Not Fit for a King? (14 page)

“Yes,” she called out at last, her voice faint, strangled. “Please, come in, Celine.”

Celine opened the door and saw Hannah sitting on the bed wiping away tears. “Is everything all right, Your Highness?”

“Everything’s great.”

T
HE
ball was less than three hours away, and Hannah was getting a Swedish massage on a special table in her dressing room. The lights were dimmed, candles burned and soft instrumental music played. It was supposed to be a treat, something Zale had arranged for her, but Hannah was too keyed-up to enjoy it.

“Take a nice slow, deep breath,” the masseuse said soothingly, rubbing fragrant lavender oil into Hannah’s tense shoulders. “Now exhale. Slowly, slowly, Your Royal Highness. Good. Now again.”

Hannah tried to do as she was told, she did, but it was hard to relax when everything inside her was tied up in knots.

She hated Emmeline right now. Hated Emmeline for what she’d done. Hannah should have never come here. She shouldn’t have ever agreed to play acting for an afternoon much less a week.

If only she hadn’t gotten on the plane. If only she’d refused to continue the charade at that point.

But she hadn’t. She’d been too worried, afraid that the princess was facing a crisis all alone.

“Your Highness,” the masseuse said gently, but firmly, kneading Hannah’s shoulders. “Let go of everything. Just focus on your breathing. Focus on feeling good for the next half hour.”

And somehow, beneath the magic hands of the masseuse, Hannah did relax, shutting everything from her mind for the
next thirty minutes, but once she was in her bathroom, showering off the oil and shampooing her hair, the anxiety returned.

So how did she fix this with Zale? There had to be something she could do … some magical fix, but standing in the shower, hot water pounding down, Hannah could think of nothing.

Hannah had always prided herself on being able to handle whatever her difficult, demanding boss, Sheikh Koury, sent her way. The Sheikh had been through a dozen secretaries before he found Hannah who could speak four languages fluently and handle the endless and challenging work he tossed her way.

No matter what he dropped in her lap, she handled it with aplomb. Arrange an environmental awareness meeting with the world’s leading oil executives? No problem.

Plan activities for the oil executives’ wives, many of whom had to be segregated from men? Hannah didn’t even blink.

Organize an international polo tournament in Dubai? Then move it to Buenos Aires? And provide transportation for all players and horses? Consider it done.

Hannah loved puzzles and thrived on good challenges, but the one thing she couldn’t do, and the one thing she was desperate to do, was protect Zale from what was to come.

The truth.

Eva, the Raguvian designer, had reworked the ball gown for Hannah, changing the design from a simple off-white column dress, to a shimmering chiffon gown with jeweled embroidered flowers unfurling across the bodice and to bloom down one hip in a profusion of purple and amethyst jewel petals that reached her feet.

She wore pale gold sling-back heels with more jewels at the toe, and her blond hair was piled high on her head and held in place with glittering citrine and amethyst hairpins. Rectangular rose-gold, diamond and amethyst earrings hung from her ears, a cuff circled her wrist, and on Zale’s arm she felt like a princess.

“You’re a goddess tonight,” Zale said as they paused inside the ballroom doors and took in the glittering winter wonderland anchored by a dozen massive ice columns. “More beautiful than any woman has a right to be.”

She flushed with pleasure, heat radiating out from the tight coil of desire in her belly to the tingle in her fingers and toes. “I don’t know what to say.”

Zale was dressed in black coat and tails, white shirt, white vest and tie and looked devastatingly attractive, especially when he smiled, and he was smiling now. “Just say thank you.”

And then they were being announced and swept into the immense white and gold palace ballroom that glittered with floor-to-ceiling ice sculptures and potted trees brought in just for the occasion. The trees’ white, frosted limbs were covered by strands of miniature white lights and the only spot of color in the glittering white room was the ladies’ elegant gowns in shades of purple, violet and lavender.

Zale and Hannah circled the room on their way to the head table, Zale’s hand resting lightly on her back. She could feel the heat from Zale’s hand and she shivered as exquisite sensation raced through her. There was something about his touch … something in the way her body responded to him that made her feel so alive.

“What do you think?” he asked as they took their places on the platform, several feet higher than the rest of the room.

“It’s absolutely magical. I feel like a princess from a fairy tale.”

He grinned. “Which one?”

