do something stupid. He wanted to get this over with as soon as possible so he could return to Paris and pick up where he’d left off with a delectable blonde named Chantel.
Adele ate dinner alone at the chateau after making reservations to fly to Golnar in the morning. She had already packed, except for toiletry items, her pajamas and the outfit she’d wear tomorrow. When she’d phoned her best friend, Dia Constantine, Dia had told Adele that she and Theo would gladly provide a sanctuary for her. Dia was an old boarding school classmate who had become her best friend despite the differences in their backgrounds. Dia was the product of a marriage between a stodgy English barrister and his free-spirited Greek wife. A statuesque beauty with jet-black hair and luminescent silver eyes, Dia had captured the attention and then the heart of Greek tycoon Theo Constantine when they’d met at a party at the royal palace in Erembourg. The two had been married for eight years and had one child. Adele was Phila’s godmother and she adored the seven-year-old with a passion.
Adele would have gone straight to Golnar when she escaped from the palace, but it would have been the first place her father would have thought of when he discovered her missing. If he’d caught her en route, he would have forced her to return to Orlantha, and no government would have dared offend the king. Of course, if she made it to Golnar, he would be powerless to force her to return. Golnar, a small island nation between Greece and Cyprus, had no diplomatic ties to Orlantha, and since Theo’s wealth gave him unlimited power over local politics, the authorities would hardly allow a guest of his to be taken against her will.
No matter what, she simply had to give Pippin and his friends time to gather evidence against Dedrick. If that meant staying in Golnar for a year, then so be it.
As Adele listened to a tape of Tchaikovsky’s concertos and drank her after-dinner demitasse, she heard a ruckus at the front door.
“Please, sir, no!” the butler called out in his native German language. “Stop right now, or I shall be forced to call the police.”
“My German’s a little rusty,” a man’s voice said. “But I understand that you’re threatening to call the police. Go right ahead. Be my guest.”
Adele tensed. The doors to the drawing room swung open. A tall, black-haired man wearing faded jeans and a weathered leather bomber jacket stormed into the room, the butler on his heels. Adele’s heartbeat accelerated. Who was this stranger? Whoever he was he spoke English, not German or French.
Adele rose from the sofa and confronted the unwanted guest.
“I tried to stop him,” the butler said. “Should I call the police?”
The last thing Adele wanted to deal with was the local authorities. If she involved the police, there was no telling what tomorrow’s headlines would read. And she’d certainly be shipped home immediately once it was discovered that King Leopold expected her to return.
“No, don’t telephone the police.” She shook her head, then turned to her uninvited guest. “Who are you and what do you want?”
He stared at her, surveying her from head to toe. A shiver of uneasiness fluttered up Adele’s spine. There was something sensual about the way he looked at her with those incredible blue eyes.
“I’m Matt O’Brien, with the Dundee Security and Investigation Agency.”
Adele’s stomach tightened. “What business do you have here at Chateau Gustel? If you want to see Yves, I’m afraid he’s out for the evening. If you’ll leave your card, I’ll—”
“My business is with you, Princess.”
He knew who she was. This didn’t bode well for her. “And what business do you have with me, sir?”
“I’m here to escort you home to Orlantha.”
“I see.” So, who had hired this private investigator—her father or Dedrick? And how was she going to get herself out of this predicament? She’d been so sure that no one would find her here at the chateau, at least not for several days.
The butler cleared his throat. “Your Highness, is there anything I can do?”
“No, thank you. That will be all. I can take care of this matter.”
Once the butler left, Adele smiled warmly at Matt O’Brien. “Won’t you take a seat, Mr. O’Brien?”
“No, ma’am, thank you.”
“For whom are you working, my father or—”
“King Leopold retained the Dundee Agency, and since I was the only agent already in Europe, I drew this assignment.”
“I’m surprised that my father used an American firm. You are American, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And what will you do if I choose not to return to Orlantha with you?” Show this hired henchman that you’re not afraid of him, she told herself. Let him know that taking you back to your father will not be something easily accomplished.
“I’m hoping you won’t put up a fuss.” The corners of his mouth lifted in a hint of a smile. “But my orders are to take you home, even if I have to hog-tie you, put you in a sack and toss you over my shoulder.”
Adele gasped. Apparently, this American had not been taught the proper respect for someone in her position—a princess, the heir to the throne of Orlantha. “If you lay one hand on me, you…you brute, I shall see that you’re—”
He laughed. A loud, boisterous laugh. Adele cringed. Damn insolent cretin! How dare he treat her in such a manner.
“Look, Little Miss Royal Runaway, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. It’s up to you. But you can be sure of one thing—I’m taking your highfalutin fanny home to Daddy.”
Chapter 2
M att had figured this wouldn’t be an easy job and he’d been right. He should have known she would put up a fuss. Princess Adele stared at him, her big brown eyes glaring, and her full, pink lips clenched. With a defiant stance, her hands on her hips, and an I’m-not-going-anywhere-with-you expression on her face, she seemed to be daring him. Matt rubbed his jaw and chin. He wore two days’ worth of beard stubble because he hadn’t taken time to shave since he’d been rushed to Orlantha and put on this case. She probably thought he looked rather scruffy. He thought she looked incredible. Her shiny chestnut-brown hair curled about her ears in a soft, wavy bob. A pair of shimmery diamond studs—probably three carats each—glittered in her earlobes and a thin diamond-studded watch graced her wrist. Her petite body—he guessed she stood about five-two—was nicely rounded in all the right places. An hourglass shape, with a tiny waist. The outfit she wore—red cashmere sweater and gray wool slacks—had probably been purchased on her recent shopping spree in Paris and no doubt had cost a month’s salary for the average person. Oh, yeah, she was one gorgeous woman, but she had “Spoiled Rotten” written all over her.
“The way you’re looking at me is quite insulting,” she told him with an air of snobbery.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he replied. “I was just appreciating the scenery.”
A slight flush stained her cheeks. “Mr. O’Brien, I don’t know how much
