The Secret Princess. Elizabeth Harbison
in the late 1940s and had no reference to the coup d’état Franz Burgess had told her about. However, it did go into a bit of detail on the royal family, Prince Josef, Princess Lily and their daughter, Princess Amelia. The young princess was pictured playing in the snow with a St. Bernard puppy.
It was difficult to distinguish the girl’s facial features, so when Amy imagined she looked familiar—perhaps similar to the image mirrors had held of Amy some twenty years ago—she chalked it up to an overactive imagination.
Still, she read and reread the pages, scouring for every mention of Lufthania, and she kept returning to the picture of the little girl.
Then she tried the Internet. The story of the coup was there, but no pictures. She also found some official government documents that appeared to be written in a Germanic language, and a couple of personal travel diaries written by people who had happened through a corner of Lufthania on their way to someplace more famous, but that was all. There was nothing solid to persuade Amy to believe Franz Burgess’s story.
Yet as difficult as it was to believe it could be true, it managed to touch Amy’s heartstrings. What could be better for the girl who had spent a lifetime wondering who she really was and where—if anywhere—she’d truly fit in, than to find her family history and home all in one shot? To find a long, documented family tree? One with golden apples, no less.
She read through the night and far into the wee hours of the morning, stopping occasionally to refill her coffee mug, or gaze at the snow in the hazy glow of the street lamp. She’d always enjoyed the cold weather more than the heat. Did that mean anything? Was it significant somehow? Did it prove the fantastic story?
The questions swirled around in her mind like snow on the wind until her eyelids grew heavy and the words began to blur before her.
She fell asleep without even realizing it until the sunny white glare of morning cut through the store windows and woke her just in time to see the long black limo pull up outside.
He was back.
Amy stood up quickly, raked her hand through her hair and threw open her desk drawer to look for a piece of gum to make up for not having time to brush her teeth.
He tapped on the door just as she was tossing the wrapper into the trash.
She took a deep breath and tried to compose herself before walking, as regally as she could, to the door and letting him in.
“Good morning,” he said, a smile in his eyes. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
She feigned surprise. “Wake me? Of course not. I’ve been here for at least an hour.”
“At least.” He did smile then, and reached out and touched her very briefly on the cheek. “You appear to have the imprint of your computer keyboard on your face.”
“What?” She lifted her hand to her cheek.
“And you haven’t changed your clothes since last night. Did you fall asleep here reading about Lufthania?”
An objection lodged in her throat, but she swallowed it. Why bother pretending she wasn’t curious? “Weren’t you expecting me to check up on your story?”
“As a matter of fact, I was.” He held up a valise. “Which is why I brought you all of the documentation I had that led me to you.” He dropped the valise on the desk and pulled off his expensive-looking leather driving gloves, one by one, stuffing them into the pockets of his camel-colored overcoat.
“That’s for me to look through?”
“Please.” He made an expansive gesture. “Be my guest.”
“Why didn’t you bring all of this with you in the first place?”
He gave a brief smile. “I first had to be convinced you were the one. Then I could set about convincing you, although, to tell you the truth, I didn’t think you would need much persuasion.” For just a moment, he looked grim. “I hope what I have here will convince you.”
“We’ll see.” She gave a dry laugh. “I don’t know what kind of women you know, but I don’t know anyone who wouldn’t approach this with caution.”
She took the valise and sat down with it on the other side of the desk. As she unzipped it, she had half a thought that it might not be safe to open anything brought by a man she didn’t know and who—if his story was false, as it must be—might well be nuts.
But it was already open before she could stop herself, and her curiosity was rewarded with a large, neat stack of papers and photographs.
He walked around behind her and bent over her. “If I may explain,” he said. “This is the route Princess Lily and her husband, Georg, along with you, took out of Lufthania. As you can see, they were not yet hiding their identities, so this is unrefuted documentation.”
Amy looked at what could have been a travel itinerary for any of her bookstore customers who were planning a vacation. It was hard to believe it was the escape route of a princess and her family.
“Next you have the affidavit of Ambassador Whisle, and his wife, who took Princess Lily, Georg and Amé into their Washington, D.C., home.”
Determined to be thorough, Amy took the pages in hand and read carefully as he explained each and every piece of paper. Every once in a while, she found herself distracted by his proximity, and the clean, spicy scent of his after-shave—a unique and alluring scent, unlike anything she’d ever smelled before. But each time her mind wandered, she forced it back to the papers before her. After all, this could be—
She couldn’t even finish the thought. Of course it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be anything to do with her. Still, it made for an interesting and romantic story. Perhaps she could put it on her Web site along with recommendations for the books she’d found on Lufthania.
“Amelia?”
“Yes?” she answered absently, then immediately realized her mistake. “Are you talking to me?”
He chuckled softly and nodded. “There is only one Amelia here.”
She glanced at him sideways. “Maybe not even that many.”
He raised his eyebrows and gave a short nod, the traditional expression of touché. “I was going to ask you if you wanted some breakfast. I can send my driver to the shop, if you like.”
“No, I’m good. Thanks.” She thought of the coffee and gum, which were all she’d had for twelve hours. “Unless you’re sending him, anyway?”
He flashed a brilliant smile and held up his index finger. “I’ll be back in a moment.” She watched him go out the front door, apparently heedless of the cold, and bend down to the passenger window of the limo. It opened and he said something to the driver inside, then stood back up, gave two flat-handed pats on the roof of the car and came back in while the limo edged out of sight. He came back over to her, the crisp scent of cold and snow clinging to him.
“If you’ve finished reading the affidavit, you can see here the receipt for a car purchased on the afternoon that they left the ambassador’s mansion. That car fits the description of the one that was in the accident.”
Amy listened to his story, following along with his visual aids, eyewitness accounts, maps and various other pieces of evidence that made his story seem plausible. She believed he might have accurately traced the movements of the princess and her family to a point, and then moved onto her own history.
“Like your mother, you excelled in literature in college. This course on comparative literature looks quite challenging.”
“Wait a minute—”
He turned a page and raised an eyebrow at her. “But I see you did have some trouble with mathematics.”
“I did not!” She was immediately defensive. “First of all, Professor Tanner lost an assignment that accounted for thirty-three percent of my grade,