Christmas Baby For The Princess
Christmas Baby For The Princess
Barbara Wallace
Rescuing the pregnant princess!Princess Arianna of Corinthia fled to New York when she discovered her pregnancy, faced with either marrying the man who deceived her or a royal scandal. But when a pick-pocket leaves her penniless, she must turn to handsome restauranteur Max Brown for help…Max can’t resist rescuing this enchanting stranger. And as his newest (and worst!) waitress brings festive sparkle into his solitary life, her mysterious past make him wary… Can he hope Arianna is for life…not just for Christmas!Royal House of CorinthiaRoyally wed…by Christmas!
Rescuing the pregnant princess!
Faced with a royal scandal, pregnant princess Arianna fled to New York. But when a pickpocket leaves her penniless, she must turn to handsome restauranteur Max Brown for help...
Max can’t resist rescuing this enchanting stranger, even if her mysterious past makes him wary. But as his newest (and worst!) waitress brings festive sparkle into his solitary life, can he hope Arianna is here for life...not just for Christmas?
Royal House of Corinthia (#ud3abcf55-06e6-5528-8736-1e6ad206da53)
Royally wed...by Christmas!
This Christmas Princess Arianna and Crown Prince Armando of Corinthia are facing the biggest challenges of their lives.
Pregnant Arianna flees to New York to seek some privacy...only to find her very own Prince Charming!
Christmas Baby for the Princess
Available now
Crown Prince Armando needs a royal bride—so why can’t he stop thinking about his assistant, Rosa Lamberti?
Winter Wedding for the Prince
Available December 2016
You won’t want to miss this delightfully emotional new duet from Barbara Wallace, brimming with Christmas magic!
Christmas Baby for the Princess
Barbara Wallace
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
BARBARA WALLACE can’t remember when she wasn’t dreaming up love stories in her head, so writing romances for Mills & Boon is a dream come true. Happily married to her own Prince Charming, she lives in New England with a house full of empty-nest animals. Occasionally her son comes home, as well.
To stay up-to-date on Barbara’s news and releases, sign up for her newsletter at www.barbarawallace.com (http://www.barbarawallace.com).
To Susan, Selena and Donna, whose emails help get me from page 1 to page 220. And to Peter, my personal Prince Charming. Merry Christmas, sweetie.
Contents
Cover (#u8657bc43-b0b1-5413-b350-2ed830f2ac67)
Back Cover Text (#uf23bc58f-b020-5e36-b4e2-87c843d934d8)
Introduction (#ub24799fe-8fe3-5173-9137-330e16ed4cc6)
Title Page (#u27ae74f4-254f-5174-9c0b-7639688a5420)
About the Author (#uef554e88-ef8a-5d42-ba1e-aed8dc43d953)
Dedication (#ua6384f61-0fae-52f4-af91-fb3ce5047a11)
CHAPTER ONE (#udd3bf60f-c6fd-5316-b7e2-639b82cf0b1e)
CHAPTER TWO (#uc93cf74d-98cc-50e7-b5aa-0d4eb33bb7cf)
CHAPTER THREE (#u501daa48-9ea2-5ebf-aa9e-9d4372d18096)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ud3abcf55-06e6-5528-8736-1e6ad206da53)
HER WALLET WAS MISSING.
Arianna was going to be sick. Stomach churning, she slumped against the brick wall and took a shaky breath. Then she checked her bag a third time.
Lipstick. Hand sanitizer. Passport. No wallet.
How? She distinctly remembered double-checking her bag after paying for breakfast, and her wallet had been there, nestled against the silk lining.
Times Square. There’d been that woman who accosted her and needed help reading the subway map, and another man who jostled her while she was trying to break free. One of them must have reached in while she wasn’t paying attention...
Stupid, stupid, stupid. This was what happened when you tried to run away from your problems: you got more. Arianna closed her eyes to keep the tears from burning their way free. A few weeks, a month at most—that was all she’d needed.
For what had to be the one-hundredth time, she cursed her own foolishness. If she had listened to her instincts, she never would have had to run away in the first place. She wouldn’t have to decide between a loveless marriage and a royal scandal.
Now, thanks to the pickpocket, she was going to have to make the choice sooner rather than later. Without money, she couldn’t stay in America. She had no money for food, not to mention that the owner of that terrible hotel where she was staying expected her to pay her bill at the end of the week or, as he so sweetly said, he would toss her pretty rear end on the street.
Her child deserved better.
Amazing how one tiny pink line could change your life. When she first missed her period, she blamed stress. After all she and Manolo had just broken up. Besides, they had only been together—like that—two times. Two misguided attempts at deepening feelings that weren’t there.
When the second month came and went, however, she couldn’t blame stress anymore. The world stopped turning the moment she saw that extra pink line. She didn’t know what do to, so she ran. Disappeared, so she could decide which of her no-win choices was the lesser of two evils.
Just then, a cold November wind blew down the street, the chill swirling around her shins before creeping up her skirt. Nature’s way of reminding her how serious her predicament really was. Tucking her collar about her throat, Arianna lifted her chin with royal stoicism. No sense dragging her feet. With luck, a decision about what to do would come to her while she was on a plane back to Corinthia.
A few feet ahead, a deliveryman exited one of the businesses, maneuvering his cart over the threshold with a clank loud enough to be heard over Manhattan traffic. The place was called the Fox Club, according to the letters emblazed on the side of the maroon awning. Goodness only knew what kind of club the place was, but no matter. It was open and, hopefully, had a telephone she could borrow.
Except it wasn’t a club. It was a time portal. How else to describe what lay on the other side of the door?
The room looked like it belonged in an old-fashioned American detective movie, like the ones they sometimes played on television late at night. High-backed booths covered in rich burgundy leather, wood so dark it was almost black. Iridescent glass chandeliers that bathed the room with a smoky white light. The hair on Arianna’s arms started to rise. Sleek and sensual, the entire space pulsed with expectancy. A simmering promise of something for all who walked in.
To her left, a large bar lined the wall. More dark wood, only this time the dark was accented with brass rails and shelves filled with glassware. A stocky black man, dressed to fit the setting, stood by the register. His pomade-slicked head was bent over a clipboard, on which he was making notes. The man didn’t look up when she approached.
Arianna cleared her throat. His attention still on the clipboard, the man reached under the bar and produced a sheet of paper that he thrust toward her. “Fill this out. I’ll tell the owner you’re here.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re here about the job, right?”
He hooked a thumb at a sign that had been discreetly tucked in the corner of one of the windows. Through the glass, she could make out the backward outline that read Help Wanted.
“I...”
Arianna paused. It was a silly idea. Her, working in a restaurant. She’d never worked a day in her life. Not a proper job anyway.
On the other hand, if she could find a job, she would earn money, and money meant she could postpone going home.
She would have time to think.
Make the right choice.
Ignoring the voice telling her she was making yet another reckless decision, she set her bag on the bar and, before she could change her mind, announced, “Yes. Yes, I would like the job.”
“I appreciate the enthusiasm,” a voice replied. A low, smooth voice that definitely did not belong to the bartender.
Arianna looked up and caught her breath. If the club looked like something out of a movie, this man was the movie star. He approached her end of the bar with an elegance that was almost surreal in its smoothness, his double-breasted suit shifting and swaying in a cadence only a custom-made garment could achieve.
His cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass while his eyes were the color of Mediterranean slate. Only a slightly crooked nose prevented his face from complete perfection. Interestingly, the flaw fit him perfectly. As did his surroundings.
“Max Brown,” he said.
Arianna started to nod, the way she always did when someone presented themself, then remembered where she was and quickly stuck out her hand. “Arianna.”
“Nice to meet you, Arianna.” His grip was solid and sure. “Is there a last name?”
“Santoro.” Arianna cringed as her real name popped out.
Fortunately, he showed no signs of recognition. “Pleasure to meet you, Arianna Santoro. You’re interested in the waitressing job, are you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Glad to hear it. Have you filled out an application?”
“Not yet,” the bartender said.
“I only just walked in,” Arianna explained.
His smile was as charming as could be. “That’s all right. Why don’t we have a seat, and we can fill in the spaces as we go along.” He motioned toward one of the booths lining the wall. “We don’t need much. Just the usual stuff. Name, address, social security number. Oh, and your firstborn child, of course.”
Arianna’s stomach lurched.
“Relax, I was only kidding about the firstborn part,” he said, touching her elbow. “Are you all right?”
“I’m f-fine.” She supposed it was nerves making her feel queasy. What was she going to say when he asked for details about her identity? Squeezing the bar rail, she focused on breathing through her nose, hoping the lump would work its way back down. Having something in her stomach might help, too; it was past lunchtime after all. “Could I get some chamomile tea and dry toast?” she asked the bartender.
“You’re ordering food on a job interview?” The man shook his head.
Max continued to keep his hand on her elbow. “Might not be a bad idea, Darius,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind a fresh cup of coffee.”
“You want me to go grind the beans for you, too?”
“And grow the chamomile.”
The bartender muttered something about his job description, but obliged nonetheless. As soon as he disappeared behind a swinging door, Arianna felt the grip on her elbow tighten.
“Why don’t we take a seat,” Max said as he gently pulled her away from the bar rail, “and you can tell me about yourself. Starting with why you want to work for the Fox Club.”
If only he knew... “Why does anyone want a job?” she asked as she felt herself being propelled to the booths on the other side of the room.
“Generally, because they need money. Is that why you’re looking for work? Because you need money?”
“Of course. Why else?”
He looked her up and down. “No reason.”
No sooner had she settled onto the leather bench then Darius returned with a serving tray. “The toast will be ready in a minute,” he said, his face a scowl as he set a small ceramic teapot in front of her. “You need anything else?”
The question was directed to Max, who immediately smiled. Apparently, he found the bartender’s abruptness amusing. “I’m good. You want to sit in on this?”
“No, hiring people is your thing. I’m perfectly happy with my supply order, thank you very much. Liquor bottles don’t make special requests.” Shooting a scowl in Arianna’s direction, he turned and headed back to the bar.
“Don’t mind him,” Max said, shrugging off his jacket. The cloth of his white shirt strained against his biceps as he rolled up the sleeves. “He isn’t nearly as put upon as he likes people to think.”
“If you say so.” She tried to glance over her shoulder, but the bench was too high to see over.
“Trust me, underneath that brusque exterior beats a very soft heart. Ah, this smells good.” Coffee cup raised to his lips, he closed his eyes and inhaled. “We import the beans directly from South America. Our own custom blend.”
“Really.” She hoped she sounded enthusiastic. Usually, she liked coffee, but lately the aroma made her queasy.
“A bad cup can ruin the whole dining experience. Last thing we want are customers leaving with literally a bad taste in their mouth. Not if we want them to come back.”
“No, I suppose you don’t.” She thought about the five-star meals she’d enjoyed over her lifetime. The coffee, like every aspect of the meal, was always impeccable. It never dawned on her to expect otherwise. “You’ve clearly paid a lot of attention to details.”
“I should hope so. Details are what make or break a restaurant.”
Then she suspected the Fox Club was “made” because Max Brown seemed to have thought of everything. Like their booth, for example. Not only did the high seat backs ensure privacy, but they’d been designed for two, essentially making them intimate little nooks.
The atmosphere seemed even closer with someone as exceedingly...solid as Max Brown. Suddenly warm, Arianna slipped off her coat. Underneath her turtleneck sweater, her skin tingled as heat spread across it.
Oblivious to her discomfort, her companion had put down his drink and was chivalrously pouring tea into her mug. “So, getting back to my original question, what makes you think you should work at the Fox Club? I mean, besides the fact you need a job.”
“I, um...” She reached for a napkin and dabbed at the dampness forming on her upper lip. Where on earth was her toast? The strongest of odors was emanating from her cup, a combination of grass and another plant she couldn’t place. Had chamomile tea always smelled this noxious? Her stomach lurched again.
Swallowing back the acid, she started over. “I don’t...I mean, there isn’t one specific reason. I...”
“You’re new to the city, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she breathed, grateful to have an excuse. “Very. I arrived a few...” She caught the word days before it could slip out. “Weeks ago. How did you know?”
“Because anyone who’s lived in New York for any length of time knows the Fox Club. At least if they’re in the restaurant business they do.” He paused for another sip of coffee. “So, you’re new to the city, and you need a job.”
“Yes.”
“Where are you staying?”
“The Dunphy Hotel.” Actually, dirty and dated, the Dunphy barely qualified as habitable, let alone a hotel. It was also the last place anyone would think to look for a princess, which was why she had picked it.
“Interesting selection,” Max remarked.
“I’m on a budget.”
