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The Princess Test
Shirley Jump


Exclusive: Pure Princess or a Right Royal Scandal?Carlita Santaro, youngest of the royal Uccelli family, has escaped the palace and come to our very own small town! She’s steering clear of the press, but enquiring minds want to know…if she’s a real royal – why is Carrie hiding away?Well, Inside Scoop may have the answer! Tune in tomorrow for an intimate portrait of the mysterious Carlita – she’s stunning, but is she blue blood or a bad liar? Find out as top reporter Daniel Reynolds (who seems to have a sweet spot for our Princess) puts Carlita through a gruelling ‘Princess Test’.We’re sure viewers will join us in asking – will the real Princess please stand up?












Praise for Shirley Jump


‘Shirley Jump … has a solid plot

and involving conflict, and the characters are wonderful.’

—RT Book Reviews on

Miracle on Christmas Eve

‘This tale of rekindled love is right on target—

a delightful start to this uplifting,

marriage-oriented series The Wedding Planners.’

—Library Journal.com on

Sweetheart Lost and Found

‘Jump’s office romance gives the collection a kick,

with fiery writing.’

—Publishers Weekly on

New York Times bestselling anthology Sugar and Spice





About the Author


New York Times bestselling author Shirley Jump didn’t have the will-power to diet, nor the talent to master under-eye concealer, so she bowed out of a career in television and opted instead for a career where she could be paid to eat at her desk—writing. At first, seeking revenge on her children for their grocery store tantrums, she sold embarrassing essays about them to anthologies. However, it wasn’t enough to feed her growing addiction to writing funny. So she turned to the world of romance novels, where messes are (usually) cleaned up before The End. In the worlds Shirley gets to create and control, the children listen to their parents, the husbands always remember holidays, and the housework is magically done by elves. Though she’s thrilled to see her books in stores around the world, Shirley mostly writes because it gives her an excuse to avoid cleaning the toilets and helps feed her shoe habit.

To learn more, visit her website at www.shirleyjump.com




Also by Shirley Jump


If the Red Slipper Fits

Vegas Pregnancy Surprise

Best Man Says I Do

A Princess for Christmas

Doorstep Daddy The Bridesmaid and

the Billionaire

Marry-Me Christmas

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk


The Princess Test

Shirley Jump
















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To my daughter, who may not be a frilly girl,

but who is always the number-one princess

in our house and in my heart.




CHAPTER ONE


DAWN broke its soft kiss over the lake, washing the blue-green water with a dusting of orange and gold. A slight breeze skipped gentle ripples across the water and whispered the scent of pine through the open window. Carrie Santaro curled up on the cushioned window seat, watching the day begin. In the three days since she’d arrived at her rented lakeside cottage in Winter Haven, Indiana, Carrie had spent every spare moment in this window seat, soaking up the tranquility and the quiet peace found in being utterly alone. Her sister Mariabella who lived half the year in a seaside town in Massachusetts had told her that life in the States was different from life in the castle.

She’d been right. Here, in this tiny Midwestern town with all its hokey charm, Carrie felt free. To be herself, to drop the mantle of her princess life and to be just … Carrie. To be the person she’d been fighting all her life to be. She hadn’t packed a single ball gown, not one pair of high heels. While she was here, she’d be all jeans and T-shirts and sundresses all the time. Just the thought made her smile.

And while she was here, she decided, she’d find out who she really was. Maybe with enough distance between herself and the castle, she could finally get the answers she’d waited a lifetime to hear. After all, hadn’t her mother once said that was what had happened to her when she’d visited this town? Perhaps Carrie could get lucky, too.

Her cell phone rang. She sighed before flipping it open and answering the call she’d been dreading. “Hello, Papa.”

“Carlita!” Her father’s booming voice, calling her by the name her parents used when they wanted to remind her of her royal roots—and royal expectations. To remind her she should be a dutiful daughter, an obedient princess.

Uh, yeah, not.

She’d always been a rebel, and never been much for the suffocating mantle of royal life. She was more at home with dirt under her nails than wearing a starched dress to a state dinner. She’d taken the etiquette lessons, suffered through boarding school and sat quietly through countless events, trying her best to be what everyone expected of a princess.

Most of the time. And now, she was doing the exact opposite, which had displeased her parents to no end. Carrie was tired of caring. She was ready to live her life and be free of all that once and for all.

“When are you coming home?” her father asked in their native, lyrical Uccelli language.

“I just got here,” she answered, reverting to her native tongue, too. It felt a little odd after days of speaking only English. “I haven’t even started working yet.”

He pshawed away that notion. “You have work here. Come home.”

“Papa, we talked about this. I’ll be home in a few months. The wine shop needs an advocate for Uccelli. If we can get the American sales off the ground—”

“We need you here,” he said. “Your sisters, everyone, needs you here.”

Ever since her middle sister, Allegra, had become queen, her parents had been urging Carrie to be a bigger part of the royal family, to take a more active role in the Santaro family causes and the country’s needs. Something Carrie had resisted almost from birth. She wanted nothing to do with any of that. Just the thought of being surrounded by all that pomp and circumstance made her feel like she was being suffocated. “They’re fine without me. I’m barely a part of the family activities. The media hardly noticed I left.”

There’d been one small piece in the Uccelli papers, a quick mention that Princess Carlita had gone on vacation and nothing more, Mariabella had said. If Allegra had been the one to leave the country, there’d have been newspaper and television coverage for days. Not for the first time, Carrie thanked her lucky stars that she would probably never be queen.

“That’s because we have worked to keep your ‘antics’ out of the media, and keep this vacation of yours a secret.”

“It’s not a vacation, Papa. It’s a job.”

He sighed. “I know you love this work, and think this is what you want to do—”

“Think? I know.”

“But it is far past time you acknowledged your heritage,” her father said. “And stopped playing in the vineyards. And at life. All these years, I have indulged you and let you have your freedom. You, of all the daughters, have had the least to do with the royal family and its duties. But now, you are twenty-four, my dear. Time to start settling down and become a true Santaro.”

Settle down? She bristled at the thought of handing her life over to yet another person who would want to tell her where to sit, how to act, what she should do. In the past year, her father had reminded her a hundred times that playtime was over and now she needed to step more fully into her role as princess. “That is the last thing I want to do right now.”

“I love you, my daughter, I really do, but you have one fault.”

They’d had this discussion a thousand times and Carrie didn’t want to have it again now. “Papa—”

“You flit from thing to thing like a butterfly. First it was wanting to be a landscaper. Then it was being a champion in dressage. Then it was rock climber, I think. Now, a shop owner.” He paused, and she could hear the disappointment in his voice. “When are you going to settle down? It is time to be serious.”

“I am, Papa.”

He sighed. “I know you are trying, but it would be nice if you found a career you could stick with. A place to really shine.”

