Cinderella's Prince Under The Mistletoe. Cara Colter

to eat,” Imogen said, swinging open the door to the huge, stainless steel, industrial fridge in the Lodge kitchen.

      But instead of having her nose buried in a book, discerning everything there was to know about the royal family of Casavalle, Gabi had disappeared, with only the vaguest of explanations.

      Gabriella did have a secret.

      Secrecy between the two women was unsettling. It was Gabi who had helped Imogen through the end of her engagement, and it was Gabi who knew, to this day, that tears shone very close to that bright smile Imogen displayed when someone mentioned Kevin to her. Or when she glanced at the engagement picture of the two of them that she could not bring herself to delete as the screen saver on her cell phone.

      She felt her heart squeeze, as it always did when she thought of him. He had wanted children so desperately. This was the other thing Gabi knew about her: that Imogen would never have babies.

      She had suspected for a number of years, since a serious ski injury, that there might be problems. But after she and Kevin had been dating three years, he had taken her to her favorite Chinese food restaurant, and when she had broken open her fortune cookie, a small diamond ring had winked at her.

      “I want you to be my wife. I want us to have babies together.”

      Of course she had said yes. That picture on her cell phone had been taken by a thrilled waitress seconds after Imogen had put on the ring. But was it the fact that he had included the baby part in his proposal that had made her, finally, investigate further?

      Imogen remembered the day she had told Kevin the results of her tests, the distress on his face. He had stammered that of course, it didn’t matter, but she had known it had. And she had been right: when she had set him free, he had lost no time in finding a new love. Though he and Imogen had been together for three years and had only just begun to discuss marriage, he had married someone else with appalling speed. They already had a baby on the way. And try as she might to be happy about it...

      “Stop it!” Imogen ordered herself, when she felt her throat closing with emotion. She would not ponder endlessly the unfairness of life. She would not! She sorted through a few items in the fridge. They were not what they normally stocked. Instead, tiny individual Cornish game hens, strange sausages, unrecognizable vegetables, tropical fruits and exotic condiment bottles filled the shelves.

      Thankfully, she did not have to figure out how to prepare anything. These exotic items had arrived at the request of a retired world-class chef who would be here tomorrow morning in advance of the arrival of Prince Antonio.

      Imogen closed the fridge door and cocked her head. The sound of a helicopter—spotting for fires, conducting tourist trips and ferrying heli-skiers—was not uncommon in Crystal Lake. But it was more unusual at this quiet time of year.

      She went to the kitchen door and opened it, craning her neck at the skies. Despite the bright sunshine of the day, the air was shockingly cold. She glanced toward Mount Crystal, and sure enough she could see a dark cloud coming to a slow boil over the peak. From long experience with changeable mountain climates, she knew what this meant.

      Snow’s coming, she thought, just as a small helicopter broke the tree line and then hovered over the Lodge, trees swaying in its backwash, red and orange fall leaves scattering. It tilted, lifted gracefully over the roof, and then the noise intensified.

      Imogen went out the back door and quickly followed a stone pathway that wound around the Lodge. She arrived at the front just in time to see the helicopter slowly lowering over the sweeping lawn. Her hair went every which way as the helicopter rocked its way slowly to the ground, until the struts were solidly situated. The noise was deafening for a moment.

      It might have only been a two-seater, but the helicopter was silver and sleek, with a dark windshield. It was like something out of a James Bond movie. The roar suddenly went silent as the engines were cut and the rotors drifted to a halt. She saw a crown insignia, gold against silver on the tailpiece of the helicopter.

      Her mouth fell open. They were not expecting their royal visitor until tomorrow! They were not expecting an arrival by helicopter.

      And, most importantly, she had planned on giving that protocol book a thorough going-over tonight. Now what?

      As she watched, the pilot got out and held the door. Though he wore no uniform, everything about him, from his bearing to his closely cropped hair, said he was military. He scanned the grounds to the edges of the trees with narrowed eyes. His gaze fell on her, and he squinted long and hard before letting his eyes move on, taking in the building, his watchful gaze resting on doors and windows.

      The set of his shoulders relaxed slightly, and he stepped away from the door of the helicopter, holding it open.

      Another man stepped out, and the man holding the door bowed slightly and said something to him. She couldn’t hear exactly what he said, but she was certain he called the other man Luca.

      She might have contemplated the name a bit more—they were expecting a prince named Antonio, after all—but Imogen felt the breath sucked from her body and the autumn mountain glory all around her fade into oblivion.

      The man who had been addressed as Luca was astounding. Neat, luxuriously thick hair, as dark as fresh-brewed coffee, touched his brow. His eyes were also the deep brown of coffee, his skin ever so faintly golden, the fullness of his bottom lip and the cleft in his chin absolutely sinful. He was perhaps an inch over six feet, his shoulders broad under a beautifully cut suit jacket. His legs were long under tapered pants pressed to knife-blade sharpness.

      He exuded an air of power and self-containment, such as Imogen was not sure she had ever experienced before.

      She was also struck by a sense of having seen him before, but of course, in today’s world, all royal family members were celebrities. That must be why she felt a tickle of recognition: she had probably seen his face on the front page of a gossip rag. It was, after all, exactly the kind of face that would entice people—especially female people—to buy a copy.

      What now? Obviously, even though the temptation was great, she could not run back into the Lodge, as she had a desire to do. She was fairly certain, even without having read the protocol book, that she was probably expected to execute some kind of curtsy. She had planned to practice one. Really, she had!

      In fact, she had pictured her and Gabriella, giggling insanely and curtsying to each other.

      Apparently nothing about this particular visit was going to go according to plan.

      Imogen ran a hand through her scattered hair and lifted her chin. She took a deep breath and stepped forward. No matter what the protocol book said, she wasn’t going to go up to the Prince in her work jeans and blue plaid flannel shirt and try to curtsy!

       CHAPTER TWO

      IMOGEN APPROACHED THE two men. Both swung around to look at her. Both were frowning. This was not the usual reaction of vacationers arriving to the pristine beauty of the mountainside lodge! A bit flustered, she managed to paste a smile on her face.

      “Prince Luca?” she said. “I’m sorry, we were expecting Prince Antonio.”

      Both men looked at her as if it wasn’t up to her to tell them who she was expecting.

      “Welcome to the Crystal Lake Lodge,” she stammered, resisting an impulse to touch her hand to her forehead and bow away!

      She extended her hand. Too late, she thought maybe she was not supposed to extend her hand. The soldier type looked at her, dismayed, and as if he might block her from touching the Prince with his own body.

      But the Prince stopped him with a barely discernible motion of his head. He took her proffered hand.

      His touch was warm and dry and exquisitely strong, subtly but unarguably sensual. His eyes, so dark and deliciously brown, met hers squarely.

      Something