writer. He’d been angry when she had not followed through on her teaching degree, ignored the fact she had obtained at least a little success in her chosen field. Now he’d told Crenshaw any old clerical position would do. She didn’t want to think about the fact if she did not turn up a contract soon that might be true. She hoped she would never be desperate enough to work in this bleak place.
“No thanks,” she said firmly.
Crenshaw looked insulted, shot Montague one more look loaded with resentment, and then said, “Well, excuse me, Your Royal Holiness. If that’s all, I have business elsewhere.”
“Good,” Damon Montague said evenly, not rising to the bait of being addressed with such officious incorrectness. “I thought you might.” He did not turn away from the counter until Crenshaw had scuttled away, and closed the door behind himself. “How unfortunate that a man like that ends up a police officer. He needs to be reminded he has taken an oath to protect and serve, not bully and insult.”
He turned back to Rachel with a wry smile that gave lie to the lethal anger she had seen in his eyes only moments ago.
“He’s always been somewhat disagreeable,” she said.
“He said he was a family friend.”
“I think our definitions of friendship differ,” she said. “He was a student of my father’s many years ago. My father is the headmaster at Thortonburg Academy. They’ve been friends for many years.”
He nodded, then said softly, “Will you allow me to see you home? Please?”
It really seemed too ludicrous that Prince Damon Montague, eldest child of Prince Charles Montague of Roxbury, was begging to take her home.
It was a gift, really. A page pulled out of a fairy tale and dropped at her feet, humbly clad, no glass slippers. Only a fool would say no.
“No,” she said. Even Cinderella had the good sense to run.
“I really can’t allow you to drive in the condition you’re in.”
“I’m not in bad condition!”
He laced his fingers through hers, briefly, and they both felt the trembling. Only one of them knew that she was no longer trembling out of shock and fear, but from the awakening of a heart, long left sleeping, now shaking off its slumber.
As if she’d been kissed by a prince.
You are mixing your fairy tales, Rachel, she told herself sternly.
“Do you have any authority in Thortonburg?” she asked, hiding in her teasing note the quaking of her heart, ordering herself fiercely not to overreact to a random act of kindness from a stranger.
He laughed, and the sound of it was rich and warm, and made her very aware that her life, aside from the pure joy of Carly, had become bleak and worry-filled. At times the drudgery of working and caring for a baby, trying to stretch limited funds and even more limited time, made her feel strung as tight as a bow string about to launch an arrow.
“I don’t think so. I just want to play knight to your damsel in distress. What do you say?”
No wonder this encounter was catching her so off guard. She was vulnerable. Still, she could not say no again. It had taken too much to do it the first time, used every ounce of her will power. She surrendered. “I’d like a ride home very much, Prince Montague.”
“My friends call me Damon.”
“I don’t think we qualify as friends.”
“Maybe not yet. But we will.”
He said this so easily that she felt the warmth rush up her cheeks. Really, she was just a common girl. She was not spectacular to look at, nor wildly witty and outgoing. There was nothing about her that was going to interest royalty, to make him want to be her friend, even casually. She needed to remember that.
She went ahead of him. As they passed the man who still sat slumped in the chair, Prince Montague reached out a hand and squeezed that defeated shoulder for an instant. The man sat up straighter, managed a smile. Then the prince placed one hand on her shoulder. The fabric of her coat was light, and she could feel the heat from his hand, the utter strength of the man reflected in the sureness of his grip. He guided her down the steps and to the sleek black Jaguar parked at the meters right outside the police station. A white notice was tucked under the windshield wipers.
“What do you want to bet our friend lost no time in running right out here to give this to me?” he asked, slipping it into his pocket without looking at it.
She shot a worried look across the street at her little red Volkswagen. How much was a parking ticket these days? Her budget was already stretched to breaking with the move back here to Thortonburg, and the fact she had not yet found a contract. But there was no telltale white slip on her windshield.
“I should just go put some change in my meter,” she said. “I—”
“Never mind,” he said. “I’ll look after it.”
Rachel took fierce pride in her independence. In the fact she had never asked anyone for help since Carly was born. Why did it feel so good to have someone say that? They would look after it?
For once, she would swallow her foolish pride and accept. Just for tonight, she would let herself believe in the fairy tale.
“Thank you,” she said. There. Three times. Now she owed him her life.
She wondered what it was like to be born into a family that had more money than several generations of them could spend. She wondered, as he held the door open for her and she slid into the deep leather luxury of the seats, what it felt like never to worry about money, to have as much to spend on a car as it would take to buy the small cottage that she dreamed of for herself and Carly. She had been squirreling away tiny amounts of cash toward that end since Carly had been born. But it suddenly occurred to her Carly could be a mother of three herself before she could save enough on her tight budget.
The car started with a rich purr that became a throaty growl as he put it in gear and pulled smoothly into traffic.
* * *
He found her utterly beautiful, the woman who sat beside him. Her hair, shoulder length, cut perfectly to frame the loveliness of her face, was a rich blend of colors that he did not think the term auburn did justice. Her eyes were the spectacular color of the purest jade. Her nose was small and neat and her mouth was sweet and vulnerable. There was a hint of stubbornness in the tilt of her chin.
She wore hardly a trace of makeup and the scent that wafted his way was clean and pure—soap, rather than perfume.
Her clothing, a navy blue trench coat over a white skirt and matching pumps, was plain and yet tasteful. Her hair was tucked behind her ears, and there were little white drops that matched the skirt attached to tiny earlobes.
Earlobes that begged a man’s lips to nuzzle them.
The thought shocked Damon Montague. Sergeant Crenshaw might not have been delicate about it, but he was right. Since the death of Damon’s wife just over a year ago, he’d been walking in a fog, held in the grip of a grief so deep, he was convinced it would never heal. Of course, it wasn’t just the loss of his wife.
Sharon had died bearing their first child, a son. The infant, perfectly formed, a tiny, angelic replica of Sharon, had died, too.
He knew that people thought he had everything. And once that might have been true. But the fact was, tragedy had made him long to be the most ordinary of men. Because money, position, prestige—none of it could buy him out of this place he was in. A place of feelings so raw and overwhelming, he did not know what to do with them. All his position had done was put his grief in a harsh spotlight, for viewing by the likes of Crenshaw. And now his position was making demands on him to get better. Get over it. Get on with life. Do his duty.
Even tonight, he’d come by private ferry from his