I Want You for Christmas: The Prince's Lost Princess - a Heartwarming Snow-Capped Holiday Romance (13 page)

NINETEEN

Gaby stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror. The piece of furniture really was a masterpiece, made of silver and carved into a series of vines and flowers. Her silver gown draped down to the floor, and she shifted from one bare foot to another as she finished applying her makeup for the upcoming dinner.

She turned toward a bedside table and opened a drawer, finding a set of small diamond earrings. As she pressed them into her ears, she caught a glance of a picture on the table, and she smiled. It was a picture of her on her wedding day, and it was absolutely perfect.

After Luca had proposed, Gaby hadn’t wanted to wait another second to be with him. She’d already been tired of sleeping separately, and she’d felt like a teenager still living in her parents’ house. She remembered the crease in Luca’s perfect brow as he thought of a way to please everyone. She loved that about him. He wanted people to be happy, and he was in a position where he could make it happen.

“I’ve got it,” he’d said, kissing her gently on the brow before he waved goodbye to the rest of her family.

He’d pulled her mother aside for a few moments before he left, but Gaby had been unable to hear what they were saying. When Gina had returned to continue cleaning up the meal, her eyes were misted over.

Very strange.

The next day, Gina had woken Gaby up by walking into her room, carrying a long white gown.

“What is this?” Gaby had asked, running her fingers along the delicate lace sleeves of the dress.

“It was your Nonna’s wedding dress, and mine, too. Now we would like it to be yours. Luca and I worked to get Father John here today for a wedding. I hope you don’t mind!”

“Mind? As if! When do we start?”

Gaby’s mother had gushingly informed her that she would be getting married at noon before jetting off to Italy for a honeymoon the very next day. Before she knew it, she was decked out in a wedding dress, being escorted down the stairs by her father.

At the bottom of the stairs, Gaby gasped; the restaurant had been decked out for a royal wedding. Hundreds of red roses filled the booths around the edge, and at the top of the makeshift aisle, standing alongside Father John, was Luca. He was dressed in a stunning tuxedo, but it was nothing compared to the love shining through his eyes.

When Gaby approached him, her father shedding a few tears as he gave her away, the Prince took her hands and placed a gentle kiss on her knuckles.

“I hope this is okay,” he said, and Gaby beamed.

“It’s perfect. You’re perfect. I love you.”

Luca’s smile was heaven itself. “I love you, too.”

And they were married in a sweet, heartfelt ceremony in front of Gaby’s entire family.

“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

Luca kissed Gaby with gusto, eliciting shouts and cheers from her family, which continued all the way to the car as Luca escorted her in. They spent their wedding night in the penthouse suite of the Four Seasons; when Luca had carried Gaby across the threshold, she couldn’t believe her eyes.

Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the majority of the penthouse suite. The interior was hardly noticeable compared to the shimmering city lights of New York that stretched as far as Gaby could see.

“Wow,” she breathed. “This is really something.”

Luca set her down and wrapped himself around her. “Are you sure this is all right, Gabriella?”

Gaby turned towards him and ran her palm along his cheek. “Why wouldn’t it be all right?”

The worry in Luca’s eyes was enough to make Gaby want to kiss him silly. Then again, pretty much anything Luca did made her want to do that.

“I told you once that I would marry in the Cathedral Maria del Fiore. I don’t want to think I took that opportunity away from you, if it’s what you really wanted.”

“You’re what I want, Luca. I don’t care if it’s in a palace or a dirt hole. If you’re there, I’m happy.”

Luca beamed at her, then, kissing her again as another dusting of snow began to fall.

A knock at the door disrupted their romantic reverie. Luca reached for the knob and allowed a man dressed in a sharp white uniform to set up a dinner at a small table overlooking the city. The waiter brought in a bottle of champagne and popped the cork, setting it in ice before taking his leave. Gaby took the opportunity to run to the bathroom and change into a robe.

As Luca closed the door behind the man, he turned and visibly swallowed at the sight of his wife in nothing but a thin white negligee.

“Shall we?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“With pleasure,” Luca said, reaching her in two long strides and pressing his mouth firmly against hers.

Gaby broke the kiss with a giggle. “I meant eat dinner, husband,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

Luca sighed lightly, and Gaby grabbed his hand and dragged him to their table, which was illuminated by candlelight.

“Oh, come now. We’ll need some energy for what the night holds in store.”

