The Prince's Texas Bride. Victoria Chancellor
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“No, but they haven’t lived together since shortly after our country became a separate entity after liberation from the Soviet Union.”
“Okay, tell that to me again in Texas-style English.”
Alexi laughed. “Sorry. Belegovia is an old monarchy that was swallowed up by the Soviet Union after World War II. My grandfather fled the country with his family and sought asylum in England.”
“So the queen took you in.”
“Actually, I—”
“No ‘actually,’ either. Just go ahead and tell me.”
“Very…er, sorry,” he responded with a grin. “My father was a very young man when they settled in England. I wasn’t born yet.”
“Oh, so that’s why your mother is from England.”
“Right. And she prefers to live there. You see, she never expected my father to become king. After all, he didn’t have a country when they married, and there wasn’t any clue that we’d ever get it back.”
“So she didn’t want to be a queen.”
“She didn’t want to give up her life, her home, her friends,” Alexi said, his expression showing he’d resigned himself to his parents’ situation long ago. “My father taught history. She was much happier being married to a professor than a king.”
“I suppose I can understand her point. I mean, there’s got to be a lot of hassles when you’re a monarch. Lack of privacy, lots of expectations.”
“And don’t forget all those public appearances,” he said with a grin.
Kerry gave him what she hoped was a chastising frown.
“To give her credit, she tried to fit in for a short while, but the country was still chaotic when we returned to Belegovia. The parliament and some of the courts were in operation, but the palace had yet to be restored and the role of the king was still tenuous.”
“Texas talk, remember?” she prodded.
“Oh, of course.” He frowned for a moment, then brightened. “The place was a damned mess,” he finally said with a grin and a drawl.
Kerry laughed. “By George, I think he’s got it,” she said in her best Henry Higgins imitation.
She sipped her soft drink as they drew closer to Houston. She hoped they missed most of the rush hour traffic, which could be brutal, from what she’d heard from her aunt and uncle. They avoided “the city,” which meant anywhere in or near Houston, whenever possible, preferring the slower pace of life on the island.
“Tell me about yourself, Kerry Lynn Jacks,” Alexi said, breaking into her thoughts as she passed a semi.
“I have a mother and two sisters. No father, at least not for years. He left when I was thirteen.”
“That must have been difficult for your mother.”
“Yes, it was. She’s a waitress at the Four Square Café in Ranger Springs, which doesn’t pay really great. I’ve been helping out as much as I could, mainly because tips at the truck stop are a lot better than at the local diner.”
“I see. What about your sisters? How old are they?”
“Carole is just a year and a half younger than me—nearly twenty-seven. Cheryl is twenty-six. Both of them live in Ranger Springs.”
“Do they resemble you?”
“Your Texas accent is slipping,” she said, mostly to collect her thoughts. “And yes, sort of.”
“Then they must be very beautiful.”
“Oh, puleeze,” she said, already feeling her cheeks heating. “You don’t have to say things like that just because I’m giving you a ride across the state.”
“That’s not why I said it.”
“Look, I’m slightly cute, okay? But beautiful people are tall and thin and dress in incredibly fantastic clothes. They live in New York and California and exotic places, not Ranger Springs, Texas.”
“You’ve been reading too many fashion and celebrity magazines.”
“No, I’ve just learned to be a realist. I’m not unhappy with who I am. I’m content to be short and cute.” She took a big breath, then smiled at him. “Besides, I’m also smart and stubborn. That makes up for a lot of slinky clothes and exotic locales.”
“So what is a smart, cute woman like yourself doing after graduation on Saturday?”
She brightened at his question. “I have a great job at Grayson Industries as a financial analyst. Gray Phillips moved his company to town two years ago and married our doctor, Amy Wheatley. Business is booming, so he’s expanding his financial staff. I’ll be looking at things like cash flow, financing and inventory management.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“Are you just saying that?”
“No. Why do you think I went to Harvard? They don’t offer degrees in ‘princely deportment,”’ he teased. “I got my MBA to help manage my own investments and help my father. Besides, there was a good chance I’d need to get a job, since the title ‘prince’ doesn’t translate into a living in the real world. There was no guarantee that Belegovia could successfully return to a parliamentary-style government with a titular monarchy.”
“Really? I guess I hadn’t thought about it.” She’d assumed that he’d always been assured of his position in the world. But now that she knew more of his background, she understood that being a prince wasn’t something he’d grown up with, not like the British royal family. From the day they were born, they knew what their role was going to be. Alexi had grown up as the son of a history professor who happened to have royal blood.
And now that he’d turned thirty, his father demanded he get married. A princess bride. If she’d read about it in one of her mother’s royalty magazines, Kerry knew she’d think the situation romantic. After all, hadn’t she watched the last big royal wedding with tears in her eyes over the fairy-tale quality—the ivory satin gown with the long, long train, the tiara, the beautiful flowers?
Now that she knew the situation from Alexi’s point of view, she understood the pressure he felt. This trip was obviously a rebellion against his father’s mandate. She’d taken only one course in psychology, but she understood such motivation.
“If you get tired of driving, please let me know. I’ll be glad to take over,” he said, breaking into her thoughts.
“We’re almost to Houston. The traffic is pretty bad and it’s almost rush hour. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”
“Actually…sorry.” He slipped into his version of a Texas accent. “I meant, I was a darned good driver when I lived in Boston.”
“Do you even have a driver’s license?”
“Of course,” he said with mock indignation. “Duly issued by the Belegovian Department of Transportation. I even took the written test. And I drove a Formula One racer in a charity event in Monte Carlo last year.”
Kerry laughed as she shook her head. “Just hang on, Mario Andretti. I’m taking you into the final lap. We’ll be in Galveston in less than two hours.”
ALEXI ENJOYED viewing the sprawling metropolitan area of Houston. He could barely see the downtown area from the eastbound interstate highway, just south of Houston. Various groupings of high-rise buildings gave the impression of several different “downtown” districts as Kerry deftly dodged traffic.
She would have been a big hit in the charity race in Monaco, he thought with a smile. He could just see her layered blond hair peeking out from a helmet, her petite, curvy body encased in the one-piece, form-fitting,