Chapter 1

Alexander’s POV

As I spun Ingrid into the final turn of the waltz, I was thinking of the new American Embassy we’d finally won for my country. This morning, I was at the King’s righthand when he signed documents finalizing the long negotiations. I knew how much this meant to him because I am Crown Prince and Heir Apparent to the throne of Desjardins, a province-state in southern Europe, captured between the mountains and the sea. This embassy would create more financial strength and give us a stronger voice in world politics. My lover gazed up at me, totally unaware that my thoughts were elsewhere. Necessarily, I’m good at hiding behind a smile.

Between one turn and the next, suddenly, I lost focus…on Ingrid, on the embassy, and on the Spring Ball dazzling around us. Something inside me—the restless hunger that had begun to eat at me often late at night—lifted its anonymous face. Her perfume engulfed me, suffocating and cloying. What was this? I loved the fragrance. I’d bought it for her on our last escape to Paris. But like a dying man, I sucked in a last breath and exhaled a long sigh.

“That was a heartfelt sigh if I’ve ever heard one.” Ingrid tilted her head, trying to gaze beyond my smile…trying to read my soul.

“Nothing of the sort,” I said and would have left it at that, but Ingrid is a tenacious woman.

“I just wondered why you seem so distant,” she said.

“I have a secret.” The American embassy had yet to be announced.

The waltz ended, and the band in Leandres livery switched to another classic. Ingrid’s hand slid to my elbow, ready for the next dance. It wasn’t that she was a great dancer. I knew Ingrid. By keeping me on the dancefloor, she kept me away from the dozens of beautiful women sparkling beneath the crystal chandeliers. The theme of the Ball was the newborn colors of Spring, and the ladies’ attire showed how closely the nobility listened to my mother.

When I covered my lover’s hand with mine, my signet ring flashed gold. The piece had been handed down from my grandfather to my father, then to me when I turned eighteen. “Let’s sit this one out.”

She tossed me a flirty wink and a wicked grin. “Must we? Surely, you’re not tired. You’ve hardly danced with me all evening.”

“Not tired.” I bit down on, “merely bored,” confining the admission to my thoughts. “Merely on duty.”

“You poor thing.” She patted my hand. “Dancing with all the pretty girls is such a chore.”

As I escorted her from the dancefloor, we earned envious glances from some and curious glances from others. Ingrid wasn’t a woman to be ignored. Her blonde, blue-eyed beauty alone turned heads. Her stunning gold lame gown spiked her allure. The mysterious smile—as if she knew something you didn’t—drew reporters like a magnet. However, had she not been my almost constant companion, she wouldn’t be on the cover of various and sundry magazines and tabloids.

“This is our second anniversary, Lex.” She flung the accusation at me as we passed a crop of this year’s debutantes, all of whom my father had thrown in my path at one time or another. “I bet you’ve forgotten.”

Guilty as charged, I winced, stiffened. I had forgotten. It was hard to believe that Ingrid and I had been lovers for two years. Already, the media had us engaged, dogging our steps waiting for the big announcement. She was intelligent, gorgeous, and good in bed, but there was just that something missing. Surely, a man my age shouldn’t believe in romance or soul mates. Father constantly reminded me that at twenty-six, he’d had a wife and an heir. Three years later, my sister had been born. Therefore, as Heir Apparent, I should have a devoted spouse and offspring by now. Yes, the King of Desjardins littered my path with nubile young maidens, but much to his dismay, I had Ingrid, and no one else appealed to me quite the way she did. Until now, when her very presence annoyed me.

At each island of guests, we halted for the obligatory brief conversation. I’d far prefer to be hand-carrying the embassy documents to America or arguing world politics with my sister. In an unwavering path, I guided Ingrid toward a quiet alcove that was my favorite hiding place. Didn’t they say you could hide in plain sight? If only I could ditch Ingrid and the Spring Ball for a precious moment of solitude, I’d decipher these strange longings, but I owed a duty to the people of my country—even if that duty is merely to be seen in a tuxedo.

