Honky-Tonk Cinderella

Luanne whirled around to the source of the compliment, only to feel her heart about to explode out of her chest at the sight of Alek in a white dinner jacket and black bow tie, looking like something out of a James Bond movie.

Then she swallowed, wishing she had something to grab on to. Like her sanity. She watched as Alek came up to her and said, “I come bearing gifts.”

She froze. “Alek. I—”

“—would be honored to wear your mother’s necklace tonight,” he murmured as he lifted a strand of perfectly matched pearls spaced with small, brilliant diamonds, which he smoothly draped around her neck.

“Alek, I can’t accept this.”

“You’re the mother of my child,” he whispered against her temple. “If I want to give you an occasional gift, that’s my prerogative.”

She shook her head. “I can’t be bought, Alek.”

His smile didn’t even waver as he leaned over, placed a soft kiss on her forehead. “Which makes the challenge all the sweeter,” he whispered.

Dear Reader,

Happy (almost) New Year! The year is indeed ending, but here at Intimate Moments it’s going out with just the kind of bang you’d expect from a line where excitement is the order of the day. Maggie Shayne continues her newest miniseries, THE OKLAHOMA ALL-GIRL BRANDS, with Brand-New Heartache. This is prodigal daughter Edie’s story. She’s home from L.A. with a stalker on her trail, and only local one-time bad boy Wade Armstrong can keep her safe. Except for her heart, which is definitely at risk in his presence.

Our wonderful FIRSTBORN SONS continuity concludes with Born Royal. This is a sheik story from Alexandra Sellers, who’s made quite a name for herself writing about desert heroes, and this book will show you why. It’s a terrific marriage-of-convenience story, and it’s also a springboard for our twelve-book ROMANCING THE CROWN continuity, which starts next month. Kylie Brant’s Hard To Resist is the next in her CHARMED AND DANGEROUS miniseries, and this steamy writer never disappoints with her tales of irresistible attraction. Honky-Tonk Cinderella is the second in Karen Templeton’s HOW TO MARRY A MONARCH miniseries, and it’s enough to make any woman want to run away and be a waitress, seeing as this waitress gets to serve a real live prince. Finish the month with Mary McBride’s newest, Baby, Baby, Baby, a “No way am I letting my ex-wife go to a sperm bank” book, and reader favorite Lorna Michaels’s first Intimate Moments novel, The Truth About Elyssa.

See you again next year!

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

Honky-Tonk Cinderella

Karen Templeton

MILLS & BOON

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KAREN TEMPLETON,

a Waldenbooks bestselling author, is the mother of five sons and living proof that romance and dirty diapers are not mutually exclusive terms. An Easterner transplanted to Albuquerque, New Mexico, she spends far too much time trying to coax her garden to yield roses and produce something resembling a lawn, all the while fantasizing about a weekend alone with her husband. Or at least an uninterrupted conversation.

She loves to hear from readers, who may reach her by writing c/o Silhouette Books, 300 E. 42nd St., New York, NY 10017, or online at www.karentempleton.com.

To our own little Chase, who was clearly a royal child in some other life, and to his four nearly grown big brothers, of whom we couldn’t be more proud if they had been.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

Chapter 1

He felt like an insect being scorched under a magnifying glass.

Barely nine in the morning, and already the west-Texas sun seared through Alek’s knit shirt as he walked down the dust-filmed, airless street. Even on shaded porches, petunias drooped in their baskets, commiserating with the patches of bleached grass infecting otherwise tidy lawns, while dogs sprawled like dead things under whatever shelter they could find, dreaming, not of steak or rabbits, Alek imagined, but of cooling breezes.

Hottest August on record, according to the woman at the quaint little bed and breakfast where he was staying. Just might be something to this global warmin’ business after all, she’d said, then told him the street he was looking for wasn’t but four blocks away, he couldn’t miss it. He walked slowly, squinting up through his sunglasses at hazed house numbers, uncomfortably aware of his loafers scuffing against the root-buckled pavement.

