A Prince of a Guy
by Eileen Dreyer
GENRE: Contemporary Romance
BLURB:
When New Yorker Casey Phillips visits the tiny country of
Moritania, she simply wants to see where her ancestors came from. Instead,
she's mistaken for a princess.
The
real princess has been kidnapped, and Crown Prince Eric von Lieberhaven insists
Casey—a dead ringer for the missing royal—step into the princess's shoes until
she can be freed.
As
Casey upends royal tradition, Eric finds himself hoping the cheeky American
never returns home. But can a secretary from Brooklyn really find happiness
with a prince?
EXCERPT:
Somewhere in the Alps,
1987
Twenty minutes later,
Casey occupied a chair in the little booth at the edge of Moritania while two
officers dressed like the Pope's Swiss Guards scuttled around trying to find
new and different ways to make her more comfortable. She assured them that
there was only so much comfort one could find at a border crossing. All she
succeeded in doing was making them look more miserable. But when she asked
whether the American consul was coming, or even a tow truck, all they did was
exchange worried little glances.
"Soon now, my
lady," the spokesman assured her, actually wringing his hands. "He
promised."
Casey shrugged again,
thinking that she was doing a lot of that, and crossed her legs, resettling her
wide denim skirt around her legs. Not exactly climbing clothes. But then, Julie
Andrews had done the Alps in a habit.
"This is real
Sound of Music country," she said, not really expecting an answer by now.
"Of course, you guys were probably raised on Wagner and Romberg."
No answer.
"Romberg,"
she repeated. "You know, Student Prince?"
"Cassandra, what
on earth are you up to now?"
Casey lifted her head
with a start at the sound of the new voice. Then her mouth dropped open and her
brain stalled. Now how had he snuck up on her?
The guards were
saluting now, and a new man stood in the doorway. Man? More like a miracle. He
was breathtaking, the kind of man she was sure she had never in her life run
into on the streets of Brooklyn. Clad in precisely pressed gray flannel slacks,
a hunter's jacket of tweed and leather and a wool sweater over a snow-white
shirt and navy blue tie, he looked more like an English lord gone to tour his
estate.
Tall, maybe six feet,
and slim. Athletic. Casey could imagine him on a polo pony or a yacht, the wind
sweeping through his golden-brown hair. He had a face that would have made Cary
Grant cry: long, with an aquiline nose, a strong chin and a well-bred brow. It
was a cultured face with eyes the color of a summer sky, although right now
that summer sky seemed a bit chilly. And it went with an actual English accent.
In the Alps.
A most practical
child, Casey had never been able to figure how Cinderella could have been swept
off her feet within the space of one dance. If this guy had been the one
wearing the tights, it would have made perfect sense. She was in love before
she even knew his name.
He turned briefly and
dispatched the guards with a gentle word. The relief on their features was
palpable as they straightened and departed.
"How did you do
that?" Casey asked, getting to her feet. "No matter what I did they
kept checking out their toes. It's kind of unnerving after awhile, ya know?"
Her guest considered
her with evident frustration. "When are you going to stop? You're not
going to make them better subjects by playing games with them. And you're
certainly playing havoc with my schedule."
"Thanks for the
interest," Casey said, smiling dryly. "What the hell are you talking
about?"
"And where in
heaven's name did you pick up that atrocious accent?"
Casey was bristling
now. "From my mother. She has one just like it. Listen, my car broke down
and I need a tow. And I forgot my passport back at the hotel. Otherwise I
wouldn't have had you paged. Are you with the American embassy?"
He straightened a
little, his head tilted at an angle of inspection. "Cassandra..."
"Nobody's called
me Cassandra since the nuns. Actually, they called me Mary Cassandra, but...”
She blinked, taken aback. “Wait. How did you know my name?" She shook her
head, the confusion mounting. "Listen, I'll tell you what. If you're not
with the embassy, just call me a tow or whatever. If this is an example of
Moritanian hospitality, I don't think I want to visit after all. I'd have more
fun in the Bronx on a Saturday night."
Casey had more to say.
Something about rudeness and insanity and lack of oxygen at high altitudes. She
never quite got it out. As she was speaking, the gentleman's eyes widened with
an incredulity that gave her pause. His mouth opened and he stepped up to her.
When he laid a hand under her chin and lifted it, she fell mute.
His eyes caught hers
and held them. His hand, graceful and strong, stilled her. With just that
contact, Casey found herself suffused with a sweet hesitation she'd never
known. A languid heat, as if his eyes were stealing her strength. She looked up
at him and forgot what she'd been about to say and why it had been important.
Hell, given a minute more and she'd forget her name and birthday.
"Bloody
hell," he breathed, his gaze suddenly sharpening. His eyes swept her
features, her attire, and then came back to rest on her face. "You're not
like her at all, are you? Not at all."
Casey couldn't seem to
drag her eyes away. "I... wouldn't know. Who?"
"Who are
you?"
"Casey Phillips.
Who are you?"
He actually opened his
mouth and closed it once before answering. "Eric von Lieberhaven."
Their voices had grown
soft somehow, intimate in the little room. It was Mr. Von Lieberhaven who broke
the spell first, pulling his hand away as if he'd been scalded. Casey saw him
rub it against his leg in what she was sure was an uncharacteristic gesture.
She wasn't sure how she knew. She just did.
"But why did they
call you?" she asked when he moved far enough away that she could breathe
again. "You never told me. Do you work for the American embassy? Or the
English embassy?"
The smile he gave her
was a bright one, rueful and wry. He had beautiful white teeth and a pattern of
crow's-feet from the sun and wind that imbued his smiles with an endearing
warmth. Casey smiled back without knowing why.
"No," he
assured her. "I am not with the embassy."
That fancy British
accent again. Not the kind you heard on BBC. The real posh one, just a bit
nasally. If he hadn't been standing right in front of her, Casey would have
tried to mimic it. It was the closest she'd been to traveling to other
countries before this.
What she really
wanted, she realized, was to get to know Eric von Whatever better. Fat chance,
from the looks of him. He looked as if he'd been afforded more in life than a
flat and a high school education.
Outside the phone
jangled, and one of the guards went to answer it.
"Your
Highness?"
Eric turned to him.
Casey gaped.
"Your what?"
Copyright Eileen
Dreyer
AUTHOR BIO:
New York Times bestselling, RWA Hall of Fame author Eileen
Dreyer has published 31 romance novels in most genres, 8 medicalforensic
suspenses, and 10 short stories.
2015 sees Eileen enjoying critical acclaim for her foray into
historical romance, the Drake’s Rakes series, which Eileen labels as Regency
Romantic Adventure that follows a group of Regency aristocrats who are willing
to sacrifice everything to keep their country safe. She is also working on her
first nonfiction book, TRAVELS WITH DAVE, about a journey she's been taking
with a friend's ashes.
A retired trauma nurse, Eileen lives in her native St. Louis
with her husband, children, and
large and noisy Irish family, of which she is the reluctant
matriarch. She has animals but refuses to subject them to the limelight.
Giveaway:
$10 Amazon/BN GC
Follow the tour and comment; the more you comment, the better
your chances of winning.
0 comments:
Post a Comment