Her Own Prince Charming

“Almost ready.” Paula rushed downstairs to finish pressing the dress. She returned to find Rae in Whitney’s room holding out two outfits.

“Which should I wear?” she asked.

Whitney didn’t answer. She carefully applied eye shadow and stared dreamily into the mirror. “He said my eyes are so expressive.”

“Bet he didn’t look at you like he looked at her,” Rae said a little spitefully. She frowned. “Who could she be? I don’t remember anybody dressed as a maid, do you, Whitney?”

“Plenty of serving maids around.” Whitney peered into the minor to inspect her makeup. “Maybe one of them sneaked onto the dance floor. I wouldn’t put it past that kind.”

Paula gulped, but Rae answered her sister. “I told you. She was a guest. And Brad knew her very well! The way he was holding her—”

“I thought you didn’t see her.”

“Sylvia did. She and Rod were dancing right next to them, and Sylvia said he was staring at her like there wasn’t anybody else in the room, and when he kissed her...”

Paula’s breath caught as Whitney turned to glare at her sister. “Kissed her?”

“Right there on the dance floor!”

Whitney frowned, then shrugged. “Doesn’t mean a thing. Don’t you read the tabloids? He’s always kissing somebody.”

Paula, who had gone rigid, forced herself to relax. Whitney was right. What was a kiss to Brad Vandercamp? And his kiss certainly meant nothing to her!

“Which, Paula?” Rae’s question jerked her to attention. “Should I wear this or the green one?” Rae held a yellow outfit against herself.

Paula advised the green instead while Whitney continued to muse. “So Sylvia saw her. She must know who she is.”

“No. She doesn’t. She said when everybody started unmasking, the woman...well, it was amazing, but she just disappeared. Sylvia asked Rod if he saw her face, but he didn’t. He said he was looking at her legs.”

Paula winced. This kind of talk was making her nervous.

Shucks! They didn’t suspect her. They probably didn’t even know she had been there. They knew she sometimes worked for Harry, often at affairs they attended. But, thank goodness, they were always too absorbed in themselves to notice her. Even when, as now, she was right under their noses.

Whitney didn’t even look at her when she held out the linen she had pressed.

“Here you are,” she said.

Whitney glanced at the dress, shook her head. “No. Changed my mind. Bring the dusky rose with the sexy short skirt.”

Paula fetched it, tied a green scarf becomingly into Rae’s hair and made sure Whitney’s makeup was in her bag, along with the binoculars.

As they made their way out, she heard Rae say, “He’s not playing today. Do you suppose he’ll be among the spectators?”

“Of course, silly. The players always watch the techniques of the other teams. He’ll be there. And I’m sure he’ll linger at our box. He was quite taken with me. He said my eyes...” Her voice faded, and Paula gave a sigh of relief. If she couldn’t hear them talking about him, she could stop thinking about him!

She couldn’t. She stared at the rumpled sheets, the discarded clothing, a dresser cluttered with lipsticks, bottles, crumpled tissues and traces of spilled powder. But what she saw was a man with unruly copper hair and eyes that glinted with mischief. He smiled at her and held out his arms. Had he really held her in a special way? Then, when he kissed her...

Had he kissed her?

Such a fleeting touch. She might have arranged it.

No. No fantasy. Her lips had burned like fire.

Vividly she recalled the dream... music, voices, laughter and the tolling of a clock.

Then the kiss. Light and fleeting, yes. But it had ignited a powder keg of emotion, sending strange and exhilarating sensations exploding through her. For a moment, she was immobile.

The loud “Masks off” broke the spell and jolted her into movement, thank goodness!

She shook her head to clear it. She was far too practical to let a dream interfere with reality. Quickly erasing last night from her mind, she went to wake Mrs. Ashford. By the time Lew returned from depositing the girls, she had their mother dressed and alert, ready to be chauffeured to her committee meeting.

Paula tidied the bedrooms and baths, finished the laundry and vacuumed. Dinner was no problem, as the Ashfords were dining out. Time to retire to her little room in the attic and study.

Two hours later, she had finished the outline for her English term paper and prepared for tomorrow’s chemistry test. She heard the family car coming down the drive and glanced at the clock. Almost six. That would be Uncle Lew returning, and he would be hungry. She hurried to the kitchen.