Frowning, Ingrid tugged me to a halt. “Are you ill? You’re very quiet.”

I gave her a quick one-armed hug and darted a kiss to her cheek. “I’m fine.”

“Eugenie upstaged us on the front page of the Mirror today.” She squeezed my arm to the side of her breast, presumably to recapture my wandering attention. “They caught her leaving her Paris flat in dark glasses with a scarf tied around her head. She looked like a 50s film star.”

“My sister can have the front page,” I said with a wry smile. “She hates the spotlight. That’s why she escaped. She’d enjoyed all of the media she could stand.”

“Ha!” Ingrid laughed. “I thought she liked to make waves.”

“She merely wants her freedom.” I flung a gesture encompassing the ballroom, the guests, and all the trappings. “From all this.”

“Sometimes, Prince Alexander Abelard Philippe Leandres, you sound like you want to escape…” She imitated my gesture, her gaze gliding around the faces turned our way. “Would you?”

“Careful, Ingrid, you speak treason,” I joked with an edge to my voice. “You’d be subject to public execution.”

“You are in a mood this evening.” She frowned, shaking her head, then smiled as we passed a visiting dignitary.

I had to give it to Ingrid. The woman could turn on the charm. I think she prided herself on being a lady—which she was not—another bone of contention with the King. I turned my head to look at her, really look at her, from a point of detachment as some stranger might. What I saw was a beautiful woman. She tilted her head and met my gaze. Her pale blue eyes were mirrors in which I saw my reflection. I couldn’t see past the façade she showed the world. Regret squeezed my heart. I knew that, like Ingrid, my eyes, too, were mirrors. I’d never allowed this beautiful woman to touch me deeper than the skin, nor had she let me pierce her ice-cool barriers. In essence, we were strangers. I wanted more than that. I needed to share myself with someone who’d risk loving me.

Unaware of the tension straining a long silence between my date and me, Father caught us three strides from our destination. “Good evening, Ingrid, son. The ball is proceeding nicely. Are you enjoying yourselves?”

Though he appeared alone, the King’s entourage had invaded my hiding place to watch and wait. Inwardly, I groaned, wondering what subtle potshots he’d take at Ingrid tonight. My father wasn’t one of Ingrid’s fans. It had nothing to do with the fact that she wasn’t royalty or nobility. He simply didn’t like her.

“Very much, Your Majesty.” Ingrid dropped a deep curtsy, smiling up at the King through her lashes. Ah, little did she know what the King actually felt about her!

If Lex’s playmate as he called Ingrid knew she was the victim of the King’s sarcasm, her cool Scandinavian blood would boil.

Abelard Christian Marcus David Leandres, King of Desjardins, looked up at me with eyes the color of my own. Silver strands shot through his dark hair—hair the same color as mine. I closely resembled my father—bone structure and tall, slender build. I even had a duplicate birthmark in the exact private place. King Abelard was the people’s king. The citizens of Desjardins loved him. He and my mother represented the finest in Old World royalty. He was also a wise ruler.

However, no one had ever accused him of flowery speeches. After the brief greeting, my father jumped straight to the reason for his royal visit. “Lex, l shall need you at eight a.m. tomorrow. One o’clock Washington time. Sharp.”

Was he warning me not to stay up all night playing with Ingrid? In fact, I hadn’t planned to invite her to my chambers. Earlier in the evening, when this strange restlessness had attacked, I’d ordered a guest suite prepared for her. She wouldn’t be pleased, but I needed—what did I need? I’d never been so lost or undecided.

“I’ll be there.” I was tempted but opted not to snap a smart salute. “Eight sharp.”

He nodded, continuing as if Ingrid was invisible. “We need to tie all the loose ends. Your mother is already planning a ball in the new ambassador’s honor.”

