She could still hear Brad laughing with his friends. She remembered one of them saying, You always used to say she stank of manure. That had already made her cringe but then there had been Brad’s casual reply, She still does, but now there’s the money and you all know the saying: “Money doesn’t stink.”

  That laughter. The bitter realization that he had started dating her for her family’s money. For the position they suddenly held. That he had never cared for anything but his own advancement, but ingraining himself into their success story. For which he hadn’t worked at all. Her family had, not him.

  She had broken it off shortly after, telling him that she’d changed her mind and wasn’t in love anymore. He had cursed and sworn at her, calling her names she didn’t want to remember. It hadn’t mattered. All she’d wanted was to get rid of him. To end the lie that he’d loved her. All the tenderness he had bestowed on her had been an act. What she had believed had been a lie.

  She had promised herself she would never go through anything like that again. And here she was, falling for this stranger who had walked into her life. When she had first seen him, she had sensed danger and had called the police. But then she had let down her guard and had started to trust him, unaware of the power he held to hurt her.

  Unaware?

  Oh no. The worst of it was that she had known. That she had consciously thrown caution to the wind because she had wanted to feel love again, to experience falling for someone, the sweet surrender, the feeling that it was meant to be.

  Everything that had been snatched away from her the first time had been better this time around, so much more meaningful and special.

  He was a prince. He had wanted a wine heiress. Not an antiques dealer from a small town with a few thousand in the bank.

  She looked into her mirror image’s red-rimmed eyes. We were both mistaken about each other. Those things happen.

  The door opened and Mrs. Galloway stepped in. She stood a moment, almost frozen, then said, “Are you all right, Lizzie?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I…misstepped and hurt my ankle.” It was the first lie that came to mind. “It was a vicious twinge but it’s better now.”

  “Should someone look at it?” Mrs. Galloway came over and caught her arm. “Can you even stand?”

  “It’s fine. Not swollen or anything.” She held out her leg. “I had to cry and I didn’t want anyone to see it.”

  Mrs. Galloway seemed unconvinced. “Let me fetch…”

  “It’s fine now,” Lizzie said with emphasis.

  Mrs. Galloway held her gaze. Understanding flashed in her eyes. “Do you want to leave under the pretense of this ankle?”

  Lizzie sucked in air. Do I? “Yes.”

  “Grant can take you home.” Mrs. Galloway squeezed her arm and turned away. Then she asked slowly, “I hope you didn’t hurt your ankle on that car trip with the gentleman from Europe? I helped him set up his surprise and I would feel bad if you hurt yourself during your time with him.”

  “No, nothing happened on the car trip. He acted like a perfect gentleman.” Lizzie took a deep breath. “I’ve been very silly, thinking he…”

  Mrs. Galloway turned back to her. “If you think he likes you, you’re not silly. The way he looks at you—his eyes follow you around all of the time. He smiles in this special way like… I haven’t seen a man look like that since Grant fell for Emma.”

  “It’s not the same thing.” Lizzie shook her head, a stray tear leaking down her cheek. “Grant and Emma were meant to be. This is all so complicated.”

  “Because he came across the Atlantic?” Mrs. Galloway studied her. “Location can be an obstacle, but if feelings are strong, you can conquer it.” A smile lit her face. “I can’t think of very many problems that love can’t solve.”

  “I can.” Lizzie lowered her head. “I don’t want to talk about it. Could you please ask Grant to take me home? Without Nicolas noticing? I can’t face him now.”

  Mrs. Galloway seemed to want to object and argue, but then she nodded with a sigh and left.

  Lizzie leaned on the washbasin and let her tears flow again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Nicolas paced the picnic area like a caged tiger. He couldn’t find Lizzie anywhere. He wanted to give her space, but he also wanted to make sure she was okay. He wasn’t sure how exactly she had found out about his royal title—she had said that she had looked online, but she couldn’t have done that out of the blue, so what had been the reason for her to do so? Had he said something, dropped a clue? Or what?

  He was so confused and uncertain, with a niggling sensation that control was slipping through his fingers and he was losing her.

  He went over to Emma and asked her if she had seen Lizzie.

  Emma gave him a wide-eyed look. “Didn’t you know? She wasn’t feeling well. Grant took her home.”

  Nicolas’s heart missed a beat. “Not feeling well?” See, he had known it. That paleness in her face… “She didn’t say good-bye to me.”

  “I’m sure she would have if she had felt better.” Emma smiled at him. “It’s bad enough for her to have such a fun day end prematurely. She’d been looking forward to the fireworks and all.”

  “I guess so,” he said, not even listening. He had to call her, to ask if she was okay. Or should he go to her house?

  No, that would be an intrusion. She might have gone to bed.

  Emma touched his arm. “There’s Grant coming back now. We can ask him how Lizzie was when he left her.”

  He followed her, relieved and at the same time full of nerves about what Grant might say. Emma hugged her boyfriend and asked, “How is Lizzie doing?”

  “I think she worked too hard to get everything set up for today.” Grant shook his head.

  Emma bit her lip. “I blame myself a little. We should have offered her more help.”