“Where’s the chow?” Lew asked, as he tossed aside his chauffeur’s cap and popped open a can of soda.

“Coming right up,” she said. “I wasn’t sure when you’d be back.”

“Me, either. Been driving all day. Hauled the old lady to her meeting, the girls out to the polo field, back to pick her up and back to the field.” He sat at the table and took a long swallow from the can. “Waited till the game was over and squeezed out of that mess of traffic to get them into town to where they’re having dinner. Gotta pick them up at ten.”

“Did you see any of the game?” Paula asked as she set leftover meat loaf in the microwave oven and set the timer.

“Wouldn’t waste my time. Bunch of horses with bandages on their legs, all getting in each other’s way. Guys in fancy helmets whacking at a ball.”

“All for sweet charity, Lew! Lots of money,” Paula said. “Anyway, it’s a game. For fun. Like a rodeo.”

“Rodeo’s a hell of a lot more than fun. It’s . . . well, how to rope a calf, break a horse. Teaching people how to do things, not just showing off.”

Paula grinned. “Seems I often saw you showing off. Remember that rodeo where you—”

He gave a satisfied smile. “Yeah, I was good, huh? Expert at that stuff.”

“Sure, sure. I remember,” Paula said, as she fashioned cold mashed potatoes into cakes, sprinkled paprika and set them sizzling in a frying pan. “But I’ll have you know that these polo players are considered experts, too.”

“Humph!” Lew unfolded the newspaper.

Paula turned the potato cakes, set muffins to warm in the oven. “Some are quite famous, renowned for their expertise all over the world.”

Lew shrugged.

She removed the soda can, set out silver and napkins and bent to whisper in his ear. “Wanta hear a secret?” At his wary look, she gave him a conspiratorial wink and added, “I danced with the most famous one of all last night.”

Lew’s head jerked up. “You’re joking.”

She chuckled. It did seem like a joke. “The one they call the polo prince. He’s very rich, very famous and very handsome. And I danced with him. I really did.”

“You’re joking,” Lew said again, staring at her as she set out salads and filled two glasses with iced tea. “At least I hope to hell you are.”

“No, I am not joking. It was so funny. I was working for Harry at the Moodys’ costume ball, like I told you, remember? Well, I was in the pantry arranging canapés, and this man came in. I knew him immediately, in spite of his mask. Lord, I’ve heard him described a million times and I had seen his picture. Anyway, I was kinda dancing, like I do sometimes, and he...” She related the episode as she finished the dinner preparations. “He’s a real good dancer, and . . . oh, golly, I hadn’t danced in so long.... I guess I got carried away. I didn’t realize we were actually in the ballroom until—”

“My God! Mrs. Ashford . . . she’s gonna skin you alive.”

“Don’t be silly. Nobody saw me.”

“Hang on a minute—you were in the ballroom, dancing with the big shot every gal in creation’s got her eyes on, and you think nobody—Paula! Everybody saw you!”

“They didn’t know who I was. I told you. He put a mask on me,” she said, placing their filled plates on the table. “When some guy yelled ‘Masks off I hotfooted it out of there.”

“You’re crazy. How could they miss you? You didn’t have on a costume.”

“Oh, yes, I did. You should have heard Whitney and Rae this morning, trying to figure out who came dressed as a maid!” Paula almost choked on her iced tea. Now that the danger was past, it seemed very funny.

Lew wasn’t laughing. “That was a damn fool thing to do.”

“Oh, stop glaring at me like that. Nothing happened. The only thing is...” She touched her bare throat. “I lost my necklace, the one you gave me for my birthday. Remember, with the little gold horseshoe? I looked for it afterward, but—”

“You gonna lose more than that, fooling around with them high-society muck-a-mucks. Of all the damn fool shenanigans! Don’t you know the old lady don’t like nobody outshining her gals? And I don’t like you messing around with them empty-headed, do-nothing, high-society folks.”

“Oh, for goodness sake! I wasn’t outshining anybody, and I certainly have no desire to associate with the likes of Whitney Ashford even if, heaven forbid, I should ever have the chance to do so.”

“Well, seems to me you’re all gaga about messing around with that pretty polo fellow.”

“I wasn’t messing around with him!”

“I’d like to know what you call it.”

“An incident. One dance. Done. Over and out!” She spread her hands in a gesture of finality.