“I see.” Something in his tone made her stomach roll again. This time, a layer of anxiety accompanied the nausea. It wasn’t possible that he recognized her, was it? Her fingers absently combed the ends of her hair. She’d been monitoring the headlines since she arrived, and thus far, there had been no mention of her or her running away. Then again, Father would no doubt take great pains to keep her running away private. Even if news had made the press, she’d done her best to alter her appearance. Following advice she gleaned from American crime shows, she cut several inches off her hair and dyed the natural blond color a deep black. Since the Corinthian royal family didn’t garner that much attention—the paparazzi preferring their British counterparts—she figured even the most ardent of royalty junkies would be hard-pressed to recognize her.
The gray eyes assessing her from across the table, however, made her wonder. The open scrutiny would make her nervous, whether she was hiding or not. He seemed to be examining every inch of her.
She forced herself to meet his gaze, while pressing a hand to her abdomen. The churning was getting worse. She could feel the acid creeping up her esophagus again.
“Experience...?”
He was talking to her. “Experience in what?” she asked, pressing her lips into a tight smile.
“Waiting tables. Now that the holiday season is getting underway, we’re going to be busier than usual. A lot of groups book tables this time of year so we need someone who is used to juggling multiple large parties. Have you done large parties before?”
Swallowing back the queasiness, Arianna nodded. “Several.” It wasn’t a complete lie. She’d been standing in as her father’s hostess since her mother died a decade ago and had assisted in planning more than her fair share of state dinners. Surely, memorizing dinner orders and bringing them to the table couldn’t be more difficult than memorizing dignitaries’ dossiers and defusing potential international incidents.
“Great. Where?”
“Where?”
“Where did you wait tables?”
“Oh, right. Italy,” she replied, falling back on the cover story she’d rehearsed in case someone asked about her accent. Out of all of Corinthia’s continental neighbors, the Mediterranean country was the closest in terms of language and culture.
“Any particular location or did you serve the entire country?” While his coffee cup masked much of his mouth, she could still see the hint of a smile.
Naturally he expected more specific details. To buy a few seconds to think, she took a drink, only to gag as soon as the liquid passed her lips. The stuff tasted as botanical as it smelled. Worse, actually. She shoved the cup to the middle of the table.
“Miss Santoro?” Max asked.
“I—”
No good. Her tea, her breakfast and everything else in her stomach jumped to the back of her throat. Clamping a hand to her mouth, she sprinted from the table.
* * *
“Second door on your left,” Max called out as she rushed away. Not that it mattered all that much with the restaurant empty. So long as she made it to one of the restrooms, they’d be fine.
“What the...?” Darius had just come around the bar carrying a plate of toast. “Usually it takes two or three dates before the woman runs away from you. What happened?”
“Very funny,” Max replied. From behind him he heard the soft thud of a restroom door closing. She had made it somewhere at least. “Do me a favor and get a glass of ice water. She’s probably going to need a cold drink when she comes out.” Poor woman was as green as her tea.
Definitely not your typical job interview. Or applicant, for that matter. Not too many out-of-work waitresses that he knew walked around wearing cashmere. He might not know women’s fashion labels by name, but he recognized expensive when he saw it. Besides, she moved like money. That posture screamed “private school.”
A cashmere coat, and she was staying at a rat hole like the Dunphy? New to the country or not, the two did not go together. Women as beautiful as her stayed in five-star suites and not alone. They didn’t apply for temporary waitress positions.
“You notice the haircut?” Darius asked, returning with the water.
Yeah, Max had noticed. Right after he noticed the coat. A total home job, and not a very good one at that. “She’s trying to hide from someone.”
“If she’s thinking that hair will help her blend in, she’s crazy.”
It wasn’t just her haircut that attracted attention. It was the whole package. “If she wore it up, it’d look okay.” Even if it didn’t, most people would be too distracted by the rest of her to notice.
“Don’t tell me you’re considering her.”
“Something tells me she’s in a tough spot.”
“Great. Another one of your lost puppies.” If his friend rolled his eyes any further, they would see the inside of his head. “Didn’t you learn anything from what happened with Shirley? You can’t save the whole world, you know.”
“I never said I wanted to save the whole world.” The few desperate souls who crossed his path, is all. And just because some, like his former piano player, chose not to be saved, was no reason to stop. It was definitely not a reason in this case.
He lowered his voice in case Arianna happened to come back. “She’s staying at the Dunphy.”
Darius whistled.
“Exactly.” If that wasn’t enough of a red flag, there was desperation in her eyes. An anxious shadow that said things weren’t as she pretended. Max knew that shadow well. He had seen it in his mother’s eyes all her life. Okay, so maybe Arianna wasn’t running away from an abusive bastard like his father. But she was running away from something. And there was no way in hell he was turning a desperate woman out in the street. His mother’s eyes haunted him enough; he didn’t have to add a second pair.
“Besides,” he said, shaking off the ghosts, “you’ve got to admit, she would look amazing in the uniform.”
“Maybe, but can she wait tables? All you did this morning was jaw my ear off about how hard it is to find decent help. Do you really want to take the risk? Christmastime is crazy.”
“I thought it was the time for goodwill toward men.”
“Very funny.” A soft cough cut off whatever else Darius was going to say. Arianna had returned to the table. Despite shaking and being white as a sheet, she still managed to look gorgeous and self-possessed. Max felt the stirring of attraction deep in his belly.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
Her nod was as wobbly as her legs. “Fine. That is, I was feeling light-headed, but I’m much better now.”
She was a horrible liar. Better would mean color in her cheeks.
“Thank you,” she said, noticing the water.
“No problem. Figured you wouldn’t be looking for the tea.” His coffee had long since grown cold, but he drank it anyway. Wasn’t the first time—wouldn’t be the last. “So,” he said, from over the rim, “you were telling me about where you used to work.”
Her eyes immediately dropped to her glass. “Right. Where I worked. The thing is...”
“It was a long time ago?” he suggested.
“Exactly.” She grabbed the excuse like a lifeline, gratitude in her voice. “I’m not sure they would remember me.”
Max sat back and took a good look at her, trying to think like the businessman he was. Ten to one, the only experience she had waitressing involved leaving a tip. Darius was right: he had no business offering her a job.
But then he saw how hard she was struggling to keep her composure and his conscience beat down his common sense.
“That’s all right,” he said, “I’ll take your word for it. Do you think you will feel well enough to start tomorrow night?”
Her eyes widened. “I have the job?”
In a flash, Max understood how every private eye in every mystery movie fell prey to the femme fatale. The way her face lit up was absolutely criminal. He smoothed his tie and did his best to hide his reaction. “You did say you wanted it, didn’t you?”
“I did. I mean, I do.” She leaned forward, the subtle scent of high-end perfume accompanying her. “Thank you so much,” she said, clasping his hands. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
Definitely criminal. Reluctantly, he disentangled himself from her grasp and stood up. “Darius will go over everything you need to know, including where to get your uniform. Welcome to the Fox Club family, Miss Santoro.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Darius shaking his head. Honestly, sometimes his friend was too much the glass-half-empty kind of guy. They were helping a gorgeous woman out of a tight spot, is all. What was the worst that could happen?
CHAPTER TWO (#ud3abcf55-06e6-5528-8736-1e6ad206da53)
SHE WAS THE worst waitress he’d ever seen. Quite possibly, the worst waitress on the planet.
“I tried to tell you,” Darius said, sliding Max a cup of coffee. “But you and your white-knight complex wouldn’t listen.”
Biting back the retort he wanted to give, Max forced his features to remain expressionless. “She’s a bit rusty, I’ll give you that.”
“Rusty? The past two nights she’s dropped three trays. Not to mention all the orders she’s messed up. Lorenzo and his staff are annoyed—they’re threatening to refuse any order she puts in.”
“Yeah, well, Lorenzo better think twice about that, considering I’m about to drop a small fortune upgrading the kitchen.”
“It’s not just Lorenzo. Darlene and the other waitresses are annoyed, too. Apparently she keeps disappearing into the employees’ lounge during her shift.”
So Max had noticed. In fact, he’d been paying quite a lot of attention to his newest employee the past two days. Enough to realize it wasn’t only his desire to help that had made him hire her. She looked breathtaking in the waitress costume. He’d personally ordered the dress after seeing a photograph of Grace Kelly wearing something similar, the idea being that his waitresses would be smoldering but classy. On Arianna, the concept took on a whole new meaning. Every man in the room had to be cursing how the neckline didn’t dip low enough to reveal anything more than bare shoulders and a hint of cleavage. Max certainly was.
She’d fixed her hair, too. Pulled it into some fancy twist that showed off a long, graceful neck. Max had dated his share of women—beautiful women—but none as enticing as his new waitress. As a rule, he didn’t get involved with the help—made for an awkward work environment when he moved on—but with Arianna, he was seriously tempted.
“Darlene asked her if she was sick, and she insisted she wasn’t,” Darius said. “You don’t suppose she’s using, do you?”
“Nah.” Enough addicts and alcoholics had crossed his path over the years for him to know the signs. “Nervous stomach, more likely.” He’d caught her stealing crackers from the salad bar. “All the same, tell the other waitresses to let me know if they see anything odd.”
“That mean you’re going to let her keep waiting tables?”
“How else is she going to get up-to-speed? Another day or two and she’ll be fine.”
There was a loud crash.
“Another day or two, huh?” Darius said. “You sure?”
Across the room, their newest employee had just spilled a salad on... Oh, Lord—was that the deputy mayor?
Max ran a hand over his face. “Send a couple bottles of Amatucci reserve to the table, and tell him the entire night is on the house.” He watched as the mayor’s right-hand man slapped away Arianna’s hand before plucking a piece of arugula from the lapel of his gray flannel suit. Hopefully the drink and a few profuse apologies would be enough to soothe the man’s ego.
“And your new puppy? What about her?”
“Move her to somewhere where she won’t cause damage for the rest of the night,” he said.
“You mean you’re not going to let her go?”
He’d certainly fired employees for less. Only he couldn’t shake the memory of her anxious expression, or that she was in a roach hotel to beat all roach hotels. Attraction to her aside, there remained the fact she was a woman clearly looking for an escape. What kind of man would he be if he cut her loose?
“Tomorrow we’ll try her at the hostess station.” Now that he thought about it, he should have assigned her that position to begin with. Who wouldn’t want to follow her to their table?
“You’re the boss,” Darius said, with a look that said he disagreed. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
So did he, thought Max. So did he.
* * *
“Arianna, may I speak to you for a moment?”
The fussy, nasal voice of the maître d’ had the uncanny ability to cut through the restaurant din like an upper-crust trumpet. By itself the tone was enough to make Arianna’s insides cringe. When coupled with the distinct sound of disapproval, it made her feel sick to her stomach. Or sicker, as the case may be. What had she done this time?
Javier stood at his seating station, impatiently tapping his pen against the wood. His rigid posture reminded her of the music instructor her father had hired when she was twelve. A dictatorial virtuoso who she’d been certain had moonlighted as a prison guard. Come to think of it, she wouldn’t be surprised if Javier moonlighted at the same place.
Smoothing the front of her waitress dress, which was doubling as a hostess outfit for the evening, she excused herself from the diners with whom she’d been talking and headed toward him. He immediately tilted his gel-slicked head toward a corner away from the crowd. “I thought I asked you to seat the last party in section four,” he said, once they were out of earshot.
“I did.” At least she thought she had.
“No, you seated them in section three.”
Section three, section four...what difference did it make? Four people needed a table, so she gave them a table with four chairs.
Apparently, from the maître d’s dramatic sigh, it mattered a great deal. “Did I not tell you that restaurant seating is like a mathematical equation? You make a mistake on one side of the dining room, then the entire scheme is thrown off-balance. Now I’m going to have to redo the entire seating chart. Again.”
Arianna lifted her chin. Perhaps, she wanted to say, if she’d been allowed more than five minutes to study the floor plan before the restaurant opened... Traditionally, memorizing information on quick order wasn’t a problem, but lately it seemed her brain was constantly foggy and sluggish. It did not help that the majority of her energy these days seemed to center on trying not to run to the ladies’ room.
Apparently, Javier wasn’t done lecturing her. “And did you tell a couple they couldn’t sit in one of the back booths?”
“They were walk-ins. You told me the booths were reserved.”
“I also told you customer service is our number-one priority. As the first face they see when they come into the Fox Club, you are in a sense Mr. Brown’s ambassador, and as such, you never tell a customer you cannot accommodate their request.”
“But I thought I wasn’t supposed to disrupt the seating chart.”
Javier glared at her. “From now on, come and get me if there’s a special request. I don’t want you making decisions on your own.” He reached for the reservation book while muttering under his breath. Arianna caught the words empty-headed and useless.
They were enough to make her see red. Raising herself to her fullest height, she stared down her nose at the maître d’. “Listen here, you...”
