A Thoroughly Modern Princess Page 3

  “Sorry, Stash.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Stash hoisted himself off the stool. “You comin’, Gallagher?”

  “Nah. I’ve got to get back to the office,” Granger said.

  “Well, it was good talkin’ to you,” Stash said, offering a heartfelt handshake. “Stop in again sometime. I’m here every day.”

  “I’ll do that,” Granger promised.

  Stash shuffled out the door, leaving only Johnny and Granger in the bar. The hemorrhoid commercial gave way to the helmet-haired anchorwoman again. Granger decided to wait for the financial report, which should be on any minute now, then head back uptown.

  “Hey, Johnny,” he said, “Would you mind turning up the volume for me?”

  “No problem.”

  As the bartender reached for the remote, Granger raised his mug to his lips, took a sip—and nearly choked on his beer.

  There she was.

  In living color on the television above the bar.

  It was stock media footage he had seen many times in recent years, since long before he met her in person. The camera had captured her exiting a white Rolls-Royce in front of a Chimera restaurant, surrounded by her entourage, pausing to smile and wave at the camera.

  Granger had always thought she was beautiful, especially in this footage, wearing a summer suit in a shade of jade that precisely matched her wide-set eyes, her dark hair tucked up beneath a broad-brimmed hat that accentuated her delicate features and high cheekbones. But the camera didn’t come close to capturing her spirit. There was no evidence here of the flash in her eyes that had so captivated him in person; no sign, in her demure smile, of the dry wit that had caught him so off guard.

  Yet Granger stared at the television, mesmerized anew.

  Princess Emmaline of Verdunia . . .

  The woman beside whom all others paled.

  At least for Granger.

  At least since that night a month and a half ago.

  It had just been one night.

  Not even a whole night. Just a few stolen hours.

  But here he was, unable to shake the memory of her.

  It didn’t help that every time he picked up a newspaper or magazine, or turned on a television set, she was there. She, and her fiancé, and their upcoming royal wedding, dammit.

  Johnny raised the volume.

  “. . . reports that the princess is resting comfortably in the hospital and is expected to return in the morning to the palace in Chimera, Verdunia’s capital city and home of the kingdom’s ruling family,” the anchorwoman said. “Through a palace spokesman, the royal physician has attributed the princess’s collapse, during a fitting at the Buiron studio of famed dressmaker Porfirio, to heat exhaustion . . .”

  Collapse?

  The princess had collapsed?

  Granger’s heart stopped.

  Was she all right?

  “. . . expected to make a full recovery and resume preparations for the upcoming royal wedding. We go now to our correspondent Debi Hanson, who frequently covers the Verdunian royals.”

  As the camera shifted to a smiling, overly made-up blond, Granger scowled. This woman made a living hunting down personal details about people’s private lives, and making them public. To her, a foreign princess was nothing but prey.

  Granger clenched his jaw so hard that it ached, overcome by the need to protect Emmaline from predatory so-called journalists. Of course, it was a ridiculous urge. The steel-willed princess had made it quite clear, in the few fleeting hours they’d spent together, that she didn’t need protection from him—or from anyone else.

  Including her husband-to-be.

  Which was fortunate, considering that the slightly built, anemic-looking Prince Remi of Buiron didn’t particularly strike Granger as the type of man who would see fit to sully his manicured hands or silk and cashmere wardrobe defending his future wife.

  “Thank you, Jane,” Debi Hanson said on TV, flashing bloodred lipstick and a mouthful of artificially whitened teeth. “Well, the palace is blaming her collapse on the blistering August heat. But sources close to the princess claim that, just days away from her fairy-tale wedding to charming Prince Remi, Her Royal Highness seems to be suffering from a classic case of bridal jitters . . . or something more serious. Perhaps cold feet?”

  Cold feet?

  Hope mingled with worry as Granger gaped at the television screen.

