but not to the same extent. And Dylan had quiet strengths of his own that were largely overlooked because Owen was a “package” that the public adored. Tall, dark and handsome, the fact that he was good-looking and athletic played a part in the manufacture of a fairy tale that the people of Penwyck delighted in believing. Sometimes Owen was uncomfortably aware of his image being manipulated more than Dylan’s, his acceptance as the future monarch of the small island being worked on in subtle and not-so-subtle ways all the time.
Most men, Owen knew, had to find their destiny. He had been born to his.
At eighteen, he accepted that. But he also realized he had some trading power. And the trade he insisted on was that he have a summer of freedom—one summer in the United States—before he came back and devoted himself and his life totally to the destiny he had been born to. In exchange for one summer he promised he would return to Penwyck without argument and ready and willing to assume his adult role in the affairs of state.
Even with that promise, he had to fight hard. It was the first time he came face-to-face with the implacable strength of his own warrior spirit.
He found it to be a part of himself that he enjoyed thoroughly.
Disguised, drilled in his assumed identity until he could recite it in his sleep, under oath not to reveal his true self to anyone, under any circumstances, Owen was finally allowed, albeit reluctantly by his parents, and especially by the Royal Elite Team, to go off completely on his own for what was supposed to be a five week program for gifted political science students at the world-renowned Smedley Institute at Laguna Beach in California.
“Hey, you, blond boy.”
Those were the first words she’d said to him, her voice laced with scorn, no doubt because she had realized he was no more a natural blonde than she was a sumo wrestler.
He’d recognized her as the smart girl, the one who was not afraid to raise her hand, who did her homework, who had the answers, who was on the lookout for sexism. She had shoulder-length blond hair and she could have been pretty, if she tried, but he suspected she would have scorned expending energy in such a superficial pursuit.
That day her jeans and T-shirt were way too baggy for her slight figure, and her beautiful eyes were almost hidden by the brim of a ball cap she had pulled down too low.
Almost. Because when he looked in her eyes for the very first time, he had felt a strange shiver. Her eyes were not the eyes of the class brain, nor even the eyes of a woman who could slice a man with her razor wit. Her gaze was calm, and strong, almost unsettling in what it said about her.
Honest. Trustworthy. Kind.
The word destiny had formed unbidden in his brain as he looked at her, but how could that be when his was already so rigidly outlined for him and when she so obviously thought men were beer-swilling swine whom she had to guard against at all times?
He’d crossed his arms over his chest, rocked back on his chair and replied, “What can I do for you, blond girl?”
She’d smiled, reluctantly.
“I drew your name on the class project. Ben Prince, right? Despite the movie star jaw and the underwear model body, I expect you to pull your weight.”
He’d always been treated with the complete deference of one born to royalty. “Underwear model body?” he’d sputtered with royal indignation. On the other hand, that meant Miss Priss had been looking. He took off the heavy glasses that were part of his disguise. If she was looking, he had a simple male need to look great.
“I know you don’t need those,” she said. “What are they for? To make you look more intelligent?”
So, she had seen through the Royal Elite Team’s best disguise in no time flat. But look more intelligent, as if nothing he had contributed in class had convinced her of that? It occurred to him, tangling with her would be about as much fun as tangling with a porcupine.
If you believed her words, believed her eyes, then you knew she was as much in disguise as you were, his inner voice chided.
“Don’t worry,” she’d said airily. “All I’m worried about is what you have up here,” she’d tapped his forehead lightly, “under the Miss Clairol.”
“Miss Clairol?” he’d asked, slightly dazed because her touch said things her demeanor did not. Her demeanor said, loudly, ice-cold. Her touch said, even more loudly, red-hot.
“Blonde in a bottle,” she’d whispered. “Hair dye.”
“I’m disguised,” he said coolly.
“Really? FBI’s Most Wanted list?”
“Close. Royal family. Small island kingdom you’ve never heard of.”
She’d laughed out loud, caught off guard and unexpectedly delighted, even while he was uncomfortably aware he’d done, jokingly, something he had given his promise not to do. Told her who he was.
Her laughter changed everything. It erased the wariness from her face, and the stiffness from the way she held herself.
“Well, Your Royal Muckety-muck,” she’d said, straight-faced, now, but still relaxed, “which despot in history would you like to do our project on? I thought maybe Stalin.”
“Genghis Khan,” he said, knowing she wanted to walk all over him, and if he let her, he would never be allowed to explore the deeper mystery of her calm eyes.
“Wow. Are you actually planning on contributing to this? You’re not just going to let me do all the work while you go down to the beach and ogle girls in their bikinis?”
“As tempting as that sounds, I’m actually here to learn something.”
She looked at him with reluctant respect, and then smiled. Really smiled, no barriers. It won him completely. Not that he let her know that for a good long time. At least a day and a half.
And so it began. Huddled over tables at study hall, grabbing quick hamburgers, throwing ideas back and forth, reworking sentences, drawing time lines.
That’s how he’d come to love the way she thought—her wry humor, her quick intelligence, the way she danced with words, how much fun it was to spar with her mind.
That’s how he had started to notice the smell of her hair, the light that danced in her eyes, the breathtaking figure she hid under all those layers of clothes she was so fond of.
And he found, just as the first time, he told her over and over who he really was. In ways he had never told another living soul.
That was her gift to him. She allowed him to be normal. To explore normal dreams and ambitions, to be a normal eighteen-year-old guy.
Jokingly, they had called each other Blond Boy and Blond Girl. She teased him unmercifully when his natural dark brown, nearly black hair began to grow out, giving him roots.
How quickly he had come to see her inner beauty, her sharp mind, her wonderful sense of humor, her huge capacity to be kind.
They had become the best of friends almost instantly. It was a relationship based, originally, on mutual respect for each other’s intelligence.
He
