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“We hope you enjoy your time here,” Val added.
She said this to every group after every tour, but this time she knew they’d enjoyed the tour. If nothing else on this island pleased them, this would have been enough.
When the last person was through the archway, Val walked to the circular desk closest to the door. It was white marble, and black letters on the wall behind it read Tour Information. That’s where she worked. It was where the tours were booked and started. In a safe behind that desk were her purse and jacket. She bent down to work the combination lock and retrieve them.
“Let’s get some dinner,” he said the moment she stood.
“What—excuse me?” she asked, and then cleared her throat. “I mean—”
“Dinner. You know, the last meal of the day. You sit down and eat and think of all the right and wrong things you may have said or done over the last twelve hours.”
He was leaning on the desk now, the darkness of his suit in contrast to the crisp white decor. He wasn’t giving her the full Reckless Royal smile, just a slight lift of his lips in the right corner. But that was enough. She reacted even as she wished she hadn’t. Her cheeks warmed, just as they had earlier, and she licked her lips nervously.
“I’m sure you have better things to do, Your Highness,” Val answered. Willing her fingers not to shake as she pushed her arms into her jacket, she cleared her throat and continued. “Or was there a reason you came to the museum today? I probably should have asked this before, but should I get the manager? I’m sure he’s still here. I can just—”
She came around the desk and attempted to walk across the foyer once more to head toward the staff offices on the other side, but he touched her elbow again to stop her. Maybe it was just this particular spot...she’d never have guessed her elbow would be an erogenous zone...but each time he touched her there—
“I came to ask you to dinner so that we can clear the air,” Roland told her, cutting off her thoughts.
Val shook her head. “There’s no need,” she insisted and moved her arm slowly out of his grasp.
He looked down, watching as she slipped her purse onto her shoulder. “I’m fine. You’re fine. We should just go our separate ways.”
Roland seemed to contemplate her words—for much longer than Val thought was necessary—before finally giving a little nod.
“I’ll agree that we’re both fine. But I’m hungry and after being on your feet all day, I’m sure you are, too. So let’s just get something to eat and get that part of the evening out of the way.”
It occurred to her to refuse again. Yes, she thought, that was the best thing to do. Her father could be a mean drunk whose debts were far larger than his bank account, and for that Val had endured her share of pitying looks and uninvited advice from the citizens of Grand Serenity. The deal her father had supposedly made for her to marry Prince Kristian was another source of contention where Val and the good people of Grand Serenity were concerned. They’d whispered about her and the prince all her life, and when the prince finally announced that there was nothing between them and that he would be marrying another woman, the whispers turned into vicious gossip. The poor little town girl trying to get into the palace.
Val didn’t know which situation she despised more. What she did know was that she was sick and tired of it, and she definitely did not want to do anything to spark any more stares or whispers or gossip about herself. So she should tell Prince Roland no. She could have dinner on her own, as she had planned.
“Come on, don’t be afraid,” Roland told her. “I’m hungry, but I won’t bite. I promise.”
The expertly cut goatee went a long way to giving him a mature and masculine vibe. But it was that devilish grin, the twinkle in his rich brown eyes and the divine way in which that damn suit fit his toned and muscular frame, that were the deal breakers.
“I’m not afraid of you,” was her reply. “And I’m in the mood for pasta.”
Chapter 3 (#u0be7a2ff-f9a0-517e-a1f0-fd95b53904ae)
It rarely rained on Grand Serenity, less than twenty-five inches were received a year.
This evening, it was raining.
Roland could see the splatter of drops on the window as they sat in the corner booth at Jacobi Pearson’s restaurant by the sea. It was an old-world place with its peeling yellow paint and the frayed faux-straw umbrellas over the tables on the outside. The inside walls were painted a muted brown, the room had cement floors and there were booth seats with splitting upholstery. It was the last place on this island that a prince should be seen having dinner, yet Roland found himself there at least once a week when he was home.
“It’s the best spicy shrimp pasta I’ve ever had.” He spoke after being lost in his thoughts for a few moments.
