If The Ring Fits...

Didier’s wide grin answered his question.

No. This could not be happening.

The legend wasn’t true; it wasn’t. The legend dictated he had to marry the woman whom the ring fit within a week or abdicate. He would do neither.

It was his duty to marry and produce an heir. He would, but not because he was turning thirty and a legend dictated it. He would marry whom he wanted, when he wanted.

Every decision in his life had been made for the sake of San Montico. He had sacrificed childhood dreams and adult desires for his family, his people, his country. But the choice of a wife was his, and his alone, to make. “Does anyone know? My mother?”

“No, we can make an announce—”

“Tell no one.” Richard needed time to think, time to come up with a plan. He would not let San Montico’s sentimental attachment to a legend take away the most important choice of his life and keep him from modernizing the country. “Where is…it?”

“In the ladies’ lounge,” Didier said. “With Miss Armstrong.”

Not her. Please not her.

“May I suggest a course of action, Your Highness?”

Richard clenched his teeth. “No. You have done enough.”

Please work. Please. Christina lathered her hands with soap. But the ring wouldn’t budge, not a fraction of an inch, not even a millimeter. She rinsed her hands, double-checking the drain plug on the gold-plated sink. Not that a ring this size could fit, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

Staring at the ring on her red, swollen finger, Christina fought the urge to scream. She could have said no when her mother insisted she come to San Montico, but accepting the invitation had seemed like such a little thing to make her mother happy. Only now…

Christina would disappoint her parents. Again. She should have known no matter how hard she tried, she would never be able to please them. But no, she’d gone against her better judgment and said yes. And embarrassed herself. Her family. Her country. Wait until her mother found out.

What if the ring didn’t come off? Christina flexed her hand. Surely they wouldn’t want to chop her finger off? She was an artist. She needed all her fingers. Time to give the soap another try.

Perhaps she was overreacting a little, but this was a small island in the Mediterranean ruled by a prince, not the U.S. government. San Montico might never have heard of due process of law. They might even follow another law—an eye for an eye, a hand for a hand. She lathered again.

Maybe her father could do something—open a factory, build a resort, pay off the national debt. Maybe the prince would understand. Maybe her life was over.

She added more soap, but the ring still wouldn’t budge.

As her stomach curled up and turned one somersault after another, she leaned against the marble counter and groaned. “What am I going to do?”

A man cleared his throat. “Excuse me.”

In the mirror, Christina saw Prince Richard’s reflection. He stood with his arms folded across his chest and an unreadable expression on his face. He looked more like a pirate than a prince. A mean pirate. So much for him understanding.

“I knocked, but no one answered.”

Turning, Christina didn’t know what to say. His wide shoulders and six-foot-plus height made the bathroom seem smaller. “Your Highness, I—”

Didier walked into the bathroom, smiling. “The ring fits, Your Highness.”

Prince Richard’s nostrils flared. His full lips nearly disappeared as his mouth tightened. Angry, oh boy, was he angry. How was she going to get out of this one?

“I wouldn’t say it fits, Your Highness.” Christina hoped she wouldn’t cause another international incident. “It’s stuck. I’m probably retaining water. You know, PMS and all that stuff.”

“No, Miss Armstrong.” Prince Richard cocked an eyebrow. “I would not know.”

Why did she say that? He was a prince. She was an Armstrong. Heat rose in her cheeks. “Of course, you wouldn’t. I’m—”

“Let me see your hand.”

She showed him her soap-covered hand. “Maybe if I try some lotion or—”

“Quiet.”

The harsh tone of his voice silenced her. Christina swallowed hard. Prince Charming had disappeared. The classical lines of his face now seemed hard, not handsome. The set of his chin now seemed arrogant, not confident. If only she could turn back the clock and return to the ball…

Prince Richard removed his gloves. He pulled on the ring until tears welled in her eyes. She bit her tongue to keep from crying out.

“It fits, Your Highness,” Didier said with a smile.

“It does not fit.” The prince washed and dried his hands. “It is stuck, Didi. It is too small, that is all.”

“The legend says—”

“Wash your hands, Miss Armstrong,” he ordered before Didier could say another word.

“What legend?” Christina asked.