But there was a dreamy smile on her lips as she cleared the table and stacked the dishes. She was unaware that Lew watched her with anxious eyes.

The Green Acres polo field was a colorful sight as the players rode in and lined up for the first game of the Classic. But Brad Vandercamp was not looking at the field.

“Which is the Moodys’ box?” he asked his friend Carl.

Carl pointed it out.

Brad started to move toward it, checked. He turned to Carl. “What’s the daughter’s name?”

Carl gazed thoughtfully at him. “Sheila. But that’s not a good idea.”

“Oh?”

“When the well-padded Brad Vandercamp glances in her direction, a lady gets ideas.”

“Cut it out, Carl! Simple courtesy. Thank you for the ball, and—”

“Uh-huh. And, yes, thank you for the dinner invitation. I’m itching to come and meet that fascinating maid of yours, and oh, yes, by the way, return this thingamabob that she dropped when she danced with me at your ball. Damn it, Brad! You want to lose the woman her job?”

“Nothing so crude as that. I just want to—”

“I know what you want. And you’d do better to hang around the house somewhere near the servants’ entrance.”

“Like a stage-door johnny! Not on your life.”

“Okay, okay. Do it your own way, chum. But...” Again Carl squinted thoughtfully. “What’s the big deal? One dance. Why are you so hell-bent to find her?”

Brad shrugged but didn’t answer. He didn’t know why.

He fingered the necklace in his pocket and wondered. Why did he feel that if he let the woman with the saucy smile slip out of his life, he would lose something precious?

It was crazy, but there it was. He moved toward the Moody box and didn’t hear Carl’s last admonition. “Careful, buddy! Women get ideas even when you don’t glance their way!”

CHAPTER THREE

THE Ashfords arose late the Sunday after the game. After all, it had been an exhausting week, with one social gathering after another. It was raining steadily and was a little chilly outside but warm and cozy in the cheerful breakfast room. The ladies lingered long over the delicious brunch Paula had prepared.

Sunday was officially Paula’s day off. But if she had nowhere to go, which was often the case, the Ashfords considered her at their disposal. Even if she retreated to her uncle’s quarters over the garage, she was easily on call. This morning she didn’t mind. She wanted to hear about the game. She had never seen one, and knew nothing about polo. But she knew horses. It must take exceptionally skilled horsemanship to play a game in which horses were engaged. Her ears were alert as she replenished the basket of hot homemade rolls and poured cup after cup of coffee. But it was as if they had not seen the game. The conversation centered on who sat with whom in which spectator’s box and who danced with whom when they retreated to the clubhouse.

“I don’t think he saw me,” Whitney complained. “Aunt Sally’s box is in that far corner, next to the Goosbys, who have all those guests. They blocked us off completely. We shouldn’t have sat there.”

Her mother sniffed. “And just where would you have us sit, missy! Nobody offered to share their box but my dear cousin. You should be grateful.”

“But it is so disappointing that he never found where I was sitting.”

“He found where Sheila Moody was sitting,” Rae interjected.

Whitney stiffened. “That was her doing! She was smiling and simpering and hanging onto him like glue!”

Rae giggled. “I guess your view wasn’t blocked by the Goosbys. You were watching them every minute.”

“I was not! I only—”

“Girls, girls!” Mamie Ashford intervened.

“Well, I don’t see why she’s so het up about Brad Vandercamp,” Rae said. “He’s not the only interesting man who’s here.”

“He’s the most interesting! And you needn’t be so smug because his friend, Lord Carl Wormsley, earl of something or other, danced with you three times. He might have a title, but anything else he has is in hock!”

“I suppose you have checked the financial records of all the potential—”

“Word gets around!” Whitney snapped. “Rumor has it that his title is up for sale to the highest bidder, and I’m afraid that lets you out!”

Paula stopped listening. All she was hearing was that Whitney was in a snit. A few days later, she was in more of a snit. The prince had paid a call upon Sheila Moody.

Mrs. Ashford had heard of it at the bridge table. “One visit,” she exclaimed. “And Ada Moody is hinting at a romance. I bet she’s already looking at bridal clothes.”

However, it seemed that the romance quickly cooled, and Whitney was somewhat mollified when the Ashfords received an invitation for a sojourn on Renegade, the Vandercamp yacht They would be among the many guests who would dine and dance during a moonlight sail down the coast.

