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Cinderella's Prince Under The Mistletoe
Cara Colter
From his housekeeper… to Her Royal Highness? Reeling from the revelation that he’s not the rightful heir to his country’s throne, Crown Prince Luca Valenti heads to the mountains before scandal erupts. But snowbound with his enchanting housekeeper Imogen Albright, Luca begins learns there’s more to life than royal duty…


From his housekeeper...
...to Her Royal Highness?
In this A Crown by Christmas story, reeling from the revelation that he’s not the rightful heir to his country’s throne, Crown Prince Luca Valenti heads to the mountains to find his long-lost sister before scandal erupts. Snowbound with enchanting, down-to-earth housekeeper Imogen Albright, Luca’s learning there’s more to life than royal duty. As the snow melts, Christmas at the palace beckons...but will Luca make this Cinderella his royal bride?
CARA COLTER shares her life in beautiful British Columbia, Canada, with her husband, nine horses and one small Pomeranian with a large attitude. She loves to hear from readers, and you can learn more about her and contact her through Facebook.
Also by Cara Colter (#u21350336-b1f1-5f68-8caa-4fe642c15046)
Swept into the Tycoon’s World
Snowbound with the Single Dad
His Convenient Royal Bride
A Crown by Christmas collection
Cinderella’s Prince Under the Mistletoe
And look out for the next two books
Soldier Prince’s Secret Baby Gift by Kate Hardy
Available November 2019
Their Christmas Royal Wedding by Nina Milne
Available December 2019
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
Cinderella’s Prince Under the Mistletoe
Cara Colter


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-09161-9
CINDERELLA’S PRINCE UNDER THE MISTLETOE
© 2019 Harlequin Books S.A.
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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To the entire A Crown by Christmas team, editors and writers, who made the magic happen.
Contents
Cover (#u89a34555-ca8f-526b-a174-c946dbbd9d50)
Back Cover Text (#uc90a2b29-70e8-5352-ab1a-69346d7968ff)
About the Author (#u6642268d-06bc-5bdb-badd-c5b0d5f033e1)
Booklist (#uaed126ed-fcad-5a64-9a8f-3df0fba65f23)
Title Page (#u4e8ef3aa-9cb0-5570-8b33-43bff77ccd19)
Copyright (#u3adcfc97-20ad-56ae-8404-72fcbc4d950a)
Note to Readers
Dedication (#uc6042bdb-7589-5d16-b206-1648111fcaa2)
CHAPTER ONE (#u9f162420-1c4f-52e0-97a1-98646346cc0c)
CHAPTER TWO (#ua70983e4-ebbf-5fc4-a104-1dcabc789fbc)
CHAPTER THREE (#ua6e3fcb2-86da-5066-8dc5-082000dc881b)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u69c7b6a8-3625-5e86-902f-320fe726cbf9)
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)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#u21350336-b1f1-5f68-8caa-4fe642c15046)
IMOGEN ALBRIGHT GAVE the perfectly made bed one more completely unnecessary swipe with her hand. The Egyptian cotton sheets, with their one thousand thread count, were soft beneath her fingertips, and a light, deliciously clean fragrance tickled her nostrils.
A little nervously, Imogen tucked a honey-blond strand of her shoulder-length hair behind her ear and glanced around the room. As were all the rooms at the Crystal Lake Lodge, a boutique hotel high in the Canadian Rockies, this room was subtly luxurious and faintly mountain themed with its beautifully hand-hewn wooden furniture and the river rock fireplace at one end of the room.
But was it good enough for a prince?
Ever since she was a little girl and the hotel was managed by her parents, Crystal Lake Lodge, with its promise of luxury in the heart of true wilderness, had attracted an elite clientele. Imogen had grown up with a fuss being made over her and her two sisters, by famous actors, heads of state and sports figures. Some came every year, and a few remained as friends to the family. When they were teenagers, Imogen and her sisters had been the envy of all their friends with their autographed collections of celebrity photos.
But to her knowledge, Crystal Lake Lodge had never hosted royalty before.
One thing about rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous all her life? Imogen knew, better than most, that the fabulously wealthy and well-known were just people. With few exceptions, especially when they came here, they wanted the barriers to come down, to be treated as normal and to be liked for themselves.
Prince Antonio Valenti might have an entirely different attitude, though, if the thick protocol book that had been delivered just yesterday was any indication! There was something so intimidating about that heavy binder that she had not yet opened it.
Was the delivery of the protocol book the reason she felt so nervous? She never felt nervous before guests arrived.
But there was some mystery shrouding this arrival.
For one thing, the Prince was not arriving with an entourage. He was coming by himself with a single bodyguard. For another, the booking had been made with hardly any advance notice.
And for yet another, it was the shoulder season. Imogen wandered to the window and looked out. Even though she had lived here all her life, she felt her breath catch in her throat.
The Lodge was perched high on a mountainside. The views were stunning: from this distance, the town in the narrow valley below looked like one of those Christmas miniature villages that people collected.
The community had been built around the shores of Crystal Lake, which was tranquil and turquoise, reflecting the blaze of fall colors around it. The valley walls were carpeted with emerald green forests that gave way to craggy rock faces. The mountains soared upward to dance with bright blue sky, their pyramid-shaped peaks crowned in brilliant white mounds of snow.
It was October and so the thick stands of pine and fir and balsam were interspersed with larch, the needles spun to stunning gold, lit from within by the late-afternoon autumn sun. Imogen knew if she opened the window, the scents of fall would envelop her: clean and crisp, with the faintest overtones of wood smoke.
Still, as gorgeous as it all was, the question remained: Why would the Prince come now? The summer season—that lake dotted with kayaks and canoes, the air full of the screams of children brave enough to try the mountain waters—was over.
And the ski season was at least a month from beginning.
The mountain trails in this area were world famous for hikers and recreational mountain climbers. When the Lodge had clientele at this time of year, that was who they usually were—outdoor enthusiasts.
And yet when this booking came in and she had asked the reason for the visit, she had been rebuffed as if she had overstepped a line by asking. Then, they had requested she book the whole hotel, though there were only two of them arriving—the Prince and his security man. Thank goodness it was the shoulder season, or she would not have been able to accommodate that request.
“Gabi,” she said, backing out of the room, giving it one last glance, and then closing the door. “Where are you when I need you?”
“Did you say something?”