“Wash your hands,” the prince ordered. “I will not ask again.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Christina mumbled, feeling like a newly enlisted marine in boot camp. She scrubbed but couldn’t rinse all the soap out of the filigree band.

“Find Mr. Armstrong,” Prince Richard commanded. “I need to speak with him immediately.”

“Your Highness.” Didier stopped at the door. “Perhaps—”

“Not now, Didi.” As soon as the door closed behind Didier, Prince Richard handed her his white gloves. “Put these on.”

The left glove was at least two sizes too big. “It doesn’t fit, Your Highness.”

“This is not a fashion show, Miss Armstrong. You will wear them. I do not need to have my mother see you wearing the ring. Or the press.”

The press. Prince Richard had a good point. She put on the right glove.

He walked toward the door. “Come with me.”

Uncertain and a little frightened, Christina hesitated.

“Now.”

She tilted her chin, trying to gain a bit of courage. “Where are we going, Your Highness?”

“Some place private, where we will not be disturbed.”

The palace reminded her of a dream castle, but the evening was turning into a nightmare. Surely the palace didn’t have a dungeon with a torture chamber. She followed Prince Richard out of the bathroom to a narrow, dimly lit hallway. “Exactly where is that, Your Highness?”

“My bedroom.”

Chapter Two

Christina stood outside the double white-paneled doors, her heart pounding in her throat. The prince, the engagement ring, his bedroom.

Oh, man. His bedroom, the prince’s bedroom.

No one would believe this was happening. Well, maybe her family would, but no one else. She pinched her arm to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

Prince Richard stepped in front of her and opened one of the doors. “You will wait inside.”

“Your Highness,” she said, then hesitated.

His I’m-better-than-you stare made her feel unwelcome, emphasizing the fact she didn’t belong. “What is it, Miss Armstrong?”

Christina might not be royalty, but she was an Armstrong. She forced herself to look him straight in the eye. “I’m sorry for ruining your birthday.”

“Go on.” With his hand at the small of her back, he led her inside. It was obvious he could care less about her apology. “Do not touch anything and stay away from the windows.”

She almost asked if she should remove her shoes before stepping on the carpet but thought better of it. “Yes, Your Highness.”

“I must return to the party. I believe my uncle is going to have a heart attack.”

A what? Heart attack? She tried to speak, but no words would come. Prince Richard closed the door behind her, and she heard a click. Christina tried the handle, but it was locked.

Locked in the prince’s bedroom. Alone.

But a heart attack? Was Prince Richard joking or did he really mean…She glanced at her gloved hand.

The ring. It had to be the ring.

Oh, no. What had she done? A heart attack. This was her worst yet. People died from heart attacks. Christina clutched her hands to her chest. She’d really done it this time. The marquess—such a charming, entertaining man. Unlike his nephew, Prince Richard.

A heart attack.

Awful, dreadful, inexcusable.

What would her family—make that the world—think? For once, she would deserve everything the press threw at her. She truly would not deserve to be an Armstrong.

She plopped onto the king-size bed, a fit-for-a-prince bed made of elegantly carved mahogany with pomegranate-shaped finials on the canopy posts. Through an open window, a gentle breeze, carrying the smell of the sea, filled the room, but the fresh air did nothing to ease the suffocating guilt.

Her fault.

Lying on the hard mattress, Christina pulled the gloves up to keep them from falling off. Over the years, she’d broken things, valuable things. She’d started a war, actually a small insurrection, as her father preferred to call it. But she’d never hurt…

Okay, that wasn’t exactly true. But breaking Tom’s thumb with the winch handle during a regatta could have happened to anyone. And Ron’s concussion was a total accident. Grabbing that cast-iron skillet was instinct, pure and simple. He could have been a burglar. If only she’d seen the box of Ho Hos first, but no one drops by at midnight unannounced. No one but Ron. At least she hadn’t had a gun. The gun, she couldn’t forget about Kent. But that was his fault, one hundred percent. Kent knew better than to take her skeet shooting. Thank goodness for the advances in medical technology. It was amazing what could be surgically reattached.