  “The match between the wealthy heir to Buiron’s throne and Verdunia’s eligible princess, the second of King Jasper’s and Queen Yvette’s three daughters, is rumored to be little more than a business arrangement.”

  Granger barely listened as the woman recapped information about the once-thriving Verdunia’s dismal economic situation. The marriage between Emmaline and Remi would link their formerly feuding families and bridge the long-standing gap between coastal Verdunia and land-locked Buiron, which had long sought access to the Mediterranean for exporting purposes.

  That was where Lockwood Enterprises came in. Working with both countries, Grandfather had come up with a viable plan to develop a rugged stretch of Verdunian coast. He had assured the concerned royals that it could be transformed into a tourist mecca and seaport without compromising the region’s natural resources and pristine beauty.

  The plan would necessitate financial backing from both Buiron’s government and Lockwood Enterprises. But the latter wasn’t mentioned at all in the mudslinging journalist’s brief discussion about what she termed the “royal merger.” So far, the Lockwoods’ role in the project had been kept under wraps from the media.

  Gossip reporter Debi Hanson was far more interested in regaling the American public with details about the wedding’s vast financial tab, which included everything from $25,000 worth of engraved invitations to flocks of pure white doves to be released outside the Chimera Abbey after the ceremony.

  “What a waste of money, huh?” Johnny the bartender asked, shaking his head in disgust.

  “You can say that again.” Granger glowered at a televised image of Emmaline beaming on Prince Remi’s arm at an engagement reception several months ago.

  “You know, when I got married, we had the reception at the Moose club—I was grand pooh-bah back then. But it was a simple wedding. My wife’s sisters and my mother-in-law made some trays of lasagne. And you know what? Marie and me are still together after twenty-five years. I don’t give those two fools more than a few months, tops.”

  “I’m with you on that one,” Granger muttered.

  Fools.

  He had no problem finding that an apt description of Prince Remi, whom he had met on a few official occasions.

  But Emmaline didn’t strike him as the least bit foolish. She had come across as a woman who was firmly in charge of her own mind, if not her destiny.

  Maybe they’re really in love, Granger thought, watching Remi plant a chaste peck on his fiancée’s cheek at the urging of reporters. Emmaline smiled up at him, her eyes hidden behind designer sunglasses. Granger wondered what expression the lenses masked.

  Perhaps ill-concealed displeasure?

  Or true affection?

  For her sake, Granger hoped it was the latter. But he doubted it.

  The scene switched to a press conference in front of familiar stone and wrought iron gates, where a throng of reporters surrounded several official-looking royal handlers. A caption at the bottom of the screen read Royal Palace in Chimera, Verdunia, Earlier Today.

  The man standing behind the podium calmly stated, “As the royal wedding draws near, the princess, like any other bride, is incredibly busy finalizing the details, along with her usual official duties. But she is doing very well and is eagerly looking forward to marrying Prince Remi on Saturday as scheduled.”

  She was doing very well.

  Thank God.

  The wedding would go on as scheduled.

  Granger muttered a curse and drained the rest of his beer in one gulp.

  Back to the anchorwoman, who reminded viewers that
the network would have full, live coverage of the royal wedding beginning at four a.m. on Saturday.

  Granger slammed his mug on the bar.

  Johnny glanced up, startled.

  “Sorry,” Granger said.

  “Hey, it’s okay. I understand. I’ve got stocks myself.”

  “Stocks?” Granger realized that the financial report had begun.

  The Dow had plummeted.

  And so, in the wake of the latest news about Princess Emmaline and her royal wedding, had Granger’s spirits.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you for a while, Your Highness?”

  “No, thank you, Tabitha.” Emmaline sank back against the goose-down pillows. “I’d just like to be alone for a little while.”

  “Of course.” Framed in the doorway, Tabitha made a little curtsy and smiled, but she looked worried. “I’ll check in again later.”

  “Thank you. And please don’t allow anybody else to come in.” Emmaline closed her eyes. “I’ll ring if I need anything.”