Paula received an invitation, too. Harry was catering, and he pleaded with her. To no avail. She couldn’t take the risk.

What risk? He had probably forgotten all about her if he thought of her at all, and she...

All right. She was as anxious to view his yacht as she was to see him play polo.

Wrong. You’re anxious to see him, idiot!

Well... out of sight, out of mind. She gave Harry a definite no.

Well, not exactly definite. When Harry persisted, she hesitated.

She’d never been on a sailboat, much less a yacht. And, from what she’d heard, the Vandercamp yacht was something to be seen.

Why not? With so many guests, he’d hardly notice one serving maid. Especially if she kept well out of his sight.

He recognized her the minute she stepped on the gangplank. He handed the binoculars to his steward, who stood beside him on the upper deck, and pointed. “That is she.”

The steward nodded and hurried away.

Brad focused the binoculars on Paula. Caught by the buoyant enthusiasm reflected in her face, he felt his pulse quicken. That was why he had searched. For another glimpse of that face. Bright, smiling, bubbling with expectant wonder, as if always on the verge of some happy, exciting adventure.

Paula’s eyes were wide as she ran up the gangplank. This wasn’t a yacht, it was a ship! She tried to take it all in as she followed Harry and other workers across a deck that had been scrubbed and polished to a shining perfection. Down a hall and several spiral staircases to an oversize kitchen. No. It was called a galley, and it was equipped with ovens, refrigerators, counters and other appurtenances adequate for the average hotel. Certainly enough to accommodate one—

“Paula, honey, give me a hand here,” Ruth, Harry’s chief assistant, called. “These better go in the fridge. This here’s some boat, ain’t it?”

“Sure is.” Paula lifted a carton of shrimp. “Guess he likes to travel in style.”

“Shoot, he don’t travel on it. Least he didn’t coming here.”

“Oh?” Paula tried to remember. The Ashfords had been so excited when the yacht—

“Guess it don’t travel fast enough for him. He flew in from France or Italy... some fancy place on the Riviera where he was playing whatever game he plays there.”

“So why the yacht?”

Ruth shrugged. “Who knows?” Guess no San Diego hotel is grand enough for him. Anyway, this boat, the Renegade, sailed in while he was still frolicking in Italy, and he’s living abroad while here. Pretty decent living quarters, wouldn’t you say?”

“Nice.”

“One thing about working with Harry,” Ruth said. “You get to know how the other half lives.”

Right, Paula thought. At least Ruth certainly knew more about the prince than Whitney did. Heck, I’m learning more than Whitney while fixing shrimp, she thought, as Ruth rattled on.

“Costs a pretty penny just to park it—more than two thousand a day for a big one like this—and don’t forget the crew that’s always on hand, whether anybody’s aboard or not...eight or ten I heard.”

“That many?” Paula asked, incredulous.

“Oh, sure. Who’s gonna maintain and sail the ship? There are those who maintain and sail this thing, as well as those who serve His Highness and guests who don’t know how to pick up a plate for themselves.”

“And all for one person.”

“Oh, I don’t think he’s alone much, honey. I hear he’s always got some special lady aboard.”

“Oh?” Something else Whitney had missed. Was a lady—

“No lady with him now,” Ruth said, answering the question Paula had not asked. “Some Italian woman back where he come from, but I guess he left her there. Seems like he gets bored pretty quick.”

Paula remembered the mischievous eyes, the engaging smile. He hadn’t looked bored. But maybe that was the way it began, and then... She felt her face grow hot and shook her head in irritation. As if something had begun the night of the costume ball! Good Lord! She was as foolish as Whitney. One impromptu dance and—

“And ’course there’s always lots of entertaining, like this,” Ruth went on.

“Plenty of bedrooms for overnight cruises. And we didn’t have to supply no linen or china, stuff like that. And, Lord, if you’d seen the wine racks. I never—” She broke off at the appearance of a man, immaculate in a white tuxedo.

Harry turned from one of the ovens to greet him. “This is Mr. McCoy,” he said, addressing his employees. “He is chief steward on the Renegade, and we are pleased to be working with him and his staff tonight. Now, as to procedure, as you know, bars and buffets are being set up on the two decks and at various indoor parlors. Each of you will now be assigned to certain sections where you will be assisted by one or more members of the regular Renegade staff.”

