The butler cleared his throat. “Ms. Foster, I am Reginald Parks, the prince’s butler and house manager. I’d like to introduce you to Mrs. Downing, our housekeeper.”
A cheery, plump woman nodded at Belle. “You’ll fit in just fine, deary.”
Next he introduced Courtney Wilson, the chef. She was thirty-something with short, dark hair, and an eyebrow ring. She grinned. “Company. This is a first. I can’t wait to cook for someone besides the prince.”
Reginald hissed at her. “Watch your place, Courtney.”
Her smile fell and she bowed her head.
“No visitors ever?” Belle asked
“Never,” Courtney said quietly, looking up. “Not in the six years I’ve been here.”
“Not even a girlfriend?”
“What girlfriend?” Courtney asked with a snort.
Mrs. Downing drew in a breath. “Hush, child. He might hear you.”
“The prince does not have company in any shape or form. And there will be no more discussion about that.” Reginald frowned, but continued. “Next, is the prince’s assistant, Nicholas Ridgeway.”
A tall, thin man in wire-rimmed glasses looked up from his phone. “If you need to ask anything of the prince, you come to me. You will not have any contact with him.”
That was a surprise. “What if I have a question about the project? Or if I need to ask his opinion?”
Nicholas raised an eyebrow. “Then you’ll be asking me.”
Belle pursed her lips and nodded. Her father hadn’t been exaggerating.
“Nicholas will drive you to visit your father three times a week, unless of course there is an emergency. Please give him a schedule of your planned visits. And finally,” Reginald continued, “This is Rory Kirkpatrick, the prince’s dog keeper.”
A wiry young man smiled and waved. “He’s got three Irish wolfhounds. I’ll do my best to keep them out of your way.” As if on cue, they came tearing down the hall, practically knocking Belle down.
“Off you beasts, off!” Rory said in a thick, Irish brogue. The dogs looked disappointed, and slunk off to the corner, where they collapsed on velvet doggie beds.
Belle let out the breath she’d been holding. “Very nice to meet you all.”
“Let me show you to your room, dear, so you can get settled in,” said Mrs. Downing. “Reginald, carry the poor girl’s bags.” Reginald looked put out, but he did as he was told. He might think he was in charge of the household, but Belle was starting to see the pecking order already; and Reginald wasn’t at the top.
Belle followed them past the grand staircase that led to the second floor of the penthouse. “The prince’s living quarters,” Mrs. Downing explained to Belle. They passed the kitchen, a solarium, and the library where Belle would be working.
“It’s an enormous apartment,” Belle said.
“Yes. His penthouse takes up half the top two floors,” Mrs. Downing said with pride.
Then they passed a closed room that gave off a dark, sad feeling. “What’s that?” she asked.
Mrs. Downing sighed. “It was the ballroom. The prince used to throw magnificent parties there. It fits two-hundred people, you know.” She shrugged. “Now it’s just used for storage.”
Reginald scowled at Mrs. Downing. “This way, Ms. Foster.” He led her down another hall and opened a door at the end.
“Servants’ wing,” Mrs. Downing said. “I’m one room over from you.”
“She snores,” Reginald said.
“I beg your pardon,” Mrs. Downing said through clenched teeth. “You should be so lucky as to know anything about my sleeping habits.” Her cheeks were flushed and she busied herself picking at something on the skirt of her tight uniform.
“You have your own private bathroom,” Reginald said, ignoring Mrs. Downing. “We take breakfast at seven, lunch at noon, and dinner is served promptly at six-thirty.”
“Will the prince be having dinner with us?”
“No,” Mrs. Downing said with a sigh. “He takes his meals in his room.”
“Why is he such a loner?” Belle asked.
Mrs. Downing and Reginald looked at each other but said nothing.
Realizing she wouldn’t be getting an answer to that question, Belle shrugged.
Reginald cleared his throat. “I’ll send Nicholas for you in half an hour to show you the library where you’ll be working.”
“Good. Once I get a look at where my father left off, I can tell you how long the job’ll take to finish.”
