The Prince's Cowboy Double. Victoria Chancellor
Hank shook his head again. “Haven’t you been listening? I’m a Texan, not some fancy foreigner. I can’t talk like I grew up in Europe and lived in god-awful Boston for five years.”
Lady Wendy brightened. “If that’s your only objection, then we’ll give you a sore throat. Laryngitis won’t cause any suspicion from the press.”
“Whoa, now! I didn’t say that was my only objection. I’d like to point out I don’t exactly act like a prince.”
“I can teach you.”
Hank settled back against the body-warmed leather and thought about the offer. A couple of days with Lady Wendy, learning to be a prince. No doubt eating with his pinkie sticking out. He almost grimaced at the image. For all he knew, this Prince Alexi was some dandified intellectual who knew all about Beethoven and nothing about George Strait. He probably thought Garth Brooks was some little ol’ stream in Wisconsin.
On the other hand, it wouldn’t hurt to learn some manners. Like how to eat those tiny snacks they always served at country clubs. How to order something besides a longneck if he wanted a drink. How to wear something besides new jeans and a clean shirt when he wanted to dress up.
Rich cutting-horse owners often asked him to join them in their boxes during competitions. He also had to go to cocktail parties and some fancy dinners in Houston and Dallas—sometimes even outside of Texas—to meet the kind of people who could afford a twenty- to fifty-thousand-dollar horse. He knew he needed some polish, but so far he’d gotten by with his grin and his championship bronc-riding buckle.
If anyone could make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear in just a day or two, Hank had a real good idea Lady Wendy was the person. She’d at least give it a good British try, he thought with a grin.
“You know, I could probably call Kerry’s momma, Charlene Jacks, at the Four Square Café to find out where they all went,” Hank said.
“But you don’t quite understand, Mr. McCauley. If the prince doesn’t want to be found, if he doesn’t want to come back, nothing will convince him otherwise. I think our time will be best spent training you for tomorrow’s events, then we can find the prince. Or perhaps he will come back. He always does.”
Hank thought about this for a moment. He really didn’t want to end this opportunity so quickly, even if they could locate the prince and convince him to come back. Plus he was very intrigued by the formidable Lady Wendy.
She’d looked so forlorn at the prospect of failing. He wasn’t sure why this job was so important to her—she wasn’t from Belegovia, and she’d claimed she wasn’t sweet on the prince—but whatever the reason, all the starch had gone out of her when he’d questioned her plan. He wasn’t sure he could act like some European prince, but he couldn’t live with the idea that he’d failed her.
“Laryngitis, hmm?” he asked, still grinning. “I’ll cut my hair. I’ll even wear this prince’s fancy clothes. But don’t think I’m gonna stick out my pinkie when I drink out of one of those sissy china cups.”
GWENDOLYN SUPPRESSED A sigh of relief when Mr. McCauley acquiesced to her plan for him to impersonate the prince. At least he’d give it a good try, she was sure, because for some reason he’d decided to help her. It wasn’t the money; something else motivated Hank McCauley. Perhaps he wasn’t as broke or lazy as he appeared. She certainly wished she knew what did motivate him, since she would no doubt need that knowledge later, when instructions were going poorly and he threatened to walk out. Which he probably would.
Truth be told, she wasn’t entirely certain she could turn this casual, flirting, unrefined cowboy into Prince Alexi in less than twenty-four hours. However, the idea of reporting her failure to King Wilheim was unconscionable. She had to try. And Milos Anatole, Prince Alexi’s valet, would help tremendously.
The idea of telling her father she’d been dismissed from her first independent job, especially one with the royal house of Belegovia, was appalling.
“Very good, then, Mr. McCauley. If you’d like to pack a small bag with any personal toiletries, we’ll be off.”
“Whoa, now. I have to make arrangements for someone else to help Juan take care of my stock. I can’t just walk away from seventeen horses, four laying Rhode Island Reds, and the best mouser in the state of Texas.”
Gwendolyn wasn’t sure what he was talking about—probably some types of animals—but he sounded responsible for them. “Perhaps this Juan person can handle the task. Or surely you have a friend or a neighbor who can help.”
“Well now, I have somebody I can call, but I’ve got to see if he’s available. He’s got his own place to take care of.”
Gwendolyn glanced at her watch. If they got on the road within the hour, they could arrive in San Antonio before two o’clock that afternoon. That would give her nearly twenty hours—if they had to work through the night—to get Mr. McCauley ready for the children’s hospital and zoo appearances tomorrow.
“Let’s get on with it, then.” She rose from the couch and clutched her briefcase in front of her with both hands.
Mr. McCauley frowned, leaning back in his chair to look her in the eye. “Are you always this bossy?”
She swallowed a caustic reply. “I’m sorry, Mr. McCauley, but we are on a tight deadline. If there is anything I can do to convince your friend to arrive promptly, please let me know.”
“How much were you gonna pay?”
She suddenly realized they hadn’t discussed a fee. “How much do you require?”
“We’ll talk about me later, but why don’t you pay my friend five hundred to stay here and watch my spread? That’ll cover about two days of his time.”
From knowing Prince Alexi—who had the uncommon ability to compute pounds to yen to euros—for so many years, she’d learned to compute foreign currency. Five hundred dollars seemed fairly reasonable. About ten dollars an hour American, if one counted the entire day and night. “Very well. I’ll have a check prepared for him.”
“Now, Lady Wendy, I’m not sure the bank in Ranger Springs will let him cash a check from Europe.”
Gwendolyn felt her body go rigid. “I assure you—”
“Now, don’t get all bent out of shape. This is a small town. Hell, a lot of people won’t take a check from Oklahoma, much less Belegovia. Why don’t you run into town and see if you can get some cash? I’ll get dressed, pack a bag and be ready to go when you get back.”
“This is absurd! A check from the royal treasury of Belegovia is absolutely valid!”
Hank McCauley shook his head, making a lock of unruly hair fall into his hooded eyes. “No cash, no deal.”
Gwendolyn swallowed another reply and turned on her heel. “Very well, then, Mr. McCauley. Your friend will have his cash. I’ll be back shortly. Kindly be ready to leave when I return.”
“You’ve got it, Lady Wendy.”
She heard the recliner squeak as he rose, but his bare feet made no sound on the floor. She couldn’t keep herself from looking back to see where he was located.
He was right behind her. She turned and clutched her briefcase high against her chest, drawing in a deep breath, inhaling his clean fragrance and spicy cologne. Why didn’t the man at least don a shirt? He was absolutely improper.
Absolutely intoxicating, she had to admit as her head swam.
“You might want to stop by the Kash ’n’ Karry on your way back from the bank. I’ll need a couple of six packs of Dr. Pepper—the real kind, not that diet stuff—while we’re working on this prince thing.”
“Dr. Pepper.” She was relieved her voice still worked. “Anything else?”
“Throw