Prince Incognito

If he thought reporters were nosy, what would he think of a private investigator? Better lie low with this guy and keep her career goals to herself.

Carly polished a shiny red apple on the tail of her shirt and tried not to watch him from the corner of her eye. He really was gorgeous. “How long have you been here?”

He crossed his arms and leaned against the open door facing her. “Two days.”

“Planning to stay long?” Rats. Where had that come from?

“As long as it takes.”

Interesting answer. “To do what?”

“Get to know you, of course.”

Carly laughed. She knew her shortcomings. Guys liked her. They confided in her. Asked her advice. Treated her like a sister or a best friend. A few even dated her. But no one tossed compliments to Carly the Klutz.

Certainly not guys like this one.

So why had he?

Chapter Two

Luc unlocked the door to his own room and went inside, tossing the white cowboy hat onto the bed. He was still thinking about the latest guest to arrive at the Benedict Ranch.

She amused him, did Miss Carly Carpenter, with her quick wit and baggy attire. Not the usual woman of his acquaintance, but that was the appeal, he thought. She hadn’t simpered and fawned over him.

Probably because, to his enormous relief, she had no idea who he was. For once he was in a place where not one person—other than his old college mate, Carson Benedict—had even a hint of who he was.

Never in his life had he been out of the limelight, though he’d lived in the shadow of his brother for most of the time. But since Philippe’s death, the European paparazzi had turned into blood-sucking leeches, draining every moment of peace from his life. The American press, while fascinated by him during his brief time at university, had yet to discover his presence this trip.

He could thank Carson for that. His friend had graciously agreed to protect his privacy and in effect hide him out for this last summer. His summer of decision.

He rubbed at the little knot of tension in his neck and went to the computer on the small desk next to the window. Though he wasn’t picky about accommodations, the room was pleasant and sparkling clean.

Knotty-pine walls surrounded an ample-size bed covered in a colorful red-and-blue Americana quilt. A large area rug was beneath his feet, and a small bathroom opened off to one side. He knew from conversations with Carson that the baths had been added when the ranch had opened its doors to visitors.

He felt for his old friend, a quiet loner of a man who must be constantly annoyed to have strangers running about his land. Carson had been as much a misfit at Princeton as he, though for far different reasons. They had become such good friends because they’d both sought solitude and peace where there was none.

Flipping open the lid of the laptop, Luc typed in his password and opened his e-mail, checking for word from the palace in Montavia. He’d promised his father, King Alexandre, that he would be in frequent communication should a crisis arise and he needed to return home—something he didn’t want to do anytime soon. Oh, he loved his country and the warm, gentle people living there, just as he felt the strong call of duty upon his life.

But when he’d come to Oklahoma on spring break with Carson during that one year Father had allowed him to attend a foreign university, he’d been free of the conventions and diplomacy that ruled his life—or tried to.

That one glorious year when he’d fallen in love with a country other than his own and had completed a degree in resort development. A degree that he had hoped to use as a means of strengthening his small country’s role in the global economy, though the press had mocked his interest as an excuse for the lesser prince to play.

“The playboy prince,” they’d called him. And though he was much less the playboy than the tabloids had indicated, he’d done his share of playing. He made no excuses for enjoying life. Race cars, fast horses, ski competitions. He’d gloried in them all.

Then, only days before his twenty-seventh birthday, Philippe, crown prince of Montavia, had died. His brother, his best friend, killed during Christmas vacation while they’d skied in the Alps.

With great effort Luc closed off the thought of that day, of the flash of red on white snow, the utter silence that had come after and the terrible knowledge of his own culpability.

Then he, Luc Jardine, the playboy prince, the second son, had become the heir apparent. And life had never been the same again.

He’d been reared to serve, reared even to reign should that become necessary, but no one had ever believed anything would happen to Philippe. Mother and Father had trained both sons in government, but Luc had resisted more than he’d cooperated. He had skipped as many international summits and state dinners as he’d attended.

Philippe, so serious and intellectual, had never taken his responsibility lightly, not the way Luc had. Philippe would have made a strong and able king, just as he’d been a steadfast and loving brother. Even now Luc’s heart bled with missing the best friend he would ever know.