They left her in her room, and she unpacked her clothes and toiletries, marveling at the splendor of even the servant’s quarters. She still lived at home with her father outside the city, while she established her custom furniture business. Their small, two-bedroom ranch could’ve fit inside the living room and front hall of the prince’s apartment. Too bad she’d never meet the man during her stay. Would’ve been nice to say she’d known a prince.
***
Prince Maxim crouched in the shadows at the top of the stairs, hoping to hear the woman’s voice again. He’d caught just a glimpse of her slim figure, and her long, chestnut hair as she passed. But her sweet, melodic voice had intrigued him. How he’d enjoyed hearing her say his name, watching her lips and tongue move over each word in his title: Prince Maxim Phillip Alexander Whitney Duquesne the third.
He could certainly go downstairs and introduce himself and then take her hands in his. Would the fingers of a woman carpenter be rough or soft? He could find out with the shake of a hand, with a kiss to her palm. Women had fainted before just from that gesture of his. It was so much more unexpected than a kiss to the back of the hand. It had become his trademark move for the women who’d most intrigued him.
Back in his country, the press had dubbed him Prince Swoon. Women waited outside the castle for a glimpse of him. Truthfully, he hadn’t been kind to many of them. They were pretty playthings, and the line of willing women stretched miles long. For Maxim hadn’t just been a prince, but a handsome prince. The thing of fairy tales, the press liked to remind its readers.
How things change
, he thought, sitting there in the shadows. Now, he couldn’t even tolerate to glance at himself in the mirror. He’d taken care of that problem by painting them all black. Even Nicholas couldn’t look him in the face. Maxim was a freak now, and he’d never be able to return home. Even cloistered here in his apartment, he was powerless to approach just one woman downstairs, let alone face millions of his loyal subjects again. They knew he was a disfigured recluse living in America. He wouldn’t subject himself to their horrified looks and pity. Belle was sure to have the same reaction when she saw his scars. He swore to himself. In the end, his ex-girlfriend had taken away so much more than his looks; she’d cursed him to be alone for the rest of his life. Vivian had told him he didn’t know how to love. She’d been right. But now, he’d never have the chance to learn.
He stalked back to his chambers and kicked his desk chair out of the way. It toppled over onto the floor. The balcony doors beckoned, covered in heavy, damask drapes. Occasionally, on moonlit nights, he’d stand out there and look over the city, enjoying the cool breeze on his skin. He never dared go out in the daytime; night was the only safe time for him. But usually the memory of Vivian and what happened on that horrible night out there on the balcony chased him back inside.
With one finger, he parted the curtains ever so slightly, the sunlight stinging his eyes. He closed the tiny gap and crossed the room, sitting on his bed. He hadn’t felt torment like this in a long time.
Belle.
Then again, there hadn’t been a woman in his apartment save for the servants since the disaster with Vivian.
No, he wouldn’t be meeting this woman. Only dreaming of her. He lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. His dark room soothed him. It was here he conducted his business, handling his investments and the occasional correspondence required as a member of the royal family. From here, he still could make his mark on the world—without ever having to be part of it. His title was only ceremonial; there was no one back home he was letting down in his absence. Except of course his parents, who had begged him not to go to America when he’d met the beautiful woman who’d upended his life.
He ran his fingers across the rough edges of the skin on his cheek, over his nose and down to his mouth. The pain she’d caused was etched in his brain and on his face. His mother had warned him that Vivian was ‘not the right kind of girl’ for him. But what warm-blooded male would’ve thought ‘run’ after finding a swimsuit model clad only in a fur coating waiting for him in his backyard?
If only he had run. He certainly wouldn’t have moved to America with her. And he wouldn’t be the shell of a man he was now, living in the dark, dreaming of what had been. He could never go back to his country now. Never. He’d live out his days waiting for moments of surprise.
Like the one downstairs right now
.
He needed to know more about Belle. He logged onto the Internet and searched for what information he could find about the daughter of Leo Foster. He wanted a picture to put to her voice; fact to fill in the fantasy he’d weave. But nothing turned up. He called Nicholas. “Get me all the information you have on the girl.”
“I already have.”
The prince paused, trying to keep anger from creeping into his voice. “Then bring it to me.”
“I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”
“And I want to see her appropriately dressed for dinner.”
