I was a madman no longer.
I was, once again, a prince. Once again, I was bound by all the dragging obligations and careful courtesies that being a prince entailed.
But still I dared to look at the American again. She gazed at me as if all that she was, all that she had been, or ever would be, was mine. It stunned me how powerfully I wanted to take what she offered. I longed, if not for the refuge of madness, at least for the mask. For the comfort of shadows.
Or I had until that moment.
Until the redheaded American with the wide, honest eyes.
And so in a moment of purest insanity, I held out my hand. I knew she would trust her hand to me, without hesitation. With no coyness.
And she did.
The Man Behind the Mask
Christine Rimmer
For my guys: Steve, Matt and Jess.
Contents
Chapter 1
For me, it was love at first sight.
Okay, okay. Nobody believes in love at first sight anymore. It’s like disco. Or the dickey. Went out decades ago, isn’t coming back, no matter how many brave fools try to resurrect it.
And, you may ask, how would I, Dulcinea Samples, a semi dewy-eyed young thing of twenty-four, even know about a dickey?
My mom used to wear them. She’s wearing one, in fact, in the family portrait that sits on our mantel back home in Bakersfield. The outline of it is just visible beneath her V-neck sweater.
My mom’s a true romantic. She’s always claimed she fell in love with Dad at first sight.
As I said, like the dickey. People don’t do that anymore.
But my mom did. And there’s more. Witness my name. How many people get named after the purer-than-pure alter ego of the barmaid whore heroine in Man of La Mancha? With a last name like Samples? Hel-lo?
Just call me Dulcie. Please.
And back to my mom. Yeah. Romantic. Capital R. And I know some of it rubbed off on me, though I swear I always tried my best to keep my romantic impulses strictly under control. They’re about as useful as a dickey if you’re a single girl living in East Hollywood. Not to mention a lot more dangerous. Get too romantic in East Hollywood—really, in any part of L.A.—and there’s no telling what could happen to you. Did you see Mulholland Drive? Enough said.
And maybe that was part of it—why I fell in love with this certain guy at first sight. Because that first sight didn’t happen in L.A., where I understood the hazards and would have had my guard up. Not in L.A. but in a ballroom in a palace in a tiny island country called Gullandria.
He was a prince—did I mention that?
And not just as in “a prince of a guy.” No. I mean a real, bona fide, son-of-a-king type of prince. A Gullandrian prince. That’s right, Gullandria. Remember? That island country I mentioned?
Gullandria is a story in itself. Picture the Shetland Islands. Get an image of Norway. And then, midway between the two, a little to the north, put a heart-shaped island maybe a hundred and fifty miles across at the widest part—you know, ventricle to ventricle? Lots of dramatic, jewel-blue fjords. Mountains to the north and rolling lowlands in the south. A capital city named Lysgard. “Lys” means light. And the king’s palace, which stands on a hilltop just outside the capital? Isenhalla: Ice-hall. Oh, I love that.
Now, the deal about Gullandria is the people there never completely gave up their Norse heritage. That would be Norse as in Vikings. Dragon-prowed longships; Odin and Thor and the gang? You’re following, I hope.
Because I truly am getting to the part about the prince and me.
On the evening in question, there I stood in the aforementioned ballroom. I was wearing one of the two dresses I owned that was even marginally suited to such a strictly white-tie event—a midnight-blue strapless ankle-length A-line Jessica McClintock,
