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Otherwise...was she prepared to give up everything she’d worked so hard for to save her brother’s bacon? Again?
Oh, God, she hoped it wouldn’t come to that. She just had to pray that in this magical season of giving, the rat discovered he had a heart, and the nutcracker went on vacation.
But she wasn’t counting on it. This might be the time for miracles, but Claire had stopped believing in those long ago. She’d never been the type to fantasize about some rich Prince Charming galloping in on his white steed to take care of all her problems. And she sure didn’t expect one now.
* * *
“MY PRINCE, please reconsider. We can’t possibly live here.”
Philip Nadir, crowned prince of the Kingdom of Selandria of the Dry Lands, heard the dismay in the voice of his loyal but fastidious companion, Shelby, and smiled. “Of course we can, and we shall. This will do quite well,” he said as he watched his bodyguard, Phateen—also called Teeny—enter, muscling a mattress through the doorway. “Perhaps we should leave that until Shelby clears away the debris on the floor?” he suggested, remembering the condition of the small sleeping chamber, which he’d seen on a tour of the building yesterday.
“Until who clears away the debris?” the man squealed.
“Are you saying I should do it?”
“Of course not, my prince. But I can’t be expected to...”
Quirking a brow, Philip stared at Shelby, who was almost as spoiled as Philip was accused of being, and harder to please. A cousin, Shelby had come to visit when they were children, and had never left. Most looked upon him as a servant; Philip called him friend. But he could be—how did they say it?—high maintenance.
“Do you want to go back to Elatyria?”
A rueful frown pulled at the other man’s face. He had been adamant that he be allowed to come along on this quest—Philip’s last chance to find a woman he could love, who would love him for himself—but so far he wasn’t acting very happy about it.
“No, Your Highness. But surely a scullery wench...”
“We’re supposed to be poor, struggling students. Poor people can’t afford to hire, uh, I believe the term is cleaning ladies.”
Shelby huffed. Never having been to this world before, he was having difficulty adjusting, daunted by the tall buildings, the crowds, the frantic pace and the lack of subservience.
Philip, on the other hand, was having the time of his life.
Though he’d been raised in Elatyria, he was fond of Earth, a world that somehow existed, as his father’s sorcerer described it, “One plane over from our reality.” He had been here a few times before, but only with guards and servants.
He had never been one to complain about the weight of his responsibilities, and had been the first to appreciate the benefits that came with being the bachelor prince of one of the richest kingdoms in his world. But until now he’d never understood the joy of walking down a public thoroughfare and being jostled by strangers, or of flipping a worthless piece of paper at someone and being given something called a hot dog. Escaping his usual retinue for this quest to find his bride was giving him the chance to be completely free. And what better time than during one of the most popular holiday seasons of this world? New York was bedecked with lights and decorations, and populated by happy, smiling people. He loved it already.
Shelby toggled a button on the wall that was supposed to send light flooding out of the ceiling. “Why won’t this work?”
“Hmm.” Philip walked over and tried it himself. Nothing happened.
Though it was only late afternoon, the shadows of evening were drawing close. The air was chilly, so apparently the heating apparatus wasn’t working. He wasn’t used to cold weather, being from a dry, desertlike kingdom, but knew he could “rough it,” as the locals said, for a night or so. But Shelby was another story.
“I’ll go downstairs and talk to the innkeeper,” he declared, wanting to confirm a few more details with that man, a Mr. Freddy Hoffman. Philip had thought Hoffman would be here today for their move-in. But he had seen neither hide nor hair of him since yesterday, when Philip had met him and paid a month’s rent, plus something called “security,” for both the second-floor living units, one for him, one for Shelby and Teeny.
“Do start working on the debris, won’t you?” Philip said as he exited.
He walked down the dingy corridor to the back stairway. If he wasn’t mistaken, Mr. Hoffman had said this stairwell led to the first-floor shop and the owner’s apartment.
Moving carefully down the steps, he frowned, feeling the sag of the boards beneath his feet and hearing their noisy creaks. He reached the bottom level, coming to a long, narrow hallway, shadowy and cluttered. At the far end was a door that led outside to a back alley. In the opposite direction was the front entrance to the building. In between were two other doors, the nearest marked Private. Another, closer to the front, was marked I Want Candy: Deliveries.
From behind it he could hear music. The sound grew louder as he approached, so he knocked once, then pushed the door open.
The music was much louder in here, and the smooth-voiced female singer was purring to someone she called Santa Baby, inviting him to leave her gifts. Philip placed the reference, though he was unaccustomed to hearing seductive songs about Santa Claus, a character most thought an American invention. But who, Philip knew, actually resided in one of the icy northern kingdoms of Elatyria.
Suddenly, that sultry tone was made sultrier by the addition of another female voice. He couldn’t help moving into the main part of the large kitchen, intrigued by the throaty, feminine sound. He didn’t see a duo of women performing, only the one. The instrumentation, and the first voice, emerged from a small electronic box. The other singer stood in front of a tall counter that was laden with sweets, and was singing along as she worked.
Singing very well. Working very hard.
Looking utterly beautiful.
Philip was used to the perfection of princesses who would never be seen without elaborately coiffed hair or elegant, bejeweled gowns. Who would never allow a potential suitor to behold them in a state like this. But never had he seen a woman who so immediately appealed to him on such a deep, visceral level.
Her mass of dark brown hair strained to free itself from a haphazard bun, a few tendrils brushing her high cheekbones. The face was arresting—not perfect, he supposed, but very attractive, with soft cheeks, a pert nose, and a wide, sensuous mouth. Her eyes were deep-set, green or blue, and ringed with thick, dark lashes, and her high brow furrowed as she concentrated on a tricky bit of work she was doing on a delicacy before her.
She continued to sing, and as she finished dabbling some icing on a sweet, she added a toss of her head and a swivel of her hips in time with the beat.
The toss caught his attention, making him wonder if all that glorious hair would tumble down about her shoulders. The swivel kept his attention, for he hoped it would be repeated.
Because, oh, did the woman have swiveling hips. She was incredibly curvaceous. The smock she wore over her simple clothing emphasized the smallness of her waist compared to the curve of her hips and backside. Not to mention the fullness of her breasts, the tops of which peeked above the apron.
She was also tall—very tall, compared to most women in his world—and if they were to stand facing each other, their noses would almost touch. Other parts would line up equally well. Some of those other parts reacted to that thought, until his newly purchased “Jean” pants—who Jean was and why men’s pants were named after her, he did not know—began to tighten.
The stranger crooned even louder, and Philip couldn’t help thinking about what he’d like to slip her under her tree. Before he could clear his throat to warn her of his presence, she turned to retrieve something, and saw him standing there watching her.
“Oh, my God!” she cried, dropping a chocolate-smeared spoon onto the counter. Immediately backing up, she almost tripped over her own feet, and began looking around the room, as if wanting a sharp implement with which to defend herself.
“My apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, lifting both hands in a gesture he’d learned meant No harm, no foul, though what that expression meant, exactly, he wasn’t sure. Still, it seemed appropriate for the situation.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“I’m seeking Mr. Hoffman. Freddy Hoffman.”
She studied him, her gaze dropping to his shoulders and chest, assessing. Well used to female appreciation, Philip allowed a slight smile to begin curving his lips.
She, on the other hand, began to frown. In fact, a scowl tugged at her beautiful face, as if she were most displeased with his appearance. That, he was not used to. One of his brows shot up in surprise. Though not a vain man, he was certainly not accustomed to disdain from women.
“You’re him, right?”
“I believe you mean to say ‘You’re he.’”