“I already have—working in the vineyard.” But as she said the words, she knew he had a point. She had darted from job to job, pursued a dozen careers in as many years. She’d never settled down with anything until now. Not a job, not a man, not a thing. “You don’t understand. It’s hard to find your place in the sun,” she said quietly, “when there are so many stars overhead.”

“Oh, cara, I understand that,” her father said, his voice softer. “I grew up in my father’s court, the second of five. If my eldest brother hadn’t died, I would have lived a very different life than the one I had. It was a good life, though, and I am not complaining.”

Carrie sent up a silent prayer that she was so far removed from the throne that she would probably never have to worry about wearing the crown. “I love working in the vineyards and with the wine, Papa. I want to run the vineyards someday.”

“It is not a proper job for a princess,” he said. “Go back to college. Become a doctor. A humanitarian. Something that befits royalty.”

In other words, not something where she got her hands dirty. When the vineyard’s marketing manager announced last month that this year’s harvest would be his last because he was retiring, Carrie had seen it as her chance to take a more active role in the company she loved so much. Her father had disagreed. She’d hoped he would come around, but clearly, he wasn’t about to. She wanted to prove to him with this trip that she could do both—have a career she loved and represent the royal family in a dignified way. “Papa, I will be home in a few months,” she said again, more firmly this time.

“This is yet another lark for you, Carlita, my dear.” Franco Santaro sighed. “I worry about you.”

“You don’t need to, Papa.”

“I do, cara. You dropped out of college after your first year. Then dropped out of the second one. And barely finished at the third. And now you go to this town—” He cut off the sentence, leaving whatever else he intended to say unsaid. “I worry. That’s all.”

Carrie winced at the reminders. “I just wasn’t a good fit for college. I love being outside, being hands-on.” She sighed, then gripped the phone tighter. “Tell Mama I love her. I have to go or I’ll be late for work. I love you, Papa.”

“I love you, too. I will talk to you soon.”

Carrie hung up the phone. She showered and dressed, then drove the two miles from her rental house to the downtown area of Winter Haven. It wasn’t until she parked that she realized she was a full half hour early for her first day of work.

She got out of the rental car and stood under the sign of By the Glass, the specialty wine shop where she’d be spending the end of summer and early fall. This was what it had all come down to—her years working in the vineyard, working her way up from a vineyard tech job to a viticulturist assistant, and after she’d gotten her degree, assistant to the manager.

She’d loved learning about the science of field blending to create new flavors. Loved seeing the finished product taken from a harvest and bottled for consumption. She’d tried several degree programs before settling on one in sales and marketing, with a heavy concentration in viticulture—even though her father had argued against those courses.

Once she got more hands-on at the vineyard, she wanted to parlay what she had learned into growth for the company. It had taken nearly a year to convince her father that Uccelli’s amazing wines should be sold in the U.S. and that she should be the one to head the venture. When Jake, Mariabella’s new husband, had offered backing to open a wine shop in the small tourist town in the Midwest, the former king of Uccelli had finally agreed.

At first, Carrie was content to let the shop run itself while she watched from Uccelli and spent her days helping the vineyard manager run the operation. But as the first few weeks passed and the sale of Uccelli wines in America remained stagnant, she knew she wanted to take a more active role. Do what made her happiest—get involved and get her hands dirty. And finally implement some of what she had learned in college.

She’d spent two weeks at a wine shop in Uccelli, learning the techniques of selling. Still, her father had had his doubts, sure she’d turn around in a day, a week, a month, and embark on something else.

How could she blame him? When she’d come home from her third and final college, her father had been sure she’d never settle into any one career, despite her framed degree. But Carrie had retreated to the vineyards, and as soon as she did, felt at home. She’d known this was where she’d been meant to be all along. Any doubts she might have had disappeared.

Now Carrie was going to prove not just her own worth as a vineyard director, but the worth of the Uccelli wines to foreign markets. And maybe, just maybe, she’d return to Uccelli, and her father would finally see she was committed to this work, and the best next choice to run the vineyard’s overseas operations. If not, well, she’d scrimp and save until she had a vineyard of her own.

But the little nagging doubts still crowded on her shoulders. What if you quit this, too? that voice whispered. What if you fail? Where will you be then?

She would not fail. Simple.

Carrie unlocked the front door, let herself in, then did the few morning tasks required to open the store. By the time Faith, the regular clerk, came in, the shop was already humming with music and warm incandescent light. “Wow,” Faith said as she dropped off her purse behind the counter. “You’re in early.”

“I was excited about my first day.” Carrie slipped onto the other side of the heavy basket display of featured wines and helped Faith carry it out to the sidewalk. The salesclerk—whom Carrie had met when she’d arrived in Winter Haven on Friday—was a tall, thin blonde with a warm smile and wide green eyes. She’d welcomed Carrie, and quizzed her for a solid hour about the Uccelli wines that first day, clearly excited to meet someone who had direct experience with the vineyards.

“It’s nice to work with someone who likes their job,” Faith said as they walked back into the shop. “The last girl we had here was late so often I gave her an alarm clock for her birthday.”

“Did it work?”

“Nope. She dropped it when she ran to her car that night because she was late for a date.” Faith shook her head. “I already think you’re going to be a better clerk than she ever was. Plus you know these wines better than anyone.”

Carrie brushed away a long lock of dark hair, and tucked it behind her ear. A flush heated her cheeks. “Thank you.”

“Hey, I’m having a party a week from this Friday,” Faith said as she arranged a display of corks on a small round table by the register. “Just burgers and chips at my lake cottage before the weather gets too cold to do anything. You should come. You’ll get to know a lot of the locals.” Faith grinned. “Maybe even meet someone sexy for a little end of summer fling.”

“A fling? Me?” Carrie laughed. “I’m not the fling type.”

“Think about it. You have the perfect situation. You’re only here for a few weeks before you go back to the other side of the world. What better time to have a fling?”

“Princesses don’t have flings, Faith. My father would have a heart attack.” She could just imagine Papa’s face if she added a public scandal to her list of mistakes. It would be ten times worse than the time she skidded in a half hour late wearing grape-stained jeans to a media-filled dinner with the Prime Minister of Britain.

Faith leaned in closer to Carrie. “Every woman deserves a fling, Carrie. Otherwise, you’ll end up married and surrounded by kids and wondering what the hell you missed out on.”

Carrie thought of the prescribed life ahead of her. The people expected it, after all. Her oldest sister was married and already talking about kids, while her middle sister, the queen, had gotten engaged last month. Carrie was expected to go back to Uccelli, find an “acceptable” career, and an “acceptable” spouse, as her older sisters had done, and then fill her calendar with state dinners and ribbon cuttings and uplifting speeches.

Ugh. Just the thought of what lay ahead made Carrie want to run screaming from the room. How had her mother ever stood it? Was that why she’d reminisced about her time in Winter Haven? Because it had been a brief pocket of freedom to be herself?

