The Making of a Princess. Teresa Carpenter
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cup of coffee?”
“Oh I cou—” Again the denial came without thought, but she stopped. Why couldn’t she? She wouldn’t find her prince charming by being timid. “Yes, I meant what she said.”
He smiled, not with his mouth but with those incredible eyes. “This would be my wish, however, duty requires I remain here.”
“Of course.” Heat rushed to Amanda’s cheeks as his rejection registered. “You’re working.”
“May I have a rain coat? Perhaps tomorrow morning?”
“Rain check,” she gently corrected him. “I’d be delighted to meet you in the morning. There’s a decent coffee house two blocks from here.”
He inclined his head and they agreed on a time.
“Ladies, may I take your picture with Vivienne’s portrait? A memento of our meeting.”
“Of course.” Michelle gave Amanda no chance to answer. Hooking her arm through Amanda’s, she smiled as Xavier held up his phone and took the shot. After which he bowed and excused himself to return to work.
“You have a date with a foreign hottie,” Michelle chortled as soon as he stepped out of ear shot. “I’m so proud of you.”
“It’s only coffee.” Amanda down played the date, because she didn’t want to get too excited, even though her heartbeat drummed wildly and her palms were sweaty.
“It’s a date with a sexy, sophisticated man. And you don’t fool me. Inside you’re dancing on tiptoes.”
Amanda shook her head. But this was Michelle, so she finally came clean. “I totally am. Which is probably a huge mistake.” She gestured to the displays around them. “The exhibit is only here for six weeks.”
“Exactly. No time to get emotionally attached, but plenty of time to have fun. And if you’re lucky, you might get to celebrate your freedom with a foreign hottie in your new apartment.”
“That’s your inner strumpet talking.”
Michelle laughed. “You’re right.” Her gaze went to the painting of Vivienne. She looked from the picture to Amanda and back again. “Are you sure you’re not related to anyone in Pasadonia?”
“Not on my mother’s side. They’re Norwegian.”
“What about your father? You don’t know what your dad was. He could be Pasadonian.”
“Michelle, we’re not talking just anyone in Pasadonia.” Amanda pointed at the painting. “She’s the Prince’s great grandmother. We’re talking the royal family.”
“I know. Cool, huh?”
It was her turn to laugh. “Yeah right. I’m the long lost daughter to the Prince of Pasadonia.”
She had to scoff because they’d just tapped into one of her biggest childhood fantasies. She’d loved playing princess and often pretended to be rescued from her lonely existence by a prince who took her away to his beautiful castle.
Her mother had died from complications in childbirth, so Amanda was raised by her grandparents, who were in their late forties when she was born. They always maintained they didn’t know who her father was, that her mother never revealed his identity.
“Hey, your mom may have met him when he was on a trip to America. Or she could have had a European trip after college.”
“If she did, I’ve never heard of it.” Amanda sighed. “They rarely talk about her. Grandmother gets so withdrawn when I ask questions. I stopped asking long ago.”
Michelle muttered an unflattering word about grandmother and then wrapped Amanda in a hug. “Sorry, but I’ve never liked her since she refused to let you come back to Princess Camp. Plus, I know what it’s like to be in a stifling home situation. You do know Elle and I love you.”
“Yes, I do know.” Amanda squeezed her friend before stepping back. She’d been taught from birth to avoid public displays of affection. “I love you guys, too. But enough of this silliness. I have a date with a foreign hottie.”
“Yes, you do.” Michelle went with the change of subject. “What are you going to wear?”
“Oh no, you’re not going to do that to me. I’m not going to go mental over what I wear tomorrow. That’s your thing, not mine.”
“I don’t know how you can be so calm about such a big decision. Impressions matter.”
“I’ll be fine. I don’t own anything that won’t make a good impression.”
“Yeah. Now that you’re out on your own, we have to do something about that.”
“Sir?” Officer Bonnet appeared at Xavier’s side in answer to his summons.
“See the redhead leaving with the blond?” he indicated Amanda and her companion. “I want you to follow her. Discreetly. I want to know where she goes, what she does, and where she lives.”
“Yes, sir.” Bonnet turned to leave.
“Bonnet.” Xavier stopped the man. “Don’t let her see you.”
“Sir.” Bonnet nodded and moved after the women.
Xavier watched Amanda, she moved gracefully, her posture straight, elegant. It wasn’t hard to see her as a royal. She suddenly looked back and saw him. She gave a little wave.
Xavier inclined his head in acknowledgement. A moment later she was gone, Bonnet on her heels.
Xavier reached for his phone, dialed a long distance number. When a voice answered, he said, “It’s LeDuc. I need to speak to the Prince.”
CHAPTER TWO
AMANDA SAT OUTSIDE in the cool morning air. Spring bloomed around her, vibrant colors spilling from trellis boxes and potted planters up and down the street. She enjoyed this spot high on the hill with its view of the ocean. She enjoyed sitting in the fresh air.
And still she fiddled with the ruffled cuff of her sweater dress. Darn Michelle for making her self-conscious of her wardrobe choice. The soft gray mini dress with three rows of ruffles at the hem, paired with black high heeled boots and a flowing purple muffler was the perfect look for an idle Sunday morning.
So maybe it wasn’t her clothes choice making her nervous at all. Maybe it was the fact her hot date was late.
Not that Michelle was off the hook. Amanda went through five outfits before deciding on the gray dress. Nothing had felt right. And that wasn’t like her, neither the indecisiveness nor the fussiness. She had a long, lean frame that clothes loved, and a sense of style drilled into her by a grandmother obsessed with decorum and good taste.
“Amanda.” The deep voice made her name a caress. She looked up and there stood Xavier silhouetted against the morning sun, his shoulders broad beams in an expensive suit.
“Xavier,” she breathed. Oh get a grip, girl. No man respects a pushover.
“Good morning.” He reached for her hand, bent over it before taking his seat.
It was Old World gestures like that that got to her. He got to her—his somberness offset by an edgy dangerousness. She had no doubt he was very good at his job.
But she prided herself on being mature, so it was time to act like it.
“Please forgive my tardiness. A last-minute call from home.”
“I understand. It must be hard to be away for months at a time.”
“Yes.” He waved over a waitress, ordered coffee and a Danish. “However, I am a soldier. And it is a prestigious assignment. I am honored to serve my country.”
“A soldier?” she asked. “I thought you were a security