The Ordinary Princess. Liz Fielding

she had no idea how she was going to go about it. When she’d said that she’d never get an interview with a man like that, she hadn’t even been close. It would have made no difference if she’d been one of those rarefied journalists who regularly interviewed the crowned heads of Europe.

      His Highness didn’t give interviews.

      And there was no gossip. Not recent gossip. He might be a bachelor but he wasn’t a playboy. It had been years since he’d frequented casinos, squired supermodels to nightclubs, got into brawls with the paparazzi.

      All that had ended the day his grandfather had had a heart attack and he’d become head of state in all but name.

      On the surface, it seemed that there was no story.

      Except, of course, there was always a story if you knew where to look for it. He was flesh and blood, after all. He put on his trousers one leg at a time, the same as any other man. He would have hopes, desires, dreams, just like the lowliest of his subjects. And she didn’t imagine he lived like a monk.

      Those eyes didn’t belong to any monk.

      The thought made her shiver a little before she pulled herself together and reminded herself that he might as well have been for all the gossip that made print.

      As she’d read everything she could find, hitting a blank wall whenever she’d tried to dig beyond the surface, she’d felt a stir of indignation that anyone with such a public presence could keep his personal life so private.

      Her research, far from satisfying her curiosity, had piqued it. Far from answering her questions, it had simply raised more.

      It was a challenge.

      What topped the ‘want’ list of the man who already had everything? What place did love have in his life? For a man so apparently driven by duty it seemed strange that he hadn’t done what was expected of him, married some suitably aristocratic woman and secured the succession.

      Or hadn’t he found anyone to match his own apparent perfection?

      It was, in the end, the very lack of any story that irritated her into action. Coupled with the knowledge that whoever broke through the icy façade to expose the real man would be an editorial favourite. All past mistakes forgiven.

      It had to be a façade, surely? No one could be that perfect.

      She’d messed up a promising career with a series of stupid blunders that had her spiralling down the ladder rather than climbing it, despite the hefty leg-up from her aunt. She had one last chance to redeem herself—she owed it to Jay to redeem herself—and that prickle of disquiet at the way his eyes had looked out of the magazine at her, seeming to taunt her with his invulnerability, suggested that this was the man to provide the story.

      Nonsense, of course. He wasn’t taunting her. He was invulnerable and he knew it.

      Nonsense it might be, but come evening she was standing outside his grand official London residence, staring up at tall, lighted, first-floor windows and wondering what he was doing up there.

      Living up to his public relations image and working late into the night on matters of state?

      Watching sport on the television, feet up, his supper on a tray after a hard day doing whatever it was that autocratic rulers did?

      Best of all—career-wise—would be if he were entertaining, very discreetly, some lovely young woman.

      A royal romance was always news. If she broke that story she’d be a media heroine overnight.

      Not that a discreet young woman would go through the front door for everyone to see. She’d probably be driven into the mews at the rear, well away from prying eyes.

      She crossed the road to check it out, her well-rehearsed ‘stray kitten’ story ready, just in case she was challenged by a security guard. As she hesitated at the entrance to the cobbled lane, wondering what on earth she thought she was doing, she heard something drop to the ground ahead of her.

      A small bag.

      She glanced up. Something darker was moving against the lighter stone of the building.

      Not something. Someone.

      Hardly the prince’s light of love, not climbing down a drainpipe. It had to be a burglar making off with state papers, or jewels. Imagination in overdrive, she took off down the lane without a thought for her own safety and launched herself at the shadowy figure as it jumped lightly to the ground, bringing the miscreant down with a flying rugby tackle.

      They hit the cobbles, and Laura’s initial intention to yell for help was thwarted by the fact that she was momentarily winded. Besides, the burglar was making enough noise for both of them. Except it immediately became apparent that this wasn’t any ordinary burglar. Not if the high-pitched yell of fright was anything to go by.

      This burglar was a girl, slight of figure and terribly young. And then, as her face was lit up by passing car headlights, she realised that she wasn’t any ordinary girl, either. It was a face she’d seen during her research on Prince Alexander. His niece. His sister’s youngest daughter, Princess Katerina Victoria Elizabeth.

      ‘Oh, sugar,’ she said.

      The young princess, less restrained, was venting her feelings with scatological exactitude. ‘I suppose you’re Xander’s idea of a watchdog?’ she demanded, once she’d thoroughly relieved her feelings.

      Xander? ‘Oh, you mean His Serene Highness. Er, well—’

      ‘He’ll give you the Order of Merit for this, I shouldn’t wonder. Second class.’

      She stowed her curiosity as to the number of classes the Order of Merit boasted and, playing for time, went for stupid. ‘Sorry?’

      ‘In gratitude for breaking my ankle.’ And she moaned. ‘It’s the one guarantee that I won’t be doing this again any time soon.’

      ‘You’ve broken your ankle?’

      ‘No,’ she said, and moaned again. Louder. ‘You did that. When you flattened me.’

      Stupid was right. ‘Oh, good grief. I’m so sorry, but I thought you were a burglar,’ Laura said, belatedly scrambling to her knees and taking a closer look. Princess Katerina was wearing a pair of serious boots—eighteen-hole jobs. Good support for her injured ankle, but they made an examination of the injury impossible. ‘Are you sure it’s broken?’ she asked, desperately hoping it might just be a bad sprain. ‘Which one is it?’

      ‘Does it matter?’ the princess demanded. Then, ‘It was the right ankle, okay? And of course I’m sure it’s broken. I felt it crack.’ She tried to sit up and cried out as she fell back.

      Laura felt sick. ‘Can you get up? You need to get inside as quickly—’

      ‘Of course I can’t get up!’

      ‘If I help you up? You could lean on me—’

      ‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage? Look, just get some help, will you?’

      The story of her life, she thought, pulling out her cellphone. ‘I’d better call an ambulance—’

      ‘No!’ She lifted her head. ‘Go to the house and ask for Karl. Tell him Katie sent you. And don’t tell anyone else what’s happened.’

      Laura stripped off her jacket, folded it and tucked it beneath the girl’s head and shoulders. ‘I don’t like leaving you here on your own.’

      ‘I’ll be fine. Trust me. I’m not going anywhere.’

      ‘No. Look, I’m really sorry—’ The girl’s wince of pain as she lay back on the jacket brought her apologies to a premature end. ‘I’m going.’

      The princess caught her hand. ‘Just bring Karl,’ she gasped, her face screwed up with pain. ‘No one else. He’s known me