“I’ll be there,” Carrie said, deciding that while she was here, she was going to experience everything she could. She might not have a fling, but she intended to have a damned good time. It might be her last opportunity for a while, and she intended to take advantage of the break from expectations.

Mama had told her dozens of times about this little Indiana town, a place she’d visited once when she’d been younger, before Carrie had come along. Mama had lived here for a summer under an assumed name, as a person, not as a queen. In those days, the media hadn’t been as ravenous to uncover every detail, nor did they have the resources of the internet, so Bianca had been allowed a rare window of obscurity. Mama had raved about this town to Carrie so often that when Carrie was brainstorming with Jake about a test location in the U.S., Winter Haven had been the first one to come to mind. In the few days that she had been here, she had seen firsthand why her mother loved the little town so much. It was charming, quiet and filled with warm, welcoming residents.

And, to be perfectly honest, she’d wanted to know what the appeal had been for her mother. Whenever Mama talked about Winter Haven, her features softened, and she got this dreamy look. Carrie had to wonder what had made this place so unforgettable.

The morning passed quickly, with several customers coming into the little shop. Every bottle of Uccelli wine that left By the Glass gave Carrie a little thrill. It was like handing over a part of her heritage, herself, and she was delighted to share the beautiful bounty of her country with others. She belonged in this field, she just knew it.

By eleven, business had slowed. “You certainly have the magic touch,” Faith said. “I don’t think we’ve ever sold that much wine in the first two hours of being open.”

“People must be in a wine buying mood.”

“Or they’re so dazzled by meeting a real-life princess that they buy every bottle they can.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Carrie had mentioned her royal heritage when people asked her about her accent, which wasn’t all that pronounced, given the years she’d spent in British boarding schools—one of many attempts by her parents to curb their wild child. And even then, she’d released the information reluctantly, and only when pressed.

“I’m telling you, we should capitalize on the princess angle. Put up a sign and everything.”

“Put up a sign?”

“Something small. No billboards or anything. This is a tourist town, and a little brush with a royal, that’s the kind of thing tourists love.”

She hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“Might as well flaunt it if you got it, sister.” Faith grinned.

Advertise her royal heritage? Use it as a marketing tool? The idea grated. Her princess status had always been a chokehold on her freedom. “I just think it’d be better not to advertise that whole thing.”

“It could sell a whole lot of wine,” Faith said. “And isn’t that your goal? To make this store a success?”

Confronted with that truth, Carrie really didn’t have grounds to refuse. And wouldn’t it be ironic if the thing she hated most about her life became the thing that helped her get what she wanted? Plus, if she handled it right, she could show her parents that Carlita Santaro was the perfect representative for the kingdom’s wines.

Carrie glanced down at her faded jeans and the store logo T-shirt she was wearing. “I know one thing for sure.”

“What’s that?” Faith asked.

“I won’t be the princess they’re expecting.”

Faith smiled. “And that’s part of your charm.”

Carrie reached over and plucked the chalkboard advertising today’s specials out of the window. “So … where’s the chalk?”

The sign worked wonders. As word spread about Carrie’s presence in the shop, business began to triple, then quadruple. Carrie’s naturally outgoing personality was a perfect fit for the curious tourists. Faith was over-the-moon ecstatic about the uptick in business, and started talking about bringing in some temps to help with the additional influx of customers. Every day, Carrie went home to her rented cottage by the lake, feeling satisfied and proud of the job she was doing.

Maybe now, after seeing how she had helped spur sales of Uccelli’s prizewinning wines in America, her father would see that she was made for this business. That her heart was there, not in the palace or in some stuffy office.

“Hey, do you mind if I run out for lunch today?” Faith asked when business had ebbed a bit mid-Thursday morning. “I know we’ve been crazy busy, and I hate even asking, but my mom and sister are in town today and they want my input on planning my youngest sister’s baby shower.”

“Go right ahead,” Carrie said. “I’ve got this under control.” She cast a glance at the cash register that had been the bane of her existence ever since she’d started working here. She’d been able to do everything in the shop, except get the recalcitrant machine to do what she wanted. It seemed no matter which button she pushed, it was the wrong choice. “More or less.”

Faith laughed. “Well, if it gets too crazy, just write down the sales and we’ll run them through later. And remember, this button here—” she pushed a big green one “—will open the cash drawer.”

Carrie nodded. “Okay. Got it.”

After Faith left, Carrie got to work dusting the shelves and giving the display bottles an extra bit of polish while a few customers milled about the shop. On the center shelf, she picked up the signature wine from Uccelli—a graceful pinot grigio with notes of citrus and almond. Carrie knew it had a crisp, dry taste, one that seemed to dance on your tongue. Of all the wines manufactured on the castle grounds, this one was her favorite.

A sense of ownership and pride filled Carrie. She had tended these vines. She had picked these grapes. She had worked the machinery that took the grapes from fruit to liquid. For years, she’d been the rebel—the girl skidding in late to dinner, the one who’d ducked ribbon cuttings, the one who’d done whatever she could to avoid her identity and its expectations.

Funny how all that bucking tradition could result in something so sweet, so beautiful.

The label was decorated with an artist’s rendering of the castle, its elaborate stone facade a dramatic contrast to the rustic landscape and the rocky shoreline. She traced the outline of the castle, ran her finger along the images of the four turrets, the bright purple-and-gold pennants.

The bell over the door tinkled. Carrie put the bottle back, then turned toward the door. A tall man stood just inside the entrance, his athletic frame nearly filling the doorway. The slight wave in his short dark hair accented the strong angles of his jaw. Sunglasses hid the rest of his features, yet gave him an edge of mystery. He had on jeans and a lightly rumpled button-down shirt, which made him look sexy and messy all at once.

Oh, my. Something in Carrie’s chest tightened and she had to force herself to focus on her job, not on him. “Welcome to By the Glass,” she said. “What can I help you find?”

He pointed toward the chalked sign in the window. “I’m looking for the princess.”

Carrie smiled. She put out her arms and figured if this guy was disappointed to find out she wasn’t a diamond-clad diva, that wasn’t her problem. “That would be me.”

He arched a brow. “You?”

“Yes.” She put out a hand. She’d gotten used to introducing herself as a princess in the past few days, but this time, she hesitated for a second before speaking the words. Because she wondered what this handsome man’s reaction would be? “I’m Carlita Santaro, third daughter of the king and queen of Uccelli. Which is where the grapes are harvested and the wines are bottled.”

He removed the sunglasses, revealing eyes so blue, they reminded her of the ocean edging her home country. When he shook her hand with a strong, firm grip, Carrie thought about what Faith had said about having a fling. This guy was everything a woman looking for a little adventure could want. Tall, dark, handsome and with a deep voice that seemed to tingle inside her. And best of all, no wedding ring on his left hand.

“I’m sorry, but I was expecting someone more … formal.”

