Searching For Her Prince

Instead of answering, Amira just stepped closer to Marcus. He took her into his embrace. He’d been waiting all day to do this, waiting all day to lean his cheek against hers, breathe in her wonderful perfume and feel her body close to his. They danced together as if they’d been doing it for years. As minutes ticked by, they were hardly aware of one song passing into the next.

Slowly Amira lifted her head and gazed into his eyes. “You gave me a wonderful day today. I’ll remember it always.”

She was talking as if she’d never see him again. That was what he’d planned. In fact, in the back of his mind, he’d decided he would take her to bed tonight if she was willing and say goodbye in the morning. But now he knew she was too innocent for a one-night stand, and he couldn’t do that to her. He also knew that one day of being with her wasn’t enough. She’d brought light and sunshine into his life again, and he wasn’t ready to give that up….

Be sure to catch the next segment in the Crown and Glory series, THE ROYAL TREATMENT by Maureen Child

Searching For Her Prince

Karen Rose Smith

To my editor, Tina Colombo, for her encouragement,

patience and valuable time she so willingly gives.

Thank you.

KAREN ROSE SMITH

is a former teacher and home decorator. Now spinning stories and creating characters keeps her busy. But she also loves listening to music, shopping and sharing with friends, as well as spending time with her son and her husband. Married for thirty years, she and her husband have always called Pennsylvania home. Karen Rose likes to hear from readers. Visit her Web site at www.karenrosesmith.com.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter One

S he couldn’t fail the queen. She just couldn’t.

As the high-speed elevator dropped ten floors in a matter of seconds, Lady Amira Sierra Corbin felt a bit dizzy. She’d considered this mission from the queen an honor as she’d flown to Chicago from Penwyck. She’d been excited, eager and never entertained a doubt for one moment that she wouldn’t be able to meet Marcus Cordello. But for the past three days she’d been thwarted by his secretary.

Monday, she’d been told he was unavailable for two weeks. No one could be that busy.

On Tuesday, deciding to be assertive, Amira had confronted his “keeper of the gate” and maintained she would sit in the waiting room until Mr. Cordello had a spare moment.

Apparently, he’d never had a spare moment.

Today Amira had appeared at his secretary’s desk early in the morning and hinted that the matter she wanted to discuss with Mr. Cordello was extremely confidential and could change the course of several people’s futures. Still the secretary wouldn’t budge. But her expression had softened a little as she’d explained that Mr. Cordello had meetings out of the office until Friday, and then he would be leaving the city for a week.

Now Amira glanced around at her fellow passengers on the elevator. She fitted right in, in her violet tailored but feminine suit that was the same color as her eyes. Her shoulder-length, wavy, blond hair was pulled back and arranged at the nape of her neck in a sedate chignon, and her patent leather, high-heeled pumps and handbag were suitable for an early October day in Chicago.

Even thinking about the “windy” city in which she’d landed couldn’t distract her from her mission. Where was Marcus Cordello at this moment? Still closeted behind the steel doors to the rear of the secretary’s desk? In meetings that would last through the evening and night? Somewhere else in the city where he was making deals and adding to his fortune? All she knew about him was that at twenty-three, he was a multi-millionaire. He owned this hotel and, as she’d so frustratingly discovered in the past few days, he was surrounded by a staff who catered to and protected him.

She had to see him. He might be a prince and the next heir to the throne of Penwyck!

The elevator doors swished open and Amira stepped into the sumptuous hotel lobby with its marble floor, Persian carpets, asymmetrical flower arrangements and groupings of love seats and chairs arranged for tête-á-têtes. It was dinnertime and the reception desk was busy with businessmen checking in for the night.

Her stomach grumbled and she felt a bit woozy as the aroma of steak and garlic drifted from the restaurant in the corner of the lobby. How long had it been since she’d eaten? Not that she couldn’t order room service anytime she wanted, but she’d been so nervous about this meeting and frustrated by the waiting that she’d done no more than nibble the past few days. This morning she’d had a pack of crackers and a cup of tea before setting out for Marcus Cordello’s office suite on the twentieth floor. Afraid she’d miss her chance to see the man if she went for lunch, she’d sat in the reception area all day, reading the paperback in her purse.

