The Christmas Princess (4 page)

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. Nobody’s done better at getting Brussels sprouts recipes in the papers than you—”

“Two! I’ve gotten two recipes in papers.”

“As I said,” Zoe voice twisted, “you’ve gotten more Brussels sprouts recipes in papers than anyone else. But maybe I’ve left you on this account too long. You could try broccoli for a while.”

“Really?” April brightened. Surely, she could do a lot with a triple threat like broccoli — a salad ingredient, appetizer/dipper, or cooked vegetable. “That would be fantastic, Zoe. Who would take Brussels sprouts?”

“Jason could add–”

April’s mood collapsed. “Jason? No. Honestly, Zoe, anyone else, but he’s mean.”

“To you?”

“About Brussels sprouts,” she clarified.

“Honey, will you listen to yourself? You’re feeling sorry for Brussels sprouts. This afternoon you could have used the little cabbage wanna-bes to get more face time with that hunk from State, but you let that slip right through your fingers. How about looking out for yourself for once? You’ve got to get a life, April. A little excitement.”

April half smiled to herself as she crawled into the sofa-bed, one arm trailing down so she could touch Rufus, who was curled up on the floor. After today, she’d take less excitement, thank you.

A place to stay for her and Rufus, the routine of a steady job, and she’d be happy.

Only much later did she realize she’d fallen asleep without shedding a single tear for the end of her engagement.

“Pierce. All hell’s breaking loose over there,” Kenton said.

He woke instantly. Had the close-up view in focus almost as fast. But it was dark. And there was a lot of movement. He thought the thinner form was April. But the other, that had to be a guy. A big guy.

He and Kenton couldn’t get there, not fast enough. Damn. The hell with the operation if it prevented her from being hurt—

He grabbed his phone as he switched to night vision.

He put the phone down without connecting.

Five hours later, April sat on the cushions once more in place on Mandy’s sofa, waiting for the clock to reach eight-thirty a.m. so she could call Leslie or Great-Grandma Beatrice without their thinking it was an emergency.

Taken from one angle, last night’s scene was really rather funny.

Clearly, Mandy had forgotten about her guest. She and the guy drunkenly fumbled their amorous way through the dark — shedding clothes along the way, judging by evidence later visible — and fell onto the couch, April, and Rufus.

Rufus barked, Mandy screamed, the guy cursed, April desperately tried to corral Rufus to stifle the noise.

Too late.

The guy — April never had gotten his name — was still pulling on clothes when Roger, the building manager, rapped on the door.

“I know you’re in there, April Gareaux. I heard your voice in all that ruckus. And I know what you have in there with you. One of those mangy, mutts you were forever sneaking in here. You know they’re not allowed. You can pretend you’re not there all you want — I’m calling the board. You know what they said last time — you know!”

Yes, she knew. Though, even if she’d known the man was terrified of dogs, there wasn’t much she could have done differently.

She’d only brought that Chihuahua-mix she’d had out for a walk up to her apartment for a moment because she’d forgotten her sunscreen. But of course it was the precise moment Roger came out of a door, and started squeaking and squealing like a squeaky toy.

No wonder the dog thought he was playing, and happily jumped at him.

“And now he’ll be on
my
case,” Mandy had grumbled before she went into her bedroom and slammed the door.

Roger’s threat became reality with an authoritative knock at quarter past seven this morning.

The board president wasn’t cruel — he didn’t allow Roger to come in — but he was firm. The dog had to go. Immediately.

Mandy, clearly hung over, said that was fine with her.

So she’d have to call Leslie or Great-Grandma Beatrice after all.

Her fingers slid into her pocket.

Unless she tried the one remaining possibility of dealing with this.

A princess for the month of December …

“Pierce.” Sharon’s voice came through his cell. “She’s called the main number at State asking if you work here.” Sharon didn’t have to say who
she
was.

Smart move, April Gareaux.
Any scam artist could have official-looking cards printed and get a crony to answer a phone. Going through the main number avoided that.