  With a slight creak, the door closed behind the lady-in-waiting.

  Emmaline heard hushed voices echoing in the cavernous hallway outside her suite as Tabitha relayed her wishes to the concerned members of her staff who were huddled there.

  Finally several sets of footsteps retreated down the hall.

  Emmaline waited to be sure they had gone.

  Finally all was silent.

  Emmaline bolted frantically from her bed.

  The swift movement unleashed a wave of nausea.

  She grabbed the bedpost, waiting until it subsided to mere queasiness.

  Then, without stopping to pull on a dressing gown or slippers, she rushed barefoot across the carpeted floor to one of her bureaus. She opened the top drawer and removed a leather-bound datebook.

  She didn’t use this one to keep track of official engagements or social functions. That was Fenella’s job.

  Instead, the pages of this calendar were for her personal use, to keep herself organized and jot notes and dates she wanted to remember.

  She flipped back to June and scanned the month from the beginning, page by page, past notations about a television program she had wanted to watch and about remembering to personally select a birthday gift for Tabitha . . .

  There it was. She found a circle around the date on the first Thursday of the month, and began counting forward from that date.

  Precisely fourteen days afterward came the page that was inscribed with a pair of initials.

  G.L.

  That was all she had dared to write there.

  But it was all she would ever need, she knew, to remind her of what had happened on that third Thursday in June.

  Truth be told, she didn’t even need the initials as a reminder. She knew that she would never forget the significance of the date.

  Just as she would never forget the wine-flavored warmth of Granger Lockwood’s lips on hers, or the way he had looked at her in the moonlight that spilled in the window of his hotel suite as he plucked the pins from her hair, one after another, until the whole wavy mass tumbled down to graze her bare shoulders . . .

  Fourteen days.

  Emmaline began counting again, moving hurriedly ahead to the beginning of July.

  Nothing.

  Her pulse began to pound.

  She began flipping the pages of the datebook rapidly, looking for another circled date.

  There was none.

  None in July . . .

  And none in August.

  Emmaline felt her knees turning to liquid beneath her. She steadied herself by placing one trembling hand on the dresser as the other one flipped the pages back to June.

  And then forward to July.

  To August.

  Counting.

  Searching . . .

  Flipping.

  June . . .

  Counting.

  July . . .

  Searching.

  August . . .

  Emmaline’s world seemed to be careening out of control.

  Where was it?

  Where was the circled date?

  The nausea edged in again, as if to punctuate the lack of evidence.

  There was no circled date.

  That meant only one thing.

  Emmaline hadn’t had her menstrual period since the beginning of June.

  Precisely fourteen days before she recklessly abandoned her virginity in Granger Lockwood’s suite at the Traviata Hotel in Chimera.

  Two

  “Granger!”

  “Yes, Grandfather?”

  “Come in here, please,” barked the voice on the telephone intercom.

  Granger’s eyes rolled skyward. “I’ll be right with you, Grandfather.”

  He swiveled in his leather chair, turning away from his cluttered desk and the three paper Starbucks coffee cups he had drained in the past two hours. The caffeine had been merely a temporary fix. He still felt weak and light-headed, and his skull was pounding. Glancing at his watch, he saw that he had to wait two more hours before he could safely take another dose of ibuprofen.

  Two more hours of this headache—and a meeting with Grandfather for added pleasure.

  Well, this was shaping up to be one hell of a day. He wouldn’t be surprised if the Dow sank even lower than it had the past few days, or if the perfectly blue summer sky suddenly gave way to unforecast storm clouds.

  Granger’s gaze fell on the floor-to-ceiling windows behind his desk. From here—the fifty-second floor of Lockwood Tower, the midtown office building his grandfather had built two decades ago—he had a sprawling view of lower Manhattan.