That thought seemed to cheer him up a bit, and Gaby shared a delicious meal with her new husband as large snowflakes danced past their window. They shared a plate of pasta, and Luca frowned when he took a bite.

“This is good, but it’s nothing like Gabriella can make.”

Gaby blushed at the compliment. Her eyes were heavy with desire as she gazed at him from across the table. They had delayed long enough.

“I think I’m quite done with this meal, Your Highness. Shall we adjourn?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Luca said, taking Gaby’s hand and escorting her to their marital bed.

Gaby and Luca made love passionately, weeks of holding back finally released in moment after glorious moment. When they were finished, they each grabbed a sheet and sat at a piano overlooking the city, which was covered in twinkling lights and snow.

It was the best night of Gaby’s life.

The End

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And now, as promised, here are the first few chapters of Holly Rayner’s prior novel,
The Sheikh’s Triplet Baby Surprise

ONE

Amity Winters was bored with the sun. It was a strange sensation, given that she’d grown up craving summer with those treacherous and grey Minnesotan winters. But after eight years in Los Angeles, the sun had grown dull for her. Or maybe it was just that L.A., itself, had.

She stood outside the Santa Monica offices of Able & Abelson, on the corner, in her black heels, catching the rays on her face. She’d just exited a meeting that had gone on an hour too long. Her client, a pop singer with a too-big nose ring, was unhappy once again—this time with the image portrayed in a recent interview she’d given with Glamour. Amity was having trouble explaining to this client that when you answered every question with the words “like” and “you know,” people tended to perceive you as a little “ditzy.” This was a given.

But Amity waved and flashed a big smile to the client, who jumped into her Mustang and revved out of the parking lot. If it wasn’t for that client—and countless other, more obnoxious ones—her career wouldn’t have skyrocketed quite so quickly in what was, perhaps, one of the most difficult industries in the world. Public relations.

Resisting the urge to cross the road and snag a celebratory, mid-afternoon donut (something to tide her over till her after-work gym session), Amity clambered up the steps and passed through her humming office, catching glimpses of workers texting, scrolling through Twitter, and updating their Facebook statuses. She rolled her eyes at these early-twentysomethings, most without the drive and know-how she’d exuded five years before, when she’d begun as a bright-eyed college graduate, ready to march her way to the top.

“Afternoon, Amity!” The crisp voice of her intern interrupted Amity’s reverie.

“Oh, um—” Amity blinked several times, trying to remember the name of the blonde, busty 21-year-old wringing her hands before her. “Hey, Flora.”

“It went on a bit long, didn’t it? The meeting?” Flora had begun to follow Amity to her office, her kitten heels clattering.

“I suppose they usually do,” Amity sighed, giving the girl a wan smile. All the interns tended to look the same in the beginning—before they lost interest and skipped out of the office on their last day, eager to find any other career but PR. “Could you grab me a coffee, Flora? I’m dying here.”

“Right away.”

Flora darted to the break room then, and Amity watched as she paused briefly at Mark-with-the-hipster-beard’s desk, flashing him that Crest smile.

Amity shook her head as she collapsed into her office chair. She knew her office was just a sea of raving hormones. And she didn’t blame them for flirting, for dating. God, of course she didn’t. She hadn’t dated in something like years, but that was because her career was essential to her very life. Making time for men—for romance—had long fallen by the wayside. It was just easier that way.

She opened her laptop, ready to get back to the email she’d been drafting prior to her meeting. In it, she’d begun elaborating to the director of her firm the potential benefits of setting up a New York office—with her at the helm. New York—the East Coast, a grand mystery! Amity had visited the city, of course; she’d wined and dined clients and strolled through the streets, gazing at the stunning architecture and soaking up the feel of the traffic, of the people, of the dramatic history of the place. It couldn’t have been more different than L.A., and that was precisely what she needed. At 27 years old, with far too much L.A. history under her belt, she was ready for a change.

It wasn’t the first time she’d requested a change of scenery. A few months ago, she’d suggested that she set up house in Seattle, a place with an incredible music scene—one where she could work alongside musicians to hone, to enliven. A few months before that, she’d requested that she set up in Washington D.C., thinking that she could work with politicians, brighten their images for the public, and become a part of a very different scene.

But so far, the directors hadn’t approved any of her requests for change. It was never “the right time,” and it really “didn’t make sense financially,” they’d told her so often in the past.