As she approached Interludes, the hotel’s finest restaurant, she realized she was starved. Pulling open the heavy glass door seemed to tax her, but it was the crowd of people there that made her realize how extremely tired she was. There were at least ten people milling about, and the bar area was crowded.

As the maître d’ looked at her expectantly, her ears began to ring.

“I’d like a table for one.” She hoped he could slide her into an empty spot someplace.

“And your name, please?” he asked, picking up his clipboard.

“Amira Corbin. Can you tell me how long a wait I’ll have?”

“At least a half hour, maybe forty-five minutes.”

Amira didn’t think she’d ever felt so hungry or tired in her entire life. Tears pricked in her eyes as she felt a bit woozy again.

She was aware of footsteps and a tall man coming up behind her, but all she could think about was the wait, or a ride up in that elevator to her room and another wait. Her three days of waiting. Her failure as an emissary of the queen.

The room began to spin as the maître d’ gave his attention to the man behind her. “You’re early, sir. Your dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”

She could barely hear the man’s deep voice order, “Don’t worry about me. Take care of this lady.”

Amira’s knees began to buckle as the fuzziness engulfed her.

She felt as if she were floating, then she realized strong arms had lifted her and she was being held against a man’s chest—a very broad chest. She heard him say, “I’m taking her to my dining room. Make an announcement and see if there’s a doctor in the restaurant.”

Being held in his arms and feeling his strength, hers seemed to return. Looking up into very green, mesmerizing eyes, she insisted, “I’m fine. Please don’t call a doctor.”

“You’re so fine, you collapsed,” he noted wryly. His dark brown hair had a rakishly styled look. His charcoal suit sported a red-and-gray silk tie settled intimately against his gray silk shirt. She didn’t think she’d ever seen anyone more handsome.

“I didn’t have very much to eat today,” she hurried to tell him, not wanting to cause a fuss.

“Then we’re going to remedy that.” He was already moving with her in his arms. As he strode through the dining room past deep forest-green leather booths, black lacquered tables, and lithographs on the wall, Amira only quickly glimpsed it all.

“Put me down,” she murmured, totally embarrassed. “You can’t just carry me off.”

“I’m not abducting you. I’m taking you to a private dining room. Believe me, you’ll get something to eat a lot quicker in there than waiting your turn out front.”

“But…” she started. How could she explain about her very proper upbringing and the chaperone who usually accompanied her whenever she was with a man, even though she was twenty years old.

“No buts about it. I’ve got a porterhouse steak big enough for two on order. You can have my salad to get started. I’m sure there are rolls already on the table.”

The idea of immediately having food in front of her made her but a thing of the past. This chivalrous gentleman looked totally civilized. Since she’d landed in Chicago, her Penwyck world seemed very far away.

“Well?” he asked, not slowing down one wit. “Are you going to let me treat you to dinner?”

She’d always wanted an adventure. Instinctively she knew sharing dinner with this man could be that. Forgetting propriety for the moment, putting aside everything her mother, the queen’s lady-in-waiting, had taught her over the years, she gazed into his eyes and smiled. “Yes. I’ll let you treat me to dinner. Are all the men in Chicago as chivalrous as you?”

He gave her an irresistible smile. “Not even close.”

Captivated by the beauty of the young woman in his arms, Marcus Cordello could hardly keep his gaze from hers. Her eyes were a rare shade of violet, her hair golden-blond. It looked natural, and from the rich shade of her finely arched brows, he suspected it was. Her oval face was enhanced by the severity of her hair style and softened by her fluffy bangs. As he carried her to the supple green couch in his private dining room, he decided her skin was as flawless as the rest of her, though she did look a bit pale. That concerned him as much as her fainting had.

