The Prince's Cinderella. Andrea Bolter
needs to be considered. He made a mental note to give Iris some extra days off with pay once they were all settled in. A funny little trio, he, the baby niece and the widowed nanny. But a working unit nonetheless.
To the matter of the gala, he’d yet to conclude whether Marie was going to be a help or a hindrance. She seemed oddly unaware of his royal status so he’d made a point of not telling her. Because as soon as people found out, they acted differently around him. Either nervous to the point of flubbing up simple tasks, or going into overdrive to be perfect. Most people were flustered in the company of His Highness Prince Zander de Nellay of Charlegin.
It was surprising that she didn’t know who he was, but it seemed there were a lot of gaps in what she’d been informed of. So at least in this first encounter, he’d let her think of him only as the event chair whom she had to satisfy, without the added distraction and onus of his title. Perhaps they’d get to know each other a bit first.
He’d come off brusque when they’d met in the office. No one could blame him, though, for being frustrated that, while he was responsible for this crucial fund-raising gala, the agency had undergone a personnel change and Marie, the replacement, was unapprised on more than just his identity.
“Do you know a place?” she asked, reshuffling the weight of a tote bag filled with paperwork on one shoulder and her laptop under the other arm.
“This way.”
Reaching over to take Marie’s bag off her shoulder, an unexpected sensation greeted him. As his fingertips grazed the thin fabric of her blouse in the process, Zander stiffened a little bit. His body suddenly piqued with alertness. For a good twenty paces after that, he was unable to divert his thoughts from wondering what the skin under that white shirt of Marie’s might feel like if he slipped his hand underneath it. Soft as satin, he was sure of it.
It was a strange fascination. He hadn’t felt curiosity about a woman in a long time.
“Do you live in Cannes?” Marie brought him back to the moment with her question, looking up to him with her big and almost completely round light blue eyes.
“I come down for the social season every spring.”
“Down from where?”
“I keep an apartment in Paris. And my home is in Charlegin.”
“Where is that?”
“It’s a small principality near the Belgium border.”
“What do you do there?”
Mashing his lips together, he suppressed a response. He wasn’t used to being asked such direct inquiries. Once people knew who he was, they usually became tongue-tied or fluffed on about the weather or the rosebushes. Marie’s candor was intriguing, if unknowingly inappropriate.
“I’m involved in several charitable organizations,” he answered in absolute truth. “May I?” He gestured at her laptop, taking it and slipping it into his bag alongside his own computer.
Tucking it in, his fingers again made contact with the incongruous item he had encountered when looking for the USB drive while he and Marie were still at the office. Inadvertently squeezing the malleable plastic, a quack sound echoed through the leather. How one of Abella’s bath toys, the squidgy yellow duck, ended up in his bag he’d never know.
“What was that?” Marie asked in response to the sound.
“Oh, nothing.” He wasn’t ready to explain just yet, having learned the hard way that women tended to ooh and aah when they found out that the eligible prince was caring for a baby. And then tried to convince him that by decree of their gender they could do a better job of it than he was. When, in his experience, they were only trying to take care of themselves by worming their way into his world.
A hurtful pang reminded him that only a few months ago he’d been duped into just that.
Nothing about Marie suggested she was of that breed. But he wasn’t going to be deceived, or put Abella’s safety in jeopardy, ever again.
He led them to a pedestrians-only block where every other business was a café. Outdoor tables extended as far as the eye could see, each shaded from the sun with cloth awnings or umbrellas in a riot of colors. People sat chatting in groups, nursing aperitifs. Romantic couples leaned in close as they shared pastries.
Picking one of the cafés he thought he remembered from his time here last year, Zander instructed the hostess to seat them at one of the outside tables. With a pull on Marie’s chair, he helped her sit and then took the wicker chair opposite her.
“Café au lait?” he suggested and after her confirmation, he ordered when the waiter arrived.
Quickly perusing the menu, he chose an herbed omelet. Marie took a bit longer to decide but once the waiter returned with the coffees, they had both made their selections.
“This is so scenic,” Marie said as she surveyed the panorama from the café’s patio. Palm trees dotted the horizon beyond the low buildings that lined the block. The air was clean and the sky was blue.
“Yes, Cannes is a very special place. Where are you from?”
She hesitated before answering. “North Marseilles, originally. But I was working for the APCF in Toulouse before this.”
“And you’ve been called to service in Cannes.”
“It’s a great opportunity for me.”
“You have no children? Parents? No husband or boyfriend to consider in a relocation?”
Marie looked downward before lifting her head only slightly and answering through her eyelashes. “No. It’s just me.”
Zander felt a bloom in his gut at finding out that Marie was unattached. Which was ridiculous, as if his body was betraying him. What matter was it of his whether Marie was married or spoken for?
Perhaps he was just curious. Just a year ago he was the playboy bachelor entrenched in the social scene of young royals. Where he spent his days, and nights, in the company of stunning women.
Until the world as Prince Zander knew it came crashing down. When his sister, Princess Elise, and her husband, Prince Valentin, were killed in a plane crash. And Abella, at the time six months old, was put in Zander’s care.
The peculiar thing was, shifting from the jet-setter who dated the most desirable women in the most exotic places and enjoyed enviable pursuits of leisure was a much easier change than anyone would have guessed.
Truthfully, Zander had become tired of romping around. He was especially worn down by the people he met who were interested only in his title and his standing. Who never saw him for who he really was, what he cared about inside. As was personified by the one mistaken go-round with the woman who confirmed all of his suspicions.
After that, it was crystal clear. Tragedy was the catalyst for short-circuiting Prince Zander’s lifestyle. But it was as easy as flipping a switch for him to turn his attention to one female and one female only. One who was hopefully eating her diced peaches before readying herself for a sleep.
His sister, Elise, was two years older than him, the firstborn. Which meant that Abella, her only child, was the crown princess and heir to the throne. Zander was responsible for raising not only a child, but the future ruler of their native Charlegin.
It all added up to why Zander had toy duckies in his briefcase and diced peaches on his mind. He could have hardly been bestowed a more important task than caring for Abella. Which provided a reason for him to stop surrounding himself with untrustworthy people whom he didn’t even really know. He had to be very cautious with whom he brought into his orbit now, as he had the baby princess to protect.
Which was why, Zander reflected as the waiter delivered the food, the personal life of this lovely Mademoiselle Marie across the table from him should be of no interest of his.
So why was it?
Zander