  Grant put an arm around her shoulder. “Don’t get worked up about it. Lizzie wouldn’t have accepted more help anyway. She likes to do things on her own.”

  “Maybe she misses her family?” Nicolas asked. “I heard in passing that she’s not a local?”

  “No, she moved here a few years ago,” Grant said. “I didn’t get the impression she’s very close to her family. In any case, I’ve never seen any of them here in town, for Christmas or her birthday or anything. But they might live too far away for them to come over.”

  “Or maybe they can’t afford it.” Emma shrugged. “People talk these days about flying here and there like it’s nothing, but when you have a tight budget, it can be expensive.”

  Nicolas bit back the reply that this was certainly not the case, as he knew for a fact that they were quite wealthy. It could give the wrong impression, look as though he were after Lizzie for her money. He was relieved he hadn’t let on to her that he knew about her family’s award-winning wines before she had revealed she knew he was a prince. That sort of evened the score, right?

  Still, it hadn’t seemed to matter to her.

  Grant patted Emma on the shoulder. “Lizzie will be fine, darling. No need to look so glum.”

  Emma sighed. “I wanted things to be perfect today. Lizzie should be here, you know. She did so much to make it a success.”

  “I’m sure she already had a good time. Oh, I see Ben waving at me. I guess I need to give him a hand with the grill.” Grant pressed a kiss on Emma’s temple and walked off.

  Emma scoffed. “Saved by the bell.” She looked at Nicolas. “You’re taking it hard that she left.”

  “I’m sorry for her. Like you said, she did so much work for this. I can also understand that she’s a bit of a loner. I’m the same.”

  “Really?” Emma tilted her head. “How did she like the special Belfortic treats anyway?”

  “They were great.” He had a feeling she’d like to know a bit more about it, so he excused himself. “I have a call to make. Business.”

  She flashed him a smile, suggesting she guessed he was going to call Lizzie.

  But was he?

  Walking away with the phone in his hand, he weighed the pros and cons. It would look odd if he let her leave without even caring. On the other hand, she had told him to leave her be, and he didn’t want to appear pushy or intrusive. If she needed time to think it over, he’d give it to her. After all, it would be quite a shock for her to discover that he was a royal.

  He halted and opened the browser on his phone, then hesitated a moment, debating what she might have entered that had turned up that result. Then he simply tried Nicolas Belfort. Oh, yes, enough hits. Photos, parties, official ceremonies. And the words, burning themselves into his memory: one of the hottest European bachelors. How did they come up with those headlines?

  But he could guess how that had struck her. She must think he was a playboy, coming to America to win a few hearts here. Maybe she interpreted all the little things he had done especially for her—the car, the treats, the secret hideout—as tricks he used frequently to attract females. What a disaster. He should have told her straightaway who he was.

  And then? She wouldn’t have let him near her. Her fear of what she considered a luxury life would have driven them apart and they would never have shared anything but polite, business-like exchanges about the bird of paradise.

  No, it was better this way. Yes, it was ironic, but it actually was. They had had a chance to grow closer, to fall in love. Now the sword of Damocles had dropped, and she had run. But he hoped she’d be back.

  Because one thing was certain. There was no way he was letting her go.

  …

  Lizzie woke up with a pounding headache. That’s what I get from crying my eyes out.

  She reached beside her bed and picked up the glass of water she had put there earlier. There were a few sips left in it. Outside, it had gotten dark. She slipped out of bed and closed the curtains, turned on the light. The friendly warm glow shining across her familiar things took the edge off her grief. At least she was in her own home, could curl up in her own bed.

  She reached for the glass again and her gaze fell to the phone lying beside it. A new message had come in. Her heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t from him, surely? By the time he had learned she had left the festivities without even saying good-bye, he should have been mad enough to leave himself. He probably had. To go drink champagne at his hotel or rent a boat or a sportscar, or whatever people like him did. He was a prince!

  She ignored the phone and crawled back into bed, trying to avoid the images whirling through her head of him on boats and in cars with adoring women. He had to have had a string of high-end girlfriends. What was she compared to them?

  Just a number in his little black book?

  She pushed herself up, stuffed two pillows behind her back, and grabbed her phone. If that was a message from him, she’d reply and tell him exactly what she thought of him. If it wasn’t from him, she might send him a message of her own accord…

  She stared at the picture that accompanied the message. A photo of amazing fireworks. “The end to a beautiful day,” it read below. “Sorry you missed this. I hope you’re feeling better. Nicolas.”

  She read and reread it. Trying to distill some meaning from it. It was so…neutral. Nothing to indicate they had shared that wonderful kiss.

  Then again, she had told him to leave her be. Was he trying to backtrack to where they had been before? People who had a good time together, but nothing more?

  She pressed reply and then couldn’t come up with anything to say. She wanted to talk to him, hear his voice, see whether she could detect a hint of coldness in it, or a lingering warmth. She had to know more than these words told her. And that photo was nice, but…

  The phone buzzed and she almost dropped it with a jerk. It kept going. His name filled the screen. It was him. Answer it? Let it ring? Pretend she was sleeping off her headache?