One of the local girls, Rachel, who helped at the hotel, popped her head out of the room they were preparing for the security man. Newly married, her baby bump was becoming quite pronounced.
Why did it seem baby season was hitting Crystal Lake in such a big way?
Everywhere Imogen looked there were babies on the way, or people toting brand-new infants. And every single time, she felt that pang of loss and regret.
“Sorry, no, I was talking to myself,” Imogen explained.
“I heard you say something about Gabi.”
“I was just wondering where she was, that’s all.”
“Well, everyone is wondering what is up with Gabi, so let me know when you figure it out.”
Imogen smiled at the pregnant girl. This was what was lovely—and occasionally aggravating—about small towns. No one could ever have a secret. Did Gabi have a secret?
Instead of promising to share gossip, Imogen said, “Rachel, you be careful. No lifting!”
“Ha. My mother was chopping wood when she started having labor with me.”
Imogen knew that, despite this assertion, Rachel’s pregnancy had not been without complications. She had been going to the city to see a specialist, and the delivery was planned for a hospital there.
Imogen had actually asked the young woman to stop working, but Rachel had brushed off the suggestion with the claim that she was from sturdier stock than that. Imogen was fairly certain Rachel kept working because her young family needed the money, and so she had put her on light duty and told her absolutely no chemicals were to be used for cleaning.
Imogen moved away from Rachel and her thoughts returned to Gabi. Gabriella Ross ran the bookstore in Crystal Lake. They were lifelong friends. They had always been there for each other, but their friendship had deepened even more when Imogen’s sisters had accepted jobs overseas and her parents had moved to a warmer climate. When Gabriella’s aunt and uncle had passed away, they had become each other’s family. They knew each other’s secrets and heartbreaks and dreams in the way only closest friends do.
Until recently, that was. Imogen frowned as she went down the wide, curved staircase and headed down a back hallway to the kitchen. Gabi had seemed stressed and preoccupied lately. Normally, she would have been helping Imogen get ready for the arrival of a crown prince. Normally, her friend would have been over the moon with excitement.
Gabi was very bookish, and by now, usually Imogen could have counted on her to have researched all there was to know about the island kingdom of Casavalle. Gabi would have read that protocol book, beginning to end, in about an hour and provided Imogen with a short synopsis of its contents.
“Including what they like to eat,” Imogen said, swinging open the door to the huge, stainless steel, industrial fridge in the Lodge kitchen.
But instead of having her nose buried in a book, discerning everything there was to know about the royal family of Casavalle, Gabi had disappeared, with only the vaguest of explanations.
Gabriella did have a secret.
Secrecy between the two women was unsettling. It was Gabi who had helped Imogen through the end of her engagement, and it was Gabi who knew, to this day, that tears shone very close to that bright smile Imogen displayed when someone mentioned Kevin to her. Or when she glanced at the engagement picture of the two of them that she could not bring herself to delete as the screen saver on her cell phone.
She felt her heart squeeze, as it always did when she thought of him. He had wanted children so desperately. This was the other thing Gabi knew about her: that Imogen would never have babies.
She had suspected for a number of years, since a serious ski injury, that there might be problems. But after she and Kevin had been dating three years, he had taken her to her favorite Chinese food restaurant, and when she had broken open her fortune cookie, a small diamond ring had winked at her.
“I want you to be my wife. I want us to have babies together.”
Of course she had said yes. That picture on her cell phone had been taken by a thrilled waitress seconds after Imogen had put on the ring. But was it the fact that he had included the baby part in his proposal that had made her, finally, investigate further?
Imogen remembered the day she had told Kevin the results of her tests, the distress on his face. He had stammered that of course, it didn’t matter, but she had known it had. And she had been right: when she had set him free, he had lost no time in finding a new love. Though he and Imogen had been together for three years and had only just begun to discuss marriage, he had married someone else with appalling speed. They already had a baby on the way. And try as she might to be happy about it...
“Stop it!” Imogen ordered herself, when she felt her throat closing with emotion. She would not ponder endlessly the unfairness of life. She would not! She sorted through a few items in the fridge. They were not what they normally stocked. Instead, tiny individual Cornish game hens, strange sausages, unrecognizable vegetables, tropical fruits and exotic condiment bottles filled the shelves.
Thankfully, she did not have to figure out how to prepare anything. These exotic items had arrived at the request of a retired world-class chef who would be here tomorrow morning in advance of the arrival of Prince Antonio.
Imogen closed the fridge door and cocked her head. The sound of a helicopter—spotting for fires, conducting tourist trips and ferrying heli-skiers—was not uncommon in Crystal Lake. But it was more unusual at this quiet time of year.
She went to the kitchen door and opened it, craning her neck at the skies. Despite the bright sunshine of the day, the air was shockingly cold. She glanced toward Mount Crystal, and sure enough she could see a dark cloud coming to a slow boil over the peak. From long experience with changeable mountain climates, she knew what this meant.
Snow’s coming, she thought, just as a small helicopter broke the tree line and then hovered over the Lodge, trees swaying in its backwash, red and orange fall leaves scattering. It tilted, lifted gracefully over the roof, and then the noise intensified.
Imogen went out the back door and quickly followed a stone pathway that wound around the Lodge. She arrived at the front just in time to see the helicopter slowly lowering over the sweeping lawn. Her hair went every which way as the helicopter rocked its way slowly to the ground, until the struts were solidly situated. The noise was deafening for a moment.
It might have only been a two-seater, but the helicopter was silver and sleek, with a dark windshield. It was like something out of a James Bond movie. The roar suddenly went silent as the engines were cut and the rotors drifted to a halt. She saw a crown insignia, gold against silver on the tailpiece of the helicopter.
Her mouth fell open. They were not expecting their royal visitor until tomorrow! They were not expecting an arrival by helicopter.
And, most importantly, she had planned on giving that protocol book a thorough going-over tonight. Now what?
As she watched, the pilot got out and held the door. Though he wore no uniform, everything about him, from his bearing to his closely cropped hair, said he was military. He scanned the grounds to the edges of the trees with narrowed eyes. His gaze fell on her, and he squinted long and hard before letting his eyes move on, taking in the building, his watchful gaze resting on doors and windows.
The set of his shoulders relaxed slightly, and he stepped away from the door of the helicopter, holding it open.
Another man stepped out, and the man holding the door bowed slightly and said something to him. She couldn’t hear exactly what he said, but she was certain he called the other man Luca.
