Princess In Denim (3 page)

Yeah. Right.

"Emma is my private secretary, Humphrey," Moira said, in a tone that Chloe hadn't been able to master after an entire semester of Assertiveness Training 101.

"Your Royal Highness," Humphrey continued, "if I may point out that she has been away from Ennsway for sixteen years... It would make more sense if she stayed on as
my
assistant."

Chloe swore she could hear her heart thumping faster than a cornered jackrabbit's.
Go, Moira.

"Assistant will be a fine position for you, if you want it, Humphrey."

"But, Your Royal Highness

"I'll hear no more about it, Humphrey." Moira moved to brush past him, and he jumped out of her way.

Emma followed Moira, and Chloe followed her without hesitation, still keeping her face averted. She knew they breezed past the staff, but didn't dare look up to see who they were. She'd meet them later as Her Royal Highness, the Princess Moira of Ennsway.

"One more thing, Your Royal Highness," Humphrey said.

Moira didn't look back; none of them did.

"His Royal Majesty, the King of Baesland, is tending business in the city. He will return to the plane momentarily."

Chloe was certain the three women couldn't avoid the neighboring king as handily as they had the staff. There would be little or no time to review her notes as planned. She could turn around right now, run out the door of the plane, down the steps, across the tarmac and back through the terminal. She could beg her landlord for her apartment back—at the new rate, if need be. She could get another job and return to classes.

She could go back to wearing dirty clothes out of the hamper, stand in line at the bank only to find out she was overdrawn, and muck out stalls until her calluses had calluses.

Her sigh said it all.
No way!

The private jet was from Baesland, the neighboring country to Moira's Ennsway, compliments of His Royal Majesty, the king. In it was a private bedroom. Not just an ordinary bedroom, either. One with solid cherrywood walls, gold light fixtures, a king-size bed, and plush Oriental throw rugs; a full-size bathroom of marble, with gold faucets on the sink and shower, and crystal decanters on the vanity that held anything a visitor, such as Princess Moira, was likely to want.

"Wow," Chloe whispered in awe. "I'll bet 'Lifestyles' would like to see this."

And apparently it also came with a maid, as one knocked at the door and hovered there, waiting for permission to enter.

Chloe heard well-bred exasperation in Moira's sigh and wondered if she could duplicate it in the days and weeks to come.

"Leave us," Moira said.

And the maid vanished, just like that. Chloe wished she'd been able to get rid of a few dates that easily.

"Lock the door behind me," Emma suggested. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes to check you two out."

Chloe locked the door behind her, then whirled on Moira. "You didn't tell me there'd be a king on board."

Moira unwove her French braid, and none too gently. "I didn't know. Come on, hurry up. You don't want to keep him waiting when he gets here. It'll be your first test."

"First
test? What do you call that gauntlet we just ran through?"

Moira dismissed that with a wave of her hand. Chloe tried it, too, just to see if she could get the same effect.

"What are you doing?" Moira asked with a laugh.

Chloe grinned good-naturedly. "Practicing being you."

"Don't worry about it. It's better if you're just you. Anything you do will be all right."

Chloe muttered, "I'll believe that when I see it," and whipped off her ball cap.

They traded everything except their underwear, and that was only because Chloe was wearing an expensive set Moira had given her for Christmas. Chloe got the designer sunglasses, Moira got the Dodgers cap and ponytail. Chloe got the pearls and pale yellow silk suit, Moira the jacket and jeans; the skirt was a little short on Chloe, and Moira got her first lesson in making cuffs. They'd known ahead of time that Chloe couldn't fit into Moira's shoes, so Chloe dug in her backpack for her outrageously expensive new pair of pumps, and Moira stuffed tissues in the toes of the scruffy cowboy boots.

"Ready?" Moira asked.

"Ready. What do we do now?"

Chloe stood still as Moira appraised her.

"You need mascara."

"I don't wear mascara."

"You do now."

"But you said I should just be myself."

"Well, yourself wears mascara today. And blush."

A knock sounded at the door.

"It's probably Emma. I'll get it," Chloe said as she turned toward the door.

"No!"

Chloe stopped dead in her tracks.