“Get the call sent to you, Sharon, and confirm. Set up a meet. Her office. One hour.”

April watched Hunter Pierce cross the grassy area, approaching a gate that would let him inside this fenced-in area for dogs. His face showed nothing except a slight flush from the cold.

At least he wasn’t impervious to nature.

When she’d called State this morning, she’d been put through to Sharon Johnson, who confirmed that, yes, she was Special Agent Hunter Pierce’s supervisor. And, yes, she knew he had spoken with April yesterday about a certain assignment during the holidays.

Sharon had excused herself a moment, then relayed a message from Hunter about meeting at April’s office, but she’s said it had to be here. She hadn’t mentioned that while her belongings could be left at the apartment building temporarily, Rufus couldn’t be.

Sharon had chuckled and said, “Oh, this is going to be fun, watching him deal with you.”

“He’s going to? Deal with me, I mean. I thought he was…”

What? A princess recruiter? And now it turned out he was … a princess wrangler?

“He’ll be in charge of the operation throughout.”

“Oh.” The operation? That sounded a lot more official than princess wrangling.

“Is that a problem, Ms. Gareaux?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know him.” Yet, she already felt like she could ask this woman on the other end of the phone, “Can I trust him?”

“With your life,” Sharon said immediately. “Not that it will come to that. The first phase might be a bit taxing. Then, if the king—”

A king. She supposed it made sense there could be king in the picture since she was supposed to be a princes. But what king?

“—doesn’t agree to see you, that’s that. We’ll thank you for your time and effort, and you return to your routine. If the king does agree to see you, well, best case would be a matter of having pleasant holidays in his company.”

And not with her family.

That thought produced a sharp pang, as she watched Hunter approach. She wouldn’t have seen them if she’d still been with Reese, she reminded herself.

Rufus came flying toward them barking at Hunter, backing up so he was right in front of her.

Hunter looked at the dog, but didn’t change his pace or his path.

“Rufus. Enough.” The dog barked twice more, but with less conviction. She stood. “Sit.” The dog sat. “It’s okay, Rufus. Go play. Go on, go play.”

The dog gave Hunter a sharp look before trotting off to rejoin two dogs he’d been happily tussling with.

April remained standing. If she offered to shake and he took her up on it, his hand might stick to her icy fingers like a tongue to a flagpole in January. She kept her hands clasped in front of her.

Hunter stopped at arm’s length. And waited.

She cleared her throat. “I’ve changed my mind. I’ll do it. What you asked me to do yesterday. I’ll do it.”

“What about your fiancé?”

“I don’t have one anymore.” His non-reaction seemed a little too perfect. She eyed him. “Why do I think you already knew that?”

He replied with a question of his own. “You don’t want to spend Christmas with your family?”

“I ... It’s complicated.” She rallied. “Besides, weren’t you the one who wanted me to do this?” When he didn’t respond, she went on, “I have two requirements. First, I have to be free on Thursday — Thanksgiving. As myself. The rest of the time I’ll be your—” Her voice dropped. “— princess, but that day, I’m me.”

He showed no curiosity about her demand. “Everywhere you go, you’ll have a department escort.”

“As long as they don’t try to stop me from ... my activities.”

“Done.”

“Second. Rufus lives with me wherever I am.”

“That’s not—”

“It’s a deal-breaker, Mr. Pierce. And he might not be perfectly house-trained. Yet. I’ll have to take him out several times a day.”

He studied her face for one breath, a second, a third, then he turned toward the dog. “There may be places you go that don’t accept dogs.”

“Then I don’t go there. I’m not talking about refusing to leave him alone for an afternoon or even a day, but he lives where I live.”

“If at all feasible, and if it’s not feasible, he’ll be cared for.”

“If it’s not feasible, he and I will leave. I want that to be clear.”

“It is clear.”

“Okay then,” she said. She suspected that wasn’t how a princess would agree to something momentous, but it was all she could think of.

He sat, pulled a folded sheet from his inside suit coat pocket, spread it on the bench and extended a blue pen to her.