She might have contemplated the name a bit more—they were expecting a prince named Antonio, after all—but Imogen felt the breath sucked from her body and the autumn mountain glory all around her fade into oblivion.
The man who had been addressed as Luca was astounding. Neat, luxuriously thick hair, as dark as fresh-brewed coffee, touched his brow. His eyes were also the deep brown of coffee, his skin ever so faintly golden, the fullness of his bottom lip and the cleft in his chin absolutely sinful. He was perhaps an inch over six feet, his shoulders broad under a beautifully cut suit jacket. His legs were long under tapered pants pressed to knife-blade sharpness.
He exuded an air of power and self-containment, such as Imogen was not sure she had ever experienced before.
She was also struck by a sense of having seen him before, but of course, in today’s world, all royal family members were celebrities. That must be why she felt a tickle of recognition: she had probably seen his face on the front page of a gossip rag. It was, after all, exactly the kind of face that would entice people—especially female people—to buy a copy.
What now? Obviously, even though the temptation was great, she could not run back into the Lodge, as she had a desire to do. She was fairly certain, even without having read the protocol book, that she was probably expected to execute some kind of curtsy. She had planned to practice one. Really, she had!
In fact, she had pictured her and Gabriella, giggling insanely and curtsying to each other.
Apparently nothing about this particular visit was going to go according to plan.
Imogen ran a hand through her scattered hair and lifted her chin. She took a deep breath and stepped forward. No matter what the protocol book said, she wasn’t going to go up to the Prince in her work jeans and blue plaid flannel shirt and try to curtsy!

CHAPTER TWO (#u21350336-b1f1-5f68-8caa-4fe642c15046)
IMOGEN APPROACHED THE two men. Both swung around to look at her. Both were frowning. This was not the usual reaction of vacationers arriving to the pristine beauty of the mountainside lodge! A bit flustered, she managed to paste a smile on her face.
“Prince Luca?” she said. “I’m sorry, we were expecting Prince Antonio.”
Both men looked at her as if it wasn’t up to her to tell them who she was expecting.
“Welcome to the Crystal Lake Lodge,” she stammered, resisting an impulse to touch her hand to her forehead and bow away!
She extended her hand. Too late, she thought maybe she was not supposed to extend her hand. The soldier type looked at her, dismayed, and as if he might block her from touching the Prince with his own body.
But the Prince stopped him with a barely discernible motion of his head. He took her proffered hand.
His touch was warm and dry and exquisitely strong, subtly but unarguably sensual. His eyes, so dark and deliciously brown, met hers squarely.
Something about his eyes increased that thought that tickled the back of her brain: I know him.
But of course she did not know him. And for someone who had met dozens of celebrities, her next reaction was startling. Ridiculously, she felt like a starstruck teen who had gotten way too close to her rock idol. With all the grace she could muster, she extracted her hand from his grip before she fell under some kind of enchantment. She reminded herself, sternly, that enchantments were over for her.
As if a prince would ever look to a woman like her to be a partner in his enchantment, anyway. Life was not a fairy tale! Fairy tales ended with happily-ever-after. And beyond the final line of the story—beyond the “the end”—was the unwritten expectation of babies. She guessed this was probably even truer for royal families. Weren’t they highly focused on heirs? On the continuation of their line?
“Prince Luca,” she managed to say. “Or Prince Antonio?”
Neither men offered to clarify who he was, so regaining her composure as quickly as possible, she said, “I’m Imogen Albright. I’m the Lodge manager.”
“My pleasure, Miss Albright,” he said. “It is Miss?”
The words were said with the deep composure of a man who was very used to meeting people in a variety of circumstances.
There was no need to feel as if his voice—deep, faintly accented, husky—was a caress on the back of her neck.
“Yes, it is,” she said, blushing as though it were a failure of some sort. She turned quickly and offered her hand to the other man.
“Cristiano,” he said briefly, taking her hand and bowing slightly.
She didn’t feel any jolt of electricity from his hand!
For a moment there was silence, and she rushed to fill it. “Obviously, you wouldn’t have flown from Casavalle in it, so how does one customize a helicopter with an insignia in such a short time?”
The Prince lifted a shoulder, but Cristiano answered.
“It was on order, anyway, from a North American company. We asked the delivery date be pushed up and changed the city of delivery.”
It made her very aware of the kind of power and wealth the Prince casually wielded—no wish too great to be granted—and made her even more aware, suddenly, of her own appearance. She was in faded jeans, the lumberjack-style shirt she favored for days with no clients and sneakers with bright pink laces! She didn’t have on a speck of makeup and her hair not only wasn’t up, but now it was windblown to boot.
She had planned an outfit suited to greeting royalty: a pale blue suit with a tailored jacket and pencil-thin pants, paired with a white silk blouse. She had planned to have her hair up and her makeup done.
“It’s a magnificent place,” Prince Luca said, glancing at the Lodge.
The two-story building was timber framed and stone fronted, and had a beautifully complicated roofline that made it fit in perfectly with the landscape of towering peaks around it. It was magnificent, and coming from someone who was no doubt surrounded with magnificence all the time, it was indeed a compliment.
And yet, even as he said it, she sensed, not insincerity, but a fine tension in him, as if the Prince was preoccupied with matters of significance. Again, his reaction to his surroundings made it seem as if he were not here for a relaxing holiday in the mountains.
When his eyes left the Lodge and returned to her, she glimpsed something in them that took her aback. He didn’t just look preoccupied. There was a shadow of something there. Distress?
Which begged the question again: Why was the Prince here? To heal some wound? The thought made him seem all too human. Insanely, it made her want to step toward him, look into the astonishing familiarity of his brown eyes more deeply and assure him everything would be all right.
How silly would that be, especially from her, from someone who had ample evidence everything was not always all right?
“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Imogen said, avoiding a name altogether. “We weren’t expecting you today.”
“I believe a message was sent,” Cristiano said, a bit stiffly, as if she had insulted his competence, “to your cell phone.”
Since it felt as if her own competence might be in question, she felt compelled to defend herself. “Our satellite reception here is beyond spotty, so cell phone service can’t really be relied on here. It’s because of the forests and the mountains. I’m very clear about that when people book.” She realized she sounded as if she was justifying herself, so added, “I see it as part of our charm.”
The Prince tilted his head at her, considering this. “Is our early arrival a problem, then?”
“No, of course not.”