“Any excuse for a ball.” There was a grain of truth in my reply. My mother loved to entertain, making my father’s reign a deal more popular. The people loved for their royalty to visit their living rooms via televised events. I glanced at my mother, holding court across the marble floored room. In her azure ballgown, she looked decades younger than her age.

All my ancestors possessed this attribute. The gallery could have been an exhibit of people who didn’t look their age. Thinking I was as finely bred as my new polo pony, I almost laughed aloud.

“We’re scheduled for a conference call with Miss America,” Father continued. “You are there by special request, confirming my suspicions. You could have closed this deal without me. The American rep is quite taken with Lex,” he addressed this last to Ingrid.

Miss America was our diplomatic contact during the negotiations. She was far from a beauty queen. I smiled. “If Ms. Ghiradelli were to discover your nickname for her, I don’t imagine she’d be flattered.”

Father shrugged. “She won’t,” and that matter was closed.

“An American ambassador.” Ingrid’s blue eyes widened. “What an achievement for you, Your Majesty.”

In private, with family and friends, the King didn’t hold to the rigid rules which outlined our lives, though protocol was his strong suit, again making him the most popular monarch in Desjardins’ long history.

“I’m sure Alexander was instrumental in charming the Americans,” Ingrid said before I could respond.

When had the woman become my spokesperson? My irritation grew exponentially with each word she uttered. Was it me or was she being purposefully annoying? We must have a word when we were alone, which wouldn’t be tonight.

My father whispered a laugh. “Lex is always quite charming. The media love him. How many Twitter followers do you have, son?”

“Enough.” It was a private joke. My feet didn’t fit a limb. I didn’t tweet.

“We’ll speak with the new ambassador as well.” Father shot Ingrid a frowning glance.

“Excellent,” I said. “I’ve never spoken with Mr. Calhoun.”

“Nice fellow. As I understand it, in South Carolina, the Calhouns have long been statesmen.” Mischief gleamed in his eyes. He seemed on the verge of saying more—something very wicked—but excused himself to greet English aristocracy.

Ingrid turned to follow, but I captured her hand. “Let’s talk,” I said quietly. “You embarrassed me.”

“When?” Her chin jutted defiantly.

“When you said you were sure I had charmed the Americans.”

A blush crept up her neck and across her ivory face. “You’ve never chided me before.”

Was the blush embarrassment or anger?

“You’ve never misbehaved as flagrantly.” Once the accusation slipped past my lips, I regretted it…or did I? Tonight, my feelings were spontaneous, ambivalent, and unexplainable.

She stiffened, her voice icy. “Misbehaved? Don’t treat me like a child.”

I turned her toward the group around Lord and Lady Malgovern. “Don’t use that tone with me, Ingrid. Come. I’ll introduce you to the man you’ve been ogling over my shoulder.”

Ingrid stood six feet tall in her bare feet. With her four-inch heels, we were eye-to-eye. She laughed. “You’re jealous. Of Lord Malgovern?”

“Not at all. It was merely an observation.” I dropped her hand. “I’m not the jealous type. Surely, you know that by now.”

“You’re handsome, royalty, and the world’s darling. Why should you be jealous?” She placed her hand at the crook of my elbow. “On the other hand, at any moment I might be trampled by a stampede of women. It’s a good thing I’m not insecure.”

“At, least you didn’t call me arrogant…as you’ve often done.” I smiled and, with a hand at her waist, guided her along the star-studded path that was my life.

***

Ginny’s POV

Virginia Claire McDonald dropped her phone on an inlaid desk and stared at the Atlantic from the window of her friend’s Charleston home. The Calhoun’s mansion owned a place of respect along the city’s immortal Battery. The window was open, and the ocean’s soft conversation drifted to her ears, but she didn’t actually see the beauty of the waves lapping the Seawall. Instead, media images drifted through her mind. Her friend’s father had been appointed to Desjardins, a small, elegant principality blessed with mountains and white seashores, and storybook-perfect royalty. Chrissy was set to spend the summer with her parents in the country that was Prince Charming’s home—Alexander Leandres was tall, dark, and handsome with the bluest eyes this side of the Pearly Gates. Ginny turned, crossed her arms, and leaned back against the window.

