“You’re