She glanced down at the dark wash jeans and T-shirt she was wearing, her bright pink shirt sporting a logo for the store, and laughed. “Princesses don’t go around in long dresses and tiaras every day, you know.”

“True.” He released her hand, then fished in his breast pocket for a business card and handed it to her. “Daniel Reynolds. I work as a producer/reporter for Inside Scoop. I’d like to do a story on you and the shop.”

“A …” She stared at the card, then at the man. “A story? For the news?”

“Well, the show I produce isn’t news. Exactly.” He let out a little cough. “We like to call it ‘infotainment.’”

She shook her head. And here she’d actually been thinking of asking this man out. Clearly, her jerk radar was down, because this was just another vulture. “Paparazzi. Why am I not surprised?” She turned away from him, ignoring the business card. “Thanks, but no thanks.” She crossed to a short, older woman who had entered the shop while they were talking, and started telling her about the shop’s special on whites.

“I’m not a member of the paparazzi,” he said, coming up behind her.

“This Riesling is one of our top sellers,” Carrie said to the woman, ignoring him. He could spin it however he wanted, but she’d seen his type before. All they wanted was the scoop, another headline to blast across the airwaves. “If you like a sweeter wine, it’s a great choice.”

The woman tapped her lip, thinking. “I don’t know. My tastes run in the middle, between dry and sweet.” “Then let me suggest—” “This is the kind of story that could really put your shop on the map.”

“—this pinot grigio. A little drier than the Riesling but not as dry as the chardonnay you were considering.” She reached for the bottle, but before she could make contact, Daniel had inserted his business card into her hand. She wheeled around to face him. “I’m trying to do my job here.”

“And I’m trying to do mine.” He pressed the card against her palm. “Please at least consider my offer.”

“I don’t think so.” She took the card, tore it in half and let the pieces flutter to the floor. “I have no interest in anything you have to say to me. Not now, not ever. Go find someone else to torment.” Then she turned back to her customer, exhaling only when she heard the shop’s door close again.




CHAPTER TWO


A PINK blur came hurtling across the room and straight into Daniel’s arms. “Daddy!”

He laughed and picked up his daughter, cradling her to his chest. Deep, fierce love bloomed inside him and he tightened his embrace, inhaling the strawberry scent of Annabelle’s shampoo. There were days when he couldn’t believe this four-year-old miracle was actually his.

A sharp pain ran through him as he thought of Sarah, and all she was missing. In the year since Sarah had died, it seemed like Annabelle had grown and changed in a hundred different ways. And his wife, the woman who had taken to motherhood as if she’d been made only for that single purpose, hadn’t been here to see a single moment. Damn. Tears stung his eyes, but he blinked them back before Annabelle saw.

“Glad you’re here. That girl about wore me out. She’s a ball of energy. A cute ball.” Greta Reynolds, Daniel’s mother, reached out a hand and ruffled Annabelle’s hair. “We played hide-and-seek, built an entire city with Barbie dolls, baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies and wore the colors off the Candy Land board.”

Daniel hoisted Annabelle up a little higher. “Is that so?”

Annabelle nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“Sounds like a fun day.”

“It was. Now I have to get some dinner in the oven.” Greta gave Daniel’s shoulder a pat, then crossed to the kitchen counter where some chicken and a selection of vegetables waited to be assembled into something edible.

“Here, Daddy,” Annabelle said, grabbing her father’s hand and dragging him toward the kitchen table. “Come to my tea party.”

He bit back a groan. Another tea party. A plastic tea set had been set up on the round maple surface, and two of the four chairs were occupied by Boo-Boo, her stuffed bear and a large pink rabbit whose name Daniel couldn’t remember. Before he could say no, Annabelle had tugged him into a chair and climbed into the opposite one. He reached for a plastic cup, but Annabelle stopped him. “No, Daddy. You have to wear this.” She flung a fluffy bright pink scarf at him.

He gave it a dubious look. “I have to wear this?”

Annabelle thrust out her lower lip. “Daddy, it’s a tea party.” As if that explained everything.

He’d done business lunches in five-star restaurants. Interviewed visiting dignitaries. Attended fancy black-tie dinners. One would think he could sit through a tea party with his daughter without wanting to run for the hills. But every time it came to pretending, or being silly, Daniel’s sensible, logical side prevailed, and he became this stiff robot. He pushed the pink scarf to the side. “Uh, why don’t you just pour the tea, Belle?”

She feigned pouring liquid into the tiny cup. “Here, Daddy.”

He picked his up and tipped it to the side. “There’s no tea in it.”

“Daddy, you’re s’posed to pretend.” Annabelle let out another frustrated sigh. She picked up her cup, extended her pinkie and sipped at the invisible tea. “See?”

Annabelle’s disappointment in him as a tea party attendee was clear in her tone and her face. He’d let his daughter down, the one thing he didn’t want to do. But he felt out of his depth, as lost as a man in the desert without a compass, and every time he tried to correct his course, he seemed to make it worse. Hadn’t that been a constant refrain from Sarah? He was never there, never around to bond, and now his absences were biting him back. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m just not very good at tea parties.”

“No, you’re not,” Annabelle mumbled, and turned to her bear, tipping the cup toward his sewn-on mouth.

It had been easier interviewing the president of the United States than sitting here, pretending to drink tea. When it became clear that Annabelle wasn’t going to invite him back to the party, Daniel got to his feet. A sense of defeat filled him. “Uh, I think Grandma needs me.”

Daniel crossed to the counter, picked up a loaf of bread and began slicing it. A second later, he felt his mother’s hand on his shoulder.

Greta turned toward Annabelle. “Honey, I think you forgot to invite Whitney to the tea party. You should go get her. I bet she’s feeling lonely in your room.”

“Oh, Whitney! You’re right, Grandma!” Annabelle scrambled to her feet and dashed off down the hall.

Daniel chided himself. He hadn’t even noticed Annabelle’s favorite stuffed animal wasn’t in attendance. He was missing the details once again. For a man whose job had depended on details, he couldn’t believe he could be so bad at it in his personal life.

“It’ll get easier,” Greta said, as if she’d read his mind.

He sighed. “I hope so.”

“Thanks, Mom.” He glanced at his mother, who looked about ready to collapse with exhaustion. But he saw the indulgent smiles she gave her only grandchild and knew Greta enjoyed every minute with energetic Annabelle. “For everything.”

“Anytime.”

He put the bread knife in the sink, then stood back while his mother bustled between stove and counter, assembling some kind of casserole. “How’s she doing?”

“Okay.” Greta paused in her mixing. “I don’t think she quite understands that you’ve moved. To her, this has just been one long visit with Grandma.”

“Eventually, I’m sure she’ll settle in. It’s been hard on her.” Daniel thought of all the changes his daughter had been through in the past year. He hoped this was the last one. He needed to give her some stability, a proper house, a yard, heck, a puppy. Every child deserved that, and thus far, he hadn’t done a very good job of delivering on any of the above. But here, in Winter Haven, he hoped he would find all of that. And he hoped he could make his career work here as well as he had in New York. Or at least work, period.