Battling a severe case of envy, she studied her best friend since childhood. “Chrissy Calhoun, you lucky dog, you will meet Alexander.”

As the ambassador’s daughter, Chrissy was perfectly positioned to hobnob with the royal family. In less than a minute, Alexander would notice the blonde, brown-eyed beauty. Ginny chided herself. Yet again. At twenty-two, she felt like a teenager worshiping her man from afar. She was too old to entertain romantic fantasies, but she freely admitted to being a dyed-in-the-wool dreamer and devourer of romance novels.

Prince Alexander of Desjardins was a perfect target for hero worship.

Her friend flopped onto the bed. “Ginny. You’re all flushed.” She grinned, mischief dancing in her big eyes. “Will you miss me that much? I’m flattered.” In travels with her parents, Chrissy had lost most of her Southern accent, but once she returned to Charleston, the Low Country drawl soon tinted her voice slow and melodic.

“Don’t be flattered, dumbass.” Ginny straightened, crossed the room to sit on the bed. “Your dad’s been appointed to Desjardins. I’m thrilled for you.”

“Don’t get excited.” Chrissy studied her red nails. “It’s not like I’m going to get a date with the world’s favorite prince. He’s been squiring that Scandinavian blonde for a couple of years. I’m a nobody from South Carolina, and I doubt he even knows where that is.”

“Yeah right, a nobody who lives in one of the most historic houses in Charleston. Your daddy is the United States Ambassador to Desjardins.” She tapped a finger to her chest and grimaced. “I’m the peasant.”

Chrissy shrugged. “I don’t think Dad’s Audi will catch Alexander’s Maserati.” She spun an imaginary steering wheel. “They say he drives like a bat out of hell.”

Ginny chuckled. “Toss that long blonde hair, bat those big brown eyes, and shake your booty. He’ll notice you all right. Oh, my, you’ll get to go to those fabulous balls.”

“I’m not Cinderella material.” Chrissy threw a pillow at Ginny. “I know this will come as a shock, but I’ve never really believed in fairytales. I know you do but…” she shook her head.

Ginny fended the downy weapon to the floor. “Time to start believing in fairytales. You own tons of beautiful dresses.” She pointed at the antique cedar chifforobe packed with her friend’s formal wardrobe. “You’re going to stand out at the ball. Don’t forget your glass slipper. If he doesn’t pick it up, throw it at his head. I could just celebrate your good fortune with pecan pie and vanilla ice cream right now.”

“You’re on for the pie and ice cream.” Chrissy leapt to her feet.

Ginny hugged her friend. “If you marry Alexander, I’ll be jealous.”

“You can be my lady in waiting.” She stroked the hair back from Ginny’s face. “Then you won’t have to go to medical school and cut up corpses.”

Ginny frowned. “For your information, Miss Calhoun, it doesn’t hurt to dream. Princess Christabel sounds good, don’t you think? I’d be an envious lady in waiting.”

“To tell the truth I’m not sure I want to go to Desjardins this summer. I met a new guy. He’s cute and makes me laugh. Who knows? Something might come of it..” Chrissy flung an arm around Ginny’s neck.

“A crown, Chrissy, and the handsomest man in the world to go with it.”

“You, dear, are a dreamer. In the first degree.” Chrissy took her arm, steering her to the bedroom door.

“Guess who wants to be a lawyer.” She tweaked her friend’s cheek.

***

The week before she and Chrissy were to graduate from the College of Charleston passed in a hurried fog. Together, the girls moved out of the furnished apartment they’d shared near campus. Ginny’s parents and brother left immediately after the ceremony. They had places to go and people to see, she supposed. Her brother had always been their favorite. Nothing she did quite measured up to college dropout and generally worthless, spoiled Bert. The graduation weekend was all very well and good, and soon over. Thankfully.