"Jeez, Chloe, you're a royal princess now. Y'all better act like it," Moira snapped. And she stomped across the floor in her boots, checked to see that it was Emma, and let her in.

Chloe was speechless. Moira had turned into her Chloe faster and easier than Chloe was managing to turn into a princess. She had to get her act together.

Emma hovered by Moira's side as she examined Chloe. "She needs makeup."

"I know," Moira answered. "But fifteen minutes ago, I was a princess who didn't carry any."

"Ah." Emma handed over her purse. "Go for it."

Still fretting over the king, Chloe asked, "Is he here yet?"

"His secretary just phoned. His Majesty is on the way."

"Relax, Chloe...uh, Moira," Moira said. "He'll be happy to see you. He's an old family friend."

Just what she needed, someone who'd known Moira as she used to be. Someone who knew the family well. Someone who, if he discovered the deception, might feel honor bound to toss her off the airplane.

Chloe slumped onto the padded stool by the vanity. "Great. Do I jump plane now, or wait for him to throw me out?"

Moira shoved a mascara wand into Chloe's hand and turned her to face the mirror. "Make yourself look like a princess, kid."

"He'd better have poor eyesight."

"You've been my best friend for ten years. Just act like me, in your own way, of course."

A messenger tapped on the door, and Emma spoke with him. "His Royal Majesty has just arrived," she told Chloe and Moira.

Chloe looked in the mirror. Other than mildly petrified, she looked pretty darned good with a touch of mascara, blush and lipstick. Maybe, if Baesland had a prince, and the king didn't see through her disguise, he'd take a liking to her looks and send the prince her way. She missed her ponytail and ball cap, though.

"Remember,
Moira,
act regal."

* * *

The long, silver-gray limo oozed luxury. Its seats were of the softest silver-gray leather, matching carpet lay underfoot and up the doors, Yanni drifted softly out of invisible speakers, the bar was well stocked and, just in case an occupant wanted to work instead of relax, a computer, fax, and phone were discreetly cabineted away.

His Royal Majesty, King William, noticed none of it. "Leonard."

As always, William's private secretary responded promptly, "Yes, Your Majesty?"

"Send a follow-up letter to the surgeon in Los Angeles, thanking him for the appointment today and detailing what we discussed. I would like him to respond as soon as possible."

"And Mr. Edwards at UCSB?"

"Yes, the same. Restate the urgency of breaking ground this year. And mention that I am deeply grateful for his meeting me at such a late hour. I am certain that was quite unusual for him."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Leonard's normal mask broke into the slightest of grins. "I'd say the six cups of coffee he consumed were evidence of that."

For the first time in his life, William checked his tie—the red, power tie that his valet had deemed appropriate for today's meetings. It had a crown woven into it, so subtly that people consciously did not see it, but subconsciously were constantly faced with the fact that he was a king, and they were not. It was fine for a day of business appointments, but not for greeting the princess.

"Damn." He loosened the knot and yanked it off.

"What, Your Majesty?"

"Is she there?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. She boarded the plane fifteen minutes ago." He deftly caught the tie as William threw it aside. "I'll find you another."

William gave the matter little thought. "Better not."

"But, Your Majesty, you never—"

"If she is as spineless as the rest of her family, I do not wish to scare her. I only want to make a good impression."

"Very well." Leonard draped it over his shoulder. "I will keep it handy for your appointment in Texas."

If Leonard said more, William did not notice. The luxuriousness of the limo eluded him, not because he was used to it, but because his mind was on the princess he had not seen in sixteen years. She had been a child to him when she was twelve and he eighteen. Reserved and well mannered. Not beautiful, but what was the American expression?

Ah, yes,
cute.

"We're almost there, Your Majesty." Leonard's voice carried an undercurrent that spoke volumes.
Sit back, relax, take a deep breath. You are the king, she is just a princess.

William tried it for ten seconds; it did not work. Leonard had been with him forever. If he could talk to anybody, it should be he.

"How do I look?"

Leonard took his time assessing His Majesty from head to toe, and William grew impatient.

"She is used to Americans, you know, Leonard. They are quite relaxed, I think. Do I look relaxed?"

"You might loosen your collar, Your Majesty."