That was the only option possible. If he didn’t, he’d have to take a job like the one he’d left—and that meant travel and long hours, two things a single father didn’t need. His daughter needed him here as much as possible. If he’d learned anything at all in the past year, it was that.

His mother, sensing his thoughts, laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’re doing fine, Daniel. She’ll be okay.”

He sighed, watching Annabelle bound across the kitchen, her pink dress swirling around her like a cloud. She looked so innocent, so carefree. So happy. Something he hadn’t seen in a long time. Being here, with her indulgent grandmother, had been good for her. But still, he knew, there was a long road ahead of them. Whenever it was just him and Belle, things got tough again as both of them tried to dance around a subject neither wanted to tackle. And as he learned how to become a single dad to a girly daughter he barely understood. “I hope so.”

“I know so.” Greta patted his shoulder again. “I’ve raised a couple kids. So I get to claim expert status.”

He reached up and squeezed his mother’s hand. Greta had been a huge support over the past year. Flying up to New York and staying in those first difficult weeks while Daniel scrambled to bury his wife, figure out his life and figure out how he was going to raise Annabelle and keep his job. At first, he’d thought he could make it all work, but then the long hours and frequent trips his job as a newscaster demanded started to take their toll, and he realized it was time to make a change. The words Sarah had thrown at him, over and over again as their marriage disintegrated in the months before her death, finally took root.

He might not have been able to make his marriage work, but he would make this fatherhood thing work. That meant taking a position with nine-to-five hours, one that didn’t leave Annabelle in day care from sunup to sundown, or leave her with the nanny while he jetted off to another country for an interview.

Which was what had brought him to the last thing he wanted to do—produce “infotainment” shows that had about as much worth as frosting. His father was probably rolling over in his grave knowing Daniel was working for that show. Still, it was for his daughter. He kept that in mind with every step he took. With Greta’s guiding hand, he hoped the transition would be easy on Annabelle. And him.

Beyond that—marrying again, having a life of his own—he couldn’t think. Later, he told himself. Later.

“Annabelle, I think your father would like to try one of your cookies that we made today.” Greta glanced at Daniel.

“Oh, yes, I would. Very much.” Thank goodness for his mother. He’d already forgotten they’d baked cookies.

“Can I get two?” Annabelle asked, her hand hovering over the cooling treats. “One for me, and one for Daddy?”

Greta nodded, and Annabelle scooped up two chocolate chip cookies. “Here you go, Daddy.” Annabelle held out a misshapen lump of cooked dough. “I made it all by myself.”

“Looks delicious.” He bit into the cookie, making a big deal out of the first bite. Annabelle beamed, so proud of the dessert she’d shaped with her own hands.

She wagged a finger at him. “You can only have one, Daddy, ‘cuz we gotta eat dinner.”

He gave her a solemn nod. “Okay, kiddo.”

Annabelle’s gaze dropped to the extra cookie in her hands. “I wish Mommy could have a cookie, too.”

Her soft words broke Daniel’s heart. The loss of her mother had hit Annabelle hard, and every so often, that pain slipped into the simplest of moments. He searched for the right words to say, and once again, came up empty. How could he begin to fill that yawning hole in Annabelle’s heart when he was still trying to figure this out himself?

“I don’t want my cookie anymore.” The little girl’s blue eyes filled with tears. The dessert tumbled from her hand onto the table.

“I have an idea,” Greta said, bending down to her granddaughter’s level. “Why don’t we put this cookie next to your mommy’s picture? Then when she looks down on us from heaven, she can see that you made her one, too.”

“Will that make her happy?”

“I think so, sweetie.” She took Annabelle’s hand and they crossed to the long shelf that ran along the back wall of the kitchen. In the center, Annabelle’s favorite picture of her mother sat, smiling down at them. Greta had placed it there the first day he and Annabelle had arrived, telling Belle it was so her mommy could watch over her every day. That time, and this one, his mother had stepped in with just the right touch, the one Daniel was still struggling to find.

Greta hoisted Belle into her arms, then let her put the cookie down just so. Then she hugged her tight, and when Belle’s little arms wrapped around Greta’s neck, Daniel’s resolve to get close to his daughter again doubled. Somehow, he would find a way back for them.

Her mission accomplished, Annabelle ran off to play with her toys in the living room, leaving Daniel alone with his mother. Once she was sure Annabelle was out of earshot, Greta gestured toward the kitchen table. Daniel took a seat while his mother checked something simmering on the stove. “How’s your first week at the new job going?”

“Well, it’s a trial run. They want to see what I can bring in for stories, and if they like what they see, I’ll get a permanent position on the show. I hate this limbo. I just want to settle down again and know that tomorrow will be just like today. Not just for me, but for Belle, too.”

“You will,” Greta said. “You’re a great reporter. Just like your father.”

There were days—more of them in the past year—when that comparison grated. His father had been a legendary reporter, with a Pulitzer Prize to prove it. Before that, Daniel’s grandfather had been a reporter, and probably in some distant caveman days, there was a Reynolds who had etched information onto a cave wall. “I was a great reporter, Mom. Then my life fell apart and I went from great to awful.” He thought of the awards that had once hung proudly over his desk, then began to collect dust, then finally seemed to mock him and he’d put them in the bottom of a drawer.

“Nobody can blame you. You went through a terrible year—”

“Ratings don’t care about personal problems, Mom. And once your ratings tank, so does your career.” How many times had his father drummed that into his head? It’s all about ratings, son. Do what it takes to stay at the top.

His mother bit her lower lip, as if she was holding back what she truly wanted to say. “So, tell me, what stories are you working on now?”

“I’ve got a couple who’ve been married sixty-three years and still go dancing together every Friday night, a dog who took care of a litter of kittens when the mother cat died.” He ticked off the subjects on his fingers.

“Oh. Well, those are interesting.” But everything in her voice said otherwise.

“And—” he grinned, saving his best prospect for last “—a real-life princess. Or at least, that’s what she’s claiming she is.”

“A princess? Wait, you don’t mean that one in Boston, do you? I don’t remember her name, but I remember seeing her on the national news.”

“Not her. Her sister. She’s working at a wine shop downtown. She claims to be the youngest sister of the Uccelli princesses.”

“And you think she’s lying?”

“Well, it seems convenient that she’s saying that when the other princess is halfway across the country. Not to mention this Carrie woman is working in some little shop in a tiny town in the Midwest. During tourist season.” He thought of the woman he’d met today, how un-royal she seemed. Her long, dark hair, pulled back into a ponytail, the simple T-shirt, the near-perfect English. The way she’d laughed, so unreserved, so free. And she could talk wine well—as if she’d worked in a vineyard or a wine shop for years. Definitely not a job he’d ever heard a princess holding. Dignitary, lawyer, humanitarian, yes. Grape picker? No.