She hadn’t seemed to mind him not talking, as she appeared engrossed in her meal and her own thoughts, as well. Originally he’d intended to watch her, something Roland had yet to figure out why he was doing in the first place. Valora Harrington was no doubt an attractive woman, but she was far from the blatantly sexy, worldly women Roland was used to passing the time with. Case in point, the last woman Roland had shared a meal with was Delayna Loray Montoya, a Brazilian heiress who hated her father but loved his money. She was gorgeous and rich and almost as reckless with her life and her finances as Roland was reputed to be. They’d spent a whirlwind weekend together in Rio where Roland could scarcely remember leaving the hotel room. Then, on Monday morning, he’d been on a jet headed to Milan where he played poker for the next two days and took an important meeting on the third. That had been three months ago. Roland hadn’t seen or spoken to Delayna since then, and they were both completely fine with that fact.
Valora Harrington was homegrown. She represented everything that Grand Serenity was—at least, how Roland saw the island through his mother’s eyes. Hope. Perseverance. Dignity. Those three words were printed just beneath the Grand Serenity emblem on everything a tourist could possibly purchase from the island. To Roland, they’d been ingrained in his mind. Today, he thought, was the first time he’d seen them in a person.
“It is definitely amazing,” she replied as she finished another bite and took a sip from her wineglass. “Thank you, Your Highness, for suggesting this. I haven’t had time to visit some of our local treasures in a while.”
“You’re a tour guide. Surely you recommend this place to our tourists,” he commented while tearing off a piece of the crusty, still-warm bread that was served with their meal.
She had been a lot neater with her bread, breaking off a little piece and buttering it with the small knife. If he were at the palace in the formal dining room, or attending some dinner party or royal meeting, Roland would have taken more care about the crumbs, how he was sitting and who was watching. At Pearson’s he was relaxed, almost as if this were the place he actually belonged, instead of some stuffy and overly formal event.
“That’s all I do, is refer places on the island for visitors to see and enjoy. I’m at the museum for at least ten hours a day, six days a week. The one day I have off I usually don’t spend getting around the island.”
“Have you ever heard the saying, ‘all work and no play’?” he asked, intrigued by what she’d just shared with him.
She tilted her head as she stared at him for a moment before replying. “You’ve never wondered where your next meal would come from. Never had to choose between paying the rent or the power bill.”
Her lips clamped shut quickly, then she shook her head.
“I apologize. I meant no disrespect, Your Highness,” she continued. “I was simply attempting to answer your inquiry.”
She’d spoken the words, but she was anything but sorry, Roland thought. She was honest and there was a mole just beneath her left eye. At the edge where her eyes tilted just slightly. It was small, but dark, and he’d stared at it a bit longer than he probably should have.
“No offense taken,” he replied. “You are correct. I have never wondered about those things. I understand it must have been tough with only you and your father.”
She shrugged. “It is my life,” was the somber reply.
“You don’t sound too happy about that fact,” Roland said, as he finished chewing the piece of bread he’d slipped into his mouth. It wasn’t because he was still hungry, but more because he’d needed something to do with his hands. Anything to quell the urge to reach out and touch her.
She had slim fingers and wore no rings. Her nails were short but had a sheen to them, as if coated with clear polish. She wore no jewelry, he thought, except for tiny pearl earrings. Her slim neck was bare, the collar of her white polo shirt resting against skin that appeared to be warm, soft, touchable.
“I’ve learned that life isn’t all about happiness,” she replied. “Yet I believe that everyone has their own path to walk. Along that path will be things that make that person feel happy or sad, complete and fulfilled. Different scenarios strike different people in an array of ways. We handle them the best we can and continue on.”
She was good at continuing on, Roland thought. He’d noticed that at the museum when the woman had brought up Valora’s previous engagement to his brother. Regretting that his appearance had sparked the memory for the woman and possibly embarrassed Valora, he’d taken over and Valora had simply continued on. She’d walked with the group as if she were the tourist instead of the guide for the remainder of the tour. When she’d really wanted to get away from him and the memory as fast as she could, she’d hesitantly agreed to join him for dinner. Yes, Valora was certainly used to continuing on.
“Well,” he said, picking up his napkin to wipe his hands. “Everyone deserves some happiness. I believe that’s a requirement.”
“It’s easier said than done for some.” She finished her glass of wine. “Which reminds me that I should really be going. The food and the company was a really nice gesture. Thank you again, Your Highness.”
He was going to get tired real quick of the stilted way in which she addressed him. The immediate answer to that would have been to take her home, drop her off and be on his way. There was really no need for him to see or speak to Valora Harrington again.
Seeing her today had been sort of impromptu. He’d had a meeting at one of the hotels in town. From the window of the hotel he was able to see the museum. It had been a few weeks since he’d attended the opening of the new Renaissance exhibit there, and even longer since he’d walked through the hall dedicated to the royal family. It was there that one of the first portraits of his parents and their young children hung. Kris had been five and already distinguished looking in his white pants and navy blue jacket with its bright gold buttons, standing by their father’s right side.