Okay, so she might have accidentally hurt a few men, but she’d never killed anyone. A heart attack? Tears welled in her eyes. The stupid ring. She’d cut off her finger if it would save the marquess. She really would. She’d do anything to rid herself of the helpless feeling settling in the pit of her stomach like a week old glazed doughnut.

After what seemed like a forever of silence, the lock on the door clicked. As Christina sat up, one of the double doors opened. Prince Richard stepped inside, followed by Didier and the marquess.

The marquess.

Thank goodness. He wasn’t dead. Christina ran and wrapped her arms around him. “You’re alive.”

The marquess smiled. “Now more than ever.”

She stared into his twinkling blue eyes, eyes that reminded her of the prince. Or had until she saw the real man beneath the princely facade. “I thought I’d killed you.”

“My dear Christina. May I call you that?”

Nodding, she couldn’t stop looking at the marquess. He was alive. Alive. A warm tear slipped down her cheek.

“Are those tears for me?” The marquess wiped her cheek with a white linen handkerchief. “You make this old man wish he were thirty years younger. Richard, my lucky boy, you have found yourself a wonderful—”

“Why would you think you killed my uncle?” Prince Richard asked.

“You told me he was going to have a heart attack. I assumed it was because of the ring.” Her heartbeat accelerated. The ring. She’d forgotten for a moment. Christina faced the prince, wishing he’d shown the same compassion and sincerity as his uncle, but all she saw was a scowl of impatience. How could she have ever mistaken him for Prince Charming? The two had nothing in common except the word “prince.” The realization made her long for a familiar face. “Do you know where my father is?”

The marquess gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “He should be along shortly.”

“Take off the gloves,” Prince Richard ordered.

“Really, my dear nephew,” the marquess said. “Christina is not one of your subjects. She’s going to be your—”

“Uncle Phillippe, please. If you feel the need to interfere, I will have to ask you to leave.”

“I pretend to have a heart attack so you can clear the palace and this is what I get,” the marquess said, sounding affronted.

“You pretended to have a heart attack?” Christina asked.

“Yes, my dear.” The marquess winked. “And a valiant performance, worthy of an Oscar if I might say so myself.”

“Why?”

Prince Richard cleared his throat.

The marquess sighed. “Why don’t you ask His Serene Highness?”

Prince Richard said nothing. Who the hell did he think he was, standing there with an arrogant expression on his face as if she was a low-life serf? She’d cried thinking she’d been the cause of the marquess’s heart attack. Cried. She deserved an answer. Christina planted her hands on her hips. “So, are you going to tell me, Your Serene Highness?”

Both the marquess and Didier chuckled, earning them a glare from Prince Richard. He glanced toward the ceiling and let loose a tirade in French.

Pompous ass. As if I wanted to be part of this. She could match his colorful French vocabulary word for word, but she chose to take a calming breath instead. “Your Highness, I did not glue the ring to my finger, nor did I do any of this on purpose. If you have anything to say, please say it to my face in English.”

Prince Richard studied her. “You speak French?”

“Fluently,” she said, enjoying the surprise that registered in his eyes. The man had way too much pride. “When I was in college, I studied in Paris.”

“Any other languages?”

“Italian.” Christina realized she had the upper hand. And she liked it, liked it a lot. “I also spent two semesters in Florence.”

“Your Highness,” Didier said, rather bravely, Christina thought, “I believe Miss Armstrong is waiting for her answer about the marquess’s heart attack.”

“It looks as if you have two champions, Miss Armstrong.” Prince Richard regained his princely composure, but a vein in his neck still throbbed. Not so cool and collected as he wanted people to believe. “You want to know, I shall tell you. Since you so inexcu—”

Didier coughed. “Excuse me, Your Highness.”

Good thing looks couldn’t kill or one of her champions would be a goner. Christina could have sworn she saw the prince sending daggers, machetes and a wood block full of Wusthof knives toward Didier.

Prince Richard continued. “Since you had the misfortune of getting the ring stuck on your finger, I felt it was in our mutual best interest to clear the palace before any gossip could occur. I needed a way to end the party, so I enlisted the aid of my thespian uncle.”

“I’ve done Shakespeare,” the marquess said, giving a bow.

A man after her own heart. Christina chuckled.