“Maybe she likes a quiet life. You don’t get much quieter than this town.” His mother laughed.

Carrie had been beautiful, in an understated, natural way. The kind of woman who looked even prettier without makeup than with. She’d intrigued him, but he wasn’t sure if that was just professional curiosity or something more.

Either way, he had enough on his plate without adding something more.

“Uccelli … Uccelli.” Greta thought a second. “You know, there was a rumor around here years ago. Must be more than twenty years now. There was a woman—I don’t remember her name now—who came here and stayed in one of the lake cottages for the summer. After she left, someone saw her on TV and said she looked just like the queen of Uccelli. For a while, that was all the gossip buzz around here. That the queen had taken a secret vacation in Winter Haven.” Greta shrugged. “Could be a fairy tale. You know how people like to think they can see Mickey Mouse in their morning toast.”

Daniel chuckled. “I do.”

“If the queen story is true, then maybe her daughter is just following in her footsteps.”

“Maybe. I don’t know much about princesses,” he said, “but she seemed as far removed from being one as you could get.”

“Well, maybe it is a marketing gimmick. Or maybe—” his mother laid a hand on his shoulder “—you’re too jaded to see the truth.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Daniel said. Maybe yes, he was jaded. But it was easier to be that way than to let every emotion he saw into his heart. Much easier to be steel than putty. “Either way, I’m going to ferret out the truth. I have a feeling this story is the one that can launch my career at Inside Scoop, and one way or another, I’m running with it.”

Carrie rubbed her neck, then stretched her back and shoulders. The shop had been impossibly busy today, and every muscle in her body ached. But it was a good ache, the kind that came from a job well done. She could hardly wait to see the week’s end numbers. It all boded well for the future of Uccelli’s wines in America. And that, in turn, boded well for her future as a vineyard owner.

She flipped the sign to Closed and breathed a sigh of relief that the TV reporter from the other day hadn’t been back. She didn’t need that distraction interfering with her plans. She had a limited window of time and a lot to learn and accomplish during that period. She wanted to get more involved on the retail end, taking the time to study the bookkeeping, the ordering process, the sales trends. The last thing she needed was a member of the paparazzi looking for a scandal to exploit.

“I think we’re going to need to hire more help at this rate,” Faith said as she pulled the last outdoor display into the shop for the night. “I’ve never seen this place so busy.” She patted Carrie on the back. “Thanks to the princess here.”

“I’m just glad to help.”

“Whatever you’re doing, keep on doing it, because it’s working.” Faith shrugged on a light jacket, then grabbed her purse. “I’ll see you Monday.”

“Monday?”

“We’re closed Sundays. Which means you, my friend, get a day off.” Faith let out a long breath that said she was just as exhausted as Carrie. “And thank goodness, so do I.”

A few minutes later, Faith and Carrie had finished locking up the shop, and they headed their separate ways. The long night—and next day—stretched ahead of Carrie with no plans. She couldn’t think of the last time her time had truly been her own, something she could fill any way she liked with no worries that someone was expecting her to be somewhere else, no guilt that she was ducking an obligation. Castle life was busy, with events piled on top of more events, with at least one representative of the royal family expected to be in attendance at all times. When she hadn’t been working in the vineyard, she’d been forced into donning stiff suits or ruffled gowns and pasting a smile on her face for the few royal events she couldn’t wrangle a way out of. Even in the castle, there’d always been maids underfoot, and people in and out all day and night.

And now she had a whole blissful day and a half? Totally, utterly alone?

Carrie started to drive toward her lake house, then saw a sign for the Winter Haven Library. Soft golden light still glowed in the small brick building’s windows and drew her like a beacon.

How long had it been since she’d been able to sit down and read an entire book from start to finish? Enjoy the story without interruptions from staff, visitors, events? The thought of doing something as decadent as just reading filled her with a warm sense of anticipation. She parked, then stepped inside the building and inhaled the slightly musty, slightly dusty scent of lots and lots of books. She’d hated boarding school—hated the boring classes, the endless rules, but most of all, hated being away from the wild land that surrounded Uccelli’s castle—but she had loved the library at St. Mary’s. It had been massive, and filled with every book one could imagine, and had made the boarding school experience more tolerable for a girl who would have rather been home in her beloved vineyards than memorizing algebraic equations. She’d spent her free moments curled up in a comfortable chair, lost in worlds completely unlike her own.

That’s what she needed now. A good book, something she could take back to that little nook in the lake house and enjoy with a cup of hot tea while the soft breezes from the water whispered around her. The prospect hurried her steps, and she headed into the first book-filled room she saw.

Almost immediately she realized she’d entered the children’s section by mistake. She started to turn around when she heard a male voice, a familiar low baritone. “Just one more book, Belle. Then we need to get home.”

“Daddy, I wanna read a princess story.”

A sigh. “What about this one? It’s about George Washington growing up.”

A matching sigh from much younger lungs. “No. I don’t want that one. It’s yucky. Read me a princess story.”

Carrie grinned. She recognized that stubborn streak and had heard that defiance in herself. Carrie took a couple steps forward and peeked around the bookshelf. Her gaze lighted first on a little girl with a headful of blond curls spilling around her shoulders like a halo. She had on a ruffled pink-and-white dress and plastic glittery shoes with a tiny heel. She had her little fists perched on her hips and was glaring at the man before her—

Oh, no.

A very exasperated-looking Daniel Reynolds. Carrie jerked back, but not fast enough. “Annabelle …” Daniel’s voice trailed off when he glanced up and noticed Carrie standing there.

“I’m … I’m sorry,” she said. Was she stammering? She never stammered. “I, uh, walked into the children’s area by mistake. I didn’t expect to see … well, see you here.”

His chiseled features met hers with a direct, intent stare. No surprise, just … assessment. “Nor did I expect to see you.”

“I’ll … I’ll leave you to your book.”

“It’s her!”

The voice behind Carrie startled her and she spun around to find one of her customers from earlier that day. The woman stepped forward, tugging her husband with her. “You’re the princess, aren’t you? The one from the wine shop?”

Carrie nodded and bit back a smile. People got such a chuckle out of her royal status. Carrie, who had lived as much out of the castle’s shadow as she could, found the whole thing amusing.

The woman yanked on her husband’s arm. “See, I told you she was here in Winter Haven. A real, honest-to-goodness princess.”

The little girl with Daniel stared up at Carrie, her blue eyes wide and curious. “You’re a princess? A real one?”

Carrie bent down slightly. “I am.”

The little girl’s mouth opened into a tiny O. “Wow.” She tilted her head and gave Carrie a curious look. “Where’s your crown?”

“Back home in Uccelli, where I come from.”

“But don’t princesses always have to wear a crown so everybody knows they’re special?”

