If The Ring Fits...

“A bit surprised,” he admitted. “But not mad.”

Now she really felt like the only one excluded from the club. Something was definitely going on.

“My uncle will see you out,” Prince Richard said.

Christina wanted her father to stay. She wanted to tell him how much she appreciated his help. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him. She said good-night instead.

“Sleep well.” Alan kissed the top of her head. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”

Christina stared, dumbfounded. She’d waited for years to hear her father say those words. All she ever wanted was to be a good girl and make her parents proud, but things had never worked out that way. She got into trouble without even trying. Getting the ring stuck on her finger was a perfect example. Except for keeping it a secret from the press, how was this any different from the times before?

Richard would not give up. So much was at stake, but nothing had worked. Not the soap, not the lotion, not the Vaseline. The ring was still stuck. He was running out of ideas.

And time.

It was almost two o’clock in the morning. He had kept his mother and the entire palace in the dark about Christina and the ring. He could not keep it hidden forever. Come morning, the dawn would bring the truth about the ring and who wore it to light.

If the citizens thought the “magic” of the ring had selected Christina to be his bride and Richard married her, they would cling to their silly customs and traditions even more. The legend would not only seal his fate, but that of San Montico. With archaic ideas such as legends and fairy tales part of everyday life, San Montico would never have true modernization. His father’s wish would go unfulfilled. Richard could not let that happen.

He reached into the back of a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of oil. “We shall try this, Miss Armstrong.”

Lifting her hand from the sink full of ice, Christina leaned against the bathroom counter. “Go ahead, Your Highness, but since it looks like this ring isn’t coming off in the near future, you might as well start calling me Christina. And you, too, Didier.”

Standing next to Richard, Didier smiled. “Christina is such a lovely name. A name fit for a princess.”

Princess Christina? Richard grimaced. Didier was up to his old tricks. His matchmaking would not work. Christina would not become Richard’s wife; she would not become Her Serene Highness of San Montico. The ring on her finger meant nothing, as did the legend. Only he could decide who became the next princess. It was not going to be Christina Armstrong.

And having Didier around displaying his not-so-subtle approval of her only complicated matters further. Richard scowled. “Leave us, Didi.”

“But the ring, Your Highness?”

“I will see to it.” Richard opened the bottle of oil. “You need to sleep. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”

Didier nodded. “I will have a room prepared for Christina, Your Highness.”

“She is staying here.”

“Here?” Christina stiffened. “I can’t sleep here.”

“I cannot sleep here, Your Highness,” Richard corrected her lapse. “May I ask why?”

Her eyes widened at his question. “Because, Your Highness, this is your room. Where would you sleep?”

“Why here, of course.” Richard laughed at the indignant look on her face, the surprised tone of her voice. She did have a sort of innocent charm. An act, he was certain. Americans would do anything to gain a royal title. His ex-fiancée had taught him a painful yet valuable lesson. “Christina, the ring has been in my family for generations, centuries, actually. I prefer to remain near it.”

“You can lock me in a room, in the tower even, place a guard outside my door. I’m not going anywhere, Your Highness. I promise.”

Her promises meant nothing to him. Besides, he could not risk having his mother see a guard standing watch over one of the guest rooms. She would know something was wrong. And if she found out about the ring…The wedding invitations would be in the mail by tomorrow afternoon. “You are staying here. With me.”

She started to speak, then stopped.

Didier frowned. “Your Highness—”

“Good night, Didi.”

“Didier,” Christina said, “thanks for your help.”

“The pleasure was mine. Happy birthday, Your Highness.” Didier bowed, then left the bathroom.

Some birthday. A trip to the salt mines of Siberia would be better than this. Anything would be.

But Richard was here with Christina, who wore the royal engagement ring. If the news got out, he would be married to her by this time next week.

Married to a stranger. An American, no less. Under the guise of the legend and true love. No way. He had to get the ring off her finger. Now. Richard grabbed Christina’s hand.

“Ow.”

He released her hand. He shouldn’t have been so rough. “I’m…I only wanted to try the oil.”

She studied him, her arched brows drawn together. Two small lines formed above the bridge of her nose. “Look, I want to get this ring off as badly as you do.” With a slight hesitation, she offered her hand. “Oil me up, Your Highness.”

Disrespectful, but kind of cute. Perhaps another time, another place. Absurd. Unknowingly or not, she had been drawn into the legend. After he removed the ring, Richard never wanted to see Christina Armstrong again.

Tilting the bottle, he poured oil on her finger, set the bottle on the counter and reached for the ring. His large hand engulfed her small, delicate one. As he rubbed the oil around the gold band, she jerked away.

Her cheeks rosy, she stared at him. “I can do it myself, Your Highness.”

“No. I will.”

Defiance flickered in her eyes, but she held out her hand anyway. At least she knew how to obey. Slowly, he rubbed on the oil, making sure he didn’t miss a spot. He had not noticed before, but her fingernails were painted a pale pink with white tips. Just like his mother used to wear before his father died.

But a French manicure did not make a princess.

“What is this?” Christina asked.

Once again, she forgot to address him as “Your Highness.” “Oil.”

With her right hand, she picked up the bottle. Her eyes widened. “It’s…massage oil?”

She needed a lesson in royal protocol. “Yes.”

“Figures.” She set the bottle on the counter. “Do you usually keep a large supply of massage oil on hand, Your Highness? Or did we just luck out tonight?”

She was the most aggravating woman he had ever met. He continued rubbing. “It was a gift.”

“I’m sure it was.”

Ignoring her suggestive tone, Richard reminded himself she was an American and did not know better. He tried moving the ring, but it still would not budge. Unwilling to give up, he added more oil. His fingers glided over hers, the friction of their skin warmed the oil oozing between their hands.