Yes, it was a problem! It was very nearly dinnertime and the chef had done all the meal planning, not Imogen. What was she going to offer them? A peanut butter sandwich? “It’s just, um, we aren’t quite ready,” Imogen said. “The chef won’t be arriving until morning. And the cleaning staff isn’t quite finished up.”
“I trust you’ll overcome these difficulties,” the Prince said.
His voice was so beautiful it sounded as if he had said something outrageously sexy instead of something extremely mundane.
Of course she would overcome these difficulties. Even though she wasn’t the greatest in the kitchen and cooking department, the Lodge was well stocked.
But before she could figure out the specifics of how she was going to overcome these difficulties, the crisp mountain air was split with a scream from inside the Lodge. It sounded as if someone was being murdered.
The scream snaked along Imogen’s spine. She turned to the Lodge, frozen with shock. Neither of the men experienced that same paralysis.
They both bolted toward the front door, and she snapped out of it and ran after them, even as she registered surprise that the bodyguard would be running, with his Prince, toward an unknown situation.
The men, with their long legs, quickly outstripped her. Though neither man had ever been in the Lodge before, they must have followed the sound of wailing, and when she found them, they were squeezed into an upstairs bathroom with Rachel.
“Cristiano?” the Prince asked.
The bodyguard, on the floor with Rachel, looked up. His expression was calm, but his voice when he spoke held urgency.
“She’s going to have the baby,” he said tersely. “And she’s going to have it soon.”
“But she’s not due for another two weeks,” Imogen stammered.
“Where’s the nearest hospital?” Prince Luca asked her.
“There’s a walk-in clinic in Crystal Lake, but they can handle only very minor emergencies. Rachel’s been going to a specialist in the city.”
“I have to have the baby at Saint Mary’s Hospital,” Rachel managed to sob. “They’re set up for it. They know—” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
“How far to Saint Mary’s?” the Prince asked Imogen.
“It’s in the city. At least two hours,” Imogen said quietly. “If the roads are good.” She thought of that storm cloud boiling up over Crystal Mountain with a sinking heart.
“Take her by helicopter,” Prince Luca said to Cristiano. “Do it now.”
Cristiano gave him a questioning look, and Imogen understood immediately. He was torn. His first duty was to protect his Prince.
“Go now,” Prince Luca said, in a tone that brooked no argument.
“Yes, sir,” Cristiano said, and scooped up Rachel as if she was a mere child. With the Prince and Imogen on his heels, he raced outside. Imogen noticed the weather had already changed. The wind had picked up and the blue skies were being herded toward the horizon by a wall of ominous gray clouds.
Cristiano made his way to the helicopter with the sobbing woman in his arms. With surprising gentleness, he had Rachel situated in no time.
He turned, saluted the Prince. “I should be back within the hour, sir.”
“Miss Albright and I will try and stave off danger until your return,” the Prince said drily.
Cristiano turned and got into the pilot’s seat. The engines roared to life and the rotors began to move, slowly at first, and then so rapidly they were but a blur. In moments, the helicopter had lifted off the ground and was moving in the same direction as that quickly disappearing ridge of blue sky.
Imogen hugged herself against the sharpness of the wind. A single snowflake drifted down and she tilted her head to it. Knowing these mountains as she did, she was certain of one thing.
Unless he was prepared to fly through a full-blown mountain blizzard, Cristiano was not going to be back in an hour.
“I’m sorry your arrival was so eventful,” Imogen said, turning to the Prince. “I can’t thank you enough for offering your helicopter.”
“It was my pleasure,” he said.
“Do you think it was normal labor, or do you think something was wrong?” Imogen asked him.
“I’m afraid I don’t know.”
She could have kicked herself. How would he know? Dealing with pregnancies was hardly going to be one of his princely duties.
“You’re very worried about her,” he said with grave understanding.
“Terrified for her,” she admitted, and then, even though it might not be allowed, according to the protocol book, she felt driven to expand on that. “While I’m sure your position requires you maintain a certain formality with your staff, it’s not like that here. We are a very small hotel, and Crystal Lake is quite an isolated community. In a way, we all become family.”
His eyes rested on her very intently for a moment.
“Do you know everyone in the village of Crystal Lake?” he asked.
“Residents, yes. Visitors, no.”
He contemplated that for a moment. She was sure he wanted to ask her something, but then he did not. Instead, he put his hands in his trouser pockets. She realized he was very probably getting cold. His tailored suit was obviously custom-made and absolutely gorgeous, but lightweight. The shirt underneath, which had looked white at first glance, was the palest shade of pink, and silk, which was hardly known for its insulating qualities.
“I’m sorry, Prince Luca,” she said. “I’m distracted. It’s very cold out. I’ll show you your room and you can get settled.”
Then she realized there was nothing for him to get settled with—his luggage had just gone away with the helicopter.
Still, she showed him the room, chatting about the history of the Lodge as they moved up the sweeping staircase and down the wide hallway to his suite. She was glad she had done this so many times it was second nature to her. She could not get her mind off Rachel, plus there was something about the Prince’s presence that could easily tie her tongue in knots.
Finally, she opened the door of the suite she had personally prepared for him. “I hope you’ll find the accommodations comfortable,” she said.
He barely looked around. He went to the window, and when he turned back to her, he was frowning.
“It’s snowing,” he said.
She could see the window beyond him, and even though she had been expecting snow, she was a little taken aback by how quickly it was thickening outside the window.
She didn’t want to let her alarm show; if this kept up, the helicopter might not be able to return. The chef might not arrive. And what about a replacement for Rachel? Imogen was not certain that she was up to handling a royal visit all on her own.
Where the heck was Gabi when she needed her?
Still, Imogen told herself it was much too soon for alarm. Sometimes these autumn squalls were over almost before they began.
With a calm she was far from feeling, she said, “The weather in these mountains can be very unpredictable. We have a saying here—if you don’t like the weather, wait a minute.”
“I am from the mountains, too,” he said. “Casavalle is in a sheltered valley, but there is quite a formidable range of mountains behind it that acts as a border to the neighboring kingdom, Aguilarez. This actually reminds me of my home. I understand this unpredictable weather.”
But if he was from a mountainous region, and if this reminded him of home, why come? Why not choose something less familiar for a getaway?
None of your business,she reminded herself firmly. Her business was to make sure he was comfortable and cared for, for the duration of his stay.