“Excuse me.” A tall, elderly woman approached them, preventing Arianna from finishing. The newcomer wore a pale green gown that, while dated, Arianna immediately recognized from the stitching as a designer original. She was carrying a leather tote bag and a large brown canister.
“Javier,” she said, in an upper-crust voice to rival the maître d’s. Another time, Arianna would find it amusing that she, the actual royal, had the least affected voice. “It’s five past seven. Mr. Riderman and I distinctly requested a seven o’clock reservation. I mentioned it to this young woman, but she told me I had to wait.”
“The rest of her party hasn’t arrived yet,” Arianna told Javier, figuring that he would appreciate the defense, since he set the rule.
He didn’t, though. He snapped to even greater attention. “My apologies, Mrs. Riderman. She is a new employee. Had I seen you walk in I would have attended to you personally. May I send you and Mr. Riderman a cocktail with our compliments?”
The elderly woman’s hand fluttered at the offer, her gigantic cocktail ring spinning on her thin finger as she did. “Mr. Riderman isn’t drinking this evening. I, however, will have an extra dry martini.”
“Very good.” Arianna had to force herself not to roll her eyes at the bow Javier offered the woman. The palace guards weren’t that effusive. “Now if you follow me, your regular table is ready.”
There was another exception to his rules? If he was going to allow exceptions, then there should be a list for employees.
Javier glared at her when he returned. “You are very lucky, Mrs. Riderman is a forgiving person,” he said.
Oh, no, she refused to let some uptight little man lecture her on this. “You specifically instructed that no party was to be seated unless everyone was present.”
“The entire party was present.”
“No, Mr. Riderman...” She stopped, suddenly remembering the bronze vase. “You mean she is eating with her dead husband’s...?”
“Will you keep your voice down?” he said, almost hissing. “Mrs. Riderman is one of our oldest and best customers. She’s also an influential voice in the New York arts society.”
Who eats with her husband’s ashes? “Does Mr. Brown know about this?”
“Of course he knows.”
“Oh.” And he wasn’t disturbed? “I’m sorry. I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again.” The next time a party arrived carrying a jar of remains, she’d make sure to seat them promptly.
“It most certainly will not,” Javier replied. “You’ve done quite enough damage for the evening.”
Arianna stiffened as he touched her elbow. She still wasn’t used to being touched so casually. In Corinthia, only her family and closest confidants took such liberties.
And Manolo, she added ruefully. He had taken a lot of liberties. But then, she’d been foolish enough to think the words coming out of his mouth were sincere.
“Are you sending me home?”
Javier shook his head. “Only Max can do that.” Arianna was certain she heard a silent “unfortunately” prefacing the sentence. “For now, I just want you out of the way.”
“Doing what?” As if she couldn’t guess.
* * *
Folding tableware. Tucked away at the corner of the bar, with a stack of linen napkins and a silverware tray in front of her, she was quickly becoming an expert at the task.
Take a napkin off the pile, fold the cloth carefully into a triangle and stack a knife and two forks by the fold. Then tuck the corners to keep the silverware in place before rolling them into a cylinder. Within five minutes she’d built a small pyramid. At this rate, the restaurant would have table settings to last until New Year’s.
She should have called home by now. If she was back home, she’d be curled up in her big comfortable bed right now waiting for a servant to bring her a cup of lavender mint tea.
Instead, her feet hurt, her back hurt and her stomach wouldn’t stop lurching from the constant food smells passing by her nose. All she wanted to do was close her eyes and sleep for the next twenty-four hours straight.
Worse, after three days, she was no closer to deciding what she should do.
As if on cue, a wave of nausea hit her, forcing her to press a fist to her lips. If she didn’t know better, she’d say the child inside her was voicing its opinion. Too bad she did not know what side the bambino was on. Then again, how could an embryo know what to do when she herself didn’t?
If only she had not seen Manolo’s true colors. Then perhaps the idea of spending a lifetime with him would not seem so...daunting. Her father, of course, was thoroughly impressed by the man and had been thrilled when she and the industrialist began dating. A wedding and grandchild would send him over the moon.
But wasn’t wanting to please Father what had gotten her into this dilemma? Knowing how happy the relationship made her father, she’d ignored the questions whispering in her ear. If Manolo’s kisses failed to make her head spin, or if there were times when she thought he loved being with the king more than with her, it was her imagination. After all, no relationship was perfect one hundred percent of the time. Perhaps if they were intimate her doubts would disappear...
Finding another woman’s underwear in his apartment had shown her how wrong that idea was. Unfortunately, the shutters were pulled from her eyes a little too late.
“You’re doing that wrong,” a voice said from behind her.
Max. A quiver struck low in her stomach. The bambino seemed to have an opinion about him as well. Since that first day, her stomach insisted on wobbling every time she and the owner crossed paths.
He reached over her shoulder to take the setting from her hand. “The ends have to be tucked tightly or else the silverware will slide out. See?”
Arianna could feel his breath on the back of her bare neck. In Corinthia, it was considered disrespectful to stand so close to a member of the royal family. A deferential distance had to be maintained at all times. Max’s arms were nearly wrapped around her. She could feel the edge of his jacket brushing her spine as he leaned forward, the feathery touch causing goose bumps.
“Now you try.”
She tried to repeat the steps she’d done dozens of times throughout the night, but her fingers had grown clumsy. Instead of stacking the silverware, she fumbled and knocked them over. “It would be easier if you weren’t breathing down my neck,” she told him.
“Sorry.” The space behind her cooled as he took a spot at the bar next to her chair. Better, but not by much. Arianna could still feel his slate-colored eyes watching her every move. Taking a deep breath, she rolled the napkin into the tightest cylinder humanly possible.
“Good,” Max said. “Although next time, you might want to include a spoon.”
Her shoulders sagged. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Darius slide a drink across the bar. Max wrapped his hand around it without looking, and settled back against the bar rail to survey the restaurant. Unable to help herself, Arianna stole a look.
The man had the most effortless grace about him. You could see it in the way the glass dangled from his long fingertips and in the way he moved. Yet for all his smoothness, he wasn’t overly soft. Just like how the scar on the bridge of his nose kept his face from movie-star perfection, there was strength beneath the elegance. A toughness that said he wasn’t a man to be trifled with. In a way he reminded her of the ancestral portraits lining the halls of Corinthia Castle, with their impenetrable gazes that followed her every step.
They always left her feeling very exposed, those paintings. Max’s stare did as well.
“I hear you’re having trouble catching on to hostessing,” he said, his gaze thankfully still on the dining room.
Trouble catching on had to be an American euphemism for making a lot of mistakes. “It was not all my fault,” she said, defensiveness kicking in. “No one told me the woman was deluded.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The woman in the green dress. How was I to know she wanted a seat for her husband’s remains?”
“Ah, Mrs. Riderman.” Understanding crested over his features. “You’re right, Javier should have warned you. She and her ‘husband’ come in every Friday.”
“Every week?” With her dead husband? “Does that not violate some kind of health code?”
“Probably,” he said with a shrug, “but seeing how she owns most of the buildings on this street, we’re willing to risk the infraction.”
“Oh.” Whatever vindication she felt faded away. “I did not realize she was so important.”
“All our customers are important,” Max corrected. “Without them, we wouldn’t exist.” He took a sip of his drink. “Did he tell you that every time you move a party or seat them at the wrong table, that he needs to redo the seating chart?”
More times than she could count. “Yes,” she said.
“Did he also tell you that having to start over causes even longer delays?”
“No, that he did not mention.”
Arianna fiddled with the napkin roll she’d just completed, twirling the black cloth back and forth between her fingers. Whereas being upbraided by the likes of Javier set her teeth on edge, Max’s criticisms made her feel foolish and inept. She couldn’t imagine him ever making as many mistakes as she had these past few days.
“I had some trouble memorizing the seating chart,” she said meekly. “My brain, it...”
She shook her head. Max didn’t need to hear how her brain had become fuzzy and sluggish, or how it took all her energy to keep her ever-present morning sickness at bay.
“I’m sorry,” she said instead. “I’ll pay closer attention in the future.”
“Afraid it’s too late for that. Javier’s refusing to let you back up front.”
“He is?” That was not fair. She did not make that many mistakes. “What am I supposed to do then?” Surely they had enough tableware.
Max didn’t reply, beyond staring into his drink. “I don’t know,” he said after a moment. “You can’t hostess for Javier anymore. And I can’t put you back out there as a waitress. Not after what happened with Deputy Mayor Esperanza. The man you dumped a salad on last night,” he added when she gave him a blank look.
That man was the deputy mayor? While Corinthia didn’t have the position, she knew enough about the title to assume that in a city the size of New York, the title was an important one. “No wonder he asked if I knew who he was.”
She must have said something amusing because the hint of a smile played on Max’s mouth. “Yes, well, Deputy Mayor Esperanza is a legend in his own mind, that is for sure.”
“Was he very angry?” If the way the man turned a deep shade of crimson was any indication, he had been. She’d done her best to apologize, but the horrid little man simply slapped her words aside and told her to leave him alone.
“Nothing a couple bottles of super Tuscan didn’t cure,” Max replied.
“Good.” She would have felt terrible if her mistake caused real damage to Max’s restaurant. “I’m glad.”
“Me, too. Although between you and me, the guy could use an arugula shower now and then. To keep him humble.”
Setting his drink on the counter, he shifted his posture, leaning his weight on the elbow closest to the bar so he once again faced her. The smile he’d been fighting had found its way to his eyes, the shine bringing out flecks of blue in them Arianna hadn’t noticed before. Her lips curled upward in response and for a moment, they silently shared the idea.
“So,” Max said, reaching for his drink again. “You’ve never waited tables before, have you?”
“Of course I ha— How did you know?”
He arched his brow. “Did you seriously think I wouldn’t notice your lack of experience?”
“No.” Certainly not with the way he was watching her. Still... Her cheeks growing hot, she looked down at her feet. “I had hoped I would catch on quickly.”
“How’s that plan working out?”
“Not so well.”
“You think?”
She’d prefer anger to sarcasm. “If you knew, why did you hire me?”
“Because I’m a sucker for a sob story, that’s why,” he replied.
Sob story? “I did not tell—”
“You didn’t have to,” he said, frowning into the last of his drink. “I guess I’d hoped you’d catch on quickly, too.”
But she hadn’t, and she felt like a fool for even trying. “I didn’t realize it would be so difficult.” All those people speaking so rapidly, barking orders at her. “Everything moves so much faster than I expected.”
“Problem is, this is our busiest season. I need a waitress who can be up-to-speed immediately. I don’t have the time to train someone.”
“I understand,” Arianna replied, though that didn’t take away the sting. Before, she’d been merely foolish. Now she was foolish and useless, too.
Seemed like all she’d done the past few weeks was let people down. Her lower lip started to quiver. How on earth was she going to be able to do what was right for a baby? She hadn’t so far.
“I’ll go get my coat.”
Sliding off the stool to her feet, she barely got a step before Max’s hand caught her arm. “Hold on,” he said. “You don’t have to go so fast.”
What was the point in staying? So she could fold more napkins?
“We’re on the last round of seating. Why don’t you grab a good hot meal, and wait until closing. I’ll take you home, and we can talk about what you’re going to do. Okay?”
How could she say no when his eyes were filled with such concern? Seeing their warmth helped to soften her disappointment. If she had one good memory about her brief stay in New York, Max Brown looking at her right now, with soft, sexy, sympathetic eyes, would be it.
Plus, she would be foolish to turn down a five-star meal. Her stomach, with its usual unpredictability, leaped for joy when he made the offer. “All right,” she said. “I’ll wait.”
“Good.” He looked pleased. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but she swore he had looked as disappointed about her imminent departure as she felt. “I’ll send Darlene over with a menu.
“And hey, chin up...” His fingers caught her jaw, tilting her face toward his. “Everything will work out. You’ll see.”
“Sure,” she whispered after he left. “We’ll see.”
* * *
Leaving Arianna at the bar, Max retreated to the sanctuary of his office. He had the sudden need to bury himself in paperwork and clear away thoughts of pale skin and black sateen dresses.
What was he going to do? His office chair squeaked as he collapsed into it. There was no way he could keep Arianna on staff; the woman was a disaster. Javier spent ten minutes ranting about her inabilities and swearing on his mother’s life that he would not work with “that woman” again. Over-the-top? Sure, but the man was also one of the finest maître d’s in the city. Max couldn’t risk ticking him off. Especially since he’d had a similar “discussion” with his chef the night before.
So what did he do? He choked. He’d walked out there to fire her, but right when he was about to say the words, they died on his tongue. Killed by a pair of soulful blue eyes.
His mother’s eyes had been brown. Brown and surrounded by mottled purple smudges she would try to cover with makeup. It never worked. Max always knew. No matter how much she applied, makeup couldn’t cover split lips.