In her old clunker, Ginny drove Chrissy to the airport, eased to the curb in front of the terminal, and cut the engine. “Have a great summer.”

“I remind you, my dear, you promised to visit.” Her friend hugged her as they unloaded a colorful hard-side case from the trunk. Most Chrissy’s things had been shipped.

Ginny nodded, her eyes stinging. “Yeah. I’ll try.”

“I have lots of dresses that will fit you. We always did trade clothing. I loved that amber dress of yours.” Chrissy caught Ginny to her, hugged, then stood back and winked. “I know you’ll snag your prince charming’s eye. As you said to me, toss your long red hair, bat your green eyes, and shake your booty. Right?”

A sinking feeling hit bottom in Ginny’s stomach. She wanted to say, I don’t have the money to chase my dreams, but she tried to sound optimistic. “I’ll get a job. Save my money, then watch out Prince Alexander.”

“You can do it, Ginny, if anyone can,” Chrissy said.

“I’d probably faint if I saw him.” Ginny caught a glimpse of herself in a cab’s window. Faded jeans and a university sweatshirt. Just add a tiara. Yep, definitely royalty material. She chuckled.

“What are you laughing at?” Chrissy propped her hands on her shapely hips.

Ginny was tall, slender. She’d always envied Chrissy’s curves.

“Myself. I’m good amusement material.” She swung her friend’s carry-on to the ground as an image from four years ago slid past her eyes. Her ex-husband’s face—brown hair, brown eyes—brought a wave of grief.

At eighteen, she’d married her high school sweetheart. That heartache might be four years old, but it still haunted her as if it were yesterday. Her ex no longer called every day, pleading with her to come back to him, but a contested divorce had left scars on her feelings. Mike was a good guy, but he preferred drinking with his buddies to being home with his wife. During that long, lonely year and the trauma of divorce, Ginny had clung to a fraying rope. Prince Alexander of Desjardins had been her buoy in a storm. When her GYN/OB had told her she was pregnant, and then she’d lost the baby, her dreams alone had kept her afloat.

Chrissy’s grin faded. “Stop it. It wasn’t your fault that a-hole of a husband made you miserable. I can always tell when you’re thinking of him. It shows on your face.”

“I know it wasn’t my fault.” She happened to glance at a nearby car as a woman kissed her man goodbye. “I always seem to be saying goodbye.” The words slipped out, irreclaimable.

“Come on, Ginny. You said goodbye. Because Mike wasn’t good husband material. I’m working a little for Dad.” Tears glittered on Chrissy’s mascaraed lashes. “I’ll help you get the money to visit me.”

“I’ll find a way.” Ginny patted the other girl’s cheek.

“We will.” Her friend held a hand up in the secret sign they’d used since they were kids. “See you soon.”

Ginny nodded. Short of a miracle, she’d never see Desjardins.

***

Alexander’s POV

Despite Father’s half-hearted protests and Mother’s heartfelt ones, I entered the Desjardins Grand Prix. I was fully aware I’d be up against the best drivers in the world. I might not win, but the thrill of the race, I was sure, would satisfy my demons. A week after I signed the entry form, I finally admitted to my reflection in the mirror that one reason was to prove to myself that I could hold my own in the fierce competition.

I understood Father’s concerns. Racing is a hazardous sport, and I was his sole male heir. My country was a male primogeniture state. In primogeniture, the monarch's eldest son and his descendants take precedence over his siblings and their descendants, elder sons claiming the Crown over younger sons. However, all sons take precedence over daughters, so Eugenie could never be Queen. If I were to predecease my father with no male heirs, the rule would pass to a distant cousin out of favor with the Crown. In plainer language, Father detested the man. No, the King denied the Heir Apparent nothing. I was one lucky, arrogant bastard with perfect lineage tracing back centuries to a Crusader king.

I didn’t believe in fate or predestiny, but apparently Fate believed in me, and she waits for no man.