“I’ll have dinner ready in about an hour, Prince Luca. Would you prefer I bring it to you, or will you come down?”
“I’ll come down, thank you, Miss Albright.”
She noticed the Prince looked exhausted. Almost before she had the door closed, he had thrown himself on the bed, and his hand moved to his tie, wrenching it loose from his throat. He looked up at the ceiling, his expression deeply troubled.
She shut the door quickly and made her way down the stairs. She stopped at her office and used the landline to call Rachel’s husband, Tom. There was no answer, and so she left a message for him to contact her as soon as possible. And then she tried Gabriella’s number.
That same cheerful message she’d been getting for three days came on.
“You’ve reached Gabi. I must be hiking mountain trails. You know the drill. After the beep.”
The beep came, and Imogen said, “I certainly hope you are not hiking the mountain trails right now, Gabriella Ross! There’s a terrible storm hitting. Please let me know you are all right as soon as you can.”
But of course, Gabi would be all right. She had, just as Imogen had, grown up in these mountains. She knew what to do in every situation. Tourists might sometimes be caught unaware by the fickle nature of mountain weather, but locals rarely were. Imogen suspected her urgent request for Gabi to call her had an underlying motive that served her.
She was here alone with a prince, a blizzard was setting in and she needed Gabi’s help! Plus, she needed to know what the heck was going on with Gabi. What better circumstance than riding out a blizzard together to inspire confidences?
She sighed and went to the window. Night was falling, and between the growing darkness and the thick snow, she could no longer see the tree line at the edge of the lawns.
With worry for both Rachel and Gabi nipping at her mind like a small, yappy dog nipping at her heels, she went to the kitchen and once again investigated the contents of the fridge.
She sighed at all the unfamiliar items, then grabbed a package of mushrooms, some cheese and a few other ingredients. Despite her distress over Rachel’s departure and the brewing storm, she had a job to do, and she would do it.

CHAPTER THREE (#u21350336-b1f1-5f68-8caa-4fe642c15046)
PRINCE LUCA VALENTI woke to pitch-blackness. He almost wished for the disorientation that came with waking in a different time zone, in a strange bed, but no, he was not so lucky.
He knew exactly where he was and what day it was. He was at the Crystal Lake Lodge in the Rocky Mountains of Canada.
And it was the worst day of his life.
Oddly, since it was the worst day of his life, his thoughts did not go immediately to the sudden onslaught of difficulties he was experiencing.
Instead, for some reason he thought of her,Imogen Albright. It wasn’t that the wind had tangled her hair, or that she had looked adorable and completely unprofessional in her plaid shirt and faded jeans and those sneakers with the neon pink laces, that made him think of her. It wasn’t that she hadn’t addressed him correctly, or that she had offered her hand first. It wasn’t even the look of distress on her face when they had found the maid in such anguish on the bathroom floor.
No, it wasn’t those things that made her, Imogen Albright, his first waking thought.
And it was not really that the fragrance in this room was like her—fresh and light and deliciously clean—and that it had surrounded him while he slept and greeted him when he opened his eyes.
It wasn’t any of that.
No, it was the way her eyes had met his and held for that endless moment after he had told her the Lodge was a magnificent building.
When he had glanced back at her, she had been looking at him, those huge blue eyes, an astonishing shade of sapphire, with a look in them that had been deep and unsettling.
He had felt—illogically, he was sure—as if she knew, not just how troubled he was, but something of him.
It was as if Miss Albright had easily cast aside all his defenses and seen straight to his soul. For a moment, it had almost looked as if she might step toward him, touch him again—and not his hand this time, either.
Had he actually taken a step away from her? In his mind, he had, if not with his body. It had seemed to him, in that brief encounter, Imogen Albright had seen all too clearly the things he most needed to keep secret.
That this was the worst day of his life.
And there had been something in her eyes that had made him want to lean toward her instead of stepping away.
Something that had suggested she, too, knew of bad days and plans gone awry. That she, somehow, had the power to bring calm to the sea of life that was suddenly stormy. In the endless blue sky of her eyes, in that brief moment, he had glimpsed a resting place.
Still, wasn’t awry an understatement? His life—strategically planned from birth to death—was veering seriously off the path.
At this very moment, Luca was supposed to be a newly married man, not alone in a bed in some tiny mountain village in Canada, but in the sumptuous honeymoon suite that had been prepared within the Casavalle palace for him and his new bride, Princess Meribel.
Meribel was of the neighboring kingdom of Aguilarez, and years of tension between the two kingdoms were supposed to have been put to rest today with the exchange of nuptials between them. Instead, here they were in chaos. In an attempt to minimize the mess, he had issued a statement this morning.
Irreconcilable differences.
Not the truth, but the truth might have plunged both kingdoms into the thing Luca was most interested in avoiding: scandal.
Meribel’s tearful announcement to Luca the night before the wedding had come on the heels of other disturbing news.
His father’s first marriage—the one that had ended in the kind of scandal that the Kingdom of Casavalle now avoided at all costs—might have produced a child. A child who would now be an adult. An older sibling to Luca.
Which would mean the role Luca had prepared for his whole life was in jeopardy. The eldest child of the late King Vincenzo would head the monarchy of Casavalle. Was it possible that was not him? It made the ground, which had always felt so solid under his feet, feel as if it was rocking precariously, the shudders that warned of an impending earthquake.
Luca was a man accustomed to control, raised to shoulder the responsibility to his kingdom first, above any personal interests. And yet this whole cursed year had been a horrible series of events that were entirely—maddeningly—out of his control.
Maybe today was, in fact, not the worst day of his life. Wasn’t the worst day of his life that day four months ago when his father, King Vincenzo, had died? With so many things unspoken between them, with Luca needing the gift he would now never receive?
His father’s approval.
On the other hand, if one was inclined to look for blessings in terrible situations—which Luca admittedly was not—perhaps it was a good thing his father had died before everything in their carefully controlled world had begun to shift sideways.
The cancellation of his wedding to Princess Meribel meant the cementing of the relationship between Casavalle and Aguilarez was now, once again, in jeopardy.
There was a possibility that the throne—by law—would go to a person unprepared to take it. A person who had not spent their whole life knowing it was coming, every breath and every step leading to this one thing: taking the reins of his nation.
Luca’s thoughts drifted to Imogen again.