No one had recognized him. Thank God. True, he was more filled out, his hair both darker and shorter than it had been during his twenty-four-hour sojourn in Sandy Springs more than eleven years before. But unlike his hitherto reclusive sister, Sophie, Prince Aleksander Vlastos of Carpathia wasn’t exactly unknown to the press. Not these days, at any rate. And Jeff Henderson had been the town’s fair-haired boy, especially with his string of Grand Prix wins last year—

Up the street, a screen door slapped open. He stilled as a very pregnant woman, her dark, curly hair clipped up off her neck, came out onto the porch of a modest yellow-and-white two-story house huddled underneath a pair of ungainly mulberry trees. She paused to let out a half-grown, straw-colored pup too young to know how hot it was, then made her cumbersome, barefoot way down the gray steps. The dog tumbled down in front of her, nearly tripping her as she crossed to a hose neatly coiled by the outside spigot.

He said her name, softly. Prayed for the strength to get through this.

A sandwich of some sort clamped in one hand, she twisted on the water, then dragged the hose across the yard to a small flower bed, bending awkwardly to lay it among the wilted plants. Alek was still far enough away, his presence apparently camouflaged by the comfortless shade of a struggling cottonwood, that she hadn’t noticed him. His wrist, only recently sprung from a cast, complained; absently, he rubbed it.

And watched.

Too-thin arms protruded from a sleeveless white T-shirt underneath a pair of baggy, thigh-length overalls tenting over her bulging middle. Scraps of hair floated around her jaw; she impatiently shoved one of them behind her ear, her wedding rings flashing in the sunlight. He was pressing an unfair advantage, he knew, but he needed these few minutes to observe, to adjust. To prepare.

To face his memories, one at a time.

She slowly straightened, absently kneading the muscles in her lower back, turning just enough for him to glimpse her face. His breathing damn near stopped altogether: she was far too pale and frighteningly gaunt, despite the obvious weight gain from the pregnancy. Yet, oddly, her limbs seem weighted, burdened with a deep, soul-weary sadness that tore at his heart.

He’d bet his life she wouldn’t take his sudden appearance well. But he had his reasons for finding her, some of which would be readily apparent, even as others, still undefined, would perhaps become clear to them both with the passage of time. One reason, however, he would keep to himself. He’d hurt her once, albeit unintentionally; damned if he’d do it again.

Grief and regret clawed at the door to his consciousness, demanding an audience he refused to grant. Not now, at least. Now it was all he could do to make himself cross the street and face his past.

Not to mention a future that, six weeks ago, he couldn’t have dreamed of.

Luanne shoved her bangs off her already-sweaty forehead, allowing as how it was only marginally cooler out here than in the unair-conditioned house. God bless little boys who could sleep no matter what, she thought, then forced down another bite of the packaged cheeseburger she’d just microwaved, the only thing with protein in it she figured she could manage, just at the moment. The ketchup helped some. Funny how she’d always taken her hamburgers plain, until this pregnancy. Nowadays she pretty much only ate the hamburgers as an excuse for the ketchup.

She grimaced at the sorry-looking flowers, half of ’em all burned up and papery around the edges. Why was she even bothering? Wasn’t like she’d planted them herself, since they were here already when she’d rented the house two weeks ago. Like as not, unless they got some decent rain sometime soon, they were all gonna die, anyway—

Icy fingers squeezed her heart until she just about couldn’t breathe. She clamped shut her eyes, waiting it out, wondering why, instead of lessening, the pain only seemed to get worse with every passing day. After more than six weeks, it still made no sense, even though she’d reminded herself of Jeff’s death a hundred, a thousand times in a desperate attempt to assimilate the truth. Since the race had only been a practice session, there’d been no tape made of it, which she’d at first thought a blessing. Now she wondered if maybe witnessing her husband’s death might make it any more real.

Except she knew, deep down, that this was the good Lord’s way of sparing her and Chase from even more sorrow. Intellectually she knew the raw agony of loss would fade, that grief would eventually yield to acceptance….

