The Christmas Princess (5 page)

Hunter interrupted their hellos and handshakes, demanding of her, “Is that true?”

She shrugged. “Yolanda needed to sit down. She works two full-time jobs, takes care of her family, and now her mother-in-law’s moved in. Plus, she has a bad back. There wasn’t time to talk about my history.”

His frown darkened. There was no pleasing the man.

Over the following days, she learned how true that was.

She’d thought Zoe Rules were tough? They were anarchy compared to Hunter Rules.

Starting with a handshake.

Closing the space and remembering to smile were just a start, as she learned when he instructed her to demonstrate a handshake with Derek Kenton. Over and over and over.

Don’t grip that hard. Now it’s too limp.

Don’t let your arm flop like a fish. Not that stiff, either.

Don’t tuck your elbow in at your side. That looks like you’re holding him at arm’s length because he smells.

“Do it again. No.” He stepped in, and Derek dropped into a chair with apparent gratitude. “Half a step closer. Now, thumb up. Make sure your fingers go under the other person’s palm. Palm to palm until base of thumbs meet. Curve your thumb over the back of the other person’s hand, otherwise—” He straightened his thumb. His hand was so much larger that his thumb slid under the cuff of her shirt, brushing her wrist.

He was right. It was too— No, not
intimate
.
Personal
. She rotated her hand, but that rubbed his thumb across the pulse-point at the inside of her wrist.

“No crushing, no limp fish, no stiff arm,” Derek said from the sidelines. “Two or three shakes. Smile and make eye contact.”

Automatically, she looked up, making eye contact.

“Sorry. Did I grip too hard?” Hunter’s voice was harsher than usual.

She’d pulled her hand from his grasp. “Bit of a cramp.”

“Been using the same muscles all morning,” Derek said sympathetically.

Right. Her princess muscles.

Hunter turned away. “We’ll switch topics.”

A switch, but no break. Because what followed was the first in seemingly unending sessions on diplomatic and royal no-nos.

She’d awakened two mornings in a row to her own voice mumbling, “Mr. Ambassador, Sir or Excellency, but never Ambassador Jones. Your Majesty, but His Highness.”

In between, she studied stacks of photos of the Bariavak royal family, including Princess Sofia and her dashing husband, Prince Leopold — the long-dead parents of the lost princess — as well as dignified King Jozef.

The upside was that she had no time or energy to think about her family or her job or where she and Rufus would live after New Year’s or even the end of her engagement. Princessing was hard work, mentally and physically. She’d be so tired by the end of each day that brushing her teeth seemed like a major achievement.

At this rate her hair would grow long enough to let out the window and climb down from the fifth floor suite before she’d satisfy Hunter Pierce.

“Was Rapunzel a Grimm’s fairy tale?” she asked Derek abruptly.

He blinked at her, then looked at Hunter, who was on his computer at the table by the windows. Hunter shrugged, apparently granting permission for Derek to say, “What?”

“Never mind. I’ll ask Sharon when she comes next time.”

The only time April had any freedom was when she was alone with Sharon.

They’d made clandestine expeditions down the service elevator to the hotel kitchen, becoming friendly with the staff, especially Ferdinand, the chef, and Manny, their regular room service waiter. Sunday evening, in a moment of daring, they had slipped outside with Rufus and walked around Lafayette Park. Who would have thought visiting statues of General Von Steuben and President Andrew Jackson could be such a treat?

But Sharon only came once or twice a day. Mostly, apparently, to order Hunter to take a break. She’d made him walk Rufus one time, though more often that task fell to Derek, who was not amused but diligently took the poop bags with him.

Officially, Hunter and Derek rotated on 12-hour shifts. In practice, it was Derek for 12 hours and Hunter for 24. Oh, he had to leave sometimes, because he’d be clean-shaven and in fresh clothes when she came out of the bedroom in the morning. But since he apparently waited for her to fall asleep before he indulged in those forays, what good did it do her?

“Shall we get started?”

She was sorely tempted to answer “no,” but by now she knew that wouldn’t stop Hunter.

“What are we doing today?” she asked.

“Dancing.”

She groaned.