“You’ll be joining us?” Nicholas asked, surprised.
“Of course not. But I do want to see her.”
Nicholas nodded and left the room.
***
Nicholas led Belle to the library, where she’d be working. The sight of her father’s tools made her gasp. “Oh, Dad,” she whispered.
Nicholas heard her. “Your father did good work. We hope you can continue with the project in the same quality fashion.”
“Of course I can. He taught me everything I know.” She ran her fingers across the ornate bookshelves he’d been building. “I’m a furniture designer, but I can totally continue the finishing work my father started.” She grinned at him. “Detail work is my specialty.”
“Good. Then I’ll let you get to it. I’ll send someone for you when lunch is ready.”
“Can you just bring it to me? I don’t want to stop working.” She wanted to finish this job as quickly as she could. She’d only been here for an hour, but the quiet rooms, the closed doors, and the overall somber feeling were getting to her already.
“Very well. But I’m certain the staff will insist you join us for dinner at six-thirty. Which means you’ll want to stop work at six to freshen up first.”
“Okay. Sounds good.” Belle waited until he left before she grabbed her father’s hammer. Feeling foolish, she reached for his tool belt and held it against her chest, feeling him there with her. But then she pushed aside her sentimentality and got to work. “The sooner I finish this, the sooner I can get back to you,” she whispered.
The beautiful mahogany finials and trim she needed to complete the shelves were neatly stacked in the corner of the room. She spotted a sketch for the complex crown molding he was planning to install, and realized the job was going to be a bit more involved than she’d thought. Two or three weeks, depending on how things unfolded. In an old building like this, there were bound to be a few surprises that popped up. Every project had its delays. A month tops, that’s what she’d tell Nicholas. Then she’d get back to her father and hopefully he’d be ready for rehabilitation. The nurses had her number and were to call her if his condition changed. She knew what she was doing here was for the best.
She started trimming the bookcases, enjoying the smell of the wood, the warmth of the sunlight streaming through the window, and the thrill that came with a new project. The morning flew by, and she paused briefly to devour a delicious Caesar salad for lunch. She was proud of her work, and hoped her father would be, too. There’d be no pleasing her ex-boyfriend, Stewart. He’d been impatient for her to lose her interest in her silly furniture-making hobby. When she rented space to work on her custom furniture, he realized she was serious and left her. A woman who worked with her hands wasn’t the right prop for a guy hoping to make partner in a law firm he wasn’t even working in yet.
But still, Stewart had had goals and dreams and plans while he toiled away in law school, and Belle had realized far too late, hers were much different. Belle wasn’t one to waste time, and she’d wasted two good years on Stewart. She frowned.
If a future lawyer disapproved of a female carpenter, what would a sitting prince think?
she wondered.
Apparently, it didn’t matter, since she wouldn’t be meeting him. She finished her salad, got back to work and by the time six o’clock came, she’d completed two bookcases. With twenty more to go—and the crown molding, she’d be a busy woman the next few weeks. Hard work always left her hungrier than she realized, and she was hoping another delicious meal was on its way. That’s another thing a prince wouldn’t be impressed with—her incredible appetite.
She went back to her room and found three beautiful evening dresses hanging on the door, with a note from Mrs. Downing. “I doubted very much that you’d brought appropriate dinner attire. I took the liberty of purchasing a few things. See you at dinner.”
That was another thing she and Stewart had fought about. She hated going to his charity functions, playing dress up and making happy talk with people who were busy scanning the room for someone more important to talk to. A prince would probably be even worse like that.
She took the dresses off the door and sighed. They were beautiful. But why did she need to dress up for dinner with the staff? She showered and changed into a pale blue cocktail dress that skimmed her knees and showed off her toned arms. Her job kept her in good shape, but never before required her to don eveningwear. This was a first. Building bookshelves for Prince Maxim would definitely be remembered as her strangest job ever.
The staff was dressed in formal serving clothes, and stood waiting by the table as she walked into the dining room. She wondered if someone else was going to be joining them. The dining table looked as if it could seat fifty, but it was set for six. Lush flower arrangements lined the length of the table. A huge candelabrum was lit with dozens of glowing tapers.