After a short conference between the two men, assignments and directions were made. Paula, who had received no assignment, assumed that she was to remain in the kitchen arranging the platters and hot dishes that would go up on dummy waiters to the various levels. But when Mr. McCoy arose from the table, he nodded to her. “Please, will you come with me?”

Puzzled, she followed him from the galley and up more and more staircases. After what seemed like an endless climb, they reached a landing, which he crossed to a door. He unlocked it with a card key and stepped back for her to enter.

She walked in, looked around. Commodious, but definitely a private parlor, she thought, noting a small table set for two.

She was to serve only two people? She turned to question the steward, but he inclined his head and quickly withdrew, closing the door behind him.

She looked at the table, the ice bucket with champagne beside it, a loaded buffet within easy reach. Serving only two would be a piece of cake. Since they weren’t dining with the other guests, they obviously wanted to be alone. After serving them, she supposed she should, like Mr. McCoy, quietly withdraw. She chuckled. The only difficulty might be in finding her way to the galley.

Meanwhile, what had Ruth said? Yep, this was a good chance to see how the other half lives.

The sofa curving around the conversational area in one corner of the room was cushioned in shades of blue, somehow reminiscent of the tossing waves of the sea. The table centering the area held a big bowl of chrysanthemums that seemed to catch their color from the sunlit coastline displayed in the oversize picture on the wall. Everything spoke of good taste and money. She spotted a door, which she opened to a bedroom also tastefully done in shades of ocean blue.

Just as she started in, she felt the roll of the boat beneath her feet. They were off! Whoever she was to serve might come in at any moment, and she didn’t want to be caught peeking. She quickly shut the door.

Just in time, she thought, as she heard the click of the card key and saw the other door open. She was standing at attention when he came in.

The prince himself.

Of course. Who else? Why hadn’t it occurred to her before? Anybody who would sneak a servant he didn’t even know on to a dance floor where she should not be would think nothing of sneaking away from his own guests to have a private rendezvous with...how had Ruth put it? His present interest.

She was surprised at her own indignation. Why should she care what he did, when and with whom?

Curiosity got the best of her, and she looked beyond him. Where was she?

“Hello, again,” he said.

Her gaze flew to him. She had been too immersed in speculation to remember that he might recognize her.

She played it straight. “Good evening, sir. May I get you something? A drink or—”

“Allow me.” He took the champagne from the ice bucket, uncorked it with practiced dexterity and poured two glasses. He handed one to her, touched it with his own. “To us.”

What was going on? She set the glass down. “Thank you, sir, but I don’t drink while working.”

“You are not working. Tonight you are my guest.”

“I—I . . . Beg pardon?” What kind of game was this?

“I said tonight you are my guest. So, please...” He pulled out a chair and smiled.

She did not move.

“Come now,” he coaxed. “I’ve gone to a deal of trouble to arrange this bit of time. Let’s relax and enjoy.”

She saw the mischief lurking in his eyes. Remembered all she had heard of him.

She didn’t like this arrangement. Didn’t like being alone with a well-known lover boy, somewhere out in the Pacific, in his private quarters at the top of his yacht, locked...

Locked? Her throat felt dry. She moved to the door. It swung easily open, and she felt a flush of shame.

“You’re not going to run away again, are you, Cinderella?” he asked, laughing.

Anger replaced the shame. “My name is not Cinderella.”

“Oh? But you did run away at the stroke of midnight. Deserted—”

She was halfway out the door, but he blocked her way. “Wait. Don’t go. Why are you so angry?”

“I’m not angry. I just—” She bit back the words don’t intend to be one of your easy pickups. “I don’t indulge in fairy-tale games, Mr. Vandercamp.”

“This isn’t a game.”

“Whatever you call it, I don’t like it. I came here to work, and I find myself tricked into . . . into this!” Her gesture expressed what she couldn’t bring herself to say.

“What’s wrong with this? How else was I to find you?”

“What?”

“No name. No place of residence. I didn’t even know where you worked. Naturally I assumed you were in the employ of the Moodys, and made several calls there. Saw no trace of you. It was only by lucky chance that during one of these visits, Sam, Moody’s son, dropped a hint. The costume ball was served by an outfit called Harry’s Catering Service. So—”

Paula, who had been fascinated into silence as much by his clipped British accent as his rapid words, broke in. “So why didn’t you just ask Harry? That would have been simple.”