William undid the top two buttons of his dress shirt. "Should I take off my jacket?"

"You look quite dashing in it."

William grinned. "Dashing, hmm? That is good."

"Very good, Your Majesty. Then, when her father announces the good news about the upcoming nuptials—"

William's hand flashed up in warning. "Remember not to— How do the Americans say it? Do not let the cat slip?"

"Out of the bag."

"Yes, do not let the cat out of the bag. A most strange expression. Who keeps a cat in a bag?" Before Leonard could reply, William continued, "I wish to develop a friendship with her first."

"Yes, Your Majesty. Maybe even romance her a bit. Then she will see how fortunate she is to be getting you."

William took a deep breath and relaxed back against the leather. "Yes, she is."

* * *

Chloe had lived the past ten years in Santa Barbara, home to many highly paid movie stars who yearned for a slower-paced life-style in which to raise their families. A slower pace, however, didn't mean they left their jewels in Hollywood. Chloe had seen pearls adorning some of the women. Never, though, had she thought to have a string of these well-matched babies around her own neck.

"Don't fidget. Leave them alone," Emma ordered, and Chloe obediently dropped her hands.

"Here's the purse," Moira said as she handed over the soft leather bag, navy blue to match the trim on the jacket collar and pumps.

It weighed no more than a feather. Chloe opened it and peeked inside. "A tissue? You carry a purse just so you have a tissue?"

Moira's eyebrows arched humorously. "Like, what do I need, huh?"

Chloe had never heard Moira speak so...casually, and it made her laugh. "Pretty good, Moira."

"Chloe. You've got to remember to call me Chloe."

Chloe pulled herself up straighter, as if she had a string attached to the top of her head to make her taller. She tucked the purse next to her ribs and held it with her arm. She touched the pearls to be sure they were still there, then remembered to leave them alone. "You're absolutely right, Chloe, dear." She turned to face her new private secretary and almost got the giggles. "Emma, I'm ready to meet His Majesty now."

"I'll just wait for y'all in here," Moira drawled in the Texas accent that Chloe had lost years ago.

Chloe grabbed her by the hand. "Over my dead body."

Moira tugged free. "No, really, I'm serious. This is your presentation. You do this. I'll be out later, and Emma can introduce me as Chloe Marshall. Just remember one thing."

"What?"

"If I can do you, you can do me. I'll be American, and you don't be sassy to His Majesty if you don't like him."

"Me? Sassy?"

Moira rolled her eyes. "Oh, puh-lease."

Chloe swallowed a laugh. Yes, she was sassy at times. She hadn't grown up in the wilds of Texas, with foster siblings who came and went with great irregularity, and not learned to stand up for herself come hell or high water.

Emma opened the door. Chloe took a deep breath and walked through it, right into her new life. Right out to meet a man who was supposed to be an old family friend with poor eyesight, and instead turned out to be a fairy-tale prince in a charcoal gray suit

William stood near the door, quietly giving orders to his secretary, the pilot, and a handful of other people. Chloe watched in fascination as they jumped even faster for him than Moira's staff did for her, and she'd thought
they
were quick.

When the others noticed Chloe's approach, so did he. Tall, he could see over their heads. Dark, he met California's beach standards for tan, with his hair a rich black that Prince Charming would have killed for. Not a hint of gray at the temples. Handsome, without being pretentious. Lapis eyes—Chloe knew that color from her Egyptian art class. Straight nose. And perfect teeth behind a slightly crooked smile.

Then, suddenly, a frown that mirrored Chloe's thoughts.

This might be an old family friend, but he wasn't
that
old. He didn't even wear glasses. Not so much as a squint. How well had he known Moira when she was twelve? And would he notice a difference now?

She heard Emma's voice as if it were far off. "Your Royal Majesty..."

Chloe stood frozen to the carpet as the introduction continued.

I'm Moira. I'm Moira.
Maybe if she repeated it enough, she'd remember it.

"...Her Royal Highness, the Princess Moira," Emma finished.

Chloe forced a pleasant smile and tried to remember what she was supposed to do now. Curtsy? Bow? Shake his hand? The mere thought of touching his hand made hers sweat.