The Rebel Prince

For the first time, she noticed that he held a needle and a long tail of thread in his other hand.

“I can’t sew,” she said quickly.

“Liar.” Now he was laughing at her. “If you took cooking classes, I have no doubt a sewing lesson or two lurked in there somewhere. Come on. You’re going to sew this braid back on for me.”

“But—”

“Emma, have a heart. I’ve got to get to the reception in the entry hall. They’re waiting for me. And I can’t show up like this.” He paused, and then, with what seemed like a lot of effort, he made himself say, “Please.”

She bristled, and then slowly relaxed. There was no point in keeping up this resistance when she knew she was going to have to give in eventually anyway. And if all he really wanted was a bit of needlework, the more quickly she got to it, the more quickly she would be back on her way to the kitchen. Besides, she was a sucker for people who said “please”.

“Oh, all right,” she said, shaking her head in resignation. “I’ll give it a try. But I’m warning you, I’m not very good at it.”

He nodded and led her into a small room just a few feet away from the elevator. It seemed to be a storage center of sorts, with maps pinned and glued all over the walls and large pieces of luggage stacked on shelves and set about in piles.

“We’ll be out of the way here,” he said, dropping down to sit on a tall stool and handing her the needle. “Sew like the wind, my sweet, and we’ll be back on our way in no time.”

She put a knot in the thread rather absently as she looked down at his collar. He’d unbuttoned the top buttons so that it could be pulled to the side a bit. The braid was definitely loose, and somewhat shredded in places, but she knew she could take care of it easily. Still…

She cleared her throat nervously. “You know, this would be a lot easier to do if you took the jacket off,” she suggested.

He shook his head. “Can’t do it. You don’t know what it cost me to get into this damn monkey suit in the first place. I’ll never be able to summon the patience to do it again.”

She sighed. Nothing was ever completely easy, was it? “Hold still, then.”

Her fingers were shaking. She bit her lip, trying to stop them. If she couldn’t keep steady and the needle slipped…She winced, thinking of it. He’d have her fired for sure.

Fired! Hah! Killed, more likely.

She almost laughed aloud and somehow that thought steadied her. Taking a deep breath, she pressed the piece of braid down where it evidently belonged and began her first probe with the needle.

There. That wasn’t so hard. She took a tiny stitch, then another, and then she was moving along as though she really did know what she was doing. The trick was going to be to keep her mind off the fact that she was doing this for the prince.

The prince! The man who was going to be King of Meridia. She hadn’t let that fact sink in yet. She couldn’t think about it if she was going to get through this task alive.

But it wasn’t easy. She had to force herself to ignore the sense of his body heat that wafted up from his open-necked uniform, bringing with it a clean, masculine scent. Her fingers brushed the warm skin of his neck every now and then. And she felt a sensation—a sort of flutter of excitement—every time.

It was only natural. After all, he was a very attractive man—smooth skin, thick, shiny hair, and the most beautiful ear…Her mouth was dry and she was embarrassed. But, after all, she wouldn’t be human if all that didn’t affect her—just a little.

And she knew it didn’t mean a thing. He was as self-centered as they came. And, more than that, he was dangerous. She didn’t want to spell out just exactly what he threatened in her. Better not to think about that. But she’d known enough to shy away from him even before she’d found out he was the prince. She just had to keep that in mind.

The most ridiculous thing in the world would be to let herself get a crush on this man. But she really didn’t fear that because she wasn’t the type to get caught up in romance. It had never been all that important to her. She’d been too busy becoming the best chef she could be. So she wasn’t really very worried.

Still, if love was a contagious disease, she ought to get a vaccination. Just recently her half-sisters, the twins, Rebecca and Rachel, had both come down with it. Emma had celebrated Rebecca’s marriage in Wyoming, then stopped to visit Rachel and her new husband, Luc, at their vineyard in France before coming to Meridia.

It was wonderful that both her older sisters had found love the way they had. But it did exact its own sort of toll on her spirit. She’d never been in love herself—never had time. She was almost thirty. Was it too late for her to find a way to develop the knack for it? If it hadn’t happened in all this time, maybe it never would.

That was a disturbing thought and, added to the jumble that was now her emotional life—just another thing she didn’t have time to think about.

The sound of a voice from down the hall made her realize it had been some time since either of them had spoken. It was almost beginning to feel awkward. She tried to think of something to say, but how did you strike up a conversation with a prince?