Not for the first time, he wondered if Arianna was running away from the same nightmare as his mother. His gut said no. Well, his gut and the fact that her alabaster skin would bruise too easily for her to hide it.
Or maybe he was rationalizing to soothe his conscience.
His conscience was still nagging him a few hours later when Darius knocked on his office door. “Just wanted to let you know the last party is getting ready to leave,” he said.
“Thanks. I’ll be out to close out the till in a bit.”
“Okay.” Except instead of leaving, his friend wavered in the doorway. “Is it true?” he asked. “Did you really let your new puppy go?”
“Stop calling her that,” Max said, bristling. Arianna wasn’t some stray off the streets. “And who told you I let her go?”
“The pup—lady—herself. When Darlene brought over a steak, she told me it was her last meal at the Fox Club.”
“Oh.” Apparently, he’d made his point after all. Now his conscience really stung. “I suppose it is.”
“It’s for the best, you know.”
“I know.” Didn’t mean he had to be happy about it, though.
Stepping all the way inside the office, the bartender pushed aside the brass lamp and took its place on the edge of Max’s desk. “Look, man, no one appreciates what you were trying to do more than me, but things don’t always work out, you know? If you still want to help her, write the chick a check. Unless...”
His voice drifting off, Darius’s attention shifted to the desk’s surface and an invisible spot that he suddenly needed to scratch at with his fingernail.
Max narrowed his eyes. “Unless what?”
“Unless, it ain’t just about helping a girl out. You said yourself she was hot.”
“I didn’t say she was hot, I said she’d look good in the uniform...and I was right.” Over on the side of the desk, Darius let out a snort. One that said Max was splitting hairs, and they both knew it.
Truth? Yeah, he was attracted to the woman. She was different from other women who had crossed his path, and not because her appearance screamed money—although that did make her stand out. It was her personality that truly set her apart. She had the oddest combination of haughtiness and innocence about her. One moment she was icy and entitled, the next she looked vulnerable and scared. Most women, he could read from the get-go. They were either women from his old life, looking to rise up from their lousy circumstances, or they were women from his current world looking to hook a successful businessman. In either case, their faces were open books.
Not Arianna’s, though. As much as he could read her, there was a layer he couldn’t get to. It intrigued him.
Excited him, too. The way she wore that uniform, like it was a real Dior. He’d have to be a dead man not to appreciate that fact, and even death wasn’t a guarantee that he wouldn’t, seeing as how every swish of her skirt and sway of her hips sent awareness shooting below his belt.
A smile played on his lips. “Oh, brother,” Darius said. “Just admit you want her already, will you?”
Max refused to respond. Spinning in his chair, he turned and looked out his office window. The view wasn’t much, an alley and the emergency exit for the building on the next lot, but he’d certainly had worse. Behind him, the dining room was quiet except for the sounds of chairs being put on the tables. In between scrapes and rattles, he heard the soft notes of a piano over the din. Some song he’d never heard before. Reminded him of a Christmas carol, but not quite.
“When did you switch on the radio?” he asked. Normally, he wasn’t big on plain piano music, but this was nice.
“I didn’t,” Darius replied. “That’s the piano on stage.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Unless the speaker over your door is blown.”
Max frowned. “Shirley?” Last he heard, his former piano player was behind bars. “You think she got out?”
“Doubt it. Besides, she was never that good.”
Rising, Max made his way to the office door, with Darius not far behind. Together the two of them stepped into the main dining room. “Well, what do you know...?” Max said, giving a low whistle.
Arianna sat the piano, head bent over the keyboard, playing with the agility of a trained expert.
CHAPTER THREE (#ud3abcf55-06e6-5528-8736-1e6ad206da53)
ONCE SHE FINISHED her dinner, Arianna didn’t know what to do with herself. Most of the patrons were gone, and the staff was busy getting ready to close. From the looks they gave her, it was clear they did not want her assistance.
She couldn’t sit there and do nothing. Her nerves wouldn’t let her. In a little while Max would emerge from his office to walk her home, ending her career at the Fox Club. She would be back to where she started three days ago: looking for a way to postpone her return home. Only this time, she doubted there would be another handsome white knight waiting to ride to the rescue.
Looking around, her attention stopped at the piano on the stage. She’d noticed it her first day here, but had yet to take a close look. Her spirits picked up a little. Surely no one would mind if she looked now. Reclaiming her heels, having kicked them off while eating, she slipped them on and headed over.
For as long as she could remember, the piano had been a close friend. When she was a little girl, she would sit on the bench next to her mother and accompany her by plunking out random notes. Later, the discipline of practice helped her survive the pain of losing her mama. And again when she mourned her sister-in-law’s death.
Of course her instructors would say those were the only times she appreciated discipline since she spent most of her childhood ditching formal practice in favor of playing lighter, more enjoyable pieces.
She hadn’t played much when she was dating Manolo; he’d been more interested in being seen than in listening to her play. The club’s baby grand might not have as sophisticated a soundboard as the palace piano, but it was in excellent condition, and more importantly, she thought as she smiled and pressed middle C, it was in tune. Taking a seat on its bench felt a little bit like greeting a long lost friend.
Stretching her fingers, she played a scale, followed by an arpeggio. Because she was rusty, her fingers fumbled, and for a moment, it was like when she tried rolling tableware. Quickly, though, she loosened up, and the notes began to flow with ease. Confidence restored, she started playing one of the handful of songs she knew from memory: “In the Bleak Midwinter.” The quiet, melancholy song seemed fitting, given her circumstances.
When she finished, she realized everyone in the club was watching her. Including Max, who stood near the front of the stage.
“Bravo,” he said, clapping. “That was amazing.”
Arianna blushed as satisfaction swept her from head to toe. Her entire life, people had showered her with compliments regarding her playing, and she’d basked in them all, but none of the accolades had affected her as much as seeing the admiration on Max’s face was. Knowing she had his approval left a thrill that started at the base of her spine and spread outward, to the ends of her fingers.
He hopped onto the stage to join her. “You’ve been keeping secrets. Why didn’t you tell me you could play the piano?”
“I didn’t realize it was important,” she replied. After all, she’d applied for a job as a waitress. If she had known it was important, she would have touted her skills first thing.
“Play something else,” one of the waiters called out.
“Sounds like you’ve won at least one fan. How about it? You got any other songs tucked in that pretty head of yours?”
“A few.” Running through her mental library she decided upon a Corinthian folk song, a simple melody that had been a childhood favorite. She did her best to ignore the fact that Max was watching her. Hard to do with him propped against the curve of the piano, his long fingers curled around the rim.
“Pretty,” he said, after she’d been playing a moment. He was smiling, bringing the blue to his eyes again. “How long have you been playing?”
“Since I was old enough to sit at the bench without falling over,” she replied, adding a glissando for flourish.
“That old.”
“My mother played. When I was little, I would watch her. Playing was a natural progression.”
He leaned forward, a curious look on his face. “I don’t suppose you sing, too?”
“Perhaps.” If only he knew. Both she and her brother had to study voice. One could hardly lead the people in the Corinthian anthem off-key. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason. I was curious, is all. I have to close out the till. Would you mind playing a little longer? I think people are enjoying the concert.”
Arianna looked out at the waitstaff, some of whom were nodding their heads in time with the music as they worked. Even Javier looked to be tapping his foot. “But of course,” she said. It would be nice to leave them on a positive note after so many mishaps.
She played every song she could remember, an eclectic combination that ranged from Beethoven to Bocelli. Finally, there was but one song left that she could play from memory: “Tu Scendi dale Stelle,” a popular Italian carol her grandmother used to sing. She hadn’t meant to sing, but the words came out automatically.
In a flash, her head filled with memories of home. Of making candied fruit for Babbo Natale and pastries for Christmas Eve and how the whole country seemed to smell of evergreen and wine. So many traditions and she loved them all. She was Corinthian to the core.
Her heart jumped to her throat, choking off the words. She couldn’t go on. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as she stepped off the stage.
Max came out of his office as she was rushing toward the coatroom. “Is everything all right?”
She couldn’t answer; the lump was still stuck in her throat. Brushing past him, she kept going until she was safely shut in with the coats and hangers. There she squeezed her eyes tight.
This was ridiculous. Getting emotional over a Christmas song. So what if the words reminded her of home? It wasn’t as if she wouldn’t be returning to Corinthia again.
Although if she chose not to marry Manolo, she would lose the country’s respect, and that was as bad as never going home at all.
Footsteps sounded behind her. “Arianna? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong,” she told him, sniffing. “I felt a little homesick for a moment, that’s all.”
“Homesick, huh? Maybe this will help.”
Out of nowhere, a handkerchief appeared before her. It was such an old-fashioned, chivalrous gesture that she couldn’t help smiling as she dabbed at her eyes. The square smelled faintly of aftershave. Woody and masculine. Without thinking about what she was doing, she pressed the cloth to her nose and inhaled the scent. “Are you always this prepared?”
“If you’re asking whether or not I’m a Boy Scout, absolutely not. I’ve just learned to keep a handkerchief on hand in case I run in to emotional women.”
“Do you run in to them often?”
“More often than you’d think, unfortunately”
And what would they be crying for? she wondered. Because he had broken their hearts? It certainly wouldn’t surprise her if those slate-colored eyes left a whole trail of women in their wake. Manolo had his assortment of conquests, did he not? And he wasn’t nearly as handsome. Or, as gallant.
That gallantry was on full display as he took her coat from the hanger and held it for her to put on. “Where is home exactly?” he asked. “I mean, where in Italy? You are Italian, right? Tell me that much is true.”
Arianna paused to enjoy the way his hands settled on her shoulders, the touch providing a comfort she hadn’t realized she needed. It would be easy enough to say yes and end the speculation. For some reason, though, she couldn’t bring herself to lie to him again. “Close.”
“Close?”
“I’m from a small island country off the coast. I doubt you’ve ever heard of it.”
“Probably not,” he replied, brushing her shoulders again. “I always sucked at world geography. If a place isn’t on one of the six continents, forget it.”
“Seven,” she said, smiling over her shoulder. She liked how he knew not to ask any more questions.
The grin she got in response made her forget all about homesickness. “Antarctica doesn’t deserve full billing, if you ask me. Come on. Let me get my coat, and I’ll take you home.”
“You know, you really don’t have to...” She followed him back into the dining room and into the darkly paneled room that passed as his office. “I will be fine on my own.”
“Are you still staying at the Dunphy?” She nodded. “Then, yes, I do need to escort you. Besides, you and I need to talk about your future.”
Which future was that, she was tempted to ask. Because she still hadn’t figured out an answer. “I did not think I had a future here,” she said instead.
“Did I say that?”
“You said you didn’t have time to train me.”
“As a waitress, I don’t,” he said, reaching behind the door for his overcoat. “But you clearly don’t need training to play piano.”
Arianna’s pulse quickened. “Are you suggesting I play the piano? Here?”
“No, at Carnegie Hall. Of course I mean here. It’s the perfect solution, really. Every good movie nightclub has a chanteuse.”
“A what?”
“A sultry lounge singer. My former one, she was unable to fulfill her contract. I planned to hire someone new after the holidays. Now, I don’t have to. You’re perfect for the job.”
No, she wasn’t perfect. Playing piano meant being in the spotlight. Far different from waiting tables or passing out menus, jobs where she had limited interaction with people and if someone recognized her, she could easily claim coincidence.
“I can’t,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t.” She looked away rather than meet his eye.
Several beats of quiet followed, where the only sound in the room was that of him shrugging into his coat. Arianna prayed his silence was because he’d decided to accept her answer without asking for a reason.
“I had a feeling that would be your answer,” he said after a moment.
“You did?”
“Like I told you before, I’m not an idiot. Anyone with half a brain can tell you don’t want to be recognized.”
She should have realized her crude efforts at disguise wouldn’t make it past a man as sharp as Max. “How did you figure it out?”
“Honey, I knew the minute you walked through the door. The cashmere coat and do-it-yourself haircut were dead giveaways.
“Don’t worry,” he added, as her hand flew to her neck. “It looks better pulled up. Makes the haircut look less obvious.”
“Here I thought I was being clever.”
“You didn’t do that bad a job.”
“I could not have done a very good one either if I didn’t fool you.”
“Only because I’ve seen more than most people.”
Like what? What made him different than everyone else?
Because he was different, in so many ways.
Once more, his hands found their way to her shoulders. Despondent as she was, warmth still managed to travel down her arms. Like metal to a magnet, she felt herself leaning against him.
“Look,” he said, “I don’t know what your story is, but if you’re in some kind of trouble...”
