rumpled suit, smudged eyeliner and stringy, lifeless hair and sent her right back to the U.S.?

That’s ridiculous, she assured herself as the plane bumped along the runway to the small, private terminal owned by the royal family. She had no illusions about how the first thing that had attracted Gabriel to her in the posh Los Angeles hotel where she worked as an international hospitality agent was her looks. Her beauty—as well as her experience living abroad—was what landed her the prestigious position at such a young age. It had been an asset and, at times, her Achilles’ heel. But Gabriel didn’t see her as arm dressing. They had become close friends. Confidants. He loved her, or so he claimed, and she had never known him to be anything but a man of his word.

There was just one slight problem. Though she respected him immensely and loved him as a friend, she couldn’t say for certain if she was in love with him—a fact Gabriel was well aware of. Hence the purpose of this extended visit. He felt confident that with time—six weeks to be exact, since that was the longest leave she could take from work—Vanessa would grow to love him. He was sure that they would share a long and happy life together. And the sanctity of marriage was not something that Gabriel took lightly.

His first marriage had spanned three decades, and he claimed it would have lasted at least three more if cancer hadn’t snatched his wife from him eight months ago.

Mia wailed again, fat tears spilling down her chubby, flushed cheeks. The second the plane rolled to a stop Vanessa turned on her cell phone and sent Jessy a brief text, so when she woke up she would know they had arrived safely. She then unhooked the straps of the plush, designer car seat Gabriel had provided and lifted her daughter out. She hugged Mia close to her chest, inhaling that sweet baby scent.

“We’re here, Mia. Our new life starts right now.”

According to her father, Vanessa had turned exercising poor judgment and making bad decisions into an art form, but things were different now. She was different, and she had her daughter to thank for that. Enduring eight months of pregnancy alone had been tough, and the idea of an infant counting on her for its every need had scared the crap out of her. There had been times when she wasn’t sure she could do it, if she was prepared for the responsibility, but the instant she laid eyes on Mia, when the doctor placed her in Vanessa’s arms after a grueling twenty-six hours of labor, she fell head over heels in love. For the first time in her life, Vanessa felt she finally had a purpose. Taking care of her daughter, giving her a good life, was now her number one priority.

What she wanted more than anything was for Mia to have a stable home with two parents, and marrying Gabriel would assure her daughter privileges and opportunities beyond Vanessa’s wildest dreams. Wouldn’t that be worth marrying a man who didn’t exactly … well, rev her engine? Wasn’t respect and friendship more important anyway?

Vanessa peered out the window just in time to see a limo pull around the building and park a few hundred feet from the plane.

Gabriel, she thought, with equal parts relief and excitement. He’d come to greet her, just as he’d promised.

The flight attendant appeared beside her seat, gesturing to the carry-on, overstuffed diaper bag and purse in a pile at Vanessa’s feet. “Ms. Reynolds, can I help you with your things?”

“That would be fantastic,” Vanessa told her, raising her voice above her daughter’s wailing. She grabbed her purse and hiked it over her shoulder while the attendant grabbed the rest, and as Vanessa rose from her seat for the first time in several hours, her cramped legs screamed in protest. She wasn’t one to lead an idle lifestyle. Her work at the hotel kept her on her feet eight to ten hours a day, and Mia kept her running during what little time they had to spend together. There were diaper changes and fixing bottles, shopping and laundry. On a good night she might manage a solid five hours of sleep. On a bad night, hardly any sleep at all.

When she met Gabriel she hadn’t been out socially since Mia was born. Not that she hadn’t been asked by countless men at the hotel—clients mostly—but she didn’t believe in mixing business with pleasure, or giving the false impression that her hospitality extended to the bedroom. But when a king asked a girl out for drinks, especially one as handsome and charming as Gabriel, it was tough to say no. And here she was, a few months later, starting her life over. Again.

Maybe.

The pilot opened the plane door, letting in a rush of hot July air that carried with it the lingering scent of the ocean. He nodded sympathetically as Mia howled.

Vanessa stopped at the door and looked back to her seat. “Oh, shoot, I’m going to need the car seat for my daughter.”

“I’ll take care of it, ma’am,” the pilot assured her, with a thick accent.

She thanked him and descended the steps to the tarmac, so relieved to be on steady ground she could have dropped to her knees and kissed it.

The late morning sun burned her scalp and stifling heat drifted up from the blacktop as the attendant led her toward the limo. As they approached, the driver stepped out and walked around to the back door. He reached for the handle, and the door swung open, and Vanessa’s pulse picked up double time. Excitement buzzed through her as one expensive looking shoe—Italian, she was guessing—hit the pavement, and as its owner unfolded himself from the car she held her breath … then let it out in a whoosh of disappointment. This man had the same long, lean physique and chiseled features, the deep-set, expressive eyes, but he was not Gabriel.