She didn’t take her gaze from his as she also sat, then took the pen. She broke the look only to focus on the paper.

She spread her hand to keep it in place while she wrote her name. The paper felt warm. From being inside his coat, next to him. Her heart slammed —
one, two, three
— before she signed quickly, and returned the pen.

“Sharon — Ms. Johnson,” she amended when something streaked across his eyes, “said you’d be handling this, uh, situation. So what is this all about? How am I going to convince anyone I’m a princess?”

“For operational security, you will only be told what you need to know. What I am authorized to tell you now is that we will begin instructing you in what you need to know immediately, while we attempt to arrange a meeting with King Jozef of Bariavak.”

She pushed aside stomach-clenching thoughts at the second half of that sentence and focused on the first.

She’d just signed up for princess school.

Over the following days, April came to feel exactly like a fairy tale princess.

Not the Disney kind, the Brothers Grimm kind.

The kind locked up in a castle — or in this case, a one-bedroom suite in an exclusive hotel across Lafayette Park from the White House — who has to go through many trials in hopes of being set free.

That first day, Hunter drove her to pick up her belongings at the apartment building, then to an alleyway entrance to the hotel. One of the most famous hotels in Washington, both for its history and location.

“I can carry—”

“Just your handbag. The dog and luggage will come up later.”

“But—”

Before she got more out, he’d bundled her out of his anonymous dark car as if the sky were pelting rain instead of sparkling dry. He pushed open the back door into the hotel. She started forward — and walked directly into his back.

Instead of holding the door open for her to go in first, he’d stepped in front of her. She backpedaled. But the instant she broke contact with him he reached back and gripped her arm, sliding his large hand up the inside of her upper arm and drawing her whole body close to his back.

Warmth and a scent combining wood smoke and soap rushed around her. His body was as solid as the granite her thoughts had likened him to in the conference room yesterday. But granite couldn’t have moved the way he did to keep her plastered against him, going through the doorway and into a small hallway.

When he released her she felt like a puppet who’d had its strings cut.

He gave her no time to recover, hustling her along with his hand wrapped around her arm, into a service elevator, up several floors, out the elevator, down a hallway, and into a room.

They’d moved so fast, she stopped inside the door catching her breath while he looked through the suite with efficient thoroughness. He clearly was checking for more than if there were enough towels in the bathroom.

“Are you going to tell me more about—?”

“I’ll be right back.”

And he was gone, locking the door as he left.

Without moving position, she looked around the suite. Her eyes took in the classic sofa and two easy chairs. A small dining table in the corner by windows that showed only bare tree branches from where she stood. An open door revealed a pristine bedroom and the elegant bathroom beyond.

Her brain pounded with two thoughts: She should have asked more questions. What had she gotten herself in to?

Before she could unstick herself from the spot or the thoughts, he was back with Rufus on a leash and a couple of the bags. He gave her a sharp look, apparently recognizing she hadn’t moved.

“What were you looking—?”

“I’ll be back shortly. Stay in the suite. Do not call or communicate in any other way with any of your friends or relatives. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but—”

He was gone again.

Rufus rushed around her, wagging his plumy tail, until he had wrapped her ankles in leash. That finally broke her out of her trance.

When Hunter returned with an African American woman probably in her late thirties, a Jaw-in-Training man in his mid-twenties, and the rest of her belongings, she was still in the suite, and she had not called or communicated in any way with friends or family.

So Hunter Pierce had no reason to glare at her. Just because she was putting soaps and toiletries in the bathroom while Yolanda from housekeeping sat in the easy chair, petting Rufus.

As soon as the hall door closed behind Yolanda, he added words to the glare. “You were alone thirty-one minutes, and all you had to do was stay in the suite and not talk to anyone. One slip and this can be over before it’s started. If you told her any of your history —”

“I didn’t.”

“I suspect April was asking questions, rather than telling secrets,” the woman said. “I’m Sharon Johnson. Nice to meet you in person. And this is Derek Kenton.”