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Barbara Wallace
Rescuing the pregnant princess!Princess Arianna of Corinthia fled to New York when she discovered her pregnancy, faced with either marrying the man who deceived her or a royal scandal. But when a pick-pocket leaves her penniless, she must turn to handsome restauranteur Max Brown for help…Max can’t resist rescuing this enchanting stranger. And as his newest (and worst!) waitress brings festive sparkle into his solitary life, her mysterious past make him wary… Can he hope Arianna is for life…not just for Christmas!Royal House of CorinthiaRoyally wed…by Christmas!
Rescuing the pregnant princess!
Faced with a royal scandal, pregnant princess Arianna fled to New York. But when a pickpocket leaves her penniless, she must turn to handsome restauranteur Max Brown for help...
Max can’t resist rescuing this enchanting stranger, even if her mysterious past makes him wary. But as his newest (and worst!) waitress brings festive sparkle into his solitary life, can he hope Arianna is here for life...not just for Christmas?
Royal House of Corinthia (#ud3abcf55-06e6-5528-8736-1e6ad206da53)
Royally wed...by Christmas!
This Christmas Princess Arianna and Crown Prince Armando of Corinthia are facing the biggest challenges of their lives.
Pregnant Arianna flees to New York to seek some privacy...only to find her very own Prince Charming!
Christmas Baby for the Princess
Available now
Crown Prince Armando needs a royal bride—so why can’t he stop thinking about his assistant, Rosa Lamberti?
Winter Wedding for the Prince
Available December 2016
You won’t want to miss this delightfully emotional new duet from Barbara Wallace, brimming with Christmas magic!
Christmas Baby for the Princess
Barbara Wallace
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
BARBARA WALLACE can’t remember when she wasn’t dreaming up love stories in her head, so writing romances for Mills & Boon is a dream come true. Happily married to her own Prince Charming, she lives in New England with a house full of empty-nest animals. Occasionally her son comes home, as well.
To stay up-to-date on Barbara’s news and releases, sign up for her newsletter at www.barbarawallace.com (http://www.barbarawallace.com).
To Susan, Selena and Donna, whose emails help get me from page 1 to page 220. And to Peter, my personal Prince Charming. Merry Christmas, sweetie.
Contents
Cover (#u8657bc43-b0b1-5413-b350-2ed830f2ac67)
Back Cover Text (#uf23bc58f-b020-5e36-b4e2-87c843d934d8)
Introduction (#ub24799fe-8fe3-5173-9137-330e16ed4cc6)
Title Page (#u27ae74f4-254f-5174-9c0b-7639688a5420)
About the Author (#uef554e88-ef8a-5d42-ba1e-aed8dc43d953)
Dedication (#ua6384f61-0fae-52f4-af91-fb3ce5047a11)
CHAPTER ONE (#udd3bf60f-c6fd-5316-b7e2-639b82cf0b1e)
CHAPTER TWO (#uc93cf74d-98cc-50e7-b5aa-0d4eb33bb7cf)
CHAPTER THREE (#u501daa48-9ea2-5ebf-aa9e-9d4372d18096)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ud3abcf55-06e6-5528-8736-1e6ad206da53)
HER WALLET WAS MISSING.
Arianna was going to be sick. Stomach churning, she slumped against the brick wall and took a shaky breath. Then she checked her bag a third time.
Lipstick. Hand sanitizer. Passport. No wallet.
How? She distinctly remembered double-checking her bag after paying for breakfast, and her wallet had been there, nestled against the silk lining.
Times Square. There’d been that woman who accosted her and needed help reading the subway map, and another man who jostled her while she was trying to break free. One of them must have reached in while she wasn’t paying attention...
Stupid, stupid, stupid. This was what happened when you tried to run away from your problems: you got more. Arianna closed her eyes to keep the tears from burning their way free. A few weeks, a month at most—that was all she’d needed.
For what had to be the one-hundredth time, she cursed her own foolishness. If she had listened to her instincts, she never would have had to run away in the first place. She wouldn’t have to decide between a loveless marriage and a royal scandal.
Now, thanks to the pickpocket, she was going to have to make the choice sooner rather than later. Without money, she couldn’t stay in America. She had no money for food, not to mention that the owner of that terrible hotel where she was staying expected her to pay her bill at the end of the week or, as he so sweetly said, he would toss her pretty rear end on the street.
Her child deserved better.
Amazing how one tiny pink line could change your life. When she first missed her period, she blamed stress. After all she and Manolo had just broken up. Besides, they had only been together—like that—two times. Two misguided attempts at deepening feelings that weren’t there.
When the second month came and went, however, she couldn’t blame stress anymore. The world stopped turning the moment she saw that extra pink line. She didn’t know what do to, so she ran. Disappeared, so she could decide which of her no-win choices was the lesser of two evils.
Just then, a cold November wind blew down the street, the chill swirling around her shins before creeping up her skirt. Nature’s way of reminding her how serious her predicament really was. Tucking her collar about her throat, Arianna lifted her chin with royal stoicism. No sense dragging her feet. With luck, a decision about what to do would come to her while she was on a plane back to Corinthia.
A few feet ahead, a deliveryman exited one of the businesses, maneuvering his cart over the threshold with a clank loud enough to be heard over Manhattan traffic. The place was called the Fox Club, according to the letters emblazed on the side of the maroon awning. Goodness only knew what kind of club the place was, but no matter. It was open and, hopefully, had a telephone she could borrow.
Except it wasn’t a club. It was a time portal. How else to describe what lay on the other side of the door?
The room looked like it belonged in an old-fashioned American detective movie, like the ones they sometimes played on television late at night. High-backed booths covered in rich burgundy leather, wood so dark it was almost black. Iridescent glass chandeliers that bathed the room with a smoky white light. The hair on Arianna’s arms started to rise. Sleek and sensual, the entire space pulsed with expectancy. A simmering promise of something for all who walked in.
To her left, a large bar lined the wall. More dark wood, only this time the dark was accented with brass rails and shelves filled with glassware. A stocky black man, dressed to fit the setting, stood by the register. His pomade-slicked head was bent over a clipboard, on which he was making notes. The man didn’t look up when she approached.
Arianna cleared her throat. His attention still on the clipboard, the man reached under the bar and produced a sheet of paper that he thrust toward her. “Fill this out. I’ll tell the owner you’re here.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re here about the job, right?”
He hooked a thumb at a sign that had been discreetly tucked in the corner of one of the windows. Through the glass, she could make out the backward outline that read Help Wanted.
“I...”
Arianna paused. It was a silly idea. Her, working in a restaurant. She’d never worked a day in her life. Not a proper job anyway.
On the other hand, if she could find a job, she would earn money, and money meant she could postpone going home.
She would have time to think.
Make the right choice.
Ignoring the voice telling her she was making yet another reckless decision, she set her bag on the bar and, before she could change her mind, announced, “Yes. Yes, I would like the job.”
“I appreciate the enthusiasm,” a voice replied. A low, smooth voice that definitely did not belong to the bartender.
Arianna looked up and caught her breath. If the club looked like something out of a movie, this man was the movie star. He approached her end of the bar with an elegance that was almost surreal in its smoothness, his double-breasted suit shifting and swaying in a cadence only a custom-made garment could achieve.
His cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass while his eyes were the color of Mediterranean slate. Only a slightly crooked nose prevented his face from complete perfection. Interestingly, the flaw fit him perfectly. As did his surroundings.
“Max Brown,” he said.
Arianna started to nod, the way she always did when someone presented themself, then remembered where she was and quickly stuck out her hand. “Arianna.”
“Nice to meet you, Arianna.” His grip was solid and sure. “Is there a last name?”
“Santoro.” Arianna cringed as her real name popped out.
Fortunately, he showed no signs of recognition. “Pleasure to meet you, Arianna Santoro. You’re interested in the waitressing job, are you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Glad to hear it. Have you filled out an application?”
“Not yet,” the bartender said.
“I only just walked in,” Arianna explained.
His smile was as charming as could be. “That’s all right. Why don’t we have a seat, and we can fill in the spaces as we go along.” He motioned toward one of the booths lining the wall. “We don’t need much. Just the usual stuff. Name, address, social security number. Oh, and your firstborn child, of course.”
Arianna’s stomach lurched.
“Relax, I was only kidding about the firstborn part,” he said, touching her elbow. “Are you all right?”
“I’m f-fine.” She supposed it was nerves making her feel queasy. What was she going to say when he asked for details about her identity? Squeezing the bar rail, she focused on breathing through her nose, hoping the lump would work its way back down. Having something in her stomach might help, too; it was past lunchtime after all. “Could I get some chamomile tea and dry toast?” she asked the bartender.
“You’re ordering food on a job interview?” The man shook his head.
Max continued to keep his hand on her elbow. “Might not be a bad idea, Darius,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind a fresh cup of coffee.”
“You want me to go grind the beans for you, too?”
“And grow the chamomile.”
The bartender muttered something about his job description, but obliged nonetheless. As soon as he disappeared behind a swinging door, Arianna felt the grip on her elbow tighten.
“Why don’t we take a seat,” Max said as he gently pulled her away from the bar rail, “and you can tell me about yourself. Starting with why you want to work for the Fox Club.”
If only he knew... “Why does anyone want a job?” she asked as she felt herself being propelled to the booths on the other side of the room.
“Generally, because they need money. Is that why you’re looking for work? Because you need money?”
“Of course. Why else?”
He looked her up and down. “No reason.”
No sooner had she settled onto the leather bench then Darius returned with a serving tray. “The toast will be ready in a minute,” he said, his face a scowl as he set a small ceramic teapot in front of her. “You need anything else?”
The question was directed to Max, who immediately smiled. Apparently, he found the bartender’s abruptness amusing. “I’m good. You want to sit in on this?”
“No, hiring people is your thing. I’m perfectly happy with my supply order, thank you very much. Liquor bottles don’t make special requests.” Shooting a scowl in Arianna’s direction, he turned and headed back to the bar.
“Don’t mind him,” Max said, shrugging off his jacket. The cloth of his white shirt strained against his biceps as he rolled up the sleeves. “He isn’t nearly as put upon as he likes people to think.”
“If you say so.” She tried to glance over her shoulder, but the bench was too high to see over.
“Trust me, underneath that brusque exterior beats a very soft heart. Ah, this smells good.” Coffee cup raised to his lips, he closed his eyes and inhaled. “We import the beans directly from South America. Our own custom blend.”
“Really.” She hoped she sounded enthusiastic. Usually, she liked coffee, but lately the aroma made her queasy.
“A bad cup can ruin the whole dining experience. Last thing we want are customers leaving with literally a bad taste in their mouth. Not if we want them to come back.”
“No, I suppose you don’t.” She thought about the five-star meals she’d enjoyed over her lifetime. The coffee, like every aspect of the meal, was always impeccable. It never dawned on her to expect otherwise. “You’ve clearly paid a lot of attention to details.”
“I should hope so. Details are what make or break a restaurant.”
Then she suspected the Fox Club was “made” because Max Brown seemed to have thought of everything. Like their booth, for example. Not only did the high seat backs ensure privacy, but they’d been designed for two, essentially making them intimate little nooks.
The atmosphere seemed even closer with someone as exceedingly...solid as Max Brown. Suddenly warm, Arianna slipped off her coat. Underneath her turtleneck sweater, her skin tingled as heat spread across it.
Oblivious to her discomfort, her companion had put down his drink and was chivalrously pouring tea into her mug. “So, getting back to my original question, what makes you think you should work at the Fox Club? I mean, besides the fact you need a job.”
“I, um...” She reached for a napkin and dabbed at the dampness forming on her upper lip. Where on earth was her toast? The strongest of odors was emanating from her cup, a combination of grass and another plant she couldn’t place. Had chamomile tea always smelled this noxious? Her stomach lurched again.
Swallowing back the acid, she started over. “I don’t...I mean, there isn’t one specific reason. I...”
“You’re new to the city, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she breathed, grateful to have an excuse. “Very. I arrived a few...” She caught the word days before it could slip out. “Weeks ago. How did you know?”
“Because anyone who’s lived in New York for any length of time knows the Fox Club. At least if they’re in the restaurant business they do.” He paused for another sip of coffee. “So, you’re new to the city, and you need a job.”
“Yes.”
“Where are you staying?”
“The Dunphy Hotel.” Actually, dirty and dated, the Dunphy barely qualified as habitable, let alone a hotel. It was also the last place anyone would think to look for a princess, which was why she had picked it.
“Interesting selection,” Max remarked.
“I’m on a budget.”
“I see.” Something in his tone made her stomach roll again. This time, a layer of anxiety accompanied the nausea. It wasn’t possible that he recognized her, was it? Her fingers absently combed the ends of her hair. She’d been monitoring the headlines since she arrived, and thus far, there had been no mention of her or her running away. Then again, Father would no doubt take great pains to keep her running away private. Even if news had made the press, she’d done her best to alter her appearance. Following advice she gleaned from American crime shows, she cut several inches off her hair and dyed the natural blond color a deep black. Since the Corinthian royal family didn’t garner that much attention—the paparazzi preferring their British counterparts—she figured even the most ardent of royalty junkies would be hard-pressed to recognize her.