Amity finished the email then, and read it over—altering a few words and changing some phrasing, hoping she didn’t come across as another pushy employee. She knew they needed her in L.A.; she was one of the executives who brought in the biggest clients.

Amity clacked her nails against her wooden desk, her eyes glazing away from her computer. Flora hadn’t yet returned with her coffee—she’d instead hastened away to the break room with Mark. Amity leaned forward, sighing, tempted to take the rest of the day off. Her brain felt rattled, her body exhausted. She didn’t know if she had it in her to send this New York inquiry—not today. Another “no” could kill her once-bursting sense of ambition.

Amity hovered her cursor over the Send button, her brain buzzing. A life in New York—a whole new scene, an escape from the self she’d built in L.A. over the previous eight years. She didn’t dislike her life or the person she’d become, but God, the change would be delicious.

All at once, Flora tapped the coffee cup on her desk, interrupting her train of thought. Amity blinked up at her, a weak smile spreading across her face. “Thank you,” she said, her gaze landing on Mark, who was now sneaking back to his desk.

“No problem, Miss Winters. You know, you should really think about taking a lunch break. I read in a magazine—oh, I don’t remember which one—that taking a lunch break can decrease stress and help you lose weight in the long run.”

Amity raised a single eyebrow. She was slim, strong—gorgeous. She hadn’t needed to “lose weight” a day in her life.

“I don’t suppose you want to explain what you mean by that?”

Flora swallowed. Her eyes looked lost, out the window. “Um. Just that you work really hard, Amity. That’s all I meant.”

Amity paused and tilted her head. “I work hard for what I want,” she said, her voice suddenly stern. “If that means I skip lunch, I skip lunch.”

Flora spun slowly from Amity’s desk and walked back to her desk, her shoulders slumped. Amity felt a small rush of sadness. She hadn’t meant to be cruel. But all that she’d given up in her life—including hundreds of lunches—had made her incredibly proud of what she had built.

And she deserved more than what she had, in the long run.

Amity reached for the mouse once again, ready to click the Send button once and for all. But as she brought the mouse to the button, an email suddenly erupted into her inbox. She paused for a moment, frowning at the sender’s name. Charlie Campbell.

Charlie Campbell, one of the firm’s directors, rarely emailed her unless he wanted something. In fact, he’d been the very one she’d been emailing, appealing to send her to New York, to Seattle, to D.C.—and she had received a single personal reply from him. Most recently, his secretary had written a brief apology, along with a smiley face that seemed to smirk: “Get back to work.”

Amity clicked on the email, curiosity throttling through her. Had he sensed she was about to appeal to him once more? Had he sensed that his rather “pushy” PR executive was about to push him again?

But no. The email had been penned by Charlie Campbell himself.

Amity,

Darling girl, how are you? It’s been far too long since we had a face-to-face. I request that you come to my office immediately—absolutely ASAP—for I have quite a big offer for you to consider.

See you soon,

Charlie

Amity drew her head back from the monitor, blinking madly. Her first thoughts were fearful. This almost certainly had to do with all the emails she’d been sending him, begging him for reassignment. She brought her palms to her face, igniting curiosity from Flora.

“You don’t need another coffee, do you?” she asked, her voice bright.

“I’m caffeinated enough, thanks.”

Amity sighed, tugging her skin down with her fingers. Did she have more skin than she used to? Was she aging? Was she getting fat in her cheeks—and was that why Flora had suggested weight loss?

She needed to calm down, to order her thoughts. She would apologize to Flora later. She inhaled and exhaled, concentrating on the way her heart beat in her ribcage. She needed to go upstairs immediately, Charlie had said. But she hadn’t been upstairs in months, and the thought of getting in that elevator chilled her to the bone. She could imagine Charlie’s words already. “You’re too much, Amity. You’ve pushed it too far. We need you to pack up your things. There’s no New York for you, and now—there’s no L.A., either.”

Finally, Amity rose from her desk and brushed her fingers through her long brown hair. She readjusted her blazer. Her gaze was steady, strong. She marched from her office, under the watchful gaze of each and every intern and employee who worked beneath her. To them, she was a queen, a goddess. They couldn’t understand why she’d sacrificed so much for her career, but they respected her for it. And they hushed as she waited for the elevator, eyeing her as the elevator doors cinched closed.

As she moved upward, toward the sky and the directors, she prayed with earnest, inner words that she wouldn’t be fired. She’d given her entire adult life to this industry. And if they couldn’t see that, she didn’t know what she would do with herself.