“Cinderella.” She reached down to lightly touch one of the jeweled blossoms on her waist. “Eva waved her magic wand and voilà! I’m a princess at your ball.”

Uniformed footmen filled their tall, slender flutes with champagne. Zale lifted his flute. “To my princess,” he said, a half smile playing at his lips.

“To my king,” she replied, clinking the rim of her glass to his.

They drank and the champagne’s tiny bubbles fizzed in her mouth and the cold liquid warmed as it went down.

“Have all Raguvian kings married royalty?” Hannah asked, setting her flute back on the table. “Has no one married a … commoner?”

“Only once in the past two hundred years and he gave up his throne to marry her.”

“Why is a blue-blood bride essential?”

“Our monarchy grew out of a tribal kingship that spanned nearly a thousand years, and the Raguvian people have fought hard to preserve the monarchy, although today we are—like Brabant—a constitutional monarchy.”

Hannah knew the differences between monarchies from working for Sheikh Koury.

There were absolute monarchies like those in the Middle East—Brunei, Saudi Arabia, Qatar—and then there were constitutional monarchies like those in Belgium, Sweden, Monaco and the United Kingdom. A constitutional monarchy gave a king power as defined by each country’s constitution.

Her brow furrowed. “Does it actually say in your constitution that you must marry a royal?”

“Yes.”

“You couldn’t marry a commoner?” “Not without relinquishing the throne.” “And you wouldn’t do that?” “I could not.”

She noticed his word choice. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. “Why couldn’t you?”

“I could never be selfish enough to put my needs before that of my country.”

She ran a fingertip around the base of the flute stem, watching the tiny gold bubbles of champagne rise to the surface and pop.

Even if Zale wanted Hannah Smith, he wouldn’t choose her. Even if Zale should love her, he wouldn’t keep her. “Have you ever dated a commoner?” she asked, voice breaking.

“All my girlfriends were commoners.” His lips curled, slightly mocking. “You are my first princess.”

And she wasn’t even a real princess, either.

Her heart grew even heavier during dinner. It didn’t help that when Zale looked at her, she lost track of time. In his eyes there was just now, only now, and right now she was happy. Lucky. Good.

Suddenly Zale was standing and extending his hand to her. “Your Highness,” he said, his smile warming his eyes, warming her, making her feel so very alive. But then, he was so very alive. “May I have this dance?”

She looked up into his lean face with the strong brow, firm mouth and uncompromising chin and a frisson of feeling raced through her. “Yes.”

She rose, putting her hand into his, inhaled as sensation exploded inside her, making her body go hot and cold. Again. He’d done it again. Made her want, made her feel, making her aware of just how much she loved him.

Zale led her toward the dance floor as the orchestra started playing the first notes of an achingly familiar love song she’d played endlessly on her guitar growing up.

“Your favorite song,” Zale murmured as he pulled her into his arms and close to his tall lean frame.

Hot emotion rushed through her. How did he know?

And then as his hand settled low on her back, his warmth scorching her through her thin gown, she remembered he meant Emmeline.

Of course he meant Emmeline. But Emmeline wasn’t coming. It all ended tonight.

For a moment she couldn’t breathe, suffocated by crushing pain.

Early tomorrow morning she’d slip away, leaving him a note. He’d hate her when he found the note. She’d never forgive herself for deceiving him, either.

“You’re a good dancer,” she whispered.

“That’s because you’re my perfect partner.”

Eyes burning, heart on fire, she tipped her head back and was immediately lost in Zale’s eyes. She loved his face. Loved everything about him far too much. “You are full of compliments tonight, Your Majesty.”

He smiled at her. “I’m happy.”

He did look happy. His light brown eyes glowed. “I’m glad.” “Marry me, Emmeline.” “I thought we were?”

“I’m proposing again so we can start over. Start fresh. This isn’t about our families or our countries. This is about us. Will you marry me?”

Her eyes filled with tears. She blinked to clear her vision. “You’re sweeping me off my feet.”

“It’s what I should have done from the beginning.”

“I had no idea you were such a romantic.”

His steady gaze held hers. “So is that a yes, Your Highness? Or do you need time to think about it?”

Her chest ached. How could she say no? How could she ever refuse him anything? “Yes.”

He smiled, a great boyish smile that lit his face and made him look utterly irresistible. “Thank God. For a moment I thought you intended to leave me standing at the altar.”