“Princesses are special every day, Annabelle.” Carrie gave the girl a smile, then turned to her customer. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“You, too.” The woman beamed. “We come to Winter Haven every summer for vacation. Have been for more than twenty years. I meant to tell you that I met your mother years ago.”

“You did?”

“Uh-huh. She was telling people she was just an ordinary vacationer, but we knew better, didn’t we?” She elbowed her husband, who grunted a yes. “She loved this place.”

“She did, indeed,” Carrie said.

“I don’t blame her.” The woman let out a little chuckle and winked. “Maybe you’ll have the same amount of fun.”

Carrie smiled. “Maybe.” She exchanged a little bit of small talk before the woman and her husband left, promising to stop at By the Glass again before their vacation ended.

“Well, well,” Daniel said after the couple left the room. “Seems the princess angle is good for sales.”

She bristled. “That isn’t why I told people who I am.”

He arched a brow. “It isn’t?”

“Of course not.” She glared at him. “You always see the worst in people, don’t you?”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because you people are jaded and bitter and think everyone is lying.”

His face hardened and she knew she’d struck a nerve. “Well, perhaps if people didn’t tell us lies all the time, reporters wouldn’t be so jaded.”

“I’m not—”

“Here, read this one.” The little girl thrust a book between them. Then she leaned in closer to her father and lowered her voice. “And Daddy, you’re not supposed to fight with a princess.”

The lines in Daniel’s face softened, and the hard edge disappeared. He bent down to his daughter’s level and took the book from her hands. “You’re right, Belle.”

She beamed, then spun on those plastic pink shoes and thrust out a hand toward Carrie. “I’m Annabelle. I’m not a princess, but I wanna be one really bad.”

Carrie laughed and shook the little girl’s hand. Five fingers, so delicate, so soft and so reminiscent of herself and her sisters. “I’m Carlita Santaro, but you can call me Carrie.”

“Princess Carrie.” Annabelle glanced up at Carrie, all smiles and apple cheeks. “I like that name.”

“Me, too.” Carrie glanced at Daniel. He’d tamed his go-for-the-jugular reporter side for now. But how long would that last? In the end, she knew where his type gravitated—to the story. Regardless of the consequences or fallout. But a part of her wanted to know if a guy who could look at his daughter with such love in his eyes could be different. Still, her instincts told her to keep her distance. “I should go.”

“Stay,” Annabelle said. “’Cuz, Daddy’s going to read a story and he’s really good at reading stories.”

“Oh, I don’t think I should—”

But the little girl had already grabbed Carrie’s hand and was tugging her in Daniel’s direction. “You can sit over there. I can sit over here. And Daddy—” the girl stopped in front of her father, propped one fist on her hip, and gave him a stern look “—you can read.”

Daniel let out a laugh, then sent Carrie an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. Annabelle can be … demanding.”

“Daddy! I’m not ‘manding. I’m nice.”

He chuckled again. “Yes, Belle, you are nice. The nicest little girl in the world.”

Annabelle beamed and the love between father and daughter seemed to fill the small colorful space. This other side of Daniel Reynolds surprised Carrie, but she refused to soften her stance on an interview about herself. She’d seen a hundred times how trusting someone from the media could turn around and bite her. Hadn’t they been painting her as the “extra” princess for years? As if the royal family could discard her because she’d never be queen.

How did she know this guy wouldn’t do the same? Or worse, just make something up?

No, if she allowed him into her world, it would be to talk about Uccelli’s wines. And nothing more. And all the while she’d be wary, and not trust him.

But as she watched him interact with his daughter, a part of her wanted to believe he was different. That she could trust him.

“Come on,” Annabelle said, tugging on Carrie’s hand again. “You gotta sit down or Daddy won’t read. It’s a …” She glanced at her father for the word.

“Rule,” Daniel supplied. Then he shrugged and smiled again. “Sorry, but it is.”

Carrie thought of leaving. Then she caught Daniel’s smile again, and something about it hit her square in the gut. He had a lopsided smile, the kind that gave his face character and depth, and had her following Annabelle to the square of carpet on Daniel’s right. As soon as Carrie lowered herself onto the small space, Annabelle scrambled over to his opposite side, plunked down on her bottom and plopped her chin into her hands. “Read my story, Daddy.”

He arched a brow.

“Please.”

“Okay.” He turned the cover of the book and then shot Carrie a glance. “Seems Belle has picked The Princess and the Pea. You know, the fairy tale about the woman they suspect is masquerading as a princess.”

“I love that story,” Annabelle said, completely oblivious to the hidden conversation between the adults. “’Cuz it’s got a princess in it. I love princesses.”

“Then by all means, I think you should read it,” Carrie said to Daniel.

“I think I should, too. Refresh my memory.” He leaned back against a beanbag chair, and Annabelle curled up next to him, laying her blond head on his chest so she could see the pictures as he read.

The father-daughter picture before her filled Carrie with a rush of sentiment. On the rare occasions when her mother had been home at night and around at bedtime, she’d made it a rule to read the girls at least one story, sometimes two. Always a fairy tale, because she said those were the kind of stories that taught you to dream. Carrie leaned against the bookcase, as enthralled as the little girl in Daniel’s arms.

She’d stay just a minute, no more, and only because Annabelle had asked her. She didn’t want to intrude. Or get any closer to this man.

“’Then she took twenty mattresses and laid them on top of the pea,’” Daniel read, his quiet voice seeming to spin a magical web, “’and then twenty eiderdown beds on top of the mattresses.’“

“Twenty?” Annabelle asked and fluttered her fingers as if she was counting that high. “That’s lots.”

“It is indeed,” Daniel said, then turned another page. “’On this the princess had to lie all night. In the morning she was asked how she had slept.’” He paused. “What do you think, pumpkin? Was she a princess after all or another imposter?”

“What’s a ‘poster?”

“Well, Belle, that’s a person who pretends to be something they’re not.” He closed the book, glanced at Carrie and arched a brow. “Would you agree, Miss Santaro?”

“I think lots of people pretend to be something they aren’t.”

“You have a point,” he said. Their gazes met and for a moment, it felt like détente. Like they were starting something. What, Carrie wasn’t sure.

“Daddy, you gotta read. I wanna know if the princess lives happy ever after. And so does Princess Carrie.”

Daniel glanced at Carrie and arched a brow. A teasing grin darted across his face. Was he … flirting with her? Or merely playing into Annabelle’s game? “Well, Princess Carrie? Do you want me to keep reading?”

She waved toward the book. “Please do, Mr. Reynolds. I’m dying to hear how this one ends.”

His gaze met hers and something hot pooled inside her. “I am, too,” he said. Then he opened the book again and began to read.




CHAPTER THREE


“OKAY, new guy, what have you got?”

