Didier cringed. “Your Highness.”
Perhaps Richard had overstepped the boundary with that one, but he couldn’t help himself. No one was on his side. The entire island, including his mother and uncle, expected him to fall in love and marry one of the women attending his birthday ball. “Look at the problems other royal families have had, especially the Windsors. An arranged marriage simply to provide an heir makes no sense and adds nothing but more stress to an outdated institution.”
“Are you talking about matrimony or monarchies, Your Highness?”
Leave it to Didier to make Richard laugh.
“We will have to finish this discussion later,” Didier whispered. “Here comes Mr. Armstrong and his daughter, Your Highness.”
Richard nodded.
The dignified, tuxedo-clad Alan Armstrong bowed in front of him. “Your Highness, may I present my daughter, Christina.”
Attractive, yes. Princess material, no. Her rosy blush and wide eyes told Richard she was impressed by him, probably even in awe of him. What more could he expect from an American? When he married, he would select a woman who saw him as a man, not a prince. In the meantime, he forced a smile. “It is my pleasure to meet your lovely daughter.”
She curtsied. “Happy birthday, Your Gorgeous, I mean, Your Highness.”
Richard refrained from rolling his eyes. “Thank you, Miss Armstrong.” He raised her trembling hand to his mouth and kissed it. Her skin felt soft and warm beneath his lips. He caught the faint scent of cocoa butter on her honeyed-tan skin. Had she sunbathed topless at the beach today? “I am delighted you could come.”
As he released her hand, she dropped her beaded clutch bag. Bending over, he reached for it. So did Christina and thwacked her head against his forehead. Jerking away, she stumbled, but her father’s quick action saved her from falling onto the marble floor.
“I’m so sorry.” She touched Richard’s arm—a breach in royal protocol—and he stiffened. “Are you okay, Your Highness?”
The sooner he got rid of her, the better. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his head, Richard handed her the bag. “I am fine.”
Before Christina could say or do anything else, her father pushed her toward the end of the receiving line. “Your Highness, my wife sends her regrets for missing your birthday ball, but she had a prior engagement.”
As Richard nodded, he caught a glimpse of Christina walking toward the ballroom and watched the sway of her gown. Her image blurred slightly as if she were an angel surrounded by clouds. An angel, she wasn’t. He must have hit his head harder than he realized. Richard rubbed his forehead, and she glanced back at him. Their gazes locked for an instant. At the same time, she reached forward to shake the extended hand of…
No.
Fighting the urge to cry out, Richard gritted his teeth. Christina shook the hand, not of a man, but a suit of armor. One of the chain mail gloves came off, leaving the priceless antiquity handless.
Damn. Not even the bloodiest of battles fought preserving San Montico from French and Spanish invaders had destroyed the armor, but this woman, this American…His muscles tightened; his blood pressure soared. Add another headache to his already aching forehead. Christina stared at the glove in horror, then tried to hide it behind her small purse. Alan Armstrong muttered what sounded like a well-rehearsed apology.
Richard accepted the apology with an obligatory smile. Now was not the time to show emotion. Not with the palace full of guests. He would remain calm, impassive. It was only a glove, a glove that had belonged to his family for ages. He stared at Christina. “Do you need assistance, Miss Armstrong?”
She raised the glove and grinned. “I seem to have found an extra hand already.”
At least she had a sense of humor. And she had not set the palace on fire. Yet. Richard breathed a sigh of relief. “One can never have too many hands.”
Her eyes sparkled. “What should I do with, uh, this?”
“Didier,” Richard said, “please assist Miss Armstrong.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Didier stepped away from him and took the glove from her. “I’m sorry for any inconvenience.”
“I’m sorry for breaking it,” Christina said.
“You didn’t break it,” Didier said before Richard could answer. “It’s…old.”
Just like all the other irreplaceable works of art in the palace. Richard had been warned about her setting fire to the White House. He would not allow the same nonsense to happen here—the legend was nonsense enough. He would make sure someone kept Christina Armstrong away from any open flames. It was going to be a long enough night without any unexpected pyrotechnics.
Armstrongs are never impressed. Armstrongs are never impressed. The mantra of her snobbish family echoed in her mind. Christina had always had a difficult time remembering not to be impressed, but tonight it was impossible. It was all she could do not to stare, openmouthed. Her family was obscenely wealthy—and often flaunted the fact—but this…She had never seen such a tasteful display of riches. Exquisite antiques, famous paintings by the masters, breathtaking chandeliers and tantalizing buffets of gourmet cuisine filled each of the public rooms at the fairy-tale-worthy San Montico palace. But none of those wonderful treasures came close to the beauty of the prince himself.
Simply a glimpse of him made her pulse quicken. Bells chimed and the sound hung in the festive air, but Christina realized it was only the clinking of crystal champagne flutes.
Exuding an aura of charm that drew people in like a tractor beam, Prince Richard spoke with a small group of women who hung on his every word. Christina stood a polite distance away. She wanted to memorize everything about him so she could sketch a drawing when she returned to her hotel room.
He was Prince Charming in the flesh. Nothing, including the elaborate tapestry that hung on the wall behind him or the sparkling jewels the women wore, could compare to Prince Richard in his white uniform with shiny gold trim and royal-blue sash. The romantic melody played by a harpist in the corner echoed her sentiments.
Prince Richard smiled, and Christina drew in a sharp breath. No man deserved to be that good-looking. Sinfully sexy. That was the only way to describe him. Over six feet tall, he carried himself with a regal air. His aristocratic nose, high cheekbones and chiseled features were softened by his full lips, to-die-for lush lashes and a boyish dimple on his left cheek that appeared every so often when he smiled. The contrast—devastating. With eyes the color of the water surrounding the island of Santorini and thick, sun-bleached wavy hair, the prince had been dubbed the catch of the decade.
Catch of the century was a better title.
Too bad he was a prince whose every move was followed by the rabid press, the inquisitive public and his adoring fans. Not that she cared tonight. It was too magical an evening to let the thought of publicity ruin anything. Not even the paparazzi dared make an appearance here. She could be Cinderella at the prince’s ball and not worry about appearing in the tabloids for one night. She could forget about life’s harsh realities until tomorrow.
Christina glanced up at the well-preserved frescoes painted on the