“Thanks to his brilliant performance, I can see to…his recovery.”

See to her was what Prince Richard meant. His ruse. It had worked. Not a bad plan, she had to admit. And she was in favor of doing anything to stop gossip and keep the press at bay. His Serene Highness might not be a knight in shining armor, but he was quick on his feet. Maybe he could figure a way out of this mess.

“Now that I have answered your question, Miss Armstrong, would you kindly remove the gloves?”

A knock at the door stopped her. Silence. No one moved. Everyone stared at the door. Another knock.

Prince Richard nodded at Didier, who moved to the doors and opened one of them slightly before stepping back. “It’s Mr. Armstrong.”

Her father entered the room with a smile on his face. Oh, no. Christina estimated that in less than sixty seconds his smile would turn upside down. She hid her hands behind her back.

“Sweetheart.” Her father’s hug took her by surprise. He not only preferred showing his affection with gifts rather than touch, but she expected him to be angry at her, not happy. “Sorry for the delay, Your Highness, but I had to telephone my wife.”

Mother knew. Christina wrung her hands. “How did she take…I mean…Is she okay?”

“She’s fine.”

Fine? Her mother? That wasn’t possible. The only reason her mother hadn’t come to San Montico was because of the discovery of a new wrinkle that warranted an emergency appointment, complete with chartered jet and flight crew, to her plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills. Overreaction was Claire Armstrong’s middle name.

“May I see the ring, Your Highness?” Alan asked.

Prince Richard nodded. “If Miss Armstrong removes the glove.”

“Do as the prince says,” her father whispered. “Whatever he says.”

“Yes, sir.” She removed the glove and held out her left hand.

“Interesting.” Alan tugged and twisted it. She waited for him to yell at her, to express his disappointment with her yet again. Instead, his smile widened. “It’s not coming off, is it?”

“No, it’s not, Mr. Armstrong,” Didier said. The marquess echoed him.

“It will come off.” Prince Richard grimaced. “The ring does not fit.”

The three other men exchanged a glance making Christina feel like the only one not privy to a secret handshake.

“I would like Christina to remain at the palace,” Prince Richard said.

Say no, Daddy. Say no.

“That’s understandable considering the circumstances,” Alan replied. “I’ll have her luggage packed and sent over. Discreetly, of course.”

Prince Richard nodded his approval. “You are more than welcome to stay yourself.”

Please stay, Daddy. Please stay.

“Thank you, Your Highness, but that isn’t necessary.” Alan glanced at the ring on her finger and chuckled. “I have so much to take care of I doubt I’ll sleep a wink tonight.”

Finally, he was going to do something. The overwhelming sense of relief made Christina sigh.

“Don’t worry.” Her father patted her arm. “I’ll take care of everything.”

Thank goodness. She wasn’t in this alone. But her father was acting so calmly, so unlike his normal disapproving self. “You aren’t mad?”

“A bit surprised,” he admitted. “But not mad.”

Now she really felt like the only one excluded from the club. Something was definitely going on.

“My uncle will see you out,” Prince Richard said.

Christina wanted her father to stay. She wanted to tell him how much she appreciated his help. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him. She said good-night instead.

“Sleep well.” Alan kissed the top of her head. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”

Christina stared, dumbfounded. She’d waited for years to hear her father say those words. All she ever wanted was to be a good girl and make her parents proud, but things had never worked out that way. She got into trouble without even trying. Getting the ring stuck on her finger was a perfect example. Except for keeping it a secret from the press, how was this any different from the times before?

Richard would not give up. So much was at stake, but nothing had worked. Not the soap, not the lotion, not the Vaseline. The ring was still stuck. He was running out of ideas.

And time.

It was almost two o’clock in the morning. He had kept his mother and the entire palace in the dark about Christina and the ring. He could not keep it hidden forever. Come morning, the dawn would bring the truth about the ring and who wore it to light.

If the citizens thought the “magic” of the ring had selected Christina to be his bride and Richard married her, they would cling to their silly customs and traditions even more. The legend would not only seal his fate, but that of San Montico. With archaic ideas such as legends and fairy tales part of everyday life, San Montico would never have true modernization. His father’s wish would go unfulfilled. Richard could not let that happen.

