Princess In Denim (4 page)

William stepped forward, his frown hardening to a glare as he peered down at her. "You cannot be Moira," he boomed.

Chloe dropped the purse. Her stomach plummeted to her ankles. She struggled to remember the definition of treason and wondered, if she'd just committed it, what the punishment was.

She could pick up the purse, stalling for time until she figured out what to do. Or she could act like a royal princess.

Well, how to do that eluded her just this moment.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask
Why the hell not?
but Moira had told her not to be sassy to the king.

So what was an American-blooded, foreign princess to do?

Chapter Two

Emma plucked the fallen purse off the carpet before Chloe could think coherently enough to get her own knees to bend. Of course she shouldn't be picking up her own purse anyway, but old habits died hard. Her next-best bet was to open her mouth and see what came out—even sassy would be better than a mere squeak, but her voice disappeared completely when William's large hands got a firm grip on her arms just below the shoulders.

Oh God, he's fixin' to throw me off the plane.

The slightly crooked grin William had displayed just moments ago appeared again, transforming his face, tugging answering smiles from the others around him. Except Chloe. She was still too uncertain of her near future.

"You are far too grown up to be Moira. Last time I jaw you, you were a little girl!"

She hadn't known she was holding her breath until necessity forced her to gasp in a fresh supply of oxygen. Which whooshed right back out again when William, his hands still firmly on her, dipped his head.

Oh, God...

His lips grazed first one cheek, then the other, in a touch so soft, so warm, so gentle, yet solid enough that she knew she'd been kissed. By a king who wasn't a relative or a nearsighted old man, but one hell of a hunk.

Oh, not a kiss meant to buckle her knees and set her heart racing in anticipation. But all the same, it did.

"Your Majesty."

Was that her whispering? She thought it was, but this was all so unreal. Apparently she'd just passed the first crucial hurdle. She felt a jab in her back; Emma was punishing her for fidgeting with the pearls again. She lowered her hand, hunted for pockets in which to trap them both and found she had none.

"Mr. Richmond." William addressed the pilot, but his eyes never left Chloe, which didn't give her a second to reconnoiter. "We are ready to leave. Steward, I did not get your name..."

"Stephen, Your Majesty."

"Stephen, you may serve dinner as soon as we are in the air."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Chloe listened as the orders went on in the king's precise speech pattern. Fly. Dinnershe'd forgotten to eat all day; she wasn't sure whether the ache in her stomach was nerves or hunger. Coffee. Call ahead to Texas. See to Her Highnesss guest. Sit here.

"Oh," Chloe said with surprise when she realized he meant her. If his waving hand was any indication of his intent, he was indicating the chair right next to his. "Here?"

"Yes. We can catch up while we dine."

The seating far exceeded any domestic first class section Chloe had ever seen on her way through a plane to coach. There were no rows of seats, but informal groupings of chairs upholstered in a green so rich it rivaled malachite; no tray tables to lower, but once they were in the air, a real table that was whisked up in front of them, locked into place and draped with a snowy white cloth; crystal glasses etched with an intricate design that probably represented the monarchy, but Chloe couldn't show her ignorance by asking; fine china, gold flatware, and burgundy cloth napkins.

If Chloe had been given a typical airline choice of entrees, she would've been at a loss to make a decision. Her head was still reeling. Food appeared in front of her, and she ate it without noticing as she wondered and worried what questions the king would ask that could trip her up.

William snapped his fingers, and Chloe jumped in surprise. The steward jumped, too, not from surprise, but to get more coffee.

"You are very quiet," William said. "Is everything all right?"

She was surrounded by people filling her coffee cup, her stemmed water goblet, her wineglass, when what she really wanted was for William to stop staring at her.

"Yes," she answered. When he didn't return to his own food, she hastily tacked on, "Really. I'm fine."

She felt like a bug under a microscope, but she couldn't tell him that. She was supposed to be used to this kind of treatment from the staff, used to dining with a king. After all, her father was the king of Ennsway. As for the way William stared at her, could she do the same to him? He was a king, yes, but not her sovereign. He ruled the country next door, not her.

This etiquette business was impossible to remember. She'd just have to get Emma or Moira alone and ask.

And she'd sit by herself later and study her notes again.

"Telephone call, Your Majesty. From Dr. Lowestein in Texas."

"Thank you, Leonard. Excuse me, please, Your Highness. I will not bore you with my business call."

Chloe breathed a big sigh of relief as he left the table. She could handle "More water, Your Highness?" better than "When
was
the last time we saw each other?"

William turned back to her for just a moment. "Oh, remind me when I get back, I have a message for you from your brother. He is most eager to see you again."

"My brother... My brother..." Chloe muttered to herself as she leafed through the pages of notes she'd written the past week, looking for any information she had on a sibling. She'd hidden the notes safely in her jeans pocket, which Moira was now wearing, and retrieved them under protest.

In a nearby chair, Moira inched her hand out toward Friday and, with a pasted-on smile, said, "Come on, you stupid mutt. We're going to be roommates. Let me pet you." The dog would have none of it, and maintained a continuous low, rumbling protest.

For the life of her, Chloe couldn't find much on her supposed brother. Did her life depend on it? What did they do with treasonists these days? And their look-alike accomplices? If she appeared less than she was supposed to be to King William, would he confide his suspicions to Moira's father? Would she end up in a dungeon, or was that too archaic? And even if it was, who would protest? Moira was descended from a true monarch with the power to rule his subjects as he saw fit, not a royal figurehead who had to answer to anyone else.