He rubbed a hand over his suddenly misty eyes. Philippe had been the right man for the throne. Luc, the playboy prince, felt he never would be.

And that was where the indecision lay. Could he rule?

When Father had shipped him off to the military shortly following Philippe’s death, Luc had been too stunned and grief-stricken to argue. The experience had strengthened his character, taken the edge off his wildness and made him a better man, but had it made him a king? He didn’t know. And until he did, he could not accept the crown from his father.

A tiny computer voice announced that he had mail. The post was from his sister and only remaining sibling. His fingers tightened as he highlighted the e-mail. If Anastasia found out where he was, word would spread all over Europe—and America—by morning. Anastasia, much as he adored her, had never kept a secret in her life.

Luc! the post screamed. Wherever are you? Count Broussard is in an absolute frenzy over your disappearance.

Luc frowned at the screen. Count Broussard, royal counselor and personal advisor to the crown prince, was the main reason he had eluded his entourage of bodyguards and come to America.

From the time he was a boy and more so since Philippe’s death, the count had hovered over Luc like an overprotective mother—or a vulture. Luc could make no decision, go nowhere, do nothing without Broussard’s input—and frequently his disapproval. Nothing Luc did was right in the eyes of the royal advisor. Even his father had noticed and agreed with Luc’s decision to spend some time alone, away from the pressures of the palace, the press and the count.

Shaking off a sense of unease, Luc continued reading.

That wicked old Peter won’t tell me anything, and Father only shoos me away like some annoying insect. I will surely perish if I do not hear from you soon.

Anastasia’s flare for the dramatic triggered a smile. Next to Broussard, his little sister was the last person who could know his whereabouts. She loved to talk, especially to the Montavian press.

The next post was from his valet and confidant, the dependable Peter. Newsy and warm and full of humor, the post made Luc wish for home. One paragraph, written to bedevil, reminded Luc that Lady Priscilla was still miffed at him. He laughed aloud and dashed off an answering note.

Lady Priscilla, Count Broussard’s daughter, was a constant source of agitation and teasing between the two men. Luc’s father, as well as the count, would like nothing better than to see a match between the crown prince and Lady Priscilla. Time was passing. The unspoken pressure to marry an appropriate woman and produce a male heir grew stronger all the time.

He splayed four fingers through his unruly hair. He had no desire to settle down with one woman.

His thoughts went to the endearing bag lady he’d met in the lobby, Carly Carpenter. She was nothing at all like Lady Priscilla. But he had a suspicion that beneath the oversize shirt, floppy skirt and hiking boots there could be a lovely woman.

He shook his head, smiling. Perhaps not. Either way, his interest had been piqued. He had enjoyed the contradiction of her snappy attitude and bag-lady looks with her sexy drawl and full, lush mouth. A man could fantasize about a mouth like that.

Suddenly he was looking forward to Carson’s birthday party.

Carly had tried resting in her cute country-style room, but she wasn’t tired. She was, however, fighting an annoying bout of depression. She, who did not believe in allowing her emotions to run her life and who hadn’t even cried over her breakup last month with Lester, was in danger of becoming morose.

Lester the Molester, as she’d called him after threatening to amputate both his hands if he didn’t keep them out from under her skirt, was not worth her tears. Her career, however, was.

Sad to think that her job had been her life and now she didn’t even have a job. Maybe she’d never work again. Maybe she was washed up at the age of twenty-eight and would spend the rest of her life living in boxes behind Burger King, investigating half-eaten sandwiches and cigarette butts.

No, her sweet sister, Meg, wouldn’t let that happen. She’d wine and dine good old Eric, give him a few of her pretty pouts and hot looks, and soon enough Carly would be back to work.

Maybe. And then again, maybe Meg’s charm wouldn’t work this time.

Carly snapped off Court TV and looked at her watch. Nearly time for the evening’s entertainment, a diversion at least from her worries. She hitched her camera strap over one shoulder and headed down the hall toward the stairs.