The Prince and I (True Royalty), page 1
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The Prince and I
Copyright © 2015 by Miranda King
Book Layout: JT Formatting
Cover Art: Angela Waters
Trademark and Logo Designs: Modern Web Studios
Rich and Royal Romance® is a Registered Trademark. All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-9910873-1-0
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015957165
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please use the contact listed on mirandaking.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
All trademarks and registered trademarks are owned by their respective companies and denoted by proper capitalization of that company and/or brand. The author claims no connection nor ownership and no infringement is intended.
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
True Royalty Series
More to Come:
(In no particular order)
The Diamond Family of Maravista
Almost My Prince—Sass’ story
My Forbidden Prince—Sass’ Engagement
Second Chance Princess—Michael’s story
No Ordinary Princess—Divina’s story
The Thorton Family of Summerland
The Prince and I—Adam and Emma’s story
The King and I—Adam and Emma’s Engagement
Runaway Princess—Poppy’s story
Almost My Prince available now:
http://amzn.com/B00R4HE6P2
For more information about Miranda King or her books, please visit:
www.mirandakingbooks.com
Title Page
Dedication
Special Thanks
Author's Note
Chapter One - Danced All Night
Chapter Two - She Is Mine
Chapter Three - All Dolled Up
Chapter Four - Thunderbolt
Chapter Five - Lightning Doesn’t Strike Twice
Chapter Six - Something to Propose
Chapter Seven - Twin Thoughts
Chapter Eight - The Cost of Happiness
Chapter Nine - Blood Is Thicker Than Paper
Chapter Ten - Just a Fling
Chapter Eleven - Playing with Dolls
Chapter Twelve - Going Back to School
Chapter Thirteen - Adult Activities
Chapter Fourteen - The Writing on the Wall
Chapter Fifteen - Fingerprints Don’t Lie
Chapter Sixteen - Cuts Both Ways
Chapter Seventeen - Stay with Me
Just For Fun
Acknowledgments
I love fashion design—the creativity, the details, the tailoring—and Integrity Toys’ family of dolls allows me to experience that on a miniature scale.
Integrity Toys, Inc. produces high-end, ultra-limited edition, 12-inch vinyl fashion dolls. The clothing and accessories of these dolls are exquisite miniature couture.
These aren’t just dolls—they are master works of art, unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It’s no surprise that my characters love Integrity as much as I do.
When I refer in the book to Integrity Toys, Inc., I simply use Integrity. Most of us collectors refer conversationally to Integrity Toys as either Integrity, IT, Fashion Royalty, or FR. I chose to use only Integrity for consistency.
He is here.
I don’t need to see him to know. I can feel him.
It’s always that way with him. Since I was nineteen. There is an invisible tether between us, pulling me to him.
My eyes scan the glitzy ballroom searching for him. Jewel-toned evening gowns. Sleek black tuxes. Diamond-studded tiaras.
Where is he?
I lift up a sparkling champagne flute, chilled to the perfect temperature, from one of the dozens of servers tasked with offering both sweet and savory delicacies to the guests.
The palace’s grand ballroom radiates the precise temperature for women to wear sleeveless couture gowns, and the men to don their tailored jackets—all despite the fact that outside these palace doors, the rest of Europe has to deal with dreary weather.
Royalty certainly does live, well, exactly how you think they do—in picture-perfect palaces. I’d socialized with enough of the rich and glamorous to know money isn’t everything.
Nope.
A royal title trumps all.
And I’m no princess.
I never could figure out why someone like him would ever be interested in me.
Hell, what does it matter now? That was over two years ago. I have to move forward—as far away as possible from heartache.
I meander through the crowd, nod and smile.
Tonight I have to mingle with the rich and titled—and convince them to drag out their checkbooks. All for the kids.
Three of my dresses are up for auction, spotlighted on the center stage and displayed on mannequins. Maybe together they will haul enough for a deposit on a new family center—crossing my fingers—from these deep pockets in the room.
“I’m asking my brother to bid on that sparkly one,” a perky voice and a light shoulder tap catch my attention.
“My Poppy!” I say to my dear, sweet friend, the Princess of Summerland. She has those long-lashed eyes, a softly rounded face and curvy lips like one of Integrity Toys’ Poppy Parker dolls. Though I’m sure her parents weren’t thinking that when they named her.
We kiss each other’s cheeks in that typical European way. Another reminder that I’m not back in the States, but instead in this beautiful yet tiny country flanked to the side by France and above by the English Channel.
Poppy makes a play to snatch a sip of my champagne, but in one fluid motion, I glide the flute of alcohol onto the tray of a passing footman.
“Not a chance.” I wink at the almost seventeen-year-old.
