A Princess Under The Mistletoe. Leanne Banks
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Ericka said. “But as you know, we have several conditions for your visit here. These are for both your safety and the safety of our citizens. I’m sure you’ve been told you’ll need to assume different identities. You’re not to reveal your true identity to anyone. Sasha, I know you’re a talented concert pianist, but while you are here, we ask that you not play in public.”
Sasha nodded, fighting a stab of sadness. Music had always provided her with peace. Even though she’d known that giving up her concert career would be part of the bargain, she couldn’t help the emptiness she felt.
“You can, however, play in private. We’ll try to make sure you have access to a piano during your stay.”
“Thank you,” Sasha said. “It would be difficult for me if I couldn’t play at all.”
“Tabitha, we’re working on finding a position for you within the next few days. In the meantime, the two of you can stay here. However, and this is hard for me to say, you must not appear in public together.”
Tabitha’s face fell. “Never?”
“This is not forever,” Ericka reminded her. “This is just during your stay while your country resolves its current turmoil. It’s for your safety. Think about it. If the two of you are seen together, it’s more likely that someone will figure out your true identities.”
Her heart wrenching at the realization of what would be required of both her sister and herself, Sasha slipped her hand through her sister’s. “We will do what we must, but what do we do about our brother, Alex?”
Ericka looked at Paul Hamburg expectantly.
“We’ll make inquiries, but we must tread carefully with the princesses staying in Chantaine. We don’t want to arouse suspicion,” he said.
“But we have contacts who have contacts,” Ericka said.
Paul sighed. “Yes, we do.”
“Then, although I know that you don’t take orders from me, I hope you will give this your best discreet effort.”
“I will,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said before turning back to the sisters. “Now let me tell you about Chantaine.”
Despite the grim situation, Princess Ericka regaled Sasha and Tabitha with tales of Chantaine’s beauty, temperate climate, numerous beaches and kind citizens. Sasha began to relax a tiny bit, or perhaps she’d been tense for so long that her body couldn’t maintain the adrenaline rush any longer.
“This is a delicate subject, but as I said, you will need to use other identities. Have you thought about what names you’d like to use during your stay here?”
Tabitha tossed her long, dark hair. “I was thinking Gypsy Rose,” she said.
Sasha rolled her eyes. “We’ve already discussed this. We need names that won’t draw attention.”
Tabitha lifted a dark eyebrow and shot her a look of challenge. “All right, Miss Sensible. What have you chosen?”
“Sara,” Sasha said. “Sara Smith. I chose a first name with the same letter as my real name, and one that sounds similar, so I’ll have a better chance of answering to it. Can you top that for ordinary?”
Tabitha sets her lips in a pout that had been known to make a hundred men race to do her bidding. Sasha could tell that she’d hit on Tabitha’s competitive streak by the glint in her sister’s eye.
“I don’t suppose I could get away with Jane Doe,” Tabitha said. “Isn’t that what an American would choose?”
Princess Ericka chuckled. “I think not. Let’s go with Martin for your last name. It’s a common name in Chantaine and Europe.”
Tabitha sighed. “Then I suppose I’ll have to go with Jane Martin if I’m going to beat Sasha at her game.” She cleared her throat. “Oh, I’m sorry. I meant to say Sara.”
One year later...
From the porch, Sara heard the sound of screaming. If she hadn’t known better, she might have assumed the sound wasn’t human. The sound of scrambling footsteps followed and the door opened.
A tall, rumpled-looking man stared at her as he held a screaming red-faced baby, and a young boy seemed to be attached to his leg.
“Are you Sara?” he asked, out of breath. “Sara Smith. The palace sent you?”
“Yes,” she said.
He looked her up and down. “Thank you for coming,” he said over the cries of the baby in his arms. “No offense, but you look terribly young. Are you old enough to be a nanny?”
Sara had scrubbed her face clean of cosmetics with the exception of lip gloss. All part of her temporary new role. She certainly didn’t need to wear the heavy stage makeup required of a concert pianist. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said. “I’m twenty-seven.”
“Oh,” he said, surprise crossing his features. “I never would have guessed.” The baby let out another howl. “We’re having a rough day, so if you want to give them juice and cookies to calm them down, that’s fine.”
He dragged his foot, with the attached child down the hallway. “This is Sam,” he said, nodding toward the boy.
“Hello, Sam,” Sara said tentatively. Although she’d known the family she was going to be working with was still reeling from a loss, this wasn’t exactly what she’d envisioned.
“And I’m holding Adelaide,” the man said. “As you can see, she’s a handful.”
“Yes,” Sara said. “Mr. Sinclair?”
“Oh,” he said, shaking his head. “Call me Gavin. You may be calling me some other names as the day wears on,” he said with a crooked smile on his face.
She met his gaze for a long moment and saw a combination of weariness and determined humor in his chocolate-brown eyes. He wasn’t conventionally handsome. Sara had met much more smoothly handsome men in her life. His rough strong features might have put her off, but his dark eyebrows and hard jaw were offset by that crooked smile and eyes that crinkled with humor even as his daughter shrieked directly into his ear.
He looked at Adelaide and stroked her cheek. “Sweetheart, you’re going to be fine.” He glanced at Sara. “She’s been cranky lately. I don’t know what’s bothering her. Drooling up a storm, nose running, but no fever. Maybe a midmorning nap will help. Let me show you where everything is,” he said. He held out his hand to Sam. “Help me out, bud. Let’s show the pretty lady around.”
Sam reluctantly detached himself from Gavin’s leg and held Gavin’s hand with both of his while Gavin explained the layout of the house, which, in addition to the master bedroom, contained a small nursery in the back, a laundry room and two additional small bedrooms, one filled with the little boy’s books and toys. The other was positioned between the nursery and what she assumed was Sam’s room.“This is your bedroom. I hope you don’t mind sharing a bathroom with Sam,” Gavin said.
“Not at all,” she said, appreciating the way the morning sun shone through the window. The room was small and decorated with neutral quality linens, and it felt cozy. The whole house felt safe. A trickle of relief slid through her. This could work, she thought.
Gavin continued down the hall and waved his hand toward another bedroom containing a desk and computer along with exercise equipment. “Here’s the master. As you can tell, I’ve been trying to work some at home, but I haven’t been all that successful.” Adelaide had quieted and was letting out little moans.
Gavin turned again toward her. “You’ve seen the small formal parlor. We’re using the den as a