His brother, Antonio, was supposed to be here at Crystal Lake Lodge. But with the news this morning, Luca had felt a need to deal with these issues himself, as they would have more effect on his life than on anyone else’s. Besides, it had felt necessary to get away from Casavalle as the people discovered the wedding they had been joyously anticipating for months was now not to be.
The disappointment would be palpable. Every face he encountered would have a question on it. He would have to say it over and over again—irreconcilable differences—hiding the truth.
Luca had come here armed with a name. He had almost asked Imogen if it was familiar to her. She had said she knew everyone in this village. The village his father’s first wife, Sophia, had escaped to, hiding from the world after the disastrous end of her royal marriage. But in the end, Luca had not asked Imogen. He wanted to phrase any questions he asked very carefully. A kingdom relied on how these questions were answered. There would be time to get to the bottom of this.
And speaking of time, he looked at his watch and calculated.
He had obviously missed the dinner Imogen had said she would prepare. He glanced at his cell phone. It was 3:00 a.m. but he was wide-awake. Hello, jet lag. It would be breakfast time in Casavalle, and Luca was aware of hunger, and of the deep quiet around him.
Why hadn’t the sound of the helicopter returning woken him? It was unusual that Cristiano had not checked in with him on his return. Unless he had, and Luca, sleeping hard, had missed it?
Was there news of the woman? The baby?
Good baby news would be refreshing, Luca thought, not without a trace of bitterness. He was aware of feeling, as well as sour of mood, travel rumpled and gritty. He reached for the bedside light and snapped it on. Nothing happened. He let his eyes adjust to the murkiness and looked for the suitcase Cristiano would have dropped inside the door.
There was none.
He got up and searched the wall for the light switch. He found it and flipped it, but remained in darkness. Still, he made his way to the closet and the adjoining bathroom. No suitcase. And no lights, either. He went to the window, thinking, even in the darkness, he would be able to see the outline of the helicopter on the lawn.
Instead, what he saw was a world of white and black. Pitch-dark skies were overlaid with falling snowflakes so large they could have been feathers drifting to earth. Mounds of fresh snow were piled halfway up the windowpane, and beyond that, the landscape wore a downy, thick quilt of snow. No wonder the quiet had an unearthly quality to it, every sound muffled by the blanket that covered it.
Even though a mountain range separated Casavalle from Aguilarez, and even though he was, as he had told Imogen, accustomed to the unpredictable weather of such a landscape, he was not sure he had ever seen such a large amount of snowfall in such a short time. It seemed to him well over a foot of snow was piled against the panes of his window.
He had not heard the helicopter return because there had been no helicopter return.
He looked at his cell phone again. No messages. Not surprisingly, as it appeared there was no signal. Miss Albright had warned them the region did not lend itself to good cell phone service.
It was apparent there was no power, no doubt knocked out by the storm, but did that also mean there would be no phone landline, either? He recalled glancing at an old-fashioned phone when he’d entered this room. It was on the desk by the fireplace, and he fumbled his way through the darkness to it and lifted the receiver.
Nothing. He set the phone back down. Luca contemplated what he was feeling.
He was still single when he should have been married.
He was outside of the shadow of protection for perhaps the first time in his entire life.
His cell phone was not working, and his computer was not here.
The snow falling so thickly outside should intensify the feeling that he was a prisoner of the circumstances of the worst day of his life.
Instead, he felt something astonishingly different, so new to him that at first he did not know what it was.
But then he recognized it, and the irony of it. The snow trapping him, his marriage failing before it had begun, the lack of communication with the world, Cristiano being far away, a possible new contender for the throne, all felt as if they were conspiring to give him the one thing he had never known and never even dared to dream of.
Freedom.
He shook off the faintly heady feeling of elation. His father would not have approved of it. The current circumstances of his life required him to be more responsible, not less.
But still, for a little while, it seemed he had been granted this opportunity to experience freedom from his duties and his responsibilities whether he wanted that freedom or not.
He did not know how long the reprieve would last.
And he realized he had no idea what to do with this time he had been granted. Though the first order should be fairly simple. He needed to find something to eat.
He opened his bedroom door and was greeted with a wall of inky darkness. He became aware of a faint chill in the air. Obviously, the heating system was reliant on power. He fished his cell phone back out of his pocket and briefly turned on the flashlight, memorizing the features of the hallway before he turned it back off to conserve the battery. Feeling his way along the wall, and using his memory, he found the sweeping staircase and inched his way down it.
He didn’t use the flashlight on his phone again as his eyes began to adjust to the darkness. He saw an arched entry to a room just off the foyer at the base of the stairs. Dining hall?
He entered and paused, letting the room come into focus. Not a dining room, but some kind of office and sitting room combination. There was a large desk by the window, a couch and a fireplace, which it occurred to him they might need.
They.
He could well be stranded here with Miss Albright. He felt a purely masculine need to protect her and keep her safe against the storm, and he went over to investigate the fireplace. Of course, he was not usually the one lighting fires, but he would have to figure it out. Miss Albright protecting him and keeping him safe was embarrassingly out of the question.
He moved deeper into the room, and jostled up against the sofa. A small thump on the floor startled him.
A cell phone was on the floor, and the bump had made it click on, its light faintly illuminating the fact that Miss Albright was fast asleep on the sofa! The cell phone must have fallen from her relaxed hand.
He picked it up, and a photo filled the screen. The picture was of Miss Albright, laughing, her face radiant with joy, as she gazed up at the man she was pressed against. Her left hand was resting against his upper arm, and a ring twinkled on her engagement finger.
It was a small ring, nothing at all like the heirloom Buschetta ring he had given Princess Meribel on the occasion of their formal engagement. That ring had been carefully chosen from the famous Valenti royal collection as the one that would show not just her, but her family and her kingdom, how valued an alliance this one was. The ring, by the famous Casavallian jeweler, had been appraised at fifteen million dollars.
In retrospect, had Meribel accepted that ring with a look that suggested a certain resignation? Had she looked at the ring longer than she had looked at him? Certainly, there had been nothing on her face like what he saw in this picture of Miss Albright.
Carefully, Luca set the phone on a coffee table in front of the sofa. He could taste a strange bitterness in his mouth.
Love.
Obviously, that radiant look on Miss Albright’s face came from someone who loved and was loved.
It was the very thing he had trained himself never to desire, the thing that had nearly collapsed the House of Valenti when his father’s first marriage, a love match, had ended in abandonment, scandal and near disaster instead of happiness.
