Princess in the Making. Michelle Celmer

took lightly.

      His first marriage had spanned three decades, and he claimed it would have lasted at least three more if cancer hadn’t snatched his wife from him eight months ago.

      Mia wailed again, fat tears spilling down her chubby, flushed cheeks. The second the plane rolled to a stop Vanessa turned on her cell phone and sent Jessy a brief text, so when she woke up she would know they had arrived safely. She then unhooked the straps of the plush, designer car seat Gabriel had provided and lifted her daughter out. She hugged Mia close to her chest, inhaling that sweet baby scent.

      “We’re here, Mia. Our new life starts right now.”

      According to her father, Vanessa had turned exercising poor judgment and making bad decisions into an art form, but things were different now. She was different, and she had her daughter to thank for that. Enduring eight months of pregnancy alone had been tough, and the idea of an infant counting on her for its every need had scared the crap out of her. There had been times when she wasn’t sure she could do it, if she was prepared for the responsibility, but the instant she laid eyes on Mia, when the doctor placed her in Vanessa’s arms after a grueling twenty-six hours of labor, she fell head over heels in love. For the first time in her life, Vanessa felt she finally had a purpose. Taking care of her daughter, giving her a good life, was now her number one priority.

      What she wanted more than anything was for Mia to have a stable home with two parents, and marrying Gabriel would assure her daughter privileges and opportunities beyond Vanessa’s wildest dreams. Wouldn’t that be worth marrying a man who didn’t exactly … well, rev her engine? Wasn’t respect and friendship more important anyway?

      Vanessa peered out the window just in time to see a limo pull around the building and park a few hundred feet from the plane.

      Gabriel, she thought, with equal parts relief and excitement. He’d come to greet her, just as he’d promised.

      The flight attendant appeared beside her seat, gesturing to the carry-on, overstuffed diaper bag and purse in a pile at Vanessa’s feet. “Ms. Reynolds, can I help you with your things?”

      “That would be fantastic,” Vanessa told her, raising her voice above her daughter’s wailing. She grabbed her purse and hiked it over her shoulder while the attendant grabbed the rest, and as Vanessa rose from her seat for the first time in several hours, her cramped legs screamed in protest. She wasn’t one to lead an idle lifestyle. Her work at the hotel kept her on her feet eight to ten hours a day, and Mia kept her running during what little time they had to spend together. There were diaper changes and fixing bottles, shopping and laundry. On a good night she might manage a solid five hours of sleep. On a bad night, hardly any sleep at all.

      When she met Gabriel she hadn’t been out socially since Mia was born. Not that she hadn’t been asked by countless men at the hotel—clients mostly—but she didn’t believe in mixing business with pleasure, or giving the false impression that her hospitality extended to the bedroom. But when a king asked a girl out for drinks, especially one as handsome and charming as Gabriel, it was tough to say no. And here she was, a few months later, starting her life over. Again.

      Maybe.

      The pilot opened the plane door, letting in a rush of hot July air that carried with it the lingering scent of the ocean. He nodded sympathetically as Mia howled.

      Vanessa stopped at the door and looked back to her seat. “Oh, shoot, I’m going to need the car seat for my daughter.”

      “I’ll take care of it, ma’am,” the pilot assured her, with a thick accent.

      She thanked him and descended the steps to the tarmac, so relieved to be on steady ground she could have dropped to her knees and kissed it.

      The late morning sun burned her scalp and stifling heat drifted up from the blacktop as the attendant led her toward the limo. As they approached, the driver stepped out and walked around to the back door. He reached for the handle, and the door swung open, and Vanessa’s pulse picked up double time. Excitement buzzed through her as one expensive looking shoe—Italian, she was guessing—hit the pavement, and as its owner unfolded himself from the car she held her breath … then let it out in a whoosh of disappointment. This man had the same long, lean physique and chiseled features, the deep-set, expressive eyes, but he was not Gabriel.

      Even if she hadn’t done hours of research into the country’s history, she would have known instinctively that the sinfully attractive man walking toward her was Prince Marcus Salvatora, Gabriel’s son. He looked exactly like the photos she’d seen of him—darkly intense, and far too serious for a man of only twenty-eight. Dressed in gray slacks and a white silk shirt that showcased his olive complexion and crisp, wavy black hair, he looked more like a GQ cover model than a future leader.

      She peered around him to the interior of the limo, hoping to see someone else inside, but it was empty. Gabriel had promised to meet her, but he hadn’t come.

      Tears of exhaustion and frustration burned her eyes. She needed Gabriel. He had a unique way of making her feel as though everything would be okay. She could only imagine what his son would think of her if she dissolved into tears right there on the tarmac.

      Never show weakness. That’s what her father had drilled into her for as long as Vanessa could remember. So she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and greeted the prince with a confident smile, head bowed, as was the custom in his country.

      “Miss Reynolds,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. She switched Mia, whose wails had dulled to a soft whimper, to her left hip to free up her right hand, which in the blazing heat was already warm and clammy.

      “Your highness, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” she said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

      Too many men had a mushy grip when it came to shaking a woman’s hand, but Marcus clasped her hand firmly, confidently, his palm cool and dry despite the temperature, his dark eyes pinned on hers. It lasted so long, and he studied her so intensely, she began to wonder if he intended to challenge her to an arm wrestling match or a duel or something. She had to resist the urge to tug her hand free as perspiration rolled from under her hair and beneath the collar of her blouse, and when he finally did relinquish his grip, she experienced a strange buzzing sensation where his skin had touched hers.

      It’s the heat, she rationalized. And how did the prince appear so cool and collected when she was quickly becoming a soggy disaster?

      “My father sends his apologies,” he said in perfect English, with only a hint of an accent, his voice deep and velvety smooth and much like his father’s. “He was called out of the country unexpectedly. A family matter.”

      Out of the country? Her heart sank. “Did he say when he would be back?”

      “No, but he said he would be in touch.”

      How could he leave her to fend for herself in a palace full of strangers? Her throat squeezed tight and her eyes burned.

      You are not going to cry, she scolded herself, biting the inside of her cheek to stem the flow of tears threatening to leak out. If she had enough diapers and formula to make the trip back to the U.S., she might have been tempted to hop back on the plane and fly home.

      Mia wailed pitifully and Marcus’s brow rose slightly.

      “This is Mia, my daughter,” she said.

      Hearing her name, Mia lifted her head from Vanessa’s shoulder and turned to look at Marcus, her blue eyes wide with curiosity, her wispy blond hair clinging to her tearstained cheeks. She didn’t typically take well to strangers, so Vanessa braced herself for the wailing to start again, but instead, she flashed Marcus a wide, two-toothed grin that could melt the hardest of hearts. Maybe he looked enough like his father, whom Mia adored, that she instinctively trusted him.

      As if it were infectious, Marcus couldn’t seem to resist smiling back at her, and the subtle lift of his left brow, the softening of his features—and, oh gosh, he even had dimples—made