The gray eyes assessing her from across the table, however, made her wonder. The open scrutiny would make her nervous, whether she was hiding or not. He seemed to be examining every inch of her.
She forced herself to meet his gaze, while pressing a hand to her abdomen. The churning was getting worse. She could feel the acid creeping up her esophagus again.
“Experience...?”
He was talking to her. “Experience in what?” she asked, pressing her lips into a tight smile.
“Waiting tables. Now that the holiday season is getting underway, we’re going to be busier than usual. A lot of groups book tables this time of year so we need someone who is used to juggling multiple large parties. Have you done large parties before?”
Swallowing back the queasiness, Arianna nodded. “Several.” It wasn’t a complete lie. She’d been standing in as her father’s hostess since her mother died a decade ago and had assisted in planning more than her fair share of state dinners. Surely, memorizing dinner orders and bringing them to the table couldn’t be more difficult than memorizing dignitaries’ dossiers and defusing potential international incidents.
“Great. Where?”
“Where?”
“Where did you wait tables?”
“Oh, right. Italy,” she replied, falling back on the cover story she’d rehearsed in case someone asked about her accent. Out of all of Corinthia’s continental neighbors, the Mediterranean country was the closest in terms of language and culture.
“Any particular location or did you serve the entire country?” While his coffee cup masked much of his mouth, she could still see the hint of a smile.
Naturally he expected more specific details. To buy a few seconds to think, she took a drink, only to gag as soon as the liquid passed her lips. The stuff tasted as botanical as it smelled. Worse, actually. She shoved the cup to the middle of the table.
“Miss Santoro?” Max asked.
“I—”
No good. Her tea, her breakfast and everything else in her stomach jumped to the back of her throat. Clamping a hand to her mouth, she sprinted from the table.
* * *
“Second door on your left,” Max called out as she rushed away. Not that it mattered all that much with the restaurant empty. So long as she made it to one of the restrooms, they’d be fine.
“What the...?” Darius had just come around the bar carrying a plate of toast. “Usually it takes two or three dates before the woman runs away from you. What happened?”
“Very funny,” Max replied. From behind him he heard the soft thud of a restroom door closing. She had made it somewhere at least. “Do me a favor and get a glass of ice water. She’s probably going to need a cold drink when she comes out.” Poor woman was as green as her tea.
Definitely not your typical job interview. Or applicant, for that matter. Not too many out-of-work waitresses that he knew walked around wearing cashmere. He might not know women’s fashion labels by name, but he recognized expensive when he saw it. Besides, she moved like money. That posture screamed “private school.”
A cashmere coat, and she was staying at a rat hole like the Dunphy? New to the country or not, the two did not go together. Women as beautiful as her stayed in five-star suites and not alone. They didn’t apply for temporary waitress positions.
“You notice the haircut?” Darius asked, returning with the water.
Yeah, Max had noticed. Right after he noticed the coat. A total home job, and not a very good one at that. “She’s trying to hide from someone.”
“If she’s thinking that hair will help her blend in, she’s crazy.”
It wasn’t just her haircut that attracted attention. It was the whole package. “If she wore it up, it’d look okay.” Even if it didn’t, most people would be too distracted by the rest of her to notice.
“Don’t tell me you’re considering her.”
“Something tells me she’s in a tough spot.”
“Great. Another one of your lost puppies.” If his friend rolled his eyes any further, they would see the inside of his head. “Didn’t you learn anything from what happened with Shirley? You can’t save the whole world, you know.”
“I never said I wanted to save the whole world.” The few desperate souls who crossed his path, is all. And just because some, like his former piano player, chose not to be saved, was no reason to stop. It was definitely not a reason in this case.
He lowered his voice in case Arianna happened to come back. “She’s staying at the Dunphy.”
Darius whistled.
“Exactly.” If that wasn’t enough of a red flag, there was desperation in her eyes. An anxious shadow that said things weren’t as she pretended. Max knew that shadow well. He had seen it in his mother’s eyes all her life. Okay, so maybe Arianna wasn’t running away from an abusive bastard like his father. But she was running away from something. And there was no way in hell he was turning a desperate woman out in the street. His mother’s eyes haunted him enough; he didn’t have to add a second pair.
“Besides,” he said, shaking off the ghosts, “you’ve got to admit, she would look amazing in the uniform.”
“Maybe, but can she wait tables? All you did this morning was jaw my ear off about how hard it is to find decent help. Do you really want to take the risk? Christmastime is crazy.”
“I thought it was the time for goodwill toward men.”
“Very funny.” A soft cough cut off whatever else Darius was going to say. Arianna had returned to the table. Despite shaking and being white as a sheet, she still managed to look gorgeous and self-possessed. Max felt the stirring of attraction deep in his belly.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
Her nod was as wobbly as her legs. “Fine. That is, I was feeling light-headed, but I’m much better now.”
She was a horrible liar. Better would mean color in her cheeks.
“Thank you,” she said, noticing the water.
“No problem. Figured you wouldn’t be looking for the tea.” His coffee had long since grown cold, but he drank it anyway. Wasn’t the first time—wouldn’t be the last. “So,” he said, from over the rim, “you were telling me about where you used to work.”
Her eyes immediately dropped to her glass. “Right. Where I worked. The thing is...”
“It was a long time ago?” he suggested.
“Exactly.” She grabbed the excuse like a lifeline, gratitude in her voice. “I’m not sure they would remember me.”
Max sat back and took a good look at her, trying to think like the businessman he was. Ten to one, the only experience she had waitressing involved leaving a tip. Darius was right: he had no business offering her a job.
But then he saw how hard she was struggling to keep her composure and his conscience beat down his common sense.
“That’s all right,” he said, “I’ll take your word for it. Do you think you will feel well enough to start tomorrow night?”
Her eyes widened. “I have the job?”
In a flash, Max understood how every private eye in every mystery movie fell prey to the femme fatale. The way her face lit up was absolutely criminal. He smoothed his tie and did his best to hide his reaction. “You did say you wanted it, didn’t you?”
“I did. I mean, I do.” She leaned forward, the subtle scent of high-end perfume accompanying her. “Thank you so much,” she said, clasping his hands. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
Definitely criminal. Reluctantly, he disentangled himself from her grasp and stood up. “Darius will go over everything you need to know, including where to get your uniform. Welcome to the Fox Club family, Miss Santoro.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Darius shaking his head. Honestly, sometimes his friend was too much the glass-half-empty kind of guy. They were helping a gorgeous woman out of a tight spot, is all. What was the worst that could happen?
CHAPTER TWO (#ud3abcf55-06e6-5528-8736-1e6ad206da53)
SHE WAS THE worst waitress he’d ever seen. Quite possibly, the worst waitress on the planet.
“I tried to tell you,” Darius said, sliding Max a cup of coffee. “But you and your white-knight complex wouldn’t listen.”
Biting back the retort he wanted to give, Max forced his features to remain expressionless. “She’s a bit rusty, I’ll give you that.”
“Rusty? The past two nights she’s dropped three trays. Not to mention all the orders she’s messed up. Lorenzo and his staff are annoyed—they’re threatening to refuse any order she puts in.”
“Yeah, well, Lorenzo better think twice about that, considering I’m about to drop a small fortune upgrading the kitchen.”
“It’s not just Lorenzo. Darlene and the other waitresses are annoyed, too. Apparently she keeps disappearing into the employees’ lounge during her shift.”
So Max had noticed. In fact, he’d been paying quite a lot of attention to his newest employee the past two days. Enough to realize it wasn’t only his desire to help that had made him hire her. She looked breathtaking in the waitress costume. He’d personally ordered the dress after seeing a photograph of Grace Kelly wearing something similar, the idea being that his waitresses would be smoldering but classy. On Arianna, the concept took on a whole new meaning. Every man in the room had to be cursing how the neckline didn’t dip low enough to reveal anything more than bare shoulders and a hint of cleavage. Max certainly was.
She’d fixed her hair, too. Pulled it into some fancy twist that showed off a long, graceful neck. Max had dated his share of women—beautiful women—but none as enticing as his new waitress. As a rule, he didn’t get involved with the help—made for an awkward work environment when he moved on—but with Arianna, he was seriously tempted.
“Darlene asked her if she was sick, and she insisted she wasn’t,” Darius said. “You don’t suppose she’s using, do you?”
“Nah.” Enough addicts and alcoholics had crossed his path over the years for him to know the signs. “Nervous stomach, more likely.” He’d caught her stealing crackers from the salad bar. “All the same, tell the other waitresses to let me know if they see anything odd.”
“That mean you’re going to let her keep waiting tables?”
“How else is she going to get up-to-speed? Another day or two and she’ll be fine.”
There was a loud crash.
“Another day or two, huh?” Darius said. “You sure?”
Across the room, their newest employee had just spilled a salad on... Oh, Lord—was that the deputy mayor?
Max ran a hand over his face. “Send a couple bottles of Amatucci reserve to the table, and tell him the entire night is on the house.” He watched as the mayor’s right-hand man slapped away Arianna’s hand before plucking a piece of arugula from the lapel of his gray flannel suit. Hopefully the drink and a few profuse apologies would be enough to soothe the man’s ego.
“And your new puppy? What about her?”
“Move her to somewhere where she won’t cause damage for the rest of the night,” he said.
“You mean you’re not going to let her go?”
He’d certainly fired employees for less. Only he couldn’t shake the memory of her anxious expression, or that she was in a roach hotel to beat all roach hotels. Attraction to her aside, there remained the fact she was a woman clearly looking for an escape. What kind of man would he be if he cut her loose?
“Tomorrow we’ll try her at the hostess station.” Now that he thought about it, he should have assigned her that position to begin with. Who wouldn’t want to follow her to their table?
“You’re the boss,” Darius said, with a look that said he disagreed. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
So did he, thought Max. So did he.
* * *
“Arianna, may I speak to you for a moment?”
The fussy, nasal voice of the maître d’ had the uncanny ability to cut through the restaurant din like an upper-crust trumpet. By itself the tone was enough to make Arianna’s insides cringe. When coupled with the distinct sound of disapproval, it made her feel sick to her stomach. Or sicker, as the case may be. What had she done this time?
Javier stood at his seating station, impatiently tapping his pen against the wood. His rigid posture reminded her of the music instructor her father had hired when she was twelve. A dictatorial virtuoso who she’d been certain had moonlighted as a prison guard. Come to think of it, she wouldn’t be surprised if Javier moonlighted at the same place.
Smoothing the front of her waitress dress, which was doubling as a hostess outfit for the evening, she excused herself from the diners with whom she’d been talking and headed toward him. He immediately tilted his gel-slicked head toward a corner away from the crowd. “I thought I asked you to seat the last party in section four,” he said, once they were out of earshot.
“I did.” At least she thought she had.
“No, you seated them in section three.”
Section three, section four...what difference did it make? Four people needed a table, so she gave them a table with four chairs.
Apparently, from the maître d’s dramatic sigh, it mattered a great deal. “Did I not tell you that restaurant seating is like a mathematical equation? You make a mistake on one side of the dining room, then the entire scheme is thrown off-balance. Now I’m going to have to redo the entire seating chart. Again.”
Arianna lifted her chin. Perhaps, she wanted to say, if she’d been allowed more than five minutes to study the floor plan before the restaurant opened... Traditionally, memorizing information on quick order wasn’t a problem, but lately it seemed her brain was constantly foggy and sluggish. It did not help that the majority of her energy these days seemed to center on trying not to run to the ladies’ room.
Apparently, Javier wasn’t done lecturing her. “And did you tell a couple they couldn’t sit in one of the back booths?”
“They were walk-ins. You told me the booths were reserved.”
“I also told you customer service is our number-one priority. As the first face they see when they come into the Fox Club, you are in a sense Mr. Brown’s ambassador, and as such, you never tell a customer you cannot accommodate their request.”
“But I thought I wasn’t supposed to disrupt the seating chart.”
Javier glared at her. “From now on, come and get me if there’s a special request. I don’t want you making decisions on your own.” He reached for the reservation book while muttering under his breath. Arianna caught the words empty-headed and useless.
They were enough to make her see red. Raising herself to her fullest height, she stared down her nose at the maître d’. “Listen here, you...”
“Excuse me.” A tall, elderly woman approached them, preventing Arianna from finishing. The newcomer wore a pale green gown that, while dated, Arianna immediately recognized from the stitching as a designer original. She was carrying a leather tote bag and a large brown canister.
“Javier,” she said, in an upper-crust voice to rival the maître d’s. Another time, Arianna would find it amusing that she, the actual royal, had the least affected voice. “It’s five past seven. Mr. Riderman and I distinctly requested a seven o’clock reservation. I mentioned it to this young woman, but she told me I had to wait.”