Luca had been taught by his father that love was a capricious thing, not to be trusted, not to be experimented with, an unpredictable sprite that beguiled and then created no end of mischief in a well-ordered life.
Meribel’s admission of loving another—of carrying another man’s baby—total proof that his father’s lessons had been correct.
And yet that glance at the photo of Miss Albright and her betrothed had made him feel the faintest pang of weakness, of longing for something he had turned his back on. Something unfamiliar niggled at him, so unfamiliar that at first he could not identify it. But then he knew what it was. He felt jealous of what he saw in the photo of Imogen and her man.
The feeling was unfamiliar to the Prince because, really, he was the man everyone perceived as having everything. Soon to be King, Luca had wealth and power beyond what anyone dared to dream.
And yet, what was the price? A life without love?
What was it like to love as deeply as Meribel loved, so deeply that the future of a nation could be jeopardized? What was it to feel that kind of joy? That kind of abandon? What would it be like to lose control in that way? To give oneself over to a grand passion?
His family’s history held the answer: to give one’s self over to a grand passion was an invitation to ruin.
And it seemed his father’s personal catastrophe, more than thirty years in the past, still had the power to wreak havoc. Had there been a child from the King’s brief first marriage? Was the claim real, or in this world so filled with duplicity, was it just a lie, a sophisticated extortion attempt of some sort?
Luca glanced once more at Miss Albright’s sleeping face.
He saw sweetness there, and vulnerability. He became aware of that feeling of protectiveness again, especially as he felt the chill deepening in the air. Still, he did not want to risk waking her by lighting the fire.
Instead, he saw a blanket tossed over the back of a wing chair, quietly made his way to it and went back and laid it over her.
Some extraordinary tenderness rose in him as the blanket floated down around her slender shoulders. He reminded himself that she was committed to another. Then he noticed her hand. The ring that had been in the photo was missing.
Not that that necessarily meant anything. Maybe she didn’t wear it to do chores.
Luca forced himself to move away from her, and once again went in search of something to eat.
He found a cozy dining room, and on a large plank harvest table, perfectly in keeping with the woodsy atmosphere of the Lodge, sat a single table setting and a bowl of soup—mushrooms clustered in a thick broth and garnished with fresh herbs.
Beside the soup was a plate of cheeses, gone unfortunately dry around the edges, along with strawberries and grapes. All were artfully placed. He considered that for a moment. He wondered if Imogen had been disappointed when he did not come for dinner. He sampled her offering, taking a slice of cheese. Unfortunately, it was as dry as it looked, but it piqued his hunger. He turned his attention to the bowl of soup. It probably only needed heating. Forgetting he would need power to do that, Luca scooped up the bowl and went in search of the kitchen.

CHAPTER FOUR (#u21350336-b1f1-5f68-8caa-4fe642c15046)
IMOGEN WOKE WITH a start, struggling to think where she was. Then she remembered. She had frantically come up with a plan for the Prince’s dinner, but when he had not come down for the meal she had been somewhat relieved. Her offering had hardly seemed princely!
Then she had come to her office, the place in the Lodge where the cell signal booster was located. She had tried desperately to get news of Rachel, but the thickening storm outside had made even intermittent service impossible. And then the power had gone out completely. It was the reality of life on a mountain, but sometimes nature’s reminders of human smallness and powerlessness could be incredibly frustrating.
She must have fallen asleep on the couch. But she didn’t recall covering herself with a blanket. She pulled it tighter around herself, until only her nose peeked out. The Lodge was already growing cold. She would have to get up soon and light some fires, but right now...
A crash pulled her from the comfort of the blanket. The unmistakable sound of shattering glass had come from the direction of the kitchen.
Here was another reality of mountain life: the odd creature got inside. On several occasions raccoons had invaded. Once a pack rat, adorable and terrifying, had resisted capture. On one particularly memorable occasion—a framed picture in the kitchen giving proof—a small black bear had crashed through a window and terrorized the cook for a full twenty minutes before they had managed to herd it out the door.
Aware of these things, Imogen stood up and looked around, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. There was a very heavy antique brass lamp on the side table beside the sofa. She picked it up and slid off the shade. She tiptoed across the floor and down the short hall, past the dining room, to the kitchen. She took a deep breath and put the lamp base to her shoulder, as if it was a bat she might swing.
She went through the door and saw a dark shape huddled by the fridge. She squinted, her heart thudding crazily. Too big to be a raccoon. Wolverine? Small bear? What had the storm chased in?
“Get out,” she cried, and lunged forward.
The dark shape unfolded and stood up. It wasn’t a bear! It was a man.
“Oh!” she said, screeching to a halt just before hitting the shape with her heavy brass weapon. She dropped the lamp. The weight of it smashed her toe, and she heard the bulb break. She cried out.
The shape took form in front of her in less time than it took to take a single breath. It was Prince Luca. He took her shoulders in firm hands.
“Miss Albright?”
What kind of dark enchantment was this? Where a bear turned into a prince? Where his crisp scent enveloped her and where his hands on her shoulders felt strong and masterful and like something she could lean into, rely on, surrender some of her own self-sufficiency to? The pain in her foot seemed to be erased entirely.
She bit back a desire to giggle at the absurdity of it. “Oh my gosh. I nearly hit you. I’m so sorry. Your Highness. Prince Luca. I could have caused an international incident!”
He didn’t seem to see the humor in it. His handsome face was set in grim lines. His eyes were snapping.
Somebody else had eyes like that when they were annoyed. Who was it?
“What on earth?” he snapped at her. “You were going to attack what you presumed to be an intruder? Who would come through this storm to break into your kitchen?”
“I wasn’t thinking a human intruder. I was thinking it might be a bear.”
“A bear?” he asked, astounded. He took his hands from her shoulders, but his brow knit in consternation.
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Seriously?” His face was gorgeous in the near darkness, and his voice was made richer by the slight irritation in it.
“It’s not unheard of for them to get inside. Or other creatures. Storms, in particular, seem to disorient our wild neighbors in their search for food and shelter.”
His brows lowered over those sinfully dark eyes. “I meant seriously, you were going to attack a bear with—” He bent and picked it up. “What is this?”
“A lamp base.”
“It is indeed heavy.”
“As I found out when I dropped it on my foot.”
“It seems impossibly brave to attack a bear with a lamp. Or anything else for that matter.”