He asked a question he should have asked three years ago of another woman, a woman who had died because he hadn’t been observant…because he’d been too selfishly absorbed in the empire he’d been building. “Do you have a medical condition I should know about?” he asked huskily. “Are you sure I shouldn’t call a doctor?”

“No medical condition,” she assured him. “I’ve been a bit anxious the past few days and haven’t eaten properly. I only had two crackers and tea this morning.”

Gently he lowered her to the couch. “What could a beautiful young woman like you be anxious about?”

“It’s a long story,” she said with a sigh.

He could see she really was anxious about something, but a good meal would go a long way to making her feel better. “You’ll have plenty of time to tell me all about it over dinner.”

“Oh, I don’t know if I should…”

Just then a waiter came through the door bearing a huge tray. “Goodness, sir. I didn’t know you were having company for dinner.”

Marcus smiled. “I didn’t know I was having company, either, but I am.” He glanced at the tray. “That steak’s large enough to share, but I’d appreciate it if you could bring an extra helping of the garlic potatoes and the broccoli. More rolls, too.”

As the waiter arranged the food on the table, Marcus took the woman’s hand. “Are you still dizzy?”

“Not dizzy. Just a little…airy.”

He helped her to her feet. “Come on, let’s get some of that food into you. If you aren’t feeling better by the time we’re finished, I will call a doctor.”

Marcus seated the elegant young woman at the table and watched, amused, as she quickly cut her steak and ate half of it along with the potatoes and a roll. By then her cheeks had taken on a healthier pink tint, and he found himself intrigued by her as well as her accent. “Now about that long story you were going to tell me,” he reminded her after the waiter returned with the extra portions and exited again.

He saw her debate with herself. Then she delicately wiped her lips with her napkin and gave him a smile. “This is going to sound far-fetched and not something you Americans are at all used to.”

“I take it you’re not an American?” Her accent sounded English, yet not quite English.

“No, I’m not. This is my first trip here. I’m from Penwyck, an island off the coast of Wales.” She smiled shyly. “I’m Lady Amira Sierra Corbin. My mother is lady-in-waiting to the Queen of Penwyck.”

If Marcus hadn’t already been entranced by this young woman, he might have laughed out loud. She had to be pulling his leg.

His thoughts must have shown in the arch of his brows or the quirk of his mouth because she squared her shoulders and sat up straighter. “I suppose royalty isn’t something Americans understand very well.”

“You’re right about that. But I’m intrigued. Continue with your story.”

After a few moments hesitation, she leaned back in her chair and relaxed again. “As I said, my mother is lady-in-waiting to the queen. She would do anything for Queen Marissa and so would I. That’s why I’m here. Actually my mother might have come herself, but she’s on her honeymoon in the Greek Isles and this is a matter that had to be taken care of immediately.”

Marcus’s amusement faded because of the expression on Lady Amira’s face. She was completely serious. Either she was totally deluded or she did have a story to tell. “And what is this serious matter?”

“The queen sent me to meet with Marcus Cordello, the man who owns this hotel and goodness knows how many other businesses. I have something to tell him that could change his life. He might be a prince.”

Marcus practically choked on his steak. Finally he set down his fork and managed, “A prince?” How could he not know he might be a prince?

“It’s quite complicated. Everything has to do with twins. King Morgan is a twin, you see. But he’s taken ill and is in a coma. For now, his twin, Broderick, is running Penwyck. He’s always envied his brother, and he did something terrible that he just admitted recently. Long ago he conspired against King Morgan and Queen Marissa and switched the newborn royal twins for a set of American fraternal twins who were going to be adopted by a couple in Illinois. King Morgan and Queen Marissa raised them as their own. At least that’s what Broderick says. I’m here to speak to Marcus Cordello because he and his twin might be the true heirs to the throne!”

“You were right about the story sounding far-fetched.” Marcus tried to keep his tone even.