Roland wore the same outfit, but he was only three and so his jacket appeared a little big and his pants hung over his shoes as he held on to his father’s leg. His mother was seated, holding a barely one-year-old Samantha, dressed in a white dress and bonnet, on her lap. That picture never failed to make Roland feel a combination of happy and sad. Homesick, he thought. Even though it was in the museum his mother had founded, on the island he’d called home all his life. He always looked at that portrait and longed for that moment in time.
So, stumbling across Valora and her group had absolutely been unplanned, but the moment he saw her he’d felt the urge to clear the air. To make sure there were no hard feelings or even bruised ones from the previous night.
“I settled things with your father,” he told her, as if the thought had just popped into his head. “I also expressed my utter disappointment in the fact that he would use you as a source of repayment.”
She dropped her napkin on the table and sat back against the cushioned seat.
“I feel like I’ve been apologizing for him all my life,” she told him with a sigh. “He doesn’t really mean any harm. He’s just searching for a life that’s not meant to be.”
“His search should not embarrass you,” Roland stated evenly. “He should, however, stop drinking and gambling. He’s not good at either.”
She gave a quick chuckle and ran one hand through the short strands of hair just above her right ear. “I’ve been telling him that for much longer than I care to admit.”
Roland knew Valora had been her father’s caretaker when it should have been the other way around. He was certain he didn’t like that fact.
“Anyway, thanks again,” she said and stood to leave. “Dinner was wonderful.”
“Yes, it was,” he told her. “And not just because of the food. I thoroughly enjoyed the company, as well.”
“Oh, ah, thank you again,” she replied.
He noted how shocked she looked at his words. Possibly more shocked than he was for saying them. Quiet public dinners weren’t normally what he would call a nice time with a woman. Private meetings in hotel rooms or meals in secluded parts of a restaurant, from which he and his date could eventually be whisked off into the backseat of a car and driven to a hotel, were more to his liking.
“I’ll take you home,” he told her when he thought she might try to walk out of the restaurant as if she had her own means of transportation here.
“Thank you again, Your Highness.”
She spoke politely and had even given a respectful nod of her head. Everything this woman had done so far had been cordial. There seemed to be no ill feelings toward him or even her father after the odd events of the previous night. So Roland’s job was done. He could take her home and be done with the matter entirely.
The sudden urge for something more was strange and disconcerting. So he tried ignoring those thoughts.
* * *
Val was officially tired of thanking him. She knew she must sound like a complete idiot, with nothing better to say than “thank you.” It was pathetic.
So, during the ride back through town, she’d opted to keep quiet. That was, until the car came to a stop in an area she knew was fifteen minutes from her house. The rain had been coming down at a pretty steady pace when they’d run to Roland’s car and jumped inside. He drove a sporty little vehicle, which did not surprise her at all. The car fit his personality perfectly. Sleek and controlled with a bold hint of danger. What did not fit was that he was driving himself around instead of having a driver like the rest of the royal family. She’d noticed this last night, as well, but wasn’t going to ask the prince about it.
The fact that she’d just had dinner with the prince—the Reckless Royal, at that—was not lost on her. It had been a surreal experience, one that should have had her giddy with excitement. Except she’d known it was his pity gift to her. Val hated pity, almost more than she hated the situation her father had created for them. She’d seen how the waitress looked at her when she’d brought their meal. While the woman had remained silent, Val knew very well who she was and what she was thinking.
Her name was Idelle Masoya and she lived a block over from Val. Idelle was friends with Cora Sorenza, a woman who had slept with Val’s father years ago. Hugo and Cora had been an item for about six months, during which time Cora swore that Hugo stole money from her and gambled it away. She’d also accused Hugo of tearing up her house one night when he was in a drunken rage. After that night, their love affair was over.
No formal charges were filed against Hugo for destruction of property or stealing from Cora, but the damage was done. Cora spent the following years telling anyone within earshot about Hugo Harrington and his nefarious ways. By default, Cora disliked Val. She had spread it around town that Val was an enabler and just as foolhardy as her father, claiming it was the reason Prince Kristian severed ties with her. It was a sordid tale that contained more fabricated details each time it was retold. Val figured the retelling had taken place at least a thousand times in the past few months.