Manny wheeled in the room service lunch cart on Wednesday for her, Derek, and Hunter with professional aplomb. But when he spotted Rufus, he broke into a smile. The dog started to wag his tail.

“Got something for you, too, my man,” Manny said to the dog. “Straight from Ferdinand.”

April’s stomach dropped.

Manny removed the cover from a small bowl and placed it on the floor, then looked up at her. “We didn’t think you’d mind. Boiled rice and beef. Nice and mild. Shouldn’t interrupt Rufus’ training at all.”

Hunter’s narrow-eyed gaze shifted from waiter to dog — now immersed in the bowl’s contents — to her.

She moved so her back was to him, giving Manny a warning look.

“Please thank, uh, whoever that was you said was thinking about my dog. I suppose the housekeeping staff must have mentioned Rufus’ presence,” she said with emphasis.

“Yeah. Housekeeping. Housekeeping did mention it,” Manny said, watching her.

She nodded. “And I suppose someone in the kitchen empathized because he — or she — loves dogs, too.”

“Yes. That’s exactly what happened. Hope that’s okay.”

“Of course it is,” she said before Hunter could respond. “And please tell whoever provided the treat for Rufus how much it is appreciated. By me as well as him.”

Manny departed, pausing only to shoot her a quick eyebrows-raised look when the door masked him from the rest of the room. She smiled back blandly, aware of Hunter watching her.

“Let’s eat,” Derek said. “I’m starved.”

Hunter said nothing throughout the meal.

As soon as she finished, she jumped up and said, “We better get back to work.”

She and Derek took their positions on the cleared area being used for a dance floor and Hunter had his finger on the button to start the music when he said, “He knew Rufus’ name. The waiter.”

“I called him by name.”

“Not until after the waiter did.”

“Yolanda knows his name. She must have mentioned it. Are we going to continue? Or are you satisfied with my dancing?”

He made a noise that didn’t say much for her dancing, but, still, he didn’t start the music. “You will not break your pledge, April Gareaux.”

It was a command.

“I won’t tell anyone anything ever —
ow
.”

He’d started the music, she was slow moving her foot at the first note, and Derek stepped on it. Hard.

An hour later, and it still throbbed.

Boy, had she been wrong thinking of the Disney version of Cinderella. Hunter was no Fairy Godmother. She was no graceful Cinderella waiting to show her true self, and there was no magic wand. If there had been, she’d have used it on her foot. Or her dancing skills.

Yes, she was definitely a Brothers Grimm kind of princess.

“We’ll go back to the waltz,” Hunter announced, switching off “They Can’t Take That Away From Me” that they’d used for the fox trot.

April flopped on the couch. Derek eased into a chair as if his leg hurt. She hadn’t kicked his ankle
that
hard.

Hunter fiddled with the speakers, and ordered Derek, “Again.”

Before Derek could respond, April said. “Let us rest. If my passing for this princess depends on my ballroom dancing, we’re cooked anyway. We’ll have to rely on the resemblance you say I have to the royal family.”

She didn’t see it herself. What she
had
seen in those photos was sadness in King Jozef’s eyes, even before his granddaughter went missing.

“You resemble them,” he said.

She huffed. “Why you won’t tell me details of how this princess came to be lost– No, don’t bother. I know. Operational security.”

But he hadn’t started to say that. Not this time. He’d gone still.

She zeroed in on him. “There’s something more, isn’t there?”

A nanosecond of awareness connected them. Possibly surprise on his part that she’d picked up on his reaction. But he damped it down, and April put it at fifty-fifty whether he would ignore her question.

He extended his hand to her. “Derek, put the music on.”

Derek scrambled to obey. She didn’t budge, chin sunk on her chest, looking at that strong hand in front of her.

“I request the honor of this dance,” he said formally.

She stuck her hand out, because there wasn’t any reason — any rational reason — not to. He slid his palm under hers, wrapped thumb and fingers around her palm and drew her inexorably to her feet. Not a handshake, yet the contact had some of the same muscles trembling.

Because they’d been overworked

The same old music started — she used to sort of like Strauss — he put one hand at her shoulder blade, used the other to clasp her hand, and hit the beat perfectly.
Show off
.

