The Princess Test

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?”