The flowers blurred, the last bite of burger turning to cardboard in her mouth. Deep in her womb the baby stirred, sweetly oblivious. Luanne skimmed her fingers over her belly, almost reverently. She loved this child, who had taken so many years to conceive, with all her heart.

And she’d never resented anything so much in her entire life as she did being pregnant right now.

Guilt swamped her as she lunged for the spewing hose, jerking it up and across the yard, praying Odella didn’t get it into her head to come outside—

A movement out of the corner of her eye made her spin clumsily around, nearly tripping over the dog. She didn’t recognize him at first, what with his hair being shorter and him being older and the way he’d caught her off guard like that. On a cry of alarm she hurled the remains of the cheeseburger at his chest, then turned the hose on him, those being her only means of defense at hand.

“Luanne!” Alek tried to dodge the spray, as well as the dog who had dived for the burger before anybody might notice. “What the hell are you doing?”

Jerked back to her senses, she jettisoned the writhing hose and took off for the house, wanting to hide, wanting to die, wishing, wishing, wishing the nightmare would end—

Except Alek cut off her flight before she even hit the steps, whipping her around to face him. She could see little rivulets of water meandering down his just-shaved cheeks, dripping off a sharply defined jaw rigid with anguish; she flinched, even as her hands balled into fists of their own accord and began pummeling his chest.

“Why are you here?” she cried, flailing and beating and sobbing like a dadburned fool, dimly aware this was the first time since Jeff’s death she’d given her emotions their head. Ketchup streaked the drenched shirt, she noticed, sending a perverse trickle of satisfaction through her fury. “You are the last person I want to see right now!”

“You think I don’t know that?” His clipped, not-quite-British accent sent a herd of unwanted memories stampeding through her already muddled brain. She let out another sob, of frustration mostly, then suddenly Alek was holding her, stilling her hysteria, one gentle hand stroking her hair. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and she shut her eyes, realizing he smelled like ketchup and pricey cologne and, after all this time and much to her extreme annoyance, a lonely twenty-one-year-old girl’s fantasies.

She wrenched out of his arms, scrubbing the tears from her face, not sure which of them she was more angry with. Shame ripped through her that she should let another man—this man—touch her like that when she hadn’t been a widow but a few weeks. “Then why’d you come? And why now?”

Lord, but she sounded like a bitch. Which was not like her, not at all. Mama had always said there was little point in letting the bad stuff get you down, that a person’s outlook on life went a long way toward shaping his or her experiences. And Luanne, who had had more than her fair share of opportunity to put that philosophy to the test, had found it a useful one, more times than not.

Until now.

It was ungodly hot, she was pregnant, and her husband had died less than two months ago, leaving her with a devastated child who looked to her for bolstering when she could barely keep from drowning in sorrow herself. And then this man, whom she didn’t ever figure on seeing again, shows up without so much as a by-your-leave at eight-thirty in the morning and with her looking like…well, like someone without much reason for fixing herself up anymore.

Luanne swiped a stray hair out of her face, trying not to shake. “You could have at least given me some warning, instead of scaring me half to death like that.”

“I didn’t know where to find you at first,” Alek said, which she had to admit was a valid excuse, since she’d gone into seclusion with Chase immediately after the accident. But then he added, “And after I found out where you were, I was afraid…”

Luanne narrowed her eyes at that, straining to catch his meaning. “Afraid of what?”

Alek swept a trembling hand through his damp hair, not looking at her at first. And when he did, his eyes begged forgiveness.

“I want to meet my son.”

And Luanne marveled, in a stuttering, not-quite-focused kind of way, that there had been enough of her heart left intact to now be crumbling into a million pieces.

Even as short as she was, there was no avoiding the bitter, brittle heat of those impossibly blue eyes as Luanne backed away, her arms laced over her unborn child. The pup circled her feet, worried.

“Jeff swore to me he wouldn’t tell you.”