She crosses her arms and showcases her petulant lips. She tilts her head. “You know, I always thought my first taste of champagne would be at your wedding to my brother.”
My heart squeezes and blood rushes through my veins as fast as champagne bubbling from a bottle. How can I respond to what she says?
The truth is… What?
Simple.
He deserves someone better than I.
The thing is though, I can’t help but wonder, what if?
What if my sister hadn’t told me her secret?
What if my mom hadn’t had to suffer because of me?
Would I have said yes to his fairytale offer of happily ever after?
I don’t bother to answer, even to myself.
The truth knows how to bitch-slap me.
Hard.
Hard enough to spit some truth from my mouth. “I would’ve loved to have been your big sister.”
Poppy opens her mouth to say something, but I drape my arm around her shoulder. I’m at least half-a-foot taller.
Her bright sky-blue eyes cloud when she looks up at me with—what? Disappointment? Sadness?
Maybe it’s just a reflection of what I feel.
A lump lodges in my throat like a dam trying to hold back a flood of regrets. I might crack if I don’t divert this conversation.
I point up to the stage directly in front of us. “So which dress do you have your eye on?” I beam a smile that I always saved in reserve just for her. She doesn’t deserve the burden of my guilt.
She hesitates, letting out a sigh as she looks at me, and then focuses on the stage. “That one.” She points to the silver-and-white sequined ball gown, a life-size version of Integrity’s Danced All Night from the IFDC—International Fashion Doll Convention—originally made for a 12-inch doll.
That’s one of my specialties, transforming small-scale couture into a full-sized, custom-made creation for a client.
“Your brother would never let you wear that,” I tease. “That bodice is little more than a tube top.” I direct an exaggerated shake of my finger towards her, imitating how I’d often seen her brother do when he lectured her. “And that slit—N.O.” I can’t mimic that deep baritone voice of his, but my attempt gives us both a laugh.
“And that pink one,” I say, referring to the Wouldn’t It Be Loverly gown from the same collection loosely based on dresses from My Fair Lady. “No. Unless you wore a sweater to cover the back—and the front.”
Poppy laughs. “He would say something like that.”
“Now as for that lace one.” I tuck a hand under my chin and assess the Without You black and white trimmed dress, another one with the mile-high slit up the thigh. “No, no,
“Oh, how that sounds just like him!” Poppy giggles.
“Saying ‘no’ sounds more like you, Emma,” the full-bodied baritone voice of the man I’d been mocking comes from behind us.
Yeah, I catch his dig at me about my rejection to his proposal. I catch the pot-calling-the-kettle-black challenge in his voice. I catch my breath when I whirl around to face him—so close, I barely have to lift my arm to touch him, if I want.
And, oh, how I want.
My eyes browse his face, every hard plane and contour that assemble to produce what tabloids proclaim as “The Sexiest Man Alive.”
A title that rivals usage among the press against the one he was born with, Crown Prince Adam Thorton of Summerland.
My gaze lingers on his eyes. Rich and pure. Fiercely keen, yet indiscriminate. Simply beautiful beyond compare, but frustratingly shadowed.
His eyes lock with mine. Something flashes within them. Like lightning, sending electric sensations all throughout my body.
Every cell I own responds to that unmistakable air of noble authority radiating from his broad shoulders and the evident muscled ridges constrained by the fabric of his tux.
My fingers tingle from the memories of touching every hard line defining his chest. But that’s all in the past now. I clinch my fingers into a fist to quell the ache to touch him.
“You’re lucky,” I tell him, “that I didn’t say no tonight.” He’d only given me a few weeks to pull everything together, claiming that another organization had stepped out at the last minute and that our You’re Not Alone Foundation could fill in for the charity auction.
“You wouldn’t have said no.” His voice holds confidence. Too much.
“How interesting,” I drawl out. “So I guess saying no doesn’t sound like me after all.” I quirk up a corner of my mouth.
He only responds with a smile brighter than all the lights blazing at once at night on the Eiffel Tower.
It’s enough to transport me to a different place, a different time, when he’d whisked me off to that weekend in Paris.
Before everything had changed, before I knew he should be with someone else, before I now had to stand here and pretend our past, for me, was nothing more than a mere fling.
Notes from string instruments strum and float over to us from across the room. A myriad of chandeliers disperse sparkling lights onto the ceiling and the polished flooring, making me feel as if we stand among the stars.
“Sounds like the music is about to start,” his sister Poppy breaks into the conversation. I almost forgot she is there.
“Looks like I won’t be able to dance that first dance with you, Adam,” his sister says. “I, um… well,”—she swishes the layered skirts of her gown slightly with one of her shoes—“I may have twisted my ankle coming down the stairs.”