"Why don't I have anything on my brother?" she whispered to Moira. She was proud of herself for getting the "my" part correct. "What's his name?" She flipped another page. "Ah, Louis, here he is."

"Chlo— Moira, be careful," Moira whispered back. "You can't go flashing those pages around. It'll give us away."

"Don't worry. Everyone's watching you and the dog."

"Not me. Just the mutt."

"I told you, she's purebred.

"Yeah, yeah, I know what you said. But I think it's a look-alike masquerading as an Aussie. A Border collie mix with its tail whacked off." Moira sniffed her uppity little royal nose. "No purebred acts so bitchy."

Chloe snickered, which earned an, I do not," from Moira.

"Get real, Chloe said, her attention more on the notes than on her friend. Here's what I've got. His name is Louis. He's two years younger than you.

"You."

"Yeah, me. And you said he's out of the country ninety-nine percent of the time." Chloe shot her soon-to-be-ex-friend a stern look. "So what's he doing 'waiting eagerly' to see me again?"

"One percent?"

Chloe glared at her, but Moira had been a princess too long to be intimidated by an amateur.

"Don't sweat it." Moira grabbed Chloe's notes and tore them in half.

Shock slowed Chloe down too much for her to grab them back before all that remained were little bits and pieces. She opened her mouth to protest about how she was supposed to remember everything without a cheat sheet, but only a squeak came out.

"It's too risky," Moira explained. "Now, as to Louis, he was only ten when I left. You shouldn't have any trouble convincing him you're me. Just stick your nose up in the air and pretend you're too good for him."

Chloe'd had foster brothers from time to time; nothing permanent, as this would be. What would a ten-year-old boy remember about his big sister sixteen years later? Not much, she was certain. So he was going to end up being her little brother until the day she died. Could be nice, if they got off to a friendly start and if Moira hadn't treated him insufferably.

"You didn't pick on him a lot when he was little, did you?"

"Of course not. We barely saw each other, and when we did, we behaved like proper little royals."

Chloe wasn't sure she believed that; she'd known Moira too long. "Proper little royals" didn't fool college professors by trading places with their best friends.

* * *

William's mind was only half on his phone call, his very important business call with a Dallas surgeon he wanted to recruit for the new hospital staff. He was sequestered behind a jade-and-mother-of-pearl wall screen, but if he cocked his head to the right just a little, he could see through the narrow gap between two of the panels.

Moira had moved to sit by her friend. Chloe, he thought her name was, a nice-looking American girl who did not know how to dress. Unlike Moira, whose hair shone in an elegant French braid, whose makeup was sheer enough to let her true beauty show through, and whose suit was of the finest pale yellow silk. It hugged her curves without fitting like a second skin, just hinting at the woman beneath.

A man's voice barked through the phone, drawing William reluctantly back to the business at hand. "Yes, Doctor, yes, I am still here. Sorry."

He really had to keep his mind on business. The future of his country depended on it.

Her eyes were hazel, with gold and green flecks. He could not see them from where he was now, but he had memorized them over dinner. She had eaten no more than a finch would have.

He finished his phone conversation with some semblance of dignity, he hoped, but remained where he was as Moira meekly allowed her friend to give her a good dressing-down.

Leonard hovered by William's shoulder. "It appears you were right, Your Majesty. She should pose no problems."

"Yes." William reluctantly admitted to himself that he had hoped for a little more backbone. Had he imagined determination in her eyes when she was presented to him? He hoped so; he did not wish for their children to be so amenable.

If this
was
typical behavior on her part, all that he had bargained for would come to him easily now. Her arrival would eventually bring him a larger country and more power, without the hassle of someone to stand up for herself and question his tactics.

When the dog pulled back its lip and snarled at its owner, it was Moira who leaned forward and soothed it with a gentle pat.

She was very unroyal. Very unqueenly. And yet, somehow, very charmingly American.

* * *

When their plane approached Texas, Chloe, Moira, and Emma drifted toward the three chairs closest to the door, as if some silent beacon drew them there; they couldn't resist. Chloe and Moira had been best friends for ten years, and they were about to separate, never to see each other again. Moira and Emma had been together for sixteen years, the closest thing to family either of them had known in all that time. Even though Chloe knew she was going to be the one in the public eye, she had Emma to help her. Moira was going to be on her own.

By the time they landed in Dallas, Friday, who had been Chloe's "family" for the past three years, was plastered to her knee as if the dog knew something was about to change. Emma's eyes shimmered with emotion, Moira was silent, and Chloe couldn't look at either of them without choking up.

So as the plane taxied toward its destination, she looked at William, which was a very easy thing to do. He'd put on a red tie a little while ago. Now he rose from his chair, stretched up to his full height, buttoned his jacket and stepped toward Chloe.

"You may remain on the plane while I am at my appointment," he offered in a friendly manner, "or if you prefer, my driver can take you to see any of the sights."

Even as emotional as she was at losing her best friends, Chloe knew that William, broad-shouldered and regal in his power tie and charcoal suit, was the best-looking sight in all of Texas. Put a Resistol and cowboy boots on the man, and there'd be a stampede of women in his direction even before they got a load of his European accent.

"I'll stay on board, thanks."

Emma nudged her, and Chloe knew it should have been "thank you."

I'll do better.

"Miss Marshall, William addressed the Americanized Moira, "it is my understanding that you are staying in Dallas?"

Moira's automatic "Yes" quickly stretched to a nice, drawled-out "Yeah."

"Perhaps you would like to share my limousine? The driver can drop you anywhere after I make my appointment."