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“Isabel Poussard?” the man asked.
She stiffened. The last time anyone used her real name had been during her high school graduation ceremony when she received her diploma. She’d always been Izzy, ever since she was a little girl. Uncle Frank had taught her to be careful and cautious around strangers. He’d worried about her and been very protective. She knew he’d be that way now if he were here.
Izzy raised her chin and stared down her nose. The gesture had sent more than one guy running in the opposite direction. “Who wants to know?”
Warm brown eyes met hers. The guy wasn’t intimidated at all. He looked almost amused for some strange reason. “I am Jovan Novak, aide to His Royal Highness Crown Prince Nikola Tomislav Kresimir.”
Jovan’s accent sounded European. Interesting since this was NASCAR country, not Formula 1 territory. “Never heard of him.”
“He’s from Vernonia.”
“Vernonia.” The name sounded vaguely familiar. Izzy rolled the word over in her mind. Suddenly she remembered. “That’s one of those Balkan countries. Fairy-tale castles and snowcapped mountains. There was a civil war there.”
“Yes.”
“Hey, Izzy,” Boyd shouted from behind her. “You need any help?”
She glanced back at the bear of a man who stood with a mallet in his hands and curiosity in his eyes. A grin tugged at her lips. She appreciated how Boyd treated her like a little sister, especially since she had no family. Of course that made things interesting the few times she had a date pick her up after work. “Not yet, Boyd, but I’ll let you know if I do.”
Jovan looked like he might be in shape, but she could probably take him without Boyd’s help thanks to Uncle Frank. When she was younger, he used to barter his mechanic skills for her martial arts class tuition. Now she worked out every day to get in shape for the work necessary by a pit crew member during a race.
“Isabel. Izzy.” Jovan’s smile reached all the way to his eyes. He bowed. “It is such a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your—”
“Is this about a car repair?” He acted so happy to meet her. That bothered Izzy. Most customers limited their interactions to questions about their cars. Some simply ignored her. The men who went out of their way to talk to her usually ended up propositioning her. “Or do you want something else? I’m in the middle of a job.”
Not exactly the most friendly customer service, but something felt off. No customer would know her real name. And the guy smiled too much to be having car trouble.
“One moment please.” Jovan ducked into the limousine.
Time ticked by. Seconds or minutes, Izzy couldn’t tell since she wasn’t wearing a watch. She used the clock hanging in the garage or her cell phone to keep track of time while she worked.
Izzy tapped her foot. She had to get the Chevy finished so she could work on the Dodge Grand Caravan. Somewhere a frazzled mom with four kids was waiting to get her minivan back. It was up to Izzy to get the job done.
Jovan stepped out of the limo finally.
About time, she thought.
Another man in a dark suit followed. Izzy took a closer look.
Smokin’.
The thought shot from her brain to the tips of her steel-toed boots and ricocheted back to the top of her head.
The guy was at least six feet tall with thick, shoulder-length brown hair and piercing blue-green eyes framed by dark lashes.
She straightened as if an extra inch could bring her closer to his height. Even then the top of her head would barely come to his chin.
But what a chin.
Izzy swallowed a sigh.
A strong nose, chiseled cheekbones, dark brows. Rugged features that made for an interesting—a handsome—combination in spite of a jagged scar on his right cheek.
Talk about character. He had it in spades.
Not that she was interested.
Spending her entire life surrounded by men, car mechanics, gave her an understanding of how the opposite sex thought and operated. The one standing in front of her wearing a nice suit and shiny shoes was trouble. Dangerous, too.
The limo, expensive clothing, personal aide and police escort meant he lived in a completely different world than her, a world where she was seen as nothing more than a servant or wallpaper or worse, a one-night stand. Having to deal with mysterious rich people intimidated her. She wanted nothing to do with him.
But she didn’t mind looking. The man belonged on the cover of a glossy men’s magazine. He moved with the grace and agility of an athlete. The fit of his suit made her wonder what was underneath the fancy fabric.
Everyone else around him seemed to fade into the background. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had this kind of reaction to a guy. No doubt the result of working too much overtime. Time to take a night off and have some fun. That would keep her from mooning over the next gorgeous guy who crossed her path.
“You are Isabel Poussard.” His accent, a mix of British and something else, could melt a frozen stick of butter.
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
His assessing gaze traveled the length of her. Nothing in his eyes or on his face hinted if he liked what he saw.
Not that she cared. Not much anyway.
A hottie like him would never be interested in a grease monkey like her. Still he was a yummy piece of eye candy. One she could appreciate.
Izzy raised her chin again, but didn’t stare down her nose the way she’d done with Jovan. She wasn’t ready to send this one on his way just yet. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“I am Prince Nikola of Vernonia.”
“A prince?”
“Yes.”
She supposed a prince would have a police escort as well as an aide, but this was just the kind of prank Boyd would pull and kid Izzy about for the rest of her life. She glanced around looking for a camera. “Am I being punk’d?”
Jovan grinned.
Nikola pressed his lips together. “No.”
Yeah, on second thought, she couldn’t imagine the police participating in a joke. But she still had a hard time believing royalty would come to Rowdy’s. This wasn’t the worst part of town, but it wasn’t the best, either. “Am I supposed to call you Your Highness or something?”
“Niko is fine,” he said.
Better than fine, but he probably already knew that. Men as attractive as him usually did. “So Niko, why are you here?”
Jovan started to speak, but Niko held up his hand and silenced his aide.