  His penthouse apartment three floors above provided just as spectacular a view, but of the verdant rectangle that marked Central Park, with upper Manhattan beyond. His living quarters were on the building’s north side; his grandfather’s on the south side . . .

  And never the twain shall meet, he thought dryly, rising from his chair and making his way across the plush carpeting.

  In the corridor outside his office, Delia, his secretary, looked up from her computer screen. Her perfectly manicured fingers stopped their rapid-fire dance over the keyboard.

  “I’ll be in with Grandfather,” Granger told her. “When you have a moment, Delia, would you mind sending out for two more double espressos, a large bottle of water, and a large ham and cheese hero?”

  “Right away,” Delia said with a knowing glance.

  A glance that said, Pretty badly hung over, are you?

  Well, yes, actually, he was. And certainly not for the first time in his life.

  Not even for the first time this week.

  Yet contrary to popular belief, this wasn’t necessarily typical for Granger.

  He had always appreciated a night out on the town. Fine wine, exclusive nightclubs, Manhattan’s most elite social crowd. Yet despite the rumors about his wild ways, he had always known where to draw the line. Especially on a week night.

  Then came June, and his stolen interlude with the unwillingly—or so he suspected—betrothed Princess Emmaline. When he looked into her claustrophobic, denial-ridden gaze, he was struck by the troubling realization that he might as well be looking into a mirror.

  The princess’s whole life was about confinement and constrictions, about royal duty, about fulfilling other people’s expectations.

  And so, Granger had suddenly comprehended, was his.

  After that fleeting, magical night, he left her behind. Because he had no choice.

  He returned to New York. Because he had no choice.

  But he promised himself that from there on in, there would be choices.

  As he redirected toward himself the disdain with which he had regarded Emmaline’s gilded cage, he found himself questioning everything about his life. Everything. All at once, he doubted the paths that had been chosen for him, and the ambitions he had worked so hard to fulfill—ambitions that weren’t his own.

  That night they were together, he
had chastised Emmaline for never having dared to follow her heart. Now he saw that he was no more admirable in his position than the princess was in hers.

  But he was going to do something about it.

  “How are you today, Mr. Lockwood?” Susan, his grandfather’s longtime secretary, asked pleasantly as he arrived in front of her desk, a few yards down the carpeted corridor from Delia’s.

  “Very well, Susan, thanks,” he lied, striding toward the closed door.

  He knocked, of course. One simply did not barge in on Granger Lockwood II. Not even when one was a blood relative who had been personally summoned.

  “Come in,” growled the familiar voice.

  Granger stepped into the large corner suite. Plush furnishings, fine artwork, dazzling view.

  Of course, Granger had his own furnishings, artwork, and view. But this was all just a notch above. Just enough, he had always suspected, to give Grandfather the psychological upper hand—even though he was always saying that he was phasing himself out of the business, paving the way for Granger to take over.

  That would never happen.

  Not while Grandfather was alive.

  And since the crusty old man showed no sign of impending death—and since Lockwood men traditionally lived century-spanning lives, barring reckless youthful mishap—chances were that Granger was destined to spend the next few decades just as he had the last one: as a glorified yes-man.

  “Good morning, Grandfather.”

  “Good morning.”

  Clad in one of his trademark three-piece suits, Granger Lockwood II turned away from the window, where he stood puffing on his pipe and gazing out over the skyline he had helped to create. The room was infused with the familiar scent of vanilla tobacco. Normally Granger rather liked the scent, but today—courtesy of one wicked hangover—he found it repulsive.

  “We’ll sit over there,” his grandfather declared brusquely, leading the way to a cluster of black leather recliners in the far corner, beside the black granite-topped wet bar lined with crystal decanters.

  A few feet away, a sulphur-crested cockatoo in an ornate cage ruffled its snow-colored feathers. Grandfather was a devoted ornithologist—his sole hobby that wasn’t in some way tied to his business. As a child, Granger had often resented the old man’s attention to his feathered pets—attention he neglected to give his grandson.