Alek swallowed down the acrid taste of guilt, hating this moment more than he’d ever hated anything in his life. “I haven’t known for long.”

He watched as her eyes squeezed shut, as she drew in a shuddering breath, opened them again. Resolve now flickered in their bright-blue depths, if not ameliorating the panic of moments before, at least fortifying it. “And I don’t suppose you’d consider pretending you’d never found out, would you?”

It was as close to begging as he imagined she’d ever come, and it nearly broke his heart. He dragged an arm across his wet face, then shook his head. “I think it’s time we all stopped pretending, don’t you?”

The prick to his conscience came hard and fast. How ironic to reach a point in his life where integrity should suddenly become all-important, only to have circumstances laugh in his face. But, in those cases where kindness and honesty seem to be mutually exclusive, which one was the more noble choice?

However, as he watched the clearly distraught woman in front of him, his ambivalence vanished. As did, apparently, some of her reticence. Her emotions as transparent as he remembered, Luanne stared at him for several seconds, then banged back the screen door. “Inside,” she said softly.

Alek and the pup both obeyed.

Once in the house, she headed down the short hallway toward the back, leaving a trail of damp footprints on the bare floor. She flapped her hand toward a sparsely furnished living room off to the left. “You may as well take a load off while I go to the little girl’s room.” The words were almost flippant, the tightness with which they were spoken, anything but.

“Luanne.”

She turned, her gaze wary.

“I’m not here to take Chase away from you.”

Purple smudges lurked underneath eyes now gone expressionless. “And I reckon I have your word on that?”

“Yes.”

He hadn’t expected her to laugh, although the sound was as dry and dusty as the air outside. “And just what’ve you ever done that would give me any reason to trust you, Your Highness?” she said, then disappeared down the hall.

Point to her.

Every muscle in his neck strung tight, Alek wandered into the bare-floored living room, the pup clicking at his heels. A quick swipe at his backside determined that he was dry enough to sit stiffly on the edge of a cushioned wicker chair; the pup wriggled over to him, flopping onto his back to get his stomach scratched. Alek complied, distractedly, glancing around the white-walled room, glaringly bright from the sunlight streaming in through the pair of curtainless windows. A large ceiling fan droned lazily overhead, barely stirring the thick, stifling air; dozens of boxes, like an oversize children’s block set, were towered throughout the room. Even from here he could see the labels: Books— History or Books—Bio or Books—Novels A-D. He wondered, vaguely, why she’d moved back from Dallas.

Back to where their child had been conceived, eleven years ago.

Alek leaned back on his elbows in the bleachers, oblivious to the sun biting through his cotton shirt and jeans, oblivious to everything save the sassy little Chevy Corsica spitting dirt from its wheels as it sped around the makeshift track. He’d come to Sandy Springs as he had to a dozen other small American towns—for the racing. Not the major venues, but the dusty little amateur tracks where tomorrow’s stars were earning their stripes, where dreams burned through a young man’s—or, less frequently, a woman’s—veins as hot and fierce as the souped-up stockcars burned rubber. He’d heard about the track from someone in another town, fifty miles to the east. And about twenty-two-year-old Jeff Henderson, who was gonna win one of the big ones one of these days, you just wait and see.

Prince Aleksander was hardly the first royal to be bitten by the racing bug. In fact, he could name at least a dozen blue-bloods who either drove or sponsored various teams, traveling from track to track to satisfy their lust. In Alek’s case, however, it wasn’t the thrill that had lured him into the sport as much as his discovery that racing was a terrific common denominator. Socioeconomic barriers simply vanished, leaving nothing except shared euphoria—or profound disappointment—in their place. And that camaraderie had gone a long way, in the past nine years since his parents’ deaths, to stanch a despair so chronic, he barely felt the ache anymore.

Still, it lurked inside him, just waiting for an unguarded moment to assault him afresh. So he kept on the move, racing pretty little cars and dallying with equally pretty women who understood not to expect emotional commitment. Not now, certainly. Perhaps not ever.