Nice trick. Maybe he really was a prince. Or maybe he liked being the one to talk.
“You posted on the internet looking to find a key to a box,” Niko said. “The box is mine.”
She stared down her nose. “I don’t think so, dude.”
He winced.
“The box belonged to my mother,” Izzy added. “I’m just looking for the key.”
“I know you want the key, but the box in the picture never belonged to your mother.”
Oh, boy. Rowdy and Boyd had told Izzy if she posted on the internet she would get some strange replies. But she’d received only one email from a person who described the box so perfectly she’d sent him a picture of it. “You’re HRMKDK?”
“That’s my father,” Niko explained. “His Royal Majesty King Dmitar Kresimir.”
Like a king would ever email a total stranger about a wooden box. Sure it was pretty, but it was old. Izzy had thought the only value was sentimental. Maybe she was wrong about its worth. “I did correspond with your, um, dad, but I already told you, the box belongs to me.”
“The box is technically yours, but only because I gave it to you.”
What a ridiculous statement. The box was Izzy’s only connection to her mother who had died when Izzy was a baby. That was why she was desperate to find the missing key and open the bottom portion to see if anything was inside. With Uncle Frank gone, she had no family, no connection to her past. She wanted to know something … anything.
Fighting her disappointment over not finding the key, Izzy squared her shoulders. “I’ve heard of Vernonia, but I’ve never been there. I’m certain we’ve never met. I’ve had the box for as long as I remember.”
“You have had the box for twenty-three years,” Niko said. “I gave it to you when you were a baby.”
“A baby,” she repeated, as if hearing it a second time would make more sense than the first time. It didn’t. The guy wasn’t that much older than her—that would mean he’d been just a kid. Ludicrous.
“Yes,” Niko admitted ruefully. “I must sound crazy.”
If he wasn’t, then she was. “You do.”
“I can assure you I’m not crazy,” Niko stated matter-of-factly. He glanced at his aide standing next to him. “Isn’t that true, Jovan?”
“Not crazy,” Jovan agreed, though he continued to look amused by what was going on.
“I’m guessing you’re paid to agree with him, Jovan,” Izzy said, irritated.
“Yes, but I’m also a lawyer if that adds to my credibility.”
“It doesn’t.” Maybe this was how good-looking, eccentric royals wasted their time and money. She wished they would go bother someone else. “I think you both must be certifiable.”
The two men looked at her with puzzled expressions.
“Insane.” Izzy glanced at the police officers. She couldn’t imagine them wasting their time and tax dollars protecting some mental case claiming to be a prince. Surely they would have checked him out and asked to see his diplomatic papers or passport or something. “Let’s pretend what you say is true—”
“It is true,” Niko said.
She took a deep breath to control her growing temper. “Why would you give a baby the box? Is there some significance to the gesture?”
“It’s customary.”
It was her turn to be confused. “Huh?”
“Tradition,” Niko clarified. “When a Vernonian prince gets married, he presents his wife with a bride box on their wedding day.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you would give the box to me.”
“Because I am your husband.”
CHAPTER TWO
“MY HUSBAND?” Isabel’s voice cracked. Her expression would have been comical if this were not such a serious matter.
“Yes.” Niko understood her shock. He even sympathized. Discovering he had a wife had sent his world spinning off its axis. But her feelings—his feelings—would only delay the annulment needed to remedy this “complication” so he could marry Julianna and help his country. “It is a lot to take in.”
“Take in?” Sharp, brown eyes bore into him. “Okay, Niko or whoever you are, cut the bull and tell me what’s really going on here.”
He stared at Isabel with the dirty, baggy coveralls, lopsided ponytail and grease on her hands and cheek. She might be halfway attractive with her oval face, high cheekbones and expressive eyes, if she weren’t dressed like a man and covered in motor oil.
“Come on, Niko.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Spill.”
He expected her lack of protocol and manners, but the strength in her voice surprised him, as did her take-no-prisoner tone. Most people kowtowed to him. Few ever challenged him. He was … intrigued. “I am speaking the truth. I am your husband.”
She pursued her full, unglossed lips and gave him a long, hard look. He was used to such a frank appraisal, but unlike most women, Isabel did not seem impressed by what she saw. He didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed by this woman who worked at a dilapidated garage fixing other people’s broken-down vehicles.
“I told you. I’ve never seen you before,” she said. “We can’t be married.”
“Indeed we can. You simply do not remember.”
Isabel’s gaze remained steady. “I think I’d remember getting married.”
“Not if you were only a few months old at the time.”
Her mouth formed a perfect O. “What?”
“I was only six years old when we married, and my memories are very vague.”
Almost nonexistent, but he needed to convince Isabel of what had occurred twenty-three years ago, not add to the doubts shining in her pretty hazel eyes.
“Children marrying?” Isabel’s nostrils flared. “There are laws against that kind of thing.”
“Yes, and today it is illegal in Vernonia, but not twenty-three years ago.”
“This is crazy.” Her voice jumped an octave. “I’m an American.”
“Your mother was American, but your father was Vernonian.”
“My father.” Isabel’s glanced toward Jovan as if seeking confirmation. At his nod, her hands balled into fists. “Now I know you’re lying. My father’s name isn’t listed on my birth certificate. I have no idea who he is.”
The hurt and anger in her voice suggested she was telling the truth. There was no reason for her to lie. She had too much to gain by accepting what Niko was telling her. His respect inched up. Opportunists or not, many women would have jumped at the chance to be his wife. “I have proof.”
