A Princess for Christmas. Shirley Jump

she insisted. “Or your coldhearted analysis of our town. Go find someplace else to expand your control of the world.”

      “Sorry. I’m here to stay.”

      The fist went back to her hip. She drew herself up, facing him down. Frustration colored her face. “Do not bother to unpack because you will not find anyone who will sell to you here. We all love Harborside just the way it is.”

      This woman didn’t have any idea what she was up against. This was going to be fun. A challenge. Something Jake hadn’t had in a long time.

      His pulse raced, and he found himself looking forward to the days ahead. To interacting with her especially. “I can be pretty persuasive, Miss Romano. We’ll see how you feel about holding onto that little gallery after you hear my arguments for selling.”

      “And I can be terribly stubborn.” She flashed him a smile of her own, one that held a hundred watts of power, but not a trace of neighborly greeting. “And you will never persuade me to sell so much as a coloring page to you.”

      Mariabella stood in her gallery and seethed. To think she’d found that man attractive!

      No longer. He clearly had some kind of plans for Harborside and for that, she wouldn’t give him so much as a single line in her social notebook. Christmas was only a few days away, surely the man would have somewhere to go—some fool who wanted to spend time with him over the holiday—and he could leave, taking his “investment” ideas with him.

      Her cell phone rang, the vibrations sending the slim device dancing across the countertop. Mariabella grabbed the phone, just before it waltzed itself right off the edge. “Hello?”

      “Mia bella! How are you?” her mother asked in their native language, one that was close to the Italian spoken in the country bordering their own country of Uccelli. Their small little monarchy, almost forgotten in Europe, had its own flavor, a mix of the heritages surrounding it.

      “Mama!” Immediately, Mariabella also slipped into her home language, the musical syllables falling from her tongue with ease. Mariabella settled onto the seat behind her and held the phone close, wishing she could do the same with her mother. “I’m fine. And you? Papa?”

      “Ah, we are about the same as always. Some of us are getting older and more stubborn.”

      Mariabella sighed. That meant nothing had changed at home. After all this time, Mariabella had hoped maybe her father had softened. Maybe he might begin to see his daughter’s need for independence, for a life away from the castle.

      He never had. He’d predestined his firstborn’s path from the moment she’d been conceived, and never considered another option.

      “But…” Her mother paused. “Your father is…”

      The hesitation caused an alarm to ring in Mariabella’s heart. Her mother, a strong, tall, confident woman never hesitated. Never paused a moment for anything. She had sat steadfast by her husband’s side for forty years as he led Uccelli, weathering the roller coaster of changes that came with a monarchy. She’d done it without complaint. Without a moment of wavering from her commitment.

      “Papa is what?”

      “Having a little heart trouble. Nothing to worry about. We have the best doctors here, cara. You know that.”

      The letter in her back pocket seemed to weigh ten times more than it had this morning. Her father’s demand that she return home immediately and take her rightful place in the family. She’d brushed it off when it had arrived, but maybe he’d sent the missive because his illness was worse than her mother was saying. Mariabella sent up a silent prayer for her father’s health. He’d always been so hearty, so indestructible. And now—

      “Is he going to be all right?”

      “He’ll be fine. Allegra has been wonderful about stepping in for him.”

      Her middle sister. The one who had always enjoyed palace life. Of the three Santaro girls, Allegra was the one who loved the state dinners, the conversations with dignitaries, the museum openings and policy discussions. She had sat by their father’s side for more state business than any of the Santaro women—and for naught, because as the second-born, she was not first in line for the throne.

      “I’m glad she’s there,” Mariabella said.

      “I am, too. Your father misses you, of course, but he is happy to have Allegra with him. For now.” Unspoken words hung in her mother’s sentence.

      Mariabella’s father had made it clear he expected his eldest to return and take her place as the heir to the throne. Allegra was merely a placeholder.

      Her father had voiced his displeasure several times about Mariabella’s choice to leave the castle and pursue her dream of painting. At first, he’d talked of disowning her, until her mother had intervened. He’d relented, and given her a deadline. She’d been given a little over a year and a half—the time between college graduation and her twenty-fifth birthday, in February—and then she had to return.

      Or—

      Abdicate the crown and give up her family forever.

      That was what her father had written. Choose the throne or be disowned. Mariabella hadn’t told her mother, and suspected neither had her father.

      “Don’t worry,” her mother said. “It will all be fine.”

      Easier said than done. She thought of her mother, and how worried Bianca Santaro must be about her husband. The miles between mother and daughter seemed to multiply. “I should come home. Be there for Christmas.”

      “I wish you could, cara. I would like nothing more than to have my daughter with me for Christmas.” Her mother sighed, and Mariabella swore she could hear her mother begin to cry.

      Half a world away, Mariabella’s heart broke, too. Christmas. Her favorite holiday, and Mama’s, too. The castle would already be decorated top to bottom with pine garlands and red bows. Christmas trees in every bedroom, set before every fireplace. None of them would top the giant tree, though, the twenty-five-foot beauty the palace’s landscaper searched far and wide to find, then set in the center hall.

      Every year, her mother personally oversaw the decorating of that tree, draping it in gold ribbons and white angel ornaments. And every year, it had been Mariabella’s job to hang the last ornament on that tree. To be the one to pronounce it finished, and then to turn on the lights, washing the entire hall in a soft golden glow, sending a chorus of appreciation through the audience of onlookers brought in from the city.

      But not this year. Or last year.

      No, she had been here, instead. Leaving her mother to handle Christmas with her sisters. Who had lit the tree? Who had hung that last decoration?

      “We will miss you,” her mother said softly, “but if you come back, you know what will happen.”

      Mariabella let out a sigh. “Yes.”

      She would be expected to step back into her role. To go back to being groomed and primped for a crown she neither wanted nor asked to be given.

      Because her father would not be convinced to let her go a second time. She knew that, as well as she knew her own name.

      “Stay where you are,” her mother said, as if reading her daughter’s mind. “I know what this time, as limited as it is, means to you.” Her mother’s gentle orders were firm.

      “Mama—”

      “Don’t argue with me, Bella. I sent you there. I know your father isn’t happy, but I will deal with him. You deserve a life outside of this…birdcage.”

      That was, indeed, how Mariabella had come to think of life back home. A cage, a gilded one she could look out of, but not escape. People could stare inside, see her and judge her, but never really know her.

      Then she’d come to Harborside