He reached into the back of a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of oil. “We shall try this, Miss Armstrong.”

Lifting her hand from the sink full of ice, Christina leaned against the bathroom counter. “Go ahead, Your Highness, but since it looks like this ring isn’t coming off in the near future, you might as well start calling me Christina. And you, too, Didier.”

Standing next to Richard, Didier smiled. “Christina is such a lovely name. A name fit for a princess.”

Princess Christina? Richard grimaced. Didier was up to his old tricks. His matchmaking would not work. Christina would not become Richard’s wife; she would not become Her Serene Highness of San Montico. The ring on her finger meant nothing, as did the legend. Only he could decide who became the next princess. It was not going to be Christina Armstrong.

And having Didier around displaying his not-so-subtle approval of her only complicated matters further. Richard scowled. “Leave us, Didi.”

“But the ring, Your Highness?”

“I will see to it.” Richard opened the bottle of oil. “You need to sleep. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”

Didier nodded. “I will have a room prepared for Christina, Your Highness.”

“She is staying here.”

“Here?” Christina stiffened. “I can’t sleep here.”

“I cannot sleep here, Your Highness,” Richard corrected her lapse. “May I ask why?”

Her eyes widened at his question. “Because, Your Highness, this is your room. Where would you sleep?”

“Why here, of course.” Richard laughed at the indignant look on her face, the surprised tone of her voice. She did have a sort of innocent charm. An act, he was certain. Americans would do anything to gain a royal title. His ex-fiancée had taught him a painful yet valuable lesson. “Christina, the ring has been in my family for generations, centuries, actually. I prefer to remain near it.”

“You can lock me in a room, in the tower even, place a guard outside my door. I’m not going anywhere, Your Highness. I promise.”

Her promises meant nothing to him. Besides, he could not risk having his mother see a guard standing watch over one of the guest rooms. She would know something was wrong. And if she found out about the ring…The wedding invitations would be in the mail by tomorrow afternoon. “You are staying here. With me.”

She started to speak, then stopped.

Didier frowned. “Your Highness—”

“Good night, Didi.”

“Didier,” Christina said, “thanks for your help.”

“The pleasure was mine. Happy birthday, Your Highness.” Didier bowed, then left the bathroom.

Some birthday. A trip to the salt mines of Siberia would be better than this. Anything would be.

But Richard was here with Christina, who wore the royal engagement ring. If the news got out, he would be married to her by this time next week.

Married to a stranger. An American, no less. Under the guise of the legend and true love. No way. He had to get the ring off her finger. Now. Richard grabbed Christina’s hand.

“Ow.”

He released her hand. He shouldn’t have been so rough. “I’m…I only wanted to try the oil.”

She studied him, her arched brows drawn together. Two small lines formed above the bridge of her nose. “Look, I want to get this ring off as badly as you do.” With a slight hesitation, she offered her hand. “Oil me up, Your Highness.”

Disrespectful, but kind of cute. Perhaps another time, another place. Absurd. Unknowingly or not, she had been drawn into the legend. After he removed the ring, Richard never wanted to see Christina Armstrong again.

Tilting the bottle, he poured oil on her finger, set the bottle on the counter and reached for the ring. His large hand engulfed her small, delicate one. As he rubbed the oil around the gold band, she jerked away.

Her cheeks rosy, she stared at him. “I can do it myself, Your Highness.”

“No. I will.”

Defiance flickered in her eyes, but she held out her hand anyway. At least she knew how to obey. Slowly, he rubbed on the oil, making sure he didn’t miss a spot. He had not noticed before, but her fingernails were painted a pale pink with white tips. Just like his mother used to wear before his father died.

But a French manicure did not make a princess.

“What is this?” Christina asked.

Once again, she forgot to address him as “Your Highness.” “Oil.”

With her right hand, she picked up the bottle. Her eyes widened. “It’s…massage oil?”

She needed a lesson in royal protocol. “Yes.”

“Figures.” She set the bottle on the counter. “Do you usually keep a large supply of massage oil on hand, Your Highness? Or did we just luck out tonight?”

She was the most aggravating woman he had ever met. He continued rubbing. “It was a gift.”