“The palace?” She knew her eyes grew wide, and tried to stop, but couldn’t, what with her heart pounding so hard.
“Is there somewhere else you wish to go?”
Yes, she wanted to say. And no. “Going to the palace” didn’t fit into her frame of reference even after reading her mother’s letter. She remembered the handwriting, as familiar as if it were the day’s grocery list instead of the last thing her mother had written ten years ago. The words still made her heart hurt. I know I did everything else wrong, but it wasn’t wrong the way I loved you. Since then, Jess had read the message over and over but still couldn’t grasp that she was distantly related to Bha’Khar’s royal family.
“I’m sure the palace is fine, but—” Fine? It so wasn’t fine. She wasn’t a palace kind of person. She was burgers and fries, sweatpants and sneakers.
“But?”
“I was sort of hoping I’d be meeting my family.”
“And you will,” he promised. “Arrangements are being made. In the meantime, permit me to make you comfortable.”
Comfortable? What did that mean? And how could she be comfortable with strangers, however distantly related, who were royalty?
As he started to turn away, she put her hand on his arm and felt the material of his suit jacket. “Wait.”
Concern that seemed to be genuine slid into his eyes. “Is there a problem?”
The problem was the material just felt like material to her. It was probably expensive material, but she had no frame of reference for that any more than she did for a palace. Most little girls grew up playing pretend princess, but the fantasy was usually limited to the great gowns and a tiara or two. Not living under the same roof as the king and queen. This was a fear she’d never felt before.
“Maybe it would be better if I stayed at a hotel.”
He looked puzzled. “The king and queen would be disappointed.”
How did she explain this? “There’s a saying in my country—it’s better to look stupid than open your mouth and prove it. This is kind of like that.”
“I like this saying. But you do not look stupid so I am unclear on your point.”
“They’re certain to be disappointed in me, but staying at the palace—I’m bound to do something that will let them down for sure,” she explained.
He shook his head. “You need only be yourself.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“There is no cause for fear.”
“Yeah, there kind of is. This is a perfect example.” She held out a hand indicating the plush plane interior. “I grew up in a run-down, one-bedroom apartment on Stoner Street in Los Angeles. That was until the state of California took over. I wouldn’t know a shrimp fork from a forklift.”
“You are exaggerating.”
“Yes. But you get my point.”
“If it becomes necessary for you to know these things, just stay very close to me and follow my lead. I promise to protect you.”
She studied the oh-so-sincere expression on his handsome face. “That sounds very much like ‘trust me.’”
“Exactly.”
“In my country when someone says that it’s usually a good idea not to.”
“You are most cynical,” he commented.
“I have good reasons.”
“I look forward to hearing them,” he said, probably just being polite.
He smiled, showing off straight white teeth, then he covered her hand with his own, a gesture meant to comfort but brought back the spiraling-plane-sensation.
“The king and queen are looking forward to meeting you, the daughter of their dear friends’ daughter, for whom they’ve been searching so many years.”
“They’ve been searching?” she asked, her gaze jumping to his.
In the letter, her mother had confessed that she’d become pregnant by a married diplomat and ran away because shame prevented her from going to her family. Jess had feared the same family would shun her and to find out they’d been looking gave her hope a double dose of adrenaline.
She smiled up at him. “Thank you—” Had he introduced himself? Was she so caught up in her nerves, skepticism and his charming flirtation that she’d forgotten? “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“My apologies. I have been remiss.” He bent slightly at the waist. “I am Kardahl, son of King Amahl Hourani of Bha’Khar.”
That name sounded familiar. Probably because he was part of the royal family. “So are we related?”
He shook his head. “Your lineage can be traced back to royalty, but the bloodlines split off over a hundred years ago.”
There was no reason to feel relieved about that and yet she was, right up until she realized why the name sounded so familiar. And why she’d thought she’d seen him before. Because she had seen him in print. He was better looking in person. “You’re the playboy prince.” Did she say that out loud? Oh God, the look on his face told her she did.
His eyes narrowed. “You have been reading the tabloids.”
“I don’t buy them,” she said. It was a minor distinction, but a distinction just the same. “But it’s hard not to see them in the grocery store, the beauty salon, the doctor’s waiting room.”
“You might want to choose a physician who does not patronize disreputable publications,” he said.
“I don’t have a choice.” This was proof that they could be living on different planets. He had no clue about her reality. “My kids go to doctors contracted with the state and we don’t get a vote on the publications in the waiting room.”
“You have children?” he asked, a flicker of surprise in those dark eyes.
“I’ve never given birth if that’s what you’re asking. I’m a social worker and kids in the state’s care are my responsibility.”
“I see.”
“I doubt it. Probably you never had to worry about medical attention, or your next meal or a roof over your head since you grew up in a palace not a group home.” She made a mental note that irritation cancels out fear.
“You would be correct.”
Lucky him. “What should I call you? Your Highness? Your Worship?”
“He who rules the universe is my preferred title.”
She blinked. “I’m sorry. Were you being funny?”
“Apparently not.”
But he smiled, a charming smile that made her want to grab hold of the nearest chair. Another mental note: this playboy had a sense of humor and it packed more punch than his charm. She didn’t know whether to be grateful that her player radar was alive, well and functioning with one hundred percent accuracy or unsettled to have proof that she’d inherited from her mother the playboy-magnet gene. The thing was—she wanted to be swept away, but by someone who sincerely wanted her and men who were players didn’t do sincere.
She’d just confirmed that he was everything she didn’t want in a man. Not that he would hit on her. According to those questionable publications, his taste in women ran to models, actresses and world-famous beauties. She was not, not and so not.
“My friends and family call me Kardahl,” he was saying.
She nodded. “Kardahl it is. I’ll just get my bag—”