But as they moved around the open space, her ill humor faded. His hand on her back was larger than Derek’s, firm and in control. His hold on her hand guided rather than pushed or pulled. His confidence and ease flowed into her. They were not two independent operators in constant danger of collision, but a single unit negotiating space and time and music. Flawlessly. Breathlessly.

The music stopped, and they stopped with it — something she had not achieved with Derek.

Hunter released her and took a half step back, dropping his head momentarily, almost in a bow. Regarding the thick glossy brown at the crown of his head she quelled an urge to curtsey.

He took her left hand in his. Their hands had been clasped throughout the dance, but now she was aware of this single contact as she had not been within the intricacies of their dual movement. She felt the warmth and faint scratchiness of his skin, sensed the power he could wield.

For one insane moment she thought he would kiss her hand. Instead, his grip shifted so only her ring finger and little finger rested atop his hand.

“This is the something more.”

The dance must have deprived her brain of oxygen, because she had no idea what he was talking about.

“Along with your resemblance to the king’s family, you have this mark — the Bariavak Hand. The little finger on the left hand being as long as the fourth finger.”

She looked down, her own hand feeling oddly unfamiliar.

“It’s hereditary,” Hunter continued. “A very strong gene in the Bariavak royal family. Others have it as well, but it is not a common trait. That combined with your overall resemblance …”

April felt something rush through her. She was worn out, emotionally, physically, mentally. Yet this rush was like a mega-jolt of caffeine applied directly to her nerve-endings.

He thought this might happen. He thought all they’d done might actually lead somewhere. And oh, my God, he also thought she could pass herself off as this princess.

Hunter stood in front of Sharon’s desk.

He’d timed it so she’d just cleaned the last folder from her desk, ready to start the long holiday weekend with her family.

That would keep this short.

So would being direct. “You’ve got to stop undercutting my operation by taking her outside the suite.”

“You’re working her hard. All that handshaking, moving across a room, titles, diplomatic intricacies, dancing.” She raised her brows at the last one. “Even dancing with her yourself, I hear.”

He didn’t react to the teasing. “It is necessary to show her how to stand, how to walk.”

“Why? She’s not supposed to have been brought up as a princess, right? She’s supposed to be an everyday person.”

“Those are facts. If he agrees to see her, you don’t want the focus to be on facts. You want the focus to be on emotion. Therefore our focus now is on emotion.”

She snorted, and muttered, “Hunter Pierce, focusing on emotion.”

He ignored that and continued. “We smooth over the facts by giving April confidence in small skills he would expect of a princess, helping him accept that she
is
a princess.”

Both of Sharon’s eyebrows went up and her eyes opened wide at the same time her mouth curled. She stood, picked up her briefcase and came around the desk. “I do believe you’re starting to feel something for our make-believe princess.”

She reached up and patted his cheek as she passed him. “Happy Thanksgiving, Hunter.”

The fourth Thursday in November arrived amid a reprieve of warm, sunny days that recalled earlier autumn.

Hunter drove through holiday-quiet streets, following April’s directions, clearly heading toward the neighborhood of her old apartment. A return to the animal shelter?

No. She instructed him to park in a municipal lot, then led him away from the shelter, saying how good it felt to stretch her legs after never getting out of the suite.

As if he didn’t know she and Sharon took jaunts around the park, not to mention to the hotel kitchen. So far April had been discreet, telling no one anything of what she was doing here or of who she really was. Instead, she got these people talking about themselves.

When he’d agreed to her requirement to spend Thanksgiving as herself, he’d known he’d cover the shift, relieving Derek early so he’d get to Delaware for Thanksgiving dinner with his family. Giving other people holidays off was good for morale. Hunter could protect the operation no matter what she had in mind.

But he hadn’t expected this.

The sign on a bland cement-block wall beside the door April was about to open read: “Dinwiddie Shelter. Thanksgiving Dinner, 1 p.m.”

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

She tipped her head, unconvinced. Damn. He was falling apart if he let April Gareaux see that something— No. No, nothing was wrong. He was here to do his job. Like always.