If The Ring Fits.... Melissa McClone

father finds out, he’ll kill me. And the prince…” A glance told her Prince Richard was too engrossed in his conversation to realize what was happening. Christina wanted to keep it that way. “Would it be okay if I went to the ladies’ room and tried to remove it?”

      For some reason, Didier seemed to be enjoying himself. His brown eyes twinkled; his smile grew wider. He looked almost giddy. “I don’t think it’s coming off.”

      “Please.” Why had she allowed this to happen? She knew better. “I’d like to try.”

      From his peripheral vision, Richard saw Didier approach. It was about time. If Richard heard one more boring piece of gossip about the United Kingdom’s royal family, he was going to reinstate flogging.

      “May I speak with you for a moment, Your Highness?” Didier asked.

      “Of course.” Richard bowed to the women surrounding him. “Excuse me, ladies.” As soon as the women were out of earshot, he sighed. “Thank you for coming to my aid, Didi. I never thought I would escape with all my clothes on. I felt like a rabbit surrounded by panting wolves. I was hoping you would leave the ring long enough to rescue me.” Richard glanced at its pedestal, the empty pedestal. No guard. No ring. His stomach knotted. “Where is the ring?”

      Didier’s wide grin answered his question.

      No. This could not be happening.

      The legend wasn’t true; it wasn’t. The legend dictated he had to marry the woman whom the ring fit within a week or abdicate. He would do neither.

      It was his duty to marry and produce an heir. He would, but not because he was turning thirty and a legend dictated it. He would marry whom he wanted, when he wanted.

      Every decision in his life had been made for the sake of San Montico. He had sacrificed childhood dreams and adult desires for his family, his people, his country. But the choice of a wife was his, and his alone, to make. “Does anyone know? My mother?”

      “No, we can make an announce—”

      “Tell no one.” Richard needed time to think, time to come up with a plan. He would not let San Montico’s sentimental attachment to a legend take away the most important choice of his life and keep him from modernizing the country. “Where is…it?”

      “In the ladies’ lounge,” Didier said. “With Miss Armstrong.”

      Not her. Please not her.

      “May I suggest a course of action, Your Highness?”

      Richard clenched his teeth. “No. You have done enough.”

      Please work. Please. Christina lathered her hands with soap. But the ring wouldn’t budge, not a fraction of an inch, not even a millimeter. She rinsed her hands, double-checking the drain plug on the gold-plated sink. Not that a ring this size could fit, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

      Staring at the ring on her red, swollen finger, Christina fought the urge to scream. She could have said no when her mother insisted she come to San Montico, but accepting the invitation had seemed like such a little thing to make her mother happy. Only now…

      Christina would disappoint her parents. Again. She should have known no matter how hard she tried, she would never be able to please them. But no, she’d gone against her better judgment and said yes. And embarrassed herself. Her family. Her country. Wait until her mother found out.

      What if the ring didn’t come off? Christina flexed her hand. Surely they wouldn’t want to chop her finger off? She was an artist. She needed all her fingers. Time to give the soap another try.

      Perhaps she was overreacting a little, but this was a small island in the Mediterranean ruled by a prince, not the U.S. government. San Montico might never have heard of due process of law. They might even follow another law—an eye for an eye, a hand for a hand. She lathered again.

      Maybe her father could do something—open a factory, build a resort, pay off the national debt. Maybe the prince would understand. Maybe her life was over.

      She added more soap, but the ring still wouldn’t budge.

      As her stomach curled up and turned one somersault after another, she leaned against the marble counter and groaned. “What am I going to do?”

      A man cleared his throat. “Excuse me.”

      In the mirror, Christina saw Prince Richard’s reflection. He stood with his arms folded across his chest and an unreadable expression on his face. He looked more like a pirate than a prince. A mean pirate. So much for him understanding.

      “I knocked, but no one answered.”

      Turning, Christina didn’t know what to say. His wide shoulders and six-foot-plus height made the bathroom seem smaller. “Your Highness, I—”

      Didier walked into the bathroom, smiling. “The ring fits, Your Highness.”

      Prince Richard’s nostrils flared. His full lips nearly disappeared as his mouth tightened. Angry, oh boy, was he angry. How was she going to get out of this one?

      “I wouldn’t say it fits, Your Highness.” Christina hoped she wouldn’t cause another international incident. “It’s stuck. I’m probably retaining water. You know, PMS and all that stuff.”

      “No, Miss Armstrong.” Prince Richard cocked an eyebrow. “I would not know.”

      Why did she say that? He was a prince. She was an Armstrong. Heat rose in her cheeks. “Of course, you wouldn’t. I’m—”

      “Let me see your hand.”

      She showed him her soap-covered hand. “Maybe if I try some lotion or—”

      “Quiet.”

      The harsh tone of his voice silenced her. Christina swallowed hard. Prince Charming had disappeared. The classical lines of his face now seemed hard, not handsome. The set of his chin now seemed arrogant, not confident. If only she could turn back the clock and return to the ball…

      Prince Richard removed his gloves. He pulled on the ring until tears welled in her eyes. She bit her tongue to keep from crying out.

      “It fits, Your Highness,” Didier said with a smile.

      “It does not fit.” The prince washed and dried his hands. “It is stuck, Didi. It is too small, that is all.”

      “The legend says—”

      “Wash your hands, Miss Armstrong,” he ordered before Didier could say another word.

      “What legend?” Christina asked.

      “Wash your hands,” the prince ordered. “I will not ask again.”

      “Yes, Your Highness,” Christina mumbled, feeling like a newly enlisted marine in boot camp. She scrubbed but couldn’t rinse all the soap out of the filigree band.

      “Find Mr. Armstrong,” Prince Richard commanded. “I need to speak with him immediately.”

      “Your Highness.” Didier stopped at the door. “Perhaps—”

      “Not now, Didi.” As soon as the door closed behind Didier, Prince Richard handed her his white gloves. “Put these on.”

      The left glove was at least two sizes too big. “It doesn’t fit, Your Highness.”

      “This is not a fashion show, Miss Armstrong. You will wear them. I do not need to have my mother see you wearing the ring. Or the press.”

      The press. Prince Richard had a good point. She put on the right glove.

      He walked toward the door. “Come with me.”

      Uncertain and a little frightened, Christina hesitated.

      “Now.”

      She tilted her chin, trying to gain a bit of courage. “Where are we going,