“The rest of her party hasn’t arrived yet,” Arianna told Javier, figuring that he would appreciate the defense, since he set the rule.
He didn’t, though. He snapped to even greater attention. “My apologies, Mrs. Riderman. She is a new employee. Had I seen you walk in I would have attended to you personally. May I send you and Mr. Riderman a cocktail with our compliments?”
The elderly woman’s hand fluttered at the offer, her gigantic cocktail ring spinning on her thin finger as she did. “Mr. Riderman isn’t drinking this evening. I, however, will have an extra dry martini.”
“Very good.” Arianna had to force herself not to roll her eyes at the bow Javier offered the woman. The palace guards weren’t that effusive. “Now if you follow me, your regular table is ready.”
There was another exception to his rules? If he was going to allow exceptions, then there should be a list for employees.
Javier glared at her when he returned. “You are very lucky, Mrs. Riderman is a forgiving person,” he said.
Oh, no, she refused to let some uptight little man lecture her on this. “You specifically instructed that no party was to be seated unless everyone was present.”
“The entire party was present.”
“No, Mr. Riderman...” She stopped, suddenly remembering the bronze vase. “You mean she is eating with her dead husband’s...?”
“Will you keep your voice down?” he said, almost hissing. “Mrs. Riderman is one of our oldest and best customers. She’s also an influential voice in the New York arts society.”
Who eats with her husband’s ashes? “Does Mr. Brown know about this?”
“Of course he knows.”
“Oh.” And he wasn’t disturbed? “I’m sorry. I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again.” The next time a party arrived carrying a jar of remains, she’d make sure to seat them promptly.
“It most certainly will not,” Javier replied. “You’ve done quite enough damage for the evening.”
Arianna stiffened as he touched her elbow. She still wasn’t used to being touched so casually. In Corinthia, only her family and closest confidants took such liberties.
And Manolo, she added ruefully. He had taken a lot of liberties. But then, she’d been foolish enough to think the words coming out of his mouth were sincere.
“Are you sending me home?”
Javier shook his head. “Only Max can do that.” Arianna was certain she heard a silent “unfortunately” prefacing the sentence. “For now, I just want you out of the way.”
“Doing what?” As if she couldn’t guess.
* * *
Folding tableware. Tucked away at the corner of the bar, with a stack of linen napkins and a silverware tray in front of her, she was quickly becoming an expert at the task.
Take a napkin off the pile, fold the cloth carefully into a triangle and stack a knife and two forks by the fold. Then tuck the corners to keep the silverware in place before rolling them into a cylinder. Within five minutes she’d built a small pyramid. At this rate, the restaurant would have table settings to last until New Year’s.
She should have called home by now. If she was back home, she’d be curled up in her big comfortable bed right now waiting for a servant to bring her a cup of lavender mint tea.
Instead, her feet hurt, her back hurt and her stomach wouldn’t stop lurching from the constant food smells passing by her nose. All she wanted to do was close her eyes and sleep for the next twenty-four hours straight.
Worse, after three days, she was no closer to deciding what she should do.
As if on cue, a wave of nausea hit her, forcing her to press a fist to her lips. If she didn’t know better, she’d say the child inside her was voicing its opinion. Too bad she did not know what side the bambino was on. Then again, how could an embryo know what to do when she herself didn’t?
If only she had not seen Manolo’s true colors. Then perhaps the idea of spending a lifetime with him would not seem so...daunting. Her father, of course, was thoroughly impressed by the man and had been thrilled when she and the industrialist began dating. A wedding and grandchild would send him over the moon.
But wasn’t wanting to please Father what had gotten her into this dilemma? Knowing how happy the relationship made her father, she’d ignored the questions whispering in her ear. If Manolo’s kisses failed to make her head spin, or if there were times when she thought he loved being with the king more than with her, it was her imagination. After all, no relationship was perfect one hundred percent of the time. Perhaps if they were intimate her doubts would disappear...
Finding another woman’s underwear in his apartment had shown her how wrong that idea was. Unfortunately, the shutters were pulled from her eyes a little too late.
“You’re doing that wrong,” a voice said from behind her.
Max. A quiver struck low in her stomach. The bambino seemed to have an opinion about him as well. Since that first day, her stomach insisted on wobbling every time she and the owner crossed paths.
He reached over her shoulder to take the setting from her hand. “The ends have to be tucked tightly or else the silverware will slide out. See?”
Arianna could feel his breath on the back of her bare neck. In Corinthia, it was considered disrespectful to stand so close to a member of the royal family. A deferential distance had to be maintained at all times. Max’s arms were nearly wrapped around her. She could feel the edge of his jacket brushing her spine as he leaned forward, the feathery touch causing goose bumps.
“Now you try.”
She tried to repeat the steps she’d done dozens of times throughout the night, but her fingers had grown clumsy. Instead of stacking the silverware, she fumbled and knocked them over. “It would be easier if you weren’t breathing down my neck,” she told him.
“Sorry.” The space behind her cooled as he took a spot at the bar next to her chair. Better, but not by much. Arianna could still feel his slate-colored eyes watching her every move. Taking a deep breath, she rolled the napkin into the tightest cylinder humanly possible.
“Good,” Max said. “Although next time, you might want to include a spoon.”
Her shoulders sagged. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Darius slide a drink across the bar. Max wrapped his hand around it without looking, and settled back against the bar rail to survey the restaurant. Unable to help herself, Arianna stole a look.
The man had the most effortless grace about him. You could see it in the way the glass dangled from his long fingertips and in the way he moved. Yet for all his smoothness, he wasn’t overly soft. Just like how the scar on the bridge of his nose kept his face from movie-star perfection, there was strength beneath the elegance. A toughness that said he wasn’t a man to be trifled with. In a way he reminded her of the ancestral portraits lining the halls of Corinthia Castle, with their impenetrable gazes that followed her every step.
They always left her feeling very exposed, those paintings. Max’s stare did as well.
“I hear you’re having trouble catching on to hostessing,” he said, his gaze thankfully still on the dining room.
Trouble catching on had to be an American euphemism for making a lot of mistakes. “It was not all my fault,” she said, defensiveness kicking in. “No one told me the woman was deluded.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The woman in the green dress. How was I to know she wanted a seat for her husband’s remains?”
“Ah, Mrs. Riderman.” Understanding crested over his features. “You’re right, Javier should have warned you. She and her ‘husband’ come in every Friday.”
“Every week?” With her dead husband? “Does that not violate some kind of health code?”
“Probably,” he said with a shrug, “but seeing how she owns most of the buildings on this street, we’re willing to risk the infraction.”
“Oh.” Whatever vindication she felt faded away. “I did not realize she was so important.”
“All our customers are important,” Max corrected. “Without them, we wouldn’t exist.” He took a sip of his drink. “Did he tell you that every time you move a party or seat them at the wrong table, that he needs to redo the seating chart?”
More times than she could count. “Yes,” she said.
“Did he also tell you that having to start over causes even longer delays?”
“No, that he did not mention.”
Arianna fiddled with the napkin roll she’d just completed, twirling the black cloth back and forth between her fingers. Whereas being upbraided by the likes of Javier set her teeth on edge, Max’s criticisms made her feel foolish and inept. She couldn’t imagine him ever making as many mistakes as she had these past few days.
“I had some trouble memorizing the seating chart,” she said meekly. “My brain, it...”
She shook her head. Max didn’t need to hear how her brain had become fuzzy and sluggish, or how it took all her energy to keep her ever-present morning sickness at bay.
“I’m sorry,” she said instead. “I’ll pay closer attention in the future.”
“Afraid it’s too late for that. Javier’s refusing to let you back up front.”
“He is?” That was not fair. She did not make that many mistakes. “What am I supposed to do then?” Surely they had enough tableware.
Max didn’t reply, beyond staring into his drink. “I don’t know,” he said after a moment. “You can’t hostess for Javier anymore. And I can’t put you back out there as a waitress. Not after what happened with Deputy Mayor Esperanza. The man you dumped a salad on last night,” he added when she gave him a blank look.
That man was the deputy mayor? While Corinthia didn’t have the position, she knew enough about the title to assume that in a city the size of New York, the title was an important one. “No wonder he asked if I knew who he was.”
She must have said something amusing because the hint of a smile played on Max’s mouth. “Yes, well, Deputy Mayor Esperanza is a legend in his own mind, that is for sure.”
“Was he very angry?” If the way the man turned a deep shade of crimson was any indication, he had been. She’d done her best to apologize, but the horrid little man simply slapped her words aside and told her to leave him alone.
“Nothing a couple bottles of super Tuscan didn’t cure,” Max replied.
“Good.” She would have felt terrible if her mistake caused real damage to Max’s restaurant. “I’m glad.”
“Me, too. Although between you and me, the guy could use an arugula shower now and then. To keep him humble.”
Setting his drink on the counter, he shifted his posture, leaning his weight on the elbow closest to the bar so he once again faced her. The smile he’d been fighting had found its way to his eyes, the shine bringing out flecks of blue in them Arianna hadn’t noticed before. Her lips curled upward in response and for a moment, they silently shared the idea.
“So,” Max said, reaching for his drink again. “You’ve never waited tables before, have you?”
“Of course I ha— How did you know?”
He arched his brow. “Did you seriously think I wouldn’t notice your lack of experience?”
“No.” Certainly not with the way he was watching her. Still... Her cheeks growing hot, she looked down at her feet. “I had hoped I would catch on quickly.”
“How’s that plan working out?”
“Not so well.”
“You think?”
She’d prefer anger to sarcasm. “If you knew, why did you hire me?”
“Because I’m a sucker for a sob story, that’s why,” he replied.
Sob story? “I did not tell—”
“You didn’t have to,” he said, frowning into the last of his drink. “I guess I’d hoped you’d catch on quickly, too.”
But she hadn’t, and she felt like a fool for even trying. “I didn’t realize it would be so difficult.” All those people speaking so rapidly, barking orders at her. “Everything moves so much faster than I expected.”
“Problem is, this is our busiest season. I need a waitress who can be up-to-speed immediately. I don’t have the time to train someone.”
“I understand,” Arianna replied, though that didn’t take away the sting. Before, she’d been merely foolish. Now she was foolish and useless, too.
Seemed like all she’d done the past few weeks was let people down. Her lower lip started to quiver. How on earth was she going to be able to do what was right for a baby? She hadn’t so far.
“I’ll go get my coat.”
Sliding off the stool to her feet, she barely got a step before Max’s hand caught her arm. “Hold on,” he said. “You don’t have to go so fast.”
What was the point in staying? So she could fold more napkins?
“We’re on the last round of seating. Why don’t you grab a good hot meal, and wait until closing. I’ll take you home, and we can talk about what you’re going to do. Okay?”
How could she say no when his eyes were filled with such concern? Seeing their warmth helped to soften her disappointment. If she had one good memory about her brief stay in New York, Max Brown looking at her right now, with soft, sexy, sympathetic eyes, would be it.
Plus, she would be foolish to turn down a five-star meal. Her stomach, with its usual unpredictability, leaped for joy when he made the offer. “All right,” she said. “I’ll wait.”
“Good.” He looked pleased. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but she swore he had looked as disappointed about her imminent departure as she felt. “I’ll send Darlene over with a menu.
“And hey, chin up...” His fingers caught her jaw, tilting her face toward his. “Everything will work out. You’ll see.”
“Sure,” she whispered after he left. “We’ll see.”
* * *
Leaving Arianna at the bar, Max retreated to the sanctuary of his office. He had the sudden need to bury himself in paperwork and clear away thoughts of pale skin and black sateen dresses.
What was he going to do? His office chair squeaked as he collapsed into it. There was no way he could keep Arianna on staff; the woman was a disaster. Javier spent ten minutes ranting about her inabilities and swearing on his mother’s life that he would not work with “that woman” again. Over-the-top? Sure, but the man was also one of the finest maître d’s in the city. Max couldn’t risk ticking him off. Especially since he’d had a similar “discussion” with his chef the night before.
So what did he do? He choked. He’d walked out there to fire her, but right when he was about to say the words, they died on his tongue. Killed by a pair of soulful blue eyes.
His mother’s eyes had been brown. Brown and surrounded by mottled purple smudges she would try to cover with makeup. It never worked. Max always knew. No matter how much she applied, makeup couldn’t cover split lips.
Not for the first time, he wondered if Arianna was running away from the same nightmare as his mother. His gut said no. Well, his gut and the fact that her alabaster skin would bruise too easily for her to hide it.
Or maybe he was rationalizing to soothe his conscience.
His conscience was still nagging him a few hours later when Darius knocked on his office door. “Just wanted to let you know the last party is getting ready to leave,” he said.