At the sound of his boss’s voice, Daniel jerked to attention in his chair. He faced Matt Harrod and the rest of the production team, a motley crew of producers, cameramen and the two hosts who provided commentary for Inside Scoop, all gathered for a quick Saturday-morning meeting. Daniel was the only one with a hard news background, and in the few days that he had been working here, he’d begun to feel like he was living on an alien planet. Everyone at Inside Scoop wanted the next sensational spot, the next media meltdown. They were like vultures hovering over a steaming carcass of scandal. Daniel missed the days when he produced stories that had meaning, the kind that brought viewers an important message or changed a life. The kind that his father had done, the kind that were part of the Reynolds family legacy.

But those stories came with a job that demanded long hours, frequent and last-minute trips around the world, and a daughter who was raised by strangers. Daniel told himself the job he had now was perfect, and he better start acting like it.

“I found a princess … or rather, someone who claims to be a princess,” he said to Matt, “living temporarily in Winter Haven.”

Matt let out a gust of disbelief. “Like real, honest-to-God royalty?”

“Seems it, though I’m still researching her.” He pulled his notes before him. “This woman, Carlita Santaro, is claiming she’s the third daughter of the king of Uccelli, a country near Italy. I checked, and there is a real Carlita who fits the age and looks similar. Her middle sister, Allegra, ascended to the throne last year, and her oldest sister, Mariabella, is married to an American and spends part of her time running an art gallery in Massachusetts. Her mother spent time here more than twenty years ago, which is what Carlita says drew her to this town.”

“I think I heard about the art chick. She was in the news last year. Wish I’d gotten that scoop.” Matt made a few notes on a pad of paper. “So what’s number three doing in Indiana?”

“Her country makes wine. And she’s running a small wine shop that is the first in the United States to sell Uccelli wines. Sort of a test market with the tourists.”

“You sure she’s the real deal?” Matt asked.

Daniel shrugged. “So far, her story checks out.”

“So far?” Matt arched a brow. The rest of the production team turned toward Daniel.

“Well, there’s not much information on Carlita Santaro.” He opened the folder before him and withdrew the few pictures he had of Carrie in her royal element. He scattered them across the long conference table while he spoke. “Partly because she has always shunned the spotlight and partly because she’s the third daughter, and thus not as interesting to the media. So it’s been a bit of a challenge proving this Carlita’s story.”

Matt picked up one of Carrie’s headshots, this one a few years old and a little grainy. “Did you run a blood test?”

Daniel chuckled. “Seriously? I can’t do that.”

“Seriously. I don’t want to put this station on the line for some half-baked crazy who thinks she’s the latest Romanov descendent.”

Daniel bristled, and forced himself to tamp down his anger. This was his job here— his first chance to prove himself to his new boss—and he needed to stay in control. Good paying media jobs in the middle of the country weren’t exactly plentiful, and if he didn’t succeed at this one, he’d be forced to move back to the coast and put Annabelle back into the same nanny/day care/absent father nightmare he had worked so hard to leave behind. That was assuming he could find another job in the news, considering how his reputation had fallen apart last year. He’d applied to twenty places with no luck before he’d been hired here. He needed this job, as much as he hated that his options had narrowed to this. “The stories I read about her fit the woman that I met. I’m not a hundred percent positive she’s the real princess yet. I still need to do a bit more legwork to make sure.”

Matt considered the information for a while, twirling his pen between his fingers as he thought. His face was filled with skepticism, and the trademark scheming that had helped his show rise in the ratings. Whatever he was thinking, Daniel was pretty damned sure it was going to be some harebrained idea, and undoubtedly something Daniel wouldn’t like. In the two weeks Daniel had been working here, he’d watched Matt cross the journalism line a hundred times. In fact, Daniel wouldn’t call much of what Matt did journalism.

Daniel had met interns out of college with more tact and experience. But this was the job he had, and that meant he had to buck up and tolerate Matt’s insensitive personality. For now. Soon as he had a success back on his résumé, Daniel was heading for a job that had more meat than sugar.

“All right, we’ll give it a shot,” Matt said. “But I don’t want to do the typical profile piece.” He mocked a yawn. “We need something that will put us on the map. The kind of piece that the other stations will want to run on their shows. Something that really puts Inside Scoop into the public eye. I want to go global, baby, and this is the kind of story that can help us do that. World, here we come!”

“Okay,” Daniel said. “I’ll think of an angle that—”

“I don’t want an angle. I want something that says wow. Something like …” He twirled the pen some more, and then his face brightened in a way that Daniel knew meant something bad was coming out of Matt’s mouth. “A test.”

“A test?”

“Yeah, like that fairy tale. What is the name of it again?” He smacked the arm of the young male intern beside him. The kid—no older than twenty—jumped.

“Uh … . Cinderella?” he said in a squeaky voice.

“No, no, the other one.”

“Snow White,” Emily, the female half of the cohost team, volunteered.

“No. God. I work with a bunch of idiots.” Matt cursed. “What the hell is the name of that fairy tale? The one where they test the princess. Make sure she’s Grade A.”

“The Princess and the Pea,” Daniel said, then hated himself for supplying the answer. He could already see the road ahead and he didn’t like the direction Matt was traveling. As much as anyone, he wanted to prove—or disprove—Carrie’s claim, but not in some sensationalized circus.

“Yes! That’s it!” Matt pointed at Daniel and beamed. “New guy, you just earned your keep. I think you’ve got the best story idea out of all these idiots. You run with your princess and get a little background on her. We’ll work on developing the test to prove she’s royalty.”

“What possible test could there be?”

Matt grinned, the kind of grin that Daniel knew meant this was going in the wrong direction. Dread filled the pit of Daniel’s stomach and he wondered if it was too late to retract the story.

“Oh, we’ll think of something,” Matt said. “But whatever we think of, I can guarantee one thing.”

“What’s that?” Daniel asked.

“It’ll be great TV.” Matt grinned. “Great, memorable, big bucks TV.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Daniel muttered as he gathered his things and left the production meeting. And tried like hell to think of a way to tell Carrie about this without her wanting to shove that tiara down his throat.

Annabelle skipped in a circle around the kitchen. She had on her plastic tiara and a purple dress that blossomed out from her waist in a wide bell. He’d tried like hell to talk her out of the tiara, but Annabelle had insisted, and Daniel hadn’t wanted to see a frown on his little girl’s face. Not when she’d just started smiling again.

“You ready, pumpkin?”

She stopped twirling and turned to face him. “Uh-huh.”

She’d been ready and waiting when he got home from the production meeting. Now her excitement shimmered on her face, danced in her eyes. “All right then, let’s go.” He put out his hand for Annabelle. She started toward him, then stopped and grabbed a bright pink bag sitting on the kitchen table. “What’s that?”

“I can’t tell you, Daddy. It’s a s’prise.” An impish grin spread across her pixie features.

“A surprise, huh?” He bent down and pretended to try to peek inside the bag. “For me?”

She jerked the silky bag away. “No peeking, Daddy! It’s not for you.”

“For Grandma?”




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