To Marry A Prince. A.C. Arthur
we’ve announced our engagement that I’ve been in a room with all of Rafe’s children,” Malayka said in that smoky voice that reminded Landry of the time she’d met Grace Jones.
“They’ll certainly have to agree that you are more than ready to dress the part of being princess of this beautiful island,” Landry told her as she moved away from the mirror and began packing up the other gowns that Malayka had tried on.
She’d been in there for the last two hours trying to figure out which dress Malayka would wear. Luckily, the hair stylist and makeup artist had already been there by the time Landry arrived, so that part of getting ready for tonight’s dinner was complete.
From behind her she could hear Malayka making a sound and mumbling something. Landry kept moving. Whatever Malayka had said was apparently not meant for her to hear.
One of the first things Landry learned about working in an industry with wealthy and famous people was to mind her own business. This lesson had come just months after she’d graduated with honors, receiving a bachelor’s degree in Apparel Merchandising and Management from California State Polytechnic University in Ponoma. She’d been ecstatic the day she found out she’d landed one of the coveted internships with Harper’s Bazaar in New York. There, she had assisted with sample trafficking, creating shoot boards and supporting market editors with office duties. It was just a few weeks after she’d been in New York that Landry met Peta Romanti, the A-list actress who was, at that time, launching her own fashion line. Bazaar was doing a full spread and in-depth interview with Peta in the weeks leading up to her launch.
Landry had recognized the woman immediately and used every method of control she could think of to resist acting like a complete groupie. Throughout the day Peta barked orders, sending interns and even editors scrambling to do her bidding. Landry had been busy with other assignments all that morning, but in the afternoon she’d offered to help out during a photo shoot. Happy to have someone else go into the lion’s den, Landry’s supervisor had given her an armful of dresses and instructions to take into the dressing room and see which one Peta wanted to wear. The actress-turned-designer had decided to capitalize on this interview by modeling clothes from her own line for the spread in the magazine. As she’d walked up to the dressing room door Landry could hear the argument. Something about Peta’s boyfriend being arrested for public nudity as he’d stood on a sidewalk arguing with the hooker he’d hired, who he was then accusing of stealing his wallet. Landry stood at the door, not sure whether she should knock and go in, or come back later—even though there wasn’t really a “later” since they had already been behind with the shoot.
The decision was made for her as the door abruptly swung open and Peta yelled in her face, “What are you doing there? Are you listening to my conversation? You’d better not speak one word of it!”
All Landry could manage to say was, “I have your dresses if you’re ready to try them on.”
The afternoon had proceeded with Peta—once she’d asked Landry her name—calling her every five seconds to do any-and everything for her. That day led to Landry being invited to Peta’s Paris fashion show three weeks after that and later to receiving personal invitations and previewings to Peta’s collection from the moment Landry opened her doors for business. Keeping her mouth shut had been an invaluable lesson and Landry reminded herself of that constantly.
Now well versed in the ins and outs of the personal stylist business, Landry admitted, there wasn’t much to be said about Malayka Sampson. She’d been in LA for just about a year when Landry had first met her. When she’d queried her services, Landry had discreetly asked around about the woman, who was neither an actor nor singer, or notable figure. All that could be said was that Malayka had been at all the right parties and premiers. She had dinner with the governor and lunch with a senator. There were pictures of her with record producers and none other than Peta Romanti, which had been the deciding factor in Landry choosing to work with her.
Landry figured that was enough of a platform to style Malayka for the months leading up to her wedding. Add that to the gorgeous scenery that Landry was already aching to see more of, and this was a good opportunity for her career. Her family, however, would say otherwise.
“The men are never a problem,” Malayka was saying, loudly this time. “It’s the females who are always jealous.”
Landry had been closing the box filled with jewelry she’d brought into the room with her. The sound echoed throughout the high-ceilinged room. She cleared her throat.
“I’ll see you in the dining room in a bit,” she said as she quickly clasped the lock on the box and picked it up.
The dresses to be returned were all bagged and hung on a rolling rack she’d pushed down the long marble-floored hallway to get to Malayka’s private rooms. In her estimate, the palace was roughly the size of at least two Beverly Hills hotels, and that was only a hunch. Earlier that day Landry had been met outside of Prince Kristian’s door by a pinch-faced older woman with a heavy accent who escorted her to a room that seemed a couple city blocks away. She figured her approximation was almost accurate.
“You’re going to dinner?”
Apparently that surprised Malayka, whose dramatically arched brows were raised as she touched the diamonds glittering at her neck. The woman was just a shade or so lighter in complexion than Landry. They probably maxed out at the same height when neither were wearing heels—five feet six inches tall. She was older than Landry who had just turned twenty-six last week. A marvelous plastic surgeon and a good regimen of weight loss supplements were most likely responsible for Malayka’s slim, but stacked, size six frame. Her hair, or rather the expensive wigs she wore, were of the highest quality and were always on point. As was her makeup, courtesy of the other two stylists she’d brought to the island with her. She was perfect to look at, but not the friendliest person in the world.
“Yes. I was told to be ready at six,” Landry said as she lifted her arm and looked down to her watch. “I’ve got twenty minutes to make it or the stern warden lady that gave me the directive might pop a button in that crisp uniform she wears.” Landry made sure to chuckle after her words. She wouldn’t have the future princess thinking she had no respect for the staff.
Malayka only blinked, the long fake eyelashes fanning dramatically over her smooth skin. “I thought it would be a private dinner tonight. Family only.”
Landry nodded and headed out of the closet. “See you in a little bit,” she yelled over her shoulder without turning back.
She moved through the sitting area of Malayka’s room. It was the size of the entire front end of Landry’s studio in LA, plush cream-colored carpet and gorgeous antique furnishings, complete with stunning oil paintings of what she suspected might be the landscape of the island draping the walls. The knobs on the double doors were crystal and reminded Landry of the old doorknobs in her grandparents’ house. She was certain these were real, as opposed to the ones Nana used to joke about selling and becoming rich.
When the rack and the other two bags she’d left on the couch in the sitting room were through the doors, Landry turned back and closed them with a quiet click. Then she sighed. The last couple of hours had been taxing but worth it, she supposed. Malayka did look good and that was her sole purpose for being there, so she whispered a job well done to herself and headed back in the direction she’d remembered traveling to get there.
These were the glossiest and prettiest floors she’d ever seen and Landry had been to a lot of sophisticated venues. Nothing compared to this palace. The word palace alone meant this place was classier than anything she could ever imagine. It was certainly living up to its hype, and she was only in the hallway.
Columns jutted from the floor to the ceiling, some wide, some slim, all giving an air of royalty as she moved through. What seemed like secret alcoves encased sculptures of pirates and ships. Closer to her rooms there were busts of people she was sure she had never heard of, but who nevertheless looked extremely important. The color scheme here was the barest hint of peach flanked in beige-and-gold textured wallpaper, highlighted again by the swirling marble floors. There were large floral arrangements on small round