The Prince And The Nanny

“Are you telling me,” she said slowly and softly, “I’m going to meet a prince? A real prince?”

“Yes, miss. I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”

Why hadn’t Mrs. Smith told her this? Or had that snippet of information been buried somewhere in that muddled phone call?

No, no, NO! Life was too unfair. Coincidence was too cruel. Just like that girl at the elevator, Prudence had believed in princes. Oh, had she ever! She was the love junkie! She had collected books and movies, she had craved the things they promised. Since she was fourteen years old, and had discovered how much men liked her, she had been searching, she had known deep in her heart that when she kissed the right one her fairy tale would begin.

But so far she had kissed a thousand toads, and not one of them had turned into a prince.

And then, last year, after the death of her father, she had realized, ever so painfully it was the love of that remote and disconnected man that she had craved, and that now she would never receive it. Never.

She had turned over a new leaf. No romance for a year. Not a single date, not a kiss, nothing. Somewhere, she knew, in that desperate search for a prince, she had lost herself.

And lately, she’d begun to have a sense of finding what had been lost.

The universe was testing her resolve! That’s what was happening. Prudence became very aware that she did not want to meet a prince, she was not ready to have her resolve tested! She eyed the emergency stop button on the elevator.

A hand touched her sleeve, and she looked into her escort’s eyes. They were kind and good-humored. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he said quietly.

“Afraid?” she said defensively. She, Prudence Winslow had never been afraid of anything! Unless winding up alone counted!

And lately even thought didn’t fill her with panic the way it once had. She thought, resolutely, of her volunteer work. Before finding Mrs. Smith’s academy, shortly after her father’s death, she had found herself at a food bank, humiliated and hungry. Now, every spare moment and cent she had were spent paying back to that wonderful organization that not only fed the hungry, but allowed them to keep their dignity.

Her life was on track! She wasn’t ready for this challenge. She just wasn’t.

“Dammit,” she said, and tried to capture some of those loose curls and force them back into place.

Her escort eyed her with a trace of uneasiness. “Naturally we don’t curse in the presence of His Royal Highness,” he said, tactfully.

“Naturally,” she repeated, gave up on her hair and folded her restless hands primly in front of her.

“The correct form of address, when you are presented to him, is Your Royal Highness, not Prince Ryan. After the initial meeting, you may call him ‘sir.’”

“Ah,” she said. “But no curtsy.”

If he detected even a hint of sarcasm, he pretended not to. “Unless you want to,” he assured her.

“Believe me, I don’t.” An attempt at a curtsy would probably land her right on her nose not, thank heaven, that she was the curtsying type. Even in her fantasies!

Ronald’s sigh was barely audible. “I believe you.” The elevator doors slid open and she was led across a thickly carpeted hallway to double doors that opened to sheer opulence.

The hotel suite was resplendent with vases of fresh, sweetscented lilies. There was a grand piano in the main room, silkcovered sofas, rich carpeting. An elegant chandelier dripped raindrops of light, the fireplace was lit against the dampness of the day.

“May I take your coat?”

She didn’t want to surrender her coat, even with its stain! It felt like some form of protection!

Against what? she asked herself annoyed. She shrugged off the stained jacket. Underneath she had on a plain white blouse that had been pressed, but was intent on reacting to the humidity in the same way as the skirt and her hair.

“Please, have a seat,” Ronald said. “I will announce you.”

But she couldn’t sit. She studied the tasteful paintings, the view out the window, glanced in at the dining room that was through adjoining double doors. A maid, in a crisp uniform, was setting the Queen Anne table for eight.

The time ticked by. Why was she here? Why had Mrs. Smith sent her here? Prudence hated this! She did not like mysteries. Since her father’s death she was absolutely allergic to surprises. She liked control, the neat and tidy little world that she was building for herself, the amount of money she was managing to raise for Loaves and Fishes.

Once upon a time, that amount of money would have seemed laughable to her.

It occurred to her, she did not want to be using the phrase once upon a time when she was about to meet a prince. She was the girl who had sworn off fairy tales! Suddenly she relaxed. She got it! The prince was going to be ugly. Old. Fat. Balding. She was here to learn how ridiculous her fantasies had always been!

The universe wasn’t testing her. It was rewarding her, saying, girl, you are on the right track.

Just in case she was wrong, she eyed the door wistfully, but knew she could not let Mrs. Smith down. If Mrs. Smith wanted her to meet a prince, and thought it might be in some way good for Mrs. Smith’s Academy of Fine Nannies, Prudence would do her best.

Did Mrs. Smith know, that if you said it really fast, three times in a row, the last time it came out Mrs. Smith’s Academy of Nine Fannies? What if Prue accidentally said that to the prince? What if she thought about it when she was with him? At her father’s funeral, she had suddenly thought of the time she had wrapped his favorite dog, Kelpie, in toilet paper, and then she’d had to fight the absurd desire to giggle for the rest of the service.

This was going to be the same. She just knew it. She might as well leave now, before she brought eternal shame down on the Academy of Nine Fannies.

But before she could act, the double doors opened on the other side of the suite, and Ronald came through first, holding the door.

Prue felt her mouth fall open at the man who swept through those open doors, and she snapped it shut.

He was not ugly. Old. Fat. Balding. He was every girl’s fantasy of what a prince should be. If ever a story started once upon a time, it would be the story that began with him sweeping into the room.

Mrs. Smith’s Academy of Nine Fannies was wiped from her mind as she watched the man cross the room toward her.

He was tall enough to make her feel small, and at five feet eleven inches Prue had not enjoyed that sensation since she was about eight years old. He was dressed in an ivory sweater, dark shirt and dark slacks, but even if he had been dressed in dungarees there would have been no mistaking his station in life. He carried himself with a kind of pure confidence, the inborn grace of a man who knew exactly who he was. He carried himself as a man born to inherit the very earth, and he knew it.

Though each of his features was chiseled masculine perfection, it was his eyes that caught and held her. They were an astounding shade of blue, reminding her of the waters off the Hawaiian coast of Kona, where her father had kept a winter house.

Still, she told herself desperately, he was not at all her type. She had decided long ago that a man with dark coloring wouldn’t do. If she married someone fair, her children might be strawberry-blondes, instead of flaming redheads!

Plus, something about his confidence set her teeth on edge, because it looked like it bordered on arrogance, and arrogance headed her list of fatal flaws that barred a man from ever being her Mr. Right. Of course, the list contained many other items, terribly superficial, but important to her nonetheless, from hairy nostrils to bad toenails!

The prince was the one who closed the space between them, since she found she could not move. He extended his hand, which she had not expected. She shot a look at Ronald, and caught his slight nod. She took the hand offered her.

And felt enormous strength…and something else, a sizzle of pure awareness, despite his dark coloring and the fact she had not inspected his toenails, though his nostrils were a definite pass. Still, the feeling was not appropriate—not nanny and prince, but man and woman.

The universe was being exceedingly cruel! She jerked her hand out of his. There was no feeling in the world she had to fight more than that one! Oh, how that feeling could make a woman weak, and cloud her judgment.

She should know.

No, there was no trusting yourself once that zing, was in the air, once that hope blossomed to life. In no time at all, she would be wasting hours of her life mooning, shopping for the perfect little thinking-of-you card, waiting for the phone to ring, trying on dresses with a view to what he might like.

She was having this reaction without his passing the toenail test!

It felt as if every bit of progress she had made in the last six months was suddenly threatened by a single touch from this stranger. It was as if the bottom was falling out of her world, as if she was tumbling crazily down with it.

“Miss Winslow,” he said, and his voice was an enchantment—deep, masculine, faintly musical. “What a pleasure.”