“I thought you wanted me to give you a chance,” he said.
But why the sudden change of heart? She couldn’t escape the feeling that he was up to something. “Of course I do. You just didn’t seem too thrilled with the idea.”
“My father thinks it would be a good idea for us to get to know one another, and has asked me to be your companion in his absence. I’m to show you and your daughter a good time, keep you entertained.”
Oh no, what had Gabriel done? She wanted Marcus to give her a chance, but not by force. That would only make him resent her more. Not to mention that she hadn’t anticipated him being so …
Something.
Something that made her trip over her own feet and stumble over her words and do stupid things … like stare at his bare chest.
Dear Reader,
My office is currently under construction, so I’m sitting at my temporary desk (which today is my bed) wondering what I should write about. And feeling, unfortunately, quite uninspired. So I’ve decided to do another “About Michelle” letter.
Like everyone, I have quirks. Here are a few that my husband has so graciously pointed out for me …
If someone asks me a question, any question, and I don’t know the answer, I have to look it up online. And I mean, that very second or it will drive me crazy. I honestly don’t know how I managed all those years without Google, or maybe Google is to blame for my obsession. Who knows.
I’m impulsive. Once I make up my mind that I want to do or buy something, I want it now. And until I have it/have done it, I’m obsessed. It’s all I can think about. I will spend hours and hours online, searching articles and reviews, looking for the best deal. The internet is my enabler.
And last but not least, I have a horrible memory. Tell me your name, and five minutes later I will have forgotten it. I’ll forget what I’m saying halfway through a sentence. I’ll walk into a room to do something and completely forget why I’m there. I know there are nifty methods to improve memory, which I could probably look up on Google, but …
I’m sorry, what was I saying?
Michelle
About the Author
Bestselling author MICHELLE CELMER lives in southeastern Michigan with her husband, their three children, two dogs and two cats. When she’s not writing or busy being a mom, you can find her in the garden or curled up with a romance novel. And if you twist her arm really hard, you can usually persuade her into a day of power shopping
Michelle loves to hear from readers. Visit her website, www.michellecelmer.com, or write her at PO Box 300, Clawson, MI 48017, USA.
Princess in
the Making
Michelle Celmer
To Patti, who has been an invaluable source of
support through some rough times.
One
From a mile in the air, the coast of Varieo, with its crystal blue ocean and pristine sandy beaches, looked like paradise.
At twenty-four, Vanessa Reynolds had lived on more continents and in more cities than most people visited in a lifetime—typical story for an army brat—but she was hoping that this small principality on the Mediterranean coast would become her forever home.
“This is it, Mia,” she whispered to her six-month-old daughter, who after spending the majority of the thirteen-hour flight alternating between fits of restless sleep and bouts of screaming bloody murder, had finally succumbed to sheer exhaustion and now slept peacefully in her car seat. The plane made its final descent to the private airstrip where they would be greeted by Gabriel, Vanessa’s … it seemed silly and a little juvenile to call him her boyfriend, considering he was fifty-six. But he wasn’t exactly her fiancé either. At least, not yet. When he asked her to marry him she hadn’t said yes, but she hadn’t said no either. That’s what this visit would determine, if she wanted to marry a man who was not only thirty-two years her senior and lived halfway around the world, but a king.
She gazed out the window, and as the buildings below grew larger, nervous kinks knotted her insides.
Vanessa, what have you gotten yourself into this time?
That’s what her father would probably say if she’d had the guts to tell him the truth about this visit. He would tell her that she was making another huge mistake. And, okay, so maybe she hadn’t exactly had the best luck with men since … well, puberty. But this time it was different.
Her best friend Jessy had questioned her decision as well. “He seems nice now,” she’d said as she sat on Vanessa’s bed, watching her pack, “but what if you get there and he turns out to be an overbearing tyrant?”
“So I’ll come home.”
“What if he holds you hostage? What if he forces you to marry him against your will? I’ve heard horror stories. They treat women like second-class citizens.”
“That’s the other side of the Mediterranean. Varieo is on the European side.”
Jessy frowned. “I don’t care, I still don’t like it.”
It’s not as if Vanessa didn’t realize she was taking a chance. In the past this sort of thing had backfired miserably, but Gabriel was a real gentleman. He genuinely cared about her. He would never steal her car and leave her stranded at a diner in the middle of the Arizona desert. He wouldn’t open a credit card in her name, max it out and decimate her good credit. He wouldn’t pretend to like her just so he could talk her into writing his American history term paper then dump her for a cheerleader. And he certainly would never knock her up then disappear and leave her and his unborn child to fend for themselves.
The private jet hit a pocket of turbulence and gave a violent lurch, jolting Mia awake. She blinked, her pink bottom lip began to tremble, then she let out an ear-piercing wail that only intensified the relentless throb in Vanessa’s temples.
“Shh, baby, it’s okay,” Vanessa cooed, squeezing her chubby fist. “We’re almost there.”
The wheels of the plane touched down and Vanessa’s heart climbed up into her throat. She was nervous and excited and relieved, and about a dozen other emotions too jumbled to sort out. Though they had chatted via Skype almost daily since Gabriel left Los Angeles, she hadn’t been face-to-face with him in nearly a month. What if he took one look at her rumpled suit, smudged eyeliner and stringy, lifeless hair and sent her right back to the U.S.?
That’s ridiculous, she assured herself as the plane bumped along the runway to the small, private terminal owned by the