His grandmother, Princess Ivana, didn’t understand. And he knew she worried. Which worried him, in turn. To an extent. But not enough to date anyone for more than a few months. Or stay in Carpathia for more than a few days at a time.

Alek had been gone nearly six months this go-round, didn’t plan on returning for several more, at least. For some time he’d had the odd thought about putting together his own racing team. He had both money and connections; he could certainly get the cars. Now all he needed were drivers.

New drivers. Hungry drivers. Drivers who handled a car as sweetly as the cocky, loose-limbed kid he’d been honored to watch tear up a track this afternoon.

Not that he was anywhere near ready to make an offer, or even to reveal his true identity. In fact, he was using his father’s name—Hastings—rather than Vlastos, the royal name handed down through his grandmother and mother, masquerading as just another bored, wealthy European bumming around the States. Watching, taking mental notes, planning—those were sufficient for the moment. Alek took risks, yes, but he wasn’t impetuous. Or incautious. Still, a frisson of exquisite, almost sexual pleasure had hummed through his veins at the way Jeff Henderson seemed to effortlessly balance passion with precision. Like Alek, Jeff clearly only took chances he knew he could pull off.

The young man said as much, when Alek approached him after the practice session to compliment him on his style. Determination glittering in his golden-brown eyes, the freckled, mustached redhead with the ready smile soaked up the compliment, then went on to say that he intended to drive professionally one day. Just as soon as he found a sponsor.

Alek just smiled, then took Jeff up on his invitation to join him later on for a beer and a bite to eat at the local watering hole, if he had a mind.

The night had already cooled considerably when Alek pulled his rented Porsche convertible alongside a monster SUV in front of the post-and-rail fence edging someone’s pasture. A light breeze stirring his shoulder-length hair, he sat and stared for several moments at the neon-drenched adobe box from which blasted the sounds of a live country-western combo, complete with female vocalist with a set of lungs to rival any opera diva he’d ever heard.

Well. He supposed he was about to pay his first visit to a gen-u-wine honky-tonk.

Alek got out of the car, imagining that, unless he opened his mouth, he’d fit right in. The soft, button-fly jeans hailed from his Oxford days, as did the worn denim shirt, the sleeves rolled to just below his elbows. Of course, his two-week-old custom-made boots—when in Rome and all that—did creak a bit as he crossed the dirt lot, nodding in silent response to assorted “howdys” and “heys” along the way. His self-consciousness vanished, however, the instant he stepped inside the dimly lit bar choked with noise and body heat, his nostrils flaring at the tangled smells of hops, barbecue sauce, cheap perfume.

He scrubbed a palm across a jaw hazed with three-day-old stubble, then grinned, the despair retreating just a bit further into the shadows.

Cigarette smoke ghosting around the stage lights, the microphone squawked as the sultry-voiced singer asked for requests. A slightly slurred voice shouted out something rude: The dubious-aged, big-haired blonde, a blur of sequins and six-inch-long satin fringe, laughed and lobbed a zinger of a rebuttal in the heckler’s direction, just as a piercing whistle sliced through the din.

“Alek! Over here!”

Alek squinted through the haze and bodies, then chuckled at the sight of Jeff Henderson standing atop one of the tables, madly waving his arms and grinning with youthful exuberance.

“Sit, sit,” Jeff ordered after Alek threaded his way through the crush, then dropped into his own chair, edging back the brim of a ball cap with his thumb. “Beer?” Jeff asked. “Or something stronger?”

“Beer’s fine.” The singer launched forth into her next number. Jeff nodded, signaling to the pretty, dark-haired waitress a few tables away. “And food,” Alek added, snatching the laminated menu from the metal stand in front of him.

Jeff grabbed the menu from his hand, plopped it back into the stand. “Menus are for wimps. You come to Ed’s, you eat the barbecued ribs. Period. Side of slaw, side of beans. Biscuits to sop it all up with. Hey, sugar—” With another of those ingenuous grins, he reached up, playfully tugged at the hem of the waitress’s apron. “What took you so long?”