Michelle Celmer - Princess in the Making

“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?