He was teasing. Trying to be funny. But Hannah shivered, chilled by reality.

Zale felt the goose bumps on her arms and drew her closer.

“Cold?” “A little.”

He held her even more snugly against him and she pressed her cheek closer to his jacket, her ear resting on his chest just above his heart. And remembered Cinderella.

In
Cinderella,
at the stroke of midnight the magic ended. The glass coach turned back into a pumpkin. Cinderella’s gown became rags. And Cinderella became no one.

The song was ending and Zale lifted her hand to his mouth, kissing her fingers. “Thank you.”

She looked up into his face, that handsome face, which owned every bit of her heart. “Have you ever been in love?”

“Yes.”

“She was a commoner?” He nodded. “What happened?”

His jaw tightened. “My parents died and I became king.”

She stared up at him. “You gave her up?”

He nodded again and she exhaled in a rush. Tenderly Zale brushed a wisp of hair from her flushed cheek. “It hurt,” he admitted, “but it was meant to be. Because if I hadn’t ended it with her, I wouldn’t be here with you.”

Zale saw her cheeks turn pink and her blue eyes deepen, a sheen of tears making the color look like sapphires, a perfect complement to the jewels in her hair and at her ears.

She’d never looked more beautiful, and yet she hadn’t been this emotional, or fragile, since their engagement party. But he understood her exhaustion. It had been a hard night without either of them getting a lot of sleep.

“I see some friends across the room,” he said, taking her hand. “Let’s go say hello.”

All evening he’d introduced her to different people he thought she should know—members of his cabinet, members of parliament, influential men and women from all over the world. But now he was taking her to old friends, close friends, people Emmeline loved.

Crossing the ballroom they joined the Greek prince, Stavros Kallas, and his bride of one year, the stunning Greek-English heiress, Demi Nowles. Prince Stavros was a first cousin of Zale’s, their mothers were half sisters and Stavros had been a friend of Emmeline’s since childhood.

When Stavros had proposed to Demi Nowles after a whirlwind engagement, no one had been happier than Emmeline who’d socialized with Demi for years. One year they’d been
the inseparable dancing duo, hitting every exclusive nightclub on the Continent.

“I do believe you know these two,” Zale said. “Perhaps
you
should introduce
me,
Your Highness?”

Emmeline didn’t reply and glancing down at her he saw panic in her eyes.

“Your Highness,” he prompted, gently, teasingly. “If you’d do me the honor …?”

Emmeline smiled, but her features were tight, and her expression looked frozen.

She extended a hand to Prince Stavros. “It’s a pleasure,” she said politely. “Good to see you again.”

Stavros looked at Emmeline’s hand, glanced at Zale and then back at Emmeline before slowly taking her hand. “Yes,” he agreed uncomfortably. “You look well, Emmeline.”

Zale frowned, and Demi watched the exchange, equally baffled.

For a moment Demi didn’t seem to know what to do and then her expression suddenly cleared. “Oh, Emi, I get it now! You’re making fun of those Americans and their strange manners. You were just there in Palm Beach for that polo tournament. Heard it was quite the crush.”

“Yes, it was,” Emmeline agreed pleasantly. “How long are you here for?”

Silence followed Emmeline’s question, a most awkward silence, and even Demi’s smooth brow furrowed. “Until the wedding, of course,” Demi answered, perplexed. “Unless you’ve decided to replace me as one of your bridesmaids.”

Again there was silence and Zale caught Stavros and Demi exchanging puzzled glances.

Zale reached for Emmeline’s hand. She was trembling. He didn’t understand what was happening.

“No,” Emmeline answered, breaking the excruciating silence. She smiled but she looked alarmingly brittle. “Don’t be ridiculous. How could I get married without you at my side?”

Stavros smiled. Demi hugged Emmeline. But Zale wasn’t fooled. Something was wrong with Emmeline.

They moved on, just a short distance from Prince and Princess Kallas. “Are you all right?” Zale asked, his head bent to hers, his voice pitched low.

She swayed on her feet. “I don’t feel well.”

He slipped an arm around her waist to support her weight. “I can see that,” he said, leading her through a narrow door hidden in the ballroom’s ornate white and gold paneling, exiting the ballroom for a small cream room where he swept her into his arms and carried her to a chaise in the corner.