“Oh, it’s even more complicated than that. The queen found out about Broderick’s plans before he was able to execute them—at least that’s what she believes—and she thinks Dylan and Owen, the sons she raised, are truly the royal heirs. But she also knows that she and the king have been betrayed by enemies more than once, and her plan to foil Broderick might have gone awry. The head of the Royal Intelligence Institute is investigating all of it, but the bottom line is—Owen and Dylan, who have been raised to be the true heirs of Penwyck, might not be the true heirs. I need to speak with Mr. Cordello and convince him to tell me where his brother is. DNA tests could settle this whole matter.”

Shocked by Amira’s story—it sounded like an implausible plot from a soap opera—Marcus took a few moments to think about it while he continued eating. Was Miss Corbin truly acting as an emissary for a royal family? Or was this whole story some ploy to get to him and his money or connections? Was Lady Amira Sierra Corbin for real? And if she was…

The last thing in this world he wanted was to be a prince! He liked his life just the way it was. He didn’t want to be involved in some royal family’s intrigue. Besides, although he and his brother Shane were twins, they weren’t adopted. His parents might have had their problems, but they never would have kept something like that a secret.

He studied Amira once more. She was beautiful and entertaining, and he hadn’t been truly interested in a woman since Rhonda had died. Every time he looked at Amira, his whole body quickened. For the first time in a long while, he was interested in more than the Dow Jones Industrial Average or whether a company was ripe for a takeover. He wanted to check into this woman’s background, get to know her a little better, possibly even take her to bed. But he couldn’t do any of that if she knew he was Marcus Cordello.

“How long do you intend to stay in the United States?” he asked.

“Until I can meet with this man.” She bit her lower lip and said almost to herself, “I can’t fail the queen.” Meeting his gaze again, she went on, “Mr. Cordello’s secretary tells me he has meetings out of his office until this weekend and then he’ll be gone for a week. I might have to wait until he returns. I have to figure out if it’s worthwhile sitting outside his office door any longer, hoping I might catch him. I must think of a better way to get to him.”

After taking a sip of water, she set down her glass. “Thank you so much for sharing your dinner with me. I don’t even know your name.”

The wheels in Marcus’s head spun. When he was a boy away at school, he used his middle name, Brent, since there was another boy in his class named Marcus. “My name is Brent,” he responded now. Then choosing a last name from thin air, he added, “It’s Brent Carpenter.”

She held out her hand to him. “It’s good to meet you, Brent.”

When he enfolded her hand in his, it felt delicate and fragile. Yet he sensed a strength about Amira that intrigued him as much as everything else. The softness of her skin under his made his blood rush faster, and he told himself to slow down. He told himself this was a woman like none he’d ever met. He had the urge to bring her hand to his lips…to do much more than that.

Before he could analyze his attraction to her, the waiter came in, carrying two apple tarts topped with whipped cream. Amira pulled her gaze from his, glanced at the tart and smiled. “Oh, that looks good.”

He laughed.

The waiter left as unobtrusively as he’d come in and Marcus breathed a sigh of relief. The staff usually addressed him as “sir” and when he had a guest, they didn’t converse with him at all. But there was always a chance someone would call him by name. He found himself liking the idea of becoming Brent Carpenter more and more. He needed a vacation, not only from the city, but from who he was and what he did and everyone’s expectations of him. From now on when he was with Amira, he would think of himself as Brent.

As they both sampled their tarts, he asked her, “Have you seen anything of the city?”

“Nothing but the airport,” she said with a sigh. “During the taxi ride from the airport to the hotel, I had to hold on to the seat in fear for my life, so I haven’t dared take another one. After the warnings the queen gave me about big American cities, I didn’t think it was a good idea to go out alone at night.”

“Chicago’s a wonderful city, Amira. You should see some of it.”

“I’m not really here for a vacation.”

She’d eaten her tart as delicately as any lady, but her beautifully curved upper lip was smudged with a dot of whipped cream. He couldn’t help leaning toward her and sliding his thumb over the spot. Her deep-violet eyes became wider, and her intake of breath at his touch told him she was affected by it. He was, too.

