The Prince Next Door. Sue Civil-Brown
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kidnapping to get her way. Did she want to get tangled up with that kind of family?
Yes! The thought made her laugh. He wasn’t the least interested in her, but his mother sounded like a character after her own heart. In fact, his mother was the best recommendation he had.
A prince. Living next door. Well, a prince who didn’t believe he was a prince. She felt a little disturbed by his cavalier dismissal of the genetic contract which could help Maso-whatever-it-was to prosper, but he was probably right. They’d find someone else to be their prince.
She could hardly blame him for not wanting the job. It would probably be tedious beyond belief. Meetings and papers and appearances, and people telling you what to do and how to behave every moment of the day….
Still…She closed her eyes a moment and indulged a Cinderella fantasy of being garbed in a beautiful gown, waltzing around a huge ballroom in the arms of a prince in a comic-opera uniform of blue and gold.
Hmmm.
Once again it was time to corral her thoughts. She had such a tendency to go off into flights of fancy, it was a wonder she’d ever made it through medical school. Or a day in her own practice.
“Hey,” said Ariel, rejoining her. Apparently her program was over. “You look pensive.”
“I’m facing weeks of tedium.”
“With a handsome prince next door?”
Serena cocked an eye her way. “He says he’s not. Don’t you think he would know?”
“Actually, no. Distant line and all that.”
Serena shrugged. “Doesn’t matter anyway. He’s determined not to be a prince. I don’t suppose they can force him. Besides, who’d want to be a prince in this day and age?”
Ariel nodded. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Sounds like a boring job to me.” Serena took a sip of iced tea from the frosty glass on the table beside her. “Oh, well. I’ll call off Marco first thing in the morning. Can you imagine having a mother like that?”
“You mean Mr. Maxwell’s? Sure.” Ariel giggled. “I just have to look at you.”
Serena pretended to frown at her, but she couldn’t contain her own laughter. “I had the same thought.”
“So what are you going to do now? Stage a bank robbery?”
“I’m not that crazy.”
Ariel laughed again. “I hope not. I’d have to save you from yourself, and I’m not sure I could do that.”
“You won’t have to. I’ve been ruminating over possibilities, but it seems I’m going to have to be bored one way or the other.”
“What you mean is, you haven’t thought of anything that tickles your fancy yet.”
Serena sighed. “I guess I have some kind of problem. Other people don’t get bored the way I do.”
“Other people have more in their lives. Husbands. Kids. Clubs. Maybe instead of going out to run along the beach you should join the Y. You’d meet more people.”
It was lowering to admit it, but Ariel was right. Her world had started narrowing in medical school and never really broadened again, until all she had to look forward to were her vacations. That wasn’t healthy.
“But my days are so long.” And they were. No matter how she scheduled them, they wound up being ten to fourteen hours at a stretch. Supposedly minor matters for which fifteen minutes had been allotted would turn into necessary surgical procedures that took longer, and so on. Even dermatologists had emergencies. And when she was done with the patients, it was time to complete paperwork, attend to business management, make calls to discuss upsetting test results. She never asked her nurse to call with a diagnosis of malignancy or other serious skin condition.
So she came home beat. If she didn’t run in the mornings before she left for work, she wouldn’t run at all.
“Something needs to change,” she heard herself announce.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Ariel said. “You absolutely, positively have got to get a life.”
THE WORDS WERE still ringing in Serena’s head the following morning. Get a life. Never had truer words been spoken, and how like Ariel to cut to the heart of the problem.
She went hunting for Marco and found him as expected beside the pool, covered in layers of olive oil, browning his already brown skin.
“You know,” she said to him, “you’re going to make me wealthy at this rate.”
He laughed. “I will come to you to cut off any trouble.”
“There’s going to be a lot of trouble. I’m surprised you haven’t already turned into one huge melanoma.”
He grinned at her, showing enviously white, although crooked, teeth. “I have good genes.”
“Apparently so.”
She pulled up a chair and sat facing him. On her head was a wide-brimmed straw hat that shaded her pretty well. “Listen, about what I said yesterday afternoon about our new neighbor?”
His face darkened. “The drug dealer. I have not yet seen him.”
“Well, forget what I said.”
“Forget it? How can I forget such a thing? My grandchildren…”
She interrupted ruthlessly. “Marco, I checked him out. He’s not a drug dealer.”
Marco fell silent, his mouth open, taking in her words. “No?”
“No.
“No.” He nodded. “What is he?”
“A perfectly legitimate businessman.” Although now that she thought about it, that prince business…had she been seriously snowed last night?
“Yes?”
“Yes.” She said it firmly, despite the sudden niggling doubt.
“Okay, then. I forget it. Pah!” He waved a hand as if tossing the thought away.
“Good. I jumped to conclusions.” And she’d jump right back to them if Darius Maxwell gave her any reason to.
CHAPTER SIX
THERE WAS NO Y on the island, and going to the nearest one meant crossing two drawbridges, not something Serena cared to do first thing in the morning, during rush hour. It was bad enough when she had to go to work and left every morning at six to beat the rush. No way was she going to do it on her vacation.
But Ariel’s comments were still stinging, mainly because they were true. So instead of putting on her jogging outfit, she chose a white polo shirt and white shorts and picked up her tennis racquet and balls. She could practice her serve for a while, and maybe someone else would show up to play with her. Someone with whom she could be sociable.
The complex had two private tennis courts with well-maintained clay surfaces. When she arrived, a couple were already playing at the farthest court. They paid her no attention and their game wasn’t of a quality to justify watching, so she grabbed a bucket of practice balls and began to hit serves.
It stank. With the first six balls she hit the net three times. Boy, was she out of practice.
Just as she moved to go gather up her balls and try again, a familiar voice said, “You’re tossing it too far forward, so you’re hitting it on the downswing.”
Her cheeks, already a little flushed, flushed more. She turned and saw Darius Maxwell, potential prince and ruler of some nearly invisible country, standing just inside the gate. He, too, wore tennis togs and carried a racquet and balls. Lord, did he look fantastic in white,