Even if she hadn’t done hours of research into the country’s history, she would have known instinctively that the sinfully attractive man walking toward her was Prince Marcus Salvatora, Gabriel’s son. He looked exactly like the photos she’d seen of him—darkly intense, and far too serious for a man of only twenty-eight. Dressed in gray slacks and a white silk shirt that showcased his olive complexion and crisp, wavy black hair, he looked more like a GQ cover model than a future leader.

She peered around him to the interior of the limo, hoping to see someone else inside, but it was empty. Gabriel had promised to meet her, but he hadn’t come.

Tears of exhaustion and frustration burned her eyes. She needed Gabriel. He had a unique way of making her feel as though everything would be okay. She could only imagine what his son would think of her if she dissolved into tears right there on the tarmac.

Never show weakness. That’s what her father had drilled into her for as long as Vanessa could remember. So she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and greeted the prince with a confident smile, head bowed, as was the custom in his country.

“Miss Reynolds,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. She switched Mia, whose wails had dulled to a soft whimper, to her left hip to free up her right hand, which in the blazing heat was already warm and clammy.

“Your highness, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” she said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Too many men had a mushy grip when it came to shaking a woman’s hand, but Marcus clasped her hand firmly, confidently, his palm cool and dry despite the temperature, his dark eyes pinned on hers. It lasted so long, and he studied her so intensely, she began to wonder if he intended to challenge her to an arm wrestling match or a duel or something. She had to resist the urge to tug her hand free as perspiration rolled from under her hair and beneath the collar of her blouse, and when he finally did relinquish his grip, she experienced a strange buzzing sensation where his skin had touched hers.

It’s the heat, she rationalized. And how did the prince appear so cool and collected when she was quickly becoming a soggy disaster?

“My father sends his apologies,” he said in perfect English, with only a hint of an accent, his voice deep and velvety smooth and much like his father’s. “He was called out of the country unexpectedly. A family matter.”

Out of the country? Her heart sank. “Did he say when he would be back?”

“No, but he said he would be in touch.”

How could he leave her to fend for herself in a palace full of strangers? Her throat squeezed tight and her eyes burned.

You are not going to cry, she scolded herself, biting the inside of her cheek to stem the flow of tears threatening to leak out. If she had enough diapers and formula to make the trip back to the U.S., she might have been tempted to hop back on the plane and fly home.

Mia wailed pitifully and Marcus’s brow rose slightly.

“This is Mia, my daughter,” she said.

Hearing her name, Mia lifted her head from Vanessa’s shoulder and turned to look at Marcus, her blue eyes wide with curiosity, her wispy blond hair clinging to her tearstained cheeks. She didn’t typically take well to strangers, so Vanessa braced herself for the wailing to start again, but instead, she flashed Marcus a wide, two-toothed grin that could melt the hardest of hearts. Maybe he looked enough like his father, whom Mia adored, that she instinctively trusted him.

As if it were infectious, Marcus couldn’t seem to resist smiling back at her, and the subtle lift of his left brow, the softening of his features—and, oh gosh, he even had dimples—made Vanessa feel the kind of giddy pleasure a woman experienced when she was attracted to a man. Which, of course, both horrified and filled her with guilt. What kind of depraved woman felt physically attracted to her future son-in-law?

She must have been more tired and overwrought than she realized, because she clearly wasn’t thinking straight.

Marcus returned his attention to her and the smile disappeared. He gestured to the limo, where the driver was securing Mia’s car seat in the back. “Shall we go?”

She nodded, telling herself that everything would be okay. But as she slid into the cool interior of the car, she couldn’t help wondering if this time she was in way over her head.

She was even worse than Marcus had imagined.

Sitting across from her in the limo, he watched his new rival, the woman who, in a few short weeks, had managed to bewitch his grieving father barely eight months after the queen’s death.

At first, when his father gave him the news, Gabriel thought he had lost his mind. Not only because he had fallen for an American, but one so young, that he barely knew. But now, seeing her face-to-face, there was little question as to why the king was so taken with her. Her silky, honey-blond hair was a natural shade no stylist, no matter how skilled, could ever reproduce. She had the figure of a gentlemen’s magazine pinup model and a face that would inspire the likes of da Vinci or Titian.

When she first stepped off the plane, doe-eyed and dazed, with a screaming infant clutched to her chest, his hope was that she was as empty-headed as the blonde beauties on some of those American reality shows, but then their eyes met, and he saw intelligence in their smoky gray depths. And a bit of desperation.