“Thanks. I’ll be out to close out the till in a bit.”
“Okay.” Except instead of leaving, his friend wavered in the doorway. “Is it true?” he asked. “Did you really let your new puppy go?”
“Stop calling her that,” Max said, bristling. Arianna wasn’t some stray off the streets. “And who told you I let her go?”
“The pup—lady—herself. When Darlene brought over a steak, she told me it was her last meal at the Fox Club.”
“Oh.” Apparently, he’d made his point after all. Now his conscience really stung. “I suppose it is.”
“It’s for the best, you know.”
“I know.” Didn’t mean he had to be happy about it, though.
Stepping all the way inside the office, the bartender pushed aside the brass lamp and took its place on the edge of Max’s desk. “Look, man, no one appreciates what you were trying to do more than me, but things don’t always work out, you know? If you still want to help her, write the chick a check. Unless...”
His voice drifting off, Darius’s attention shifted to the desk’s surface and an invisible spot that he suddenly needed to scratch at with his fingernail.
Max narrowed his eyes. “Unless what?”
“Unless, it ain’t just about helping a girl out. You said yourself she was hot.”
“I didn’t say she was hot, I said she’d look good in the uniform...and I was right.” Over on the side of the desk, Darius let out a snort. One that said Max was splitting hairs, and they both knew it.
Truth? Yeah, he was attracted to the woman. She was different from other women who had crossed his path, and not because her appearance screamed money—although that did make her stand out. It was her personality that truly set her apart. She had the oddest combination of haughtiness and innocence about her. One moment she was icy and entitled, the next she looked vulnerable and scared. Most women, he could read from the get-go. They were either women from his old life, looking to rise up from their lousy circumstances, or they were women from his current world looking to hook a successful businessman. In either case, their faces were open books.
Not Arianna’s, though. As much as he could read her, there was a layer he couldn’t get to. It intrigued him.
Excited him, too. The way she wore that uniform, like it was a real Dior. He’d have to be a dead man not to appreciate that fact, and even death wasn’t a guarantee that he wouldn’t, seeing as how every swish of her skirt and sway of her hips sent awareness shooting below his belt.
A smile played on his lips. “Oh, brother,” Darius said. “Just admit you want her already, will you?”
Max refused to respond. Spinning in his chair, he turned and looked out his office window. The view wasn’t much, an alley and the emergency exit for the building on the next lot, but he’d certainly had worse. Behind him, the dining room was quiet except for the sounds of chairs being put on the tables. In between scrapes and rattles, he heard the soft notes of a piano over the din. Some song he’d never heard before. Reminded him of a Christmas carol, but not quite.
“When did you switch on the radio?” he asked. Normally, he wasn’t big on plain piano music, but this was nice.
“I didn’t,” Darius replied. “That’s the piano on stage.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Unless the speaker over your door is blown.”
Max frowned. “Shirley?” Last he heard, his former piano player was behind bars. “You think she got out?”
“Doubt it. Besides, she was never that good.”
Rising, Max made his way to the office door, with Darius not far behind. Together the two of them stepped into the main dining room. “Well, what do you know...?” Max said, giving a low whistle.
Arianna sat the piano, head bent over the keyboard, playing with the agility of a trained expert.
CHAPTER THREE (#ud3abcf55-06e6-5528-8736-1e6ad206da53)
ONCE SHE FINISHED her dinner, Arianna didn’t know what to do with herself. Most of the patrons were gone, and the staff was busy getting ready to close. From the looks they gave her, it was clear they did not want her assistance.
She couldn’t sit there and do nothing. Her nerves wouldn’t let her. In a little while Max would emerge from his office to walk her home, ending her career at the Fox Club. She would be back to where she started three days ago: looking for a way to postpone her return home. Only this time, she doubted there would be another handsome white knight waiting to ride to the rescue.
Looking around, her attention stopped at the piano on the stage. She’d noticed it her first day here, but had yet to take a close look. Her spirits picked up a little. Surely no one would mind if she looked now. Reclaiming her heels, having kicked them off while eating, she slipped them on and headed over.
For as long as she could remember, the piano had been a close friend. When she was a little girl, she would sit on the bench next to her mother and accompany her by plunking out random notes. Later, the discipline of practice helped her survive the pain of losing her mama. And again when she mourned her sister-in-law’s death.
Of course her instructors would say those were the only times she appreciated discipline since she spent most of her childhood ditching formal practice in favor of playing lighter, more enjoyable pieces.
She hadn’t played much when she was dating Manolo; he’d been more interested in being seen than in listening to her play. The club’s baby grand might not have as sophisticated a soundboard as the palace piano, but it was in excellent condition, and more importantly, she thought as she smiled and pressed middle C, it was in tune. Taking a seat on its bench felt a little bit like greeting a long lost friend.
Stretching her fingers, she played a scale, followed by an arpeggio. Because she was rusty, her fingers fumbled, and for a moment, it was like when she tried rolling tableware. Quickly, though, she loosened up, and the notes began to flow with ease. Confidence restored, she started playing one of the handful of songs she knew from memory: “In the Bleak Midwinter.” The quiet, melancholy song seemed fitting, given her circumstances.
When she finished, she realized everyone in the club was watching her. Including Max, who stood near the front of the stage.
“Bravo,” he said, clapping. “That was amazing.”
Arianna blushed as satisfaction swept her from head to toe. Her entire life, people had showered her with compliments regarding her playing, and she’d basked in them all, but none of the accolades had affected her as much as seeing the admiration on Max’s face was. Knowing she had his approval left a thrill that started at the base of her spine and spread outward, to the ends of her fingers.
He hopped onto the stage to join her. “You’ve been keeping secrets. Why didn’t you tell me you could play the piano?”
“I didn’t realize it was important,” she replied. After all, she’d applied for a job as a waitress. If she had known it was important, she would have touted her skills first thing.
“Play something else,” one of the waiters called out.
“Sounds like you’ve won at least one fan. How about it? You got any other songs tucked in that pretty head of yours?”
“A few.” Running through her mental library she decided upon a Corinthian folk song, a simple melody that had been a childhood favorite. She did her best to ignore the fact that Max was watching her. Hard to do with him propped against the curve of the piano, his long fingers curled around the rim.
“Pretty,” he said, after she’d been playing a moment. He was smiling, bringing the blue to his eyes again. “How long have you been playing?”
“Since I was old enough to sit at the bench without falling over,” she replied, adding a glissando for flourish.
“That old.”
“My mother played. When I was little, I would watch her. Playing was a natural progression.”
He leaned forward, a curious look on his face. “I don’t suppose you sing, too?”
“Perhaps.” If only he knew. Both she and her brother had to study voice. One could hardly lead the people in the Corinthian anthem off-key. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason. I was curious, is all. I have to close out the till. Would you mind playing a little longer? I think people are enjoying the concert.”
Arianna looked out at the waitstaff, some of whom were nodding their heads in time with the music as they worked. Even Javier looked to be tapping his foot. “But of course,” she said. It would be nice to leave them on a positive note after so many mishaps.
She played every song she could remember, an eclectic combination that ranged from Beethoven to Bocelli. Finally, there was but one song left that she could play from memory: “Tu Scendi dale Stelle,” a popular Italian carol her grandmother used to sing. She hadn’t meant to sing, but the words came out automatically.
In a flash, her head filled with memories of home. Of making candied fruit for Babbo Natale and pastries for Christmas Eve and how the whole country seemed to smell of evergreen and wine. So many traditions and she loved them all. She was Corinthian to the core.
Her heart jumped to her throat, choking off the words. She couldn’t go on. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as she stepped off the stage.
Max came out of his office as she was rushing toward the coatroom. “Is everything all right?”
She couldn’t answer; the lump was still stuck in her throat. Brushing past him, she kept going until she was safely shut in with the coats and hangers. There she squeezed her eyes tight.
This was ridiculous. Getting emotional over a Christmas song. So what if the words reminded her of home? It wasn’t as if she wouldn’t be returning to Corinthia again.
Although if she chose not to marry Manolo, she would lose the country’s respect, and that was as bad as never going home at all.
Footsteps sounded behind her. “Arianna? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong,” she told him, sniffing. “I felt a little homesick for a moment, that’s all.”
“Homesick, huh? Maybe this will help.”
Out of nowhere, a handkerchief appeared before her. It was such an old-fashioned, chivalrous gesture that she couldn’t help smiling as she dabbed at her eyes. The square smelled faintly of aftershave. Woody and masculine. Without thinking about what she was doing, she pressed the cloth to her nose and inhaled the scent. “Are you always this prepared?”
“If you’re asking whether or not I’m a Boy Scout, absolutely not. I’ve just learned to keep a handkerchief on hand in case I run in to emotional women.”
“Do you run in to them often?”
“More often than you’d think, unfortunately”
And what would they be crying for? she wondered. Because he had broken their hearts? It certainly wouldn’t surprise her if those slate-colored eyes left a whole trail of women in their wake. Manolo had his assortment of conquests, did he not? And he wasn’t nearly as handsome. Or, as gallant.
That gallantry was on full display as he took her coat from the hanger and held it for her to put on. “Where is home exactly?” he asked. “I mean, where in Italy? You are Italian, right? Tell me that much is true.”
Arianna paused to enjoy the way his hands settled on her shoulders, the touch providing a comfort she hadn’t realized she needed. It would be easy enough to say yes and end the speculation. For some reason, though, she couldn’t bring herself to lie to him again. “Close.”
“Close?”
“I’m from a small island country off the coast. I doubt you’ve ever heard of it.”
“Probably not,” he replied, brushing her shoulders again. “I always sucked at world geography. If a place isn’t on one of the six continents, forget it.”
“Seven,” she said, smiling over her shoulder. She liked how he knew not to ask any more questions.
The grin she got in response made her forget all about homesickness. “Antarctica doesn’t deserve full billing, if you ask me. Come on. Let me get my coat, and I’ll take you home.”
“You know, you really don’t have to...” She followed him back into the dining room and into the darkly paneled room that passed as his office. “I will be fine on my own.”
“Are you still staying at the Dunphy?” She nodded. “Then, yes, I do need to escort you. Besides, you and I need to talk about your future.”
Which future was that, she was tempted to ask. Because she still hadn’t figured out an answer. “I did not think I had a future here,” she said instead.
“Did I say that?”
“You said you didn’t have time to train me.”
“As a waitress, I don’t,” he said, reaching behind the door for his overcoat. “But you clearly don’t need training to play piano.”
Arianna’s pulse quickened. “Are you suggesting I play the piano? Here?”
“No, at Carnegie Hall. Of course I mean here. It’s the perfect solution, really. Every good movie nightclub has a chanteuse.”
“A what?”
“A sultry lounge singer. My former one, she was unable to fulfill her contract. I planned to hire someone new after the holidays. Now, I don’t have to. You’re perfect for the job.”
No, she wasn’t perfect. Playing piano meant being in the spotlight. Far different from waiting tables or passing out menus, jobs where she had limited interaction with people and if someone recognized her, she could easily claim coincidence.
“I can’t,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t.” She looked away rather than meet his eye.
Several beats of quiet followed, where the only sound in the room was that of him shrugging into his coat. Arianna prayed his silence was because he’d decided to accept her answer without asking for a reason.
“I had a feeling that would be your answer,” he said after a moment.
“You did?”
“Like I told you before, I’m not an idiot. Anyone with half a brain can tell you don’t want to be recognized.”
She should have realized her crude efforts at disguise wouldn’t make it past a man as sharp as Max. “How did you figure it out?”
“Honey, I knew the minute you walked through the door. The cashmere coat and do-it-yourself haircut were dead giveaways.
“Don’t worry,” he added, as her hand flew to her neck. “It looks better pulled up. Makes the haircut look less obvious.”
“Here I thought I was being clever.”
“You didn’t do that bad a job.”
“I could not have done a very good one either if I didn’t fool you.”
“Only because I’ve seen more than most people.”
Like what? What made him different than everyone else?
Because he was different, in so many ways.
Once more, his hands found their way to her shoulders. Despondent as she was, warmth still managed to travel down her arms. Like metal to a magnet, she felt herself leaning against him.
“Look,” he said, “I don’t know what your story is, but if you’re in some kind of trouble...”
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Barbara Wallace
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Rescuing the pregnant princess!Princess Arianna of Corinthia fled to New York when she discovered her pregnancy, faced with either marrying the man who deceived her or a royal scandal. But when a pick-pocket leaves her penniless, she must turn to handsome restauranteur Max Brown for help…Max can’t resist rescuing this enchanting stranger. And as his newest (and worst!) waitress brings festive sparkle into his solitary life, her mysterious past make him wary… Can he hope Arianna is for life…not just for Christmas!Royal House of CorinthiaRoyally wed…by Christmas!