Val knew that at this very moment Idelle was likely in the back room of that restaurant, huddled in a corner with her cell phone to her ear, replaying to Cora everything she’d just seen—completely exaggerated. By tomorrow morning the story would have spread the couple of blocks that made up the Old Serenity neighborhood where they still lived. From there, it would only take another day or so to travel around the island.
With a sigh at the inevitable, Val turned to ask the prince, “Why are we stopping?”
“I had a question for you,” he said.
They were too close, only a console and gear shift separating them in the front seat of the car. With this in mind, Val turned to the side to face him. Part of her back was now pressed against the door. She figured that was about as far away as she could to manage to get.
“Okay,” she replied, even though she was thinking that he could have continued driving while he asked her a question.
“When’s the last time you danced?”
“What?”
“Danced,” he repeated. “When is the last time you forgot about everything around you? Every person. Every situation. Everything but the space where you could let go and simply dance?”
“I know you’re not drunk because you only had one glass of wine,” she said, and then quickly bit her own tongue for being so flippant with the prince.
It was just that he wasn’t acting very prince-like at the moment. His question was odd. The way he was looking at her was disconcerting. The pitter-patter of rain against the windows was rhythmic, almost romantic, if she were inclined to think along those lines. Val assured herself she definitely was not.
“No,” Roland chuckled. “I am not drunk. Not from alcohol, anyway. But there’s nothing wrong with being drunk or high off life. Sometimes, no matter what’s going on, I have to remind myself of that fact. You only get one life, Val, you should be sure to live every minute of it.”
“I do,” she replied after tilting her head to stare more closely at him. “The last time I danced was at the Ambassador’s Ball. With you.”
The words seemed quiet in the interior of the car. Spoken slowly, as if she were afraid he wouldn’t remember. Roland DeSaunters only recalled the women who had done something memorable in his life. Dancing with her so that Kristian could dance with the woman he was in love with was in no way memorable. Still, he was looking at her strangely and it was making Val uncomfortable.
He didn’t seem out of his mind. Actually, Roland had always been reported to be the most down-to-earth of the royal children. He’d been photographed playing tennis with budding young athletes at a training camp he’d visited in Europe, toasting a couple who had just been married in a hotel in Scotland where he’d been staying, and at a restaurant at the theme park in the United States, sharing a breakfast table with an adorable three-year-old girl who was elated to finally meet a real-life prince. That had happened just a few months ago, which was why it was so fresh in Val’s mind. She wasn’t about to admit that she kept close tabs on the royal family, all of them. That would be like owning up to a dream she’d convinced herself was foolish and childish to have.
“Your idea of living life is by working all day at the museum and then returning home by yourself?” he asked, but he was shaking his head as if already replying to her answer. “That’s not living at all.”
“It’s my life to do with as I please,” she replied.
How many times had she recited those words to herself? Far too many to be normal.
“We should all be so lucky,” was his quick retort. “I feel like dancing.”
“There’s no music,” she quipped, and this time she looked out the window.
It had grown dark outside, the clouds helping nightfall to arrive earlier. Heavy drops came down with a steady rhythm, moving in rivulets over the car windows.
“There’s always music in your heart,” he answered.
His voice sounded wistful that time, and Val couldn’t stop herself from turning to stare at him. He was looking out the front windshield, no doubt seeing nothing but the water raining down.
“My mother used to say that,” he told her, and then smiled as he looked at her. “She loved to dance and swore she never needed a record playing to do so.”
“I have no memories of my mother,” Val admitted, again without being able to stop herself, or at least monitor what she was saying. “She died when I was born.”
“They may be gone from this spiritual plane, but they’re always with us,” Roland said as he reached a hand over to rest on hers.
For a few stilted moments Val could only stare down at their hands. His skin was a shade darker than her butter-toned complexion. He had manicured nails. There were no rings on his right hand or on her left. They were still, and yet, deep inside, Val could swear she felt something moving, shifting, changing.
“We cannot dance in the car,” she said, and then cleared her throat because she thought her voice sounded rough.
“Then we’ll get out,” he told her, and with his free hand he pushed a button somewhere that had the door locks releasing with a loud click.
“It’s raining,” she announced.
“It’s fine,” he countered.
“No. It’s not.”
“What are you afraid of?” he asked. “What do you think will happen if you do something unorthodox for once in your life?”
“N-n othing,” she stammered. “I mean, I don’t know. I never thought about dancing in the rain.”