She waves him off when he reaches to help her. “No, don’t. I’m fine. I’m just going to be a wallflower tonight.” She takes my hand. “But you can dance with Emma instead.”
Oh, Poppy. Forever trying to get us back together. Hasn’t she figured out that my sister Marianne is so much better for him?
I scan the crowd for her. Wherever Adam is, Marianne is sure to follow. “No, my sister should be around here somewhere. She can—”
“There’s that word again. No,” he says. “Can’t two old friends dance?” He steps forward, his hand extended.
All I have to do is reach out to him. But it isn’t as simple as that. I shouldn’t be in his arms, even for one dance, when it should be my sister.
“Yes, but Marianne is a much better dancer.” I don’t see her anywhere.
“Come.” He links his fingers around mine and electricity hums through my veins.
Poppy smiles like she’s seen all the lights of Christmas light up at once. Doesn’t she know Christmas had long since passed?
Adam gestures to the orchestra, and guests gather along the sides of the dance floor in the time-honored deference to royal pageantry displayed during the first dance.
By taking my hand as he does, he thrusts me into the gossips’ limelight. Speculation about me will get eaten up by this conspicuous consumption crowd faster than the free Beluga caviar.
The Crown Prince has his twenty-fifth birthday coming up, and everyone in Summerland knows what that means—the traditional royal engagement announcement. Only problem is no one knows for sure who will be the lucky future crown princess.
I only know it couldn’t be me.
However, the odds in the gambling houses favored my sister.
My twin sister.
If I wasn’t wearing this white silk gown of my own creation, and instead wore her hi-low length, black-sequined ruffled dress, no one could tell us apart.
Might I note, hers isn’t designed by me—I never combined sequins and that many ruffles. Fashion disaster. The sequins tended to flatten the ruffles. But not on Marianne’s dress. It’s as if that dress understood that to be worn by Marianne, it has to deliver a flawless impact.
As much as she and I look alike, we are opposites in almost every other imaginable way.
She’s the Oxford grad. I’m the high school dropout.
She’s fine china. I’m a broken knock-off.
She’s all I can never be, and she deserves her prince. She deserves to be happy, and she is not going to be happy that she’s missed out on this opportunity to step onto this dance floor with Adam into the spotlight.
“Wait.” I slip my fingers from his. Marianne has to be around here somewhere.
I stall for time and focus on Poppy. “Before I forget, I picked up some extras from the convention.” She’ll make sure the doll extras end up with those who will appreciate them. “They’re in the back room with my setup gear, and you’ll find one box is Especially for You, Poppy.”
She furrows her brow, and when it seems to dawn on her that I refer to a doll, she asks, “Really?”
I nod.
She clasp her hands together, and her eyes light up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve.
“How did you get her?” she asks.
That had been the hard part.
Only five hundred were made of that particular Poppy Parker doll, and she had been searching a couple years for this doll—one that reminded her in coloring and looks of her mom when she’d been younger.
I’d had to trade my Hard Metal Lilith doll for her, an even rarer limited-edition size—only three hundred ever made in the world.
To see Poppy now, her eyes aglow with the excitement of finally acquiring her after two years of frustration, the sacrifice is worth it.
“I—I,” I debate what to say. Poppy would never take the doll if she knew what I’d given up for it.
I suck in a deep breath and then blurt out, “I can’t remember exactly because there was so much going on at the convention.”
“Wish I could go to the convention and see what it’s all about myself.” She gives her brother a pointed look.
“Now’s not the time to talk about that, Poppy,” he says.
She rolls her eyes at him, but he is right.
The orchestra plays the first few notes of a song on repeat, waiting for the prince and me to take our places on the dance floor.
She seizes me into a soul-binding hug. “Oh, thank you, thank you for her. I’ll never forget it.” Then she skids away, like she never had that sore ankle, towards the back rooms through a side door.
There is no side door for me to escape from Adam.
He eases closer to me and reaches to place my small hand into this larger one. He is as warm as the sunbaked sand of the French Riviera.
His thumb strokes over my skin, my fingers pliant.
I focus on our entangled hands—each caress sending a riptide of tingles up my arm.
I want to touch him, caress him, match him stroke for stroke—to let him know I’m not unaffected.
But what’s the point? Nearly two years have taught me that he can’t be mine.
We reach the center of the dancefloor. He signals to the orchestra. They cut short the notes of whatever song they are about to play.
The resulting silence speeds up my heartbeat.
No, it’s from the nearness of him—less than an arm’s length away. I breathe in his familiar scent of musk and spice. The heat, the strength of him overwhelms me.