“I may not have thought it through completely.”
“You think?” He set the lamp base carefully aside.
“On the other hand, I’ve lived here all my life. I’ve learned you have to deal with situations as they arise. You can’t just ignore them and hope they go away.”
“It was extraordinarily foolish,” he said stubbornly.
“You obviously have no idea what a bear can do to a kitchen in just a few minutes.”
“No. And even though Casavalle has missed the blessing of a bear population, I have some idea what it could do to a tiny person wielding a lamp as a weapon in the same amount of time.”
Did he feel protective of her? Something warm and lovely—suspiciously like weakness—unfolded within her. She saw the wisdom of fighting that particular weakness at all costs.
“Let’s make a deal,” she said, and heard a touch of snippiness in her tone. “I won’t tell you how to do your job, if you don’t tell me how to do mine.”
He was taken aback by that. Obviously, when he spoke, people generally deferred. Probably when he got that annoyed look on his face, they began scurrying to win back his favor. She just pushed her chin up a little higher.
The Prince shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and rocked back on his heels and regarded her with undisguised exasperation.
“Are you all right, then?” he asked, finally.
“Oh sure,” she said, but when she took a step back from him, she crunched down on the broken bulb, and let out a little shriek of pain.
To her shock, with no hesitation at all, Prince Luca scooped her up in his arms. Imogen was awed by the strength of him, by the hardness of his chest, by the beat of their hearts so close together. His scent intensified around her, and it was headier than wine: clean, pure, masculine.
The weakness was back, and worse than ever!
“There’s more broken shards over here,” he said, in way of explanation, “and it’s possibly slippery, as well. I dropped the soup bowl.”
“That’s the sound that made me think there was a bear in here.”
“Ah. Well, let me just find a safe place for you.”
As if there could be a safer place than nestled here next to his heart! An illusion—the way she was reacting to his closeness, being nestled next to his heart was not safe at all, but dangerous.
He kicked out a kitchen chair and set her in it. He slipped a cell phone from his pocket and turned on the flashlight, then knelt at her feet.
“You should try and save the battery,” she suggested weakly.
He ignored her, a man not accustomed to people giving him directions. “Which foot?”
“Left.”
Given the stern look of fierce concentration on his handsome face as he knelt over her foot, he peeled back her sock with exquisite gentleness. He cupped her naked heel in the palm of his hand and lifted her foot. Her heart was thudding more crazily now than when she had thought there was a bear in her kitchen!
“Miss Albright—”
“Imogen, please.” Given the thudding of her heart and the melting of her bones, that invitation to more familiarity between them was just plain dumb.
“Imogen.” His voice was a soft caress, and his tone was one that might be used to reassure a frightened child. Perhaps he could feel the too-hard beating of her heart and had mistaken it for pain and fear instead of acute awareness of him?
“There seems to be a bit of blood here.” He leaned in closer, so close that his breath tickled her toes and made her feel slightly faint. “And just a tiny bit of glass. I think I can remove it with tweezers, if you can point me in the direction of some. A first aid kit, perhaps?”
“On the wall over there.” Her voice, in her own ears, sounded faintly breathless, as croaky as a frog singing a night song.
He set her foot down carefully, stood and crossed the room. She took this brief respite from his touch to try and marshal herself, to slow down the beat of her heart.
She told herself it was a reaction to the circumstances, to the adrenaline rush of waking to a crash in the night and preparing to do battle with the unknown, and not a reaction to his rather unnervingly masculine touch and presence.
But as soon as he returned with the first aid kit and knelt at her feet again, she knew it had nothing to do with the circumstances. Even in the dark, his hair was shiny. There was a little rooster tail sticking up from where he had slept on it. She had to fight the urge to smooth it back down.
A nervous giggle escaped her as he picked up her foot again, his hand warm, strong, unconsciously sensual.
“Am I tickling?” His voice—deep, and with that faintly exotic accent—was as unconsciously sensual as his touch.
Her giggle deepened, and he smiled quizzically.
Oh, that smile! Though somehow it seemed familiar, she realized it was the first time she had seen it. It changed his entire countenance from faintly stern and unquestionably remote. His smile made him even more handsome. He appeared dangerously approachable, and as if he was quite capable of enchanting people with hidden boyish charm.
“No,” she managed to gasp out, “not tickling. It’s just this situation strikes me as being preposterous. I have a prince at my feet? Somehow when I got up this morning, I could not have predicted this event in my day.”
“Yesterday morning,” he corrected her, absently. “It’s already a brand-new day.”
She contemplated that. It was, indeed, a new day, ripe with potential, full of surprises. When was the last time she had allowed herself to be delighted by the unexpected? A long, long time ago. Since her breakup with Kevin, she realized now, she had tried desperately to keep tight control on everything in her world.
“It’s true,” he continued, and she detected an unexpected edge of harshness to his voice, “that sometimes we cannot predict the surprises our days will hold.”
“Ouch.”
“Sorry.”
Tentatively, she said, “You said that as if you’ve had an unpleasant surprise recently.” She realized she was being much too forward and was glad for the darkness in the room that hid her sudden blush of insecurity. “Your Highness.”
He looked at her. “Shall we just be Luca and Imogen for a little while?”
His invitation to familiarity was quite a bit more stunning than hers had been. It was as stunning as finding a prince at her feet, giving tender loving care to her very minor wounds.
Maybe she was dreaming! If she was dreaming, would she give in to the temptation to reach out and touch the dark silk of his hair? Her fingertips tingled with wanting.
She tucked her hands under her thighs.
“Luca,” she said experimentally, and then, “Ouch!”
“It’s a bit of disinfectant. It’ll just sting for a second.”
Had he done that on purpose? To distract her from the question she had asked about his recent unpleasant surprise?
He finished with her foot, cleaning and bandaging it with exquisite sensitivity. Imogen had to steel herself over and over again from gasping, not with pain, but delight.
“That’s great,” she said, the second he was finished. She started to get up. “Thank you.”
His hand on her shoulder stayed her. “Don’t get up yet. I have shoes on. Let me find all the broken glass and clean it up.”
“No, I’ll just—”
“Do as you’re told?” he suggested drily.
Despite herself, she giggled again.
He lifted an eyebrow at her. “What?”
“I can clearly see you are used to telling people what to do, but I was just wondering if you’ve ever cleaned up anything before in your whole life? It doesn’t seem very...er...princely somehow.”

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