Though he hated himself for it, she looked so disheveled and exhausted, he couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for her. But that didn’t change the fact that she was the enemy.

The child whimpered in her car seat, then let out a wail so high-pitched his ears rang.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Miss Reynolds cooed, holding her baby’s tiny clenched fist. Then she looked across the car to Marcus. “I’m so sorry. She’s usually very sweet natured.”

He had always been fond of children, though he much preferred them when they smiled. He would have children one day. As sole heir, it was his responsibility to carry on the Salvatora legacy.

But that could change, he reminded himself. With a pretty young wife his father could have more sons.

The idea of his father having children with a woman like her sat like a stone in his belly.

Miss Reynolds reached into one of the bags at her feet, pulled out a bottle with what looked to be juice in it and handed it to her daughter. The child popped it into her mouth and suckled for several seconds, then made a face and lobbed the bottle at the floor, where it hit Marcus’s shoe.

“I’m so sorry,” Miss Reynolds said again, as her daughter began to wail. The woman looked as if she wanted to cry, too.

He picked the bottle up and handed it to her.

She reached into the bag for a toy and tried distracting the baby with that, but after several seconds it too went airborne, this time hitting his leg. She tried a different toy with the same result.

“Sorry,” she said.

He retrieved both toys and handed them back to her.

They sat for several minutes in awkward silence, then she said, “So, are you always this talkative?”

He had nothing to say to her, and besides, he would have to shout to be heard over the infant’s screaming.

When he didn’t reply, she went on nervously, “I can’t tell you how much I’ve looked forward to coming here. And meeting you. Gabriel has told me so much about you. And so much about Varieo.”

He did not share her enthusiasm, and he wouldn’t pretend to be happy about this. Nor did he believe even for a second that she meant a word of what she said. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why she was here, that she was after his father’s vast wealth and social standing.

She tried the bottle again, and this time the baby took it. She suckled for a minute or two then her eyelids began to droop.

“She didn’t sleep well on the flight,” Miss Reynolds said, as though it mattered one way or another to him. “Plus, everything is unfamiliar. I imagine it will take some time for her to adjust to living in a new place.”

“Her father had no objection to you moving his child to a different country?” he couldn’t help asking.

“Her father left us when he found out I was pregnant. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

“You’re divorced?”

She shook her head. “We were never married.”

Marvelous. And just one more strike against her. Divorce was bad enough, but a child out of wedlock? What in heaven’s name had his father been thinking? And did he honestly believe that Marcus would ever approve of someone like that, or welcome her into the family?

His distaste must have shown in his face, because Miss Reynolds looked him square in the eyes and said, “I’m not ashamed of my past, your highness. Though the circumstances may not have been ideal, Mia is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I have no regrets.”

Not afraid to speak her mind, was she? Not necessarily an appropriate attribute for a future queen. Though he couldn’t deny that his mother had been known to voice her own very potent opinions, and in doing so had been a role model for young women. But there was a fine line between being principled and being irresponsible. And the idea that this woman would even think that she could hold herself to the standards the queen had set, that she could replace her, made him sick to his stomach.

Marcus could only hope that his father would come to his senses before it was too late, before he did something ridiculous, like marry her. And as much as he would like to wash his hands of the situation that very instant, he had promised his father that he would see that she was settled in, and he was a man of his word. To Marcus, honor was not only a virtue, but an obligation. His mother had taught him that. Although even he had limits.

“Your past,” he told Miss Reynolds, “is between you and my father.”

“But you obviously have some strong opinions about it. Maybe you should try getting to know me before you pass judgment.”

He leaned forward and locked eyes with her, so there was no question as to his sincerity. “I wouldn’t waste my time.”

She didn’t even flinch. She held his gaze steadily, her smoky eyes filled with a fire that said she would not be intimidated, and he felt a twinge of … something. An emotion that seemed to settle somewhere between hatred and lust.

It was the lust part that drew him back, hit him like a humiliating slap in the face.

And Miss Reynolds had the audacity to smile. Which both infuriated and fascinated him.

“Okay,” she said with a shrug of her slim shoulders. Did she not believe him, or was it that she just didn’t care?

Either way, it didn’t make a difference to him. He would tolerate her presence for his father’s sake, but he would never accept her.

Feeling an unease to which he was not accustomed, he pulled out his cell phone, dismissing her. For the first time since losing the queen to cancer, his father seemed truly happy, and Marcus would never deny him that. And only because he believed it would never last.

With any luck his father would come to his senses and send her back from where she came before it was too late.