His voice was husky as he explained, “Whipped cream,” and brought his thumb to his own lips and licked the sweet topping.

They gazed at each other, lost in the moment. The thrum of sexual awareness between them practically filled the room.

Her cheeks became flushed and her lashes fluttered down as she demurely cast her eyes at what was left of her tart.

“Amira?” he asked.

She looked up at him once more.

“How old are you?”

“I’m twenty.”

That’s what he’d suspected. But he’d also guessed she was a very innocent twenty. Not at all like Rhonda. The familiar pain, guilt and blame rushed in with the remembrance of his fiancée. For two years he’d hardly looked at women. For two years he hadn’t wanted the responsibility of a relationship…and he wasn’t contemplating a relationship now, he told himself. Amira would be going back to her island. After next week’s vacation, he’d be returning to mergers and interest rates and building a new hotel in St. Louis. But for the next few days…

Amira sipped the coffee the waiter had brought with dessert. He’d noticed her load it down with cream and sugar.

As she returned her cup to the saucer, she couldn’t stifle a yawn. “I’m so sorry,” she said embarrassed. “I think I’m still adjusting to the time change.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. How are you feeling?”

“Wonderfully satisfied. Everything was delicious.” She took her purse from the table where she’d laid it. “You must let me pay for this.”

“Nope. It’s my treat. You saved me from another dinner alone.”

“Do you have dinner alone a lot? Never mind,” she said with a flutter of her hand. “That’s none of my business.”

Her chagrin was enchanting. She was definitely a proper lady. “For a long while now, I’ve had lots of dinners alone. By choice. I put in a long day and just want peace and quiet in the evening.”

“What do you do?”

He didn’t want to lie to her, but he didn’t know what she knew about Marcus Cordello, either. He answered vaguely, “I work in finance.” To forestall her asking any more questions about his work, he laid down his napkin and stood. “I have a meeting in half an hour, but before I leave the hotel, I want to see you safely to your room.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It’s very necessary.” He wanted to make sure her lack of food had been her only problem, and she wasn’t hiding a more serious condition as Rhonda had.

Amira gave him a smile that made him feel ten feet tall as she acquiesced. “All right. An escort will make me feel as if I’m back home.”

“You have a bodyguard?”

“Not as the queen and king do. But when I go out at night I have a chauffeur, and when I attend public functions I have an escort from the Royal Guard.”

“Do you feel as if you’re always being watched?” he asked, knowing he could never give up his freedom like that.

“I’m used to it, so it doesn’t seem out of the ordinary.”

A few minutes later Amira was following Brent from the room, feeling as if this dinner had been a milestone in her life. She’d never had dinner alone with a man before. She’d never felt the sizzling attraction she felt toward this man. When his finger had touched her lip…heat had seemed to fill her and she’d been unable to look away from his green eyes. Fantasies had crowded her head and she’d known she shouldn’t entertain them.

Yet as the dining room door closed behind them, Brent took her hand and secured it in the crook of his arm. “To keep you steady,” he said with a wink.

The fine material of his suit was smooth under her fingers, and she could feel his muscled strength underneath.

When they stepped into the elevator and the doors swooshed shut, intimacy seemed to surround them. She peeked up at Brent and saw he was gazing down at her.

“What floor?” he asked, his voice deep and low.

“Twelve,” she answered. Her mouth was suddenly dry, and her heart was beating much too fast.

When the elevator stopped on the twelfth floor, they stepped out onto plush wine carpeting. They passed marble-topped mahogany credenzas, Victorian-style velvet-covered chairs and arrangements created from fresh flowers.

Amira pointed out her room number. “Would you like to come in?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt flustered, not knowing why she’d asked him. Somehow it had just seemed the polite thing to do!

Brent hesitated. “Just for a few moments.” Then he took the key card from her hand and unlocked her door. Opening it, he let her precede him inside. She was close enough to him to smell his cologne, to see the scar on the right side of his brow, to know that being alone with him in her room had been a foolish decision to make.