  It stopped. She could kick herself. She should have answered it. Now she would lie awake wondering what he wanted to say.

  Another signal. A new voicemail message. She pressed the wrong buttons in her rush to listen to it. The crisp female voice mentioned the time stamp of the message, and then his voice spoke, “Sorry to call you like this. Maybe I shouldn’t have. But I want to make sure you’re okay. I’m really sorry you had to find out like that. I should have told you. I was worried it would make a difference and… Anyway, I hope you’re okay.” Then nothing. He hadn’t even said his name. But he didn’t have to. Who else could it be?

  He consumed all of her thoughts.

  I was worried it would make a difference he’d said. Oh, yes, it did. In a big way.

  She wanted to call him and tell him and talk about it, propped up in the pillows, with the cozy light of her bedroom lamp shining down on her, giving her a reassuring sense of home. It would be easier than doing it face-to-face.

  But would it be fake reassurance? What was there to feel good about? And what was there to solve by a conversation?

  He was a prince. He had to go home soon. He was going there alone. She was certainly not going with him. Offering the press something to write about? No. That was more up her sister-in-law’s alley. Not hers.

  She put the phone away and hugged her knees. Leaning her chin on them, she stared at the dresser opposite her bed. How happy she had felt this morning, standing there putting on her dress for today. She had dreamed about how it might be. A kiss hadn’t been on her mind, well at least not openly. She hadn’t acknowledged to herself that she wanted something like that but… Right now, it seemed so obvious.

  You fell for him too easily. The smooth-talking prince from Europe. Like something out of a paperback novel.

  She threw one of the pillows out of bed and lay down on her back with her head on the other. She closed her eyes and tried not to feel so mortified.

  But the feeling that had assaulted her when she had realized the situation kept rolling around inside. How silly she felt. She could only hope that no one else around town would look and start whispering about his royal status. And about her friendship with him. She knew exactly how it would be interpreted. As if she had been angling for an invite to the royal court. To become a princess.

  He had asked her, quite in passing, whether she had ever wanted that. Her answer hadn’t been coy. She had never wanted anything like that. She had never been a girly girl dreaming of dresses and balls and tiaras. She had loved animals and working in her little vegetable garden and helping her dad with the wine.

  Her eyes pricked. Back then, she and Dad had been a unit. They’d had an unbreakable bond. But the money had changed him, made him forget about his old friends, about people who had supported him when he’d struggled. He’d become self-assured and almost vain.

  Oh, she understood he was proud of what he had achieved by hard work and years of believing in what had seemed like a far-fetched dream. She admired him for that. But once he had struck gold, he need not have become so…different.

  She bit her lip. Would Nicolas be different in his own country, in his palace where everyone bowed to his orders? Would he be different to her if they had to go somewhere together and she wasn’t behaving the way he expected her to?

  Would he tell her what to wear, how to act, whom to talk to, what to say? With an air of wanting to help her adjust, but in reality making her into a puppet on a string, with him pulling the cords?

  Or his courtiers? Did she have any idea how influenced he was by other people who formed a ring of confidantes around him? Maybe he’d listen to them more than to his fiancée, his bride, the mother of his children?

  No need to rush ahead to that. You will certainly never be any of those things.

  Her phone rang again. She looked at it. Everton.

  Everton? One of her antiques contacts. Calling her on the Fourth of July?

  She answered, “Hello?”

  “Lizzie, how are you? Hope I’m not catching you at a bad time. You’re probably still partying, hey? I wanted to let you know that I have a lead on that bird box you’re looking for. The bird of paradise, it’s called? A friend of mine has a daughter who works as a cleaning lady for several elderly ladies. She claims to have seen something just like it in an old lady’s home. You could give the lady a call and see if you’re allowed to come and see it. She may want to part with it if the price is right. You can always give it a shot.”

  “Oh, that’s interesting. What’s her number? And address, if you have it?” She took them down in her phone. “Thanks so much for calling. And happy Fourth of July.”

  She lowered the phone. Another lead on the bird of paradise. Maybe it would turn to nothing, like their visit to Mr. Reeves had. But maybe it could also be the breakthrough they had hoped for. He’d find the box, buy it, and go back home. She’d stay behind, alone and downcast.

  Nonsense. She didn’t need to be so dramatic about it. She took a deep breath and typed a reply to Nicolas’s message. “I’m fine. In fact, I’ve been working. I have a lead on the bird of paradise. I’ll see if I can set up a meeting with the owner. You’ll have to tell her you want it and why. I’ll let you know details when I have them.”

  …

  Nicolas felt a shock pass through his body when his phone gave a signal that a new message had come in. It had to be her. He fished the phone from his pocket and took a few steps away from the people saying good-bye to one another. He read the message with an eagerness that took his breath away.

  What? She’s working? The bird of paradise?

  While he had wanted to find it desperately, he was almost disappointed. Why did she care only for that bird? Was she happy he might be leaving soon? Let him go, put an end to the confusing meetings and awkward moments together?

  He called her right away to ask what it was about, but got her voicemail. He didn’t leave a message. She had to be setting up the meeting with the bird of paradise’s owner.

 

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