Still, this wasn’t just any prince. This was the man who’d knocked her out with a water-polo ball, then sat with her while she’d tried to get him to tell her fairy tales. Surely she could think of something to say to him.

“So,” she said tentatively, going back over some of her stitches to strengthen the hold, “you’re going to be King. I guess that must be pretty thrilling.”

Glancing up, he gave her a quizzical look. “I can think of other words for it,” he muttered.

“Well, I’m thrilled,” she persisted. “This is going to be my first chance to show an international audience what I can do. I only hope I do you proud.”

He was looking at her as though he thought her hopelessly naïve, but she didn’t care.

“I have some really unique plans. I’d like to go over them with you when you have a minute. Maybe tomorrow morning?”

She knew she was starting to show how much she loved her work, and she also knew that such an open attitude was probably considered completely tedious in his crowd, but she couldn’t pretend to be sophisticated—because she was anything but. He was the prince and she was the commoner—and she wasn’t going to try to be anything else.

“Wait until you see some of the menus.”

“I can hardly contain my excitement,” he said dryly, and, though he didn’t put that sarcastic, mocking tone he so often used in his voice, she could tell he was having trouble holding it back, and she flushed again.

Biting her lower lip, she vowed to quit trying to be polite. It didn’t pay with this man. If he wasn’t interested in having a normal conversation, so be it.

But then she noticed he was staring at one of the maps on the wall across from where he sat. Reaching out, he could just barely reach it. Very slowly, almost lovingly, he traced the outline of Italy with his forefinger.

“Italy’s a wonderful country,” she said.

He nodded but he didn’t say anything.

“I was in Rome last year for an Italian meringue seminar. It was a trip I’ll never forget.”

He gave her a dubious look. “The Italians have their own type of meringue?” he asked.

“Oh, yes. You slowly pour hot sugar syrup over stiffly beaten egg whites and keep beating until the whole thing has cooled. It makes a much more stable meringue.”

“Great. There’s nothing I hate more than an unstable meringue.”

He was making fun of her but she didn’t react. Her mind had gone back to his tracing the outline of the map. There was something almost sad and regretful about the way he’d done it and she wondered why.

“My grandmother was Italian,” she told him. “From Naples. My grandfather met her during the war.”

“Really.” He looked up, and for the first time his eyes seemed clear and interested. “My mother was Italian. She was born in Florence.”

Their gazes met and held in a stolen moment of mutual understanding, a connection across a vast, empty plain. And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone, and he looked away.

Her heart was suddenly thumping in her chest. Before she had time to catch her breath, he was speaking again, changing the subject.

“So, Emma Valentine. How did you get the job as my coronation food guru? I thought we usually used the in-house cook to do the dirty deed.”

“I’m told you have in the past,” she said quickly, hoping he hadn’t noticed how she’d responded to that momentary bond between them. She couldn’t seem to control her pulse or her breathing around him as it was and the whole thing was getting darned inconvenient. “But this time…”

She stopped and started again.

“Well, you see, Todd Akers, your coronation manager, is a regular at our restaurant in London. We’ve become friendly over the years. So when he had this fantastic assignment, he knew of my work. He contacted me and asked if I would be interested.”

“And you were.”

“Oh, yes. It’s a chance of a lifetime for me.”

He looked at her, curious. “In what way?”

“Well…As I said before, it’s an opportunity to show the world what I can do. Make my reputation.”

“And from that will come more offers for other coronations?” he asked skeptically. “How many can there be?”

“And other large affairs as well,” she explained quickly. “Also, cooking shows on television. Cookbook contracts. Positions in cooking schools. All sorts of things.”

Including a chance that her father would finally feel that she’d made it in this profession. There was always that hope, dim as it might be. But she crinkled her nose and pushed those concerns away. She would worry about that when she was back in London.

“If all goes well,” Sebastian said softly, his face taking on a strange, dreamy look.

“Of course. If I fail…” She caught her breath and shook her head firmly. “No! I won’t even entertain the thought. I’m going to give you a coronation dinner fit for a king.” She couldn’t resist a quick grin. “So to speak.”

“So to speak,” he echoed, nodding. He glanced up at her again, his eyes hooded. “So you and Todd are…old friends.”

He said it in a significant way that added a spin she couldn’t let pass. Did he really think she’d been chosen for this job because she’d been…“friendly” with Todd? Frowning, she pulled back and stared at him.

“We are not ‘old friends’.”

He raised an eyebrow, searching her gaze. “New friends?”

“We’re not ‘friends’ the way you make it sound.” She pursed her lips, gazing at him. “You really are a cynical man, aren’t you?”

He shrugged with a nonchalance that came naturally to him.

“It’s a requirement for survival, sweetheart.”

He gave his statement a Humphrey Bogart twist that almost made her smile. Almost.

Instead, she got an urge to lecture him.

No! the rational part of her warned.

Just a little lecture. For his own good.

No! Don’t be crazy! What will you get out of it?

The lecture isn’t for me. It’s for him. And he needs it.

She waited a few seconds, but the rational side didn’t seem to have an answer for that, so she took a deep breath and charged ahead.

“Since you’re interested in survival,” she began, carefully feeling her way at first, “I’ve got a tip for you. It’ll make you a better monarch.”

He looked suddenly wary. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”

She was rapidly developing a nervous twitch now that he was looking at her so intently, and wondering if it might not have been better to listen to her rational side after all, but she soldiered on.

“Requests and suggestions work better than orders,” she said as firmly as she could, concentrating resolutely on her stitches. “Don’t run roughshod over people, like you did with me just now. Make them want to help you by giving them the same respect you want from them.”

He stared up at her, shaking his head, looking like a man who felt he was being wrongly accused. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You.” She glanced at him and then back to the sewing. “You tend to order people about as though their lives aren’t as important as yours and—”

“No, I don’t.”

Now he was looking fierce, and his fierce look was enough to make her voice shake a little, no matter how tough she was determined to be.

“Yes, you do.”

He shook his head. “And, anyway, maybe their lives aren’t as important as mine.”

Throwing her free hand in the air, she appealed to the heavens. “See what I mean?”

“So you want me to pretend,” he said irritably, his jaw clenched. “To make nice.”

Her heart was racing. She’d offended him. She probably shouldn’t have brought it up. But she couldn’t back down now. She lifted her chin and held her own.

“Yes, if it comes to that,” she told him earnestly.

He glared at her. “You have some nerve, Emma Valentine,” he said in a voice that could have cut through steel.

“I know.”

He paused, staring at her, then shook his head. “Okay, Emma,” he said gruffly. “I’ll think about it.”

“Oh.” Relief flooded her system. “Well. Good.” She wanted to laugh but she didn’t dare ruin everything. “Hold still,” she said as she tied off the knotted end. “There. You’re finished.”

Rising, he buttoned his jacket up to the neck and flexed his wide shoulders inside, then bent to look into a mirror.

“Good job,” he said coolly. “It looks great.”

She nodded, turning toward the doorway. “I’m off,” she said, avoiding another last look into his eyes. “Goodbye.”

“Emma.” He caught her hand and held it until she turned back to face him. “Thank you very much.”

She looked up in surprise. The way he said it, she had a feeling he didn’t overuse that phrase.

“Let me know if there is any favor I can ever do for you,” he added.

A certain warmth filled her. Was he saying this because she’d made him more aware? There was no way to tell, but she thought there was a chance her little lecture had actually done some good.

On the other hand, was that a mocking light she saw in his eyes? With a rueful smile, she turned. It was time to get away from him and his very potent sphere of influence.

But before she could escape, he reached out and stopped her again.

“Before you go, one word of advice for you, Miss Valentine,” he said coolly, his golden eyes cynical. “When you hang around a royal castle, don’t trust anyone.”

She frowned. Was he trying to scare her? Or was his warning for real?

“Not even the king?” she asked.

His smile was humorless. “Especially not the king,” he said.

The kitchen of Rolande Castle seemed to have a personality of its own—ancient, cavernous and crusty, with a certain medieval ambience. As Emma looked around it she could imagine knights of old stomping through, armor clanging, nabbing hunks of just-roasted meat with their swords. Modern stainless-steel appliances and other attempts at updating were overwhelmed by the dark atmosphere of centuries past lingering on. A huge arched brick fireplace took up one entire wall and the heat it generated was stifling. Large copper-bottomed pots hung everywhere.

“Chef Henri,” she said, presenting herself to the chef, a pudgy man with a sense of the dramatic and a mustache that reminded her of Salvador Dalí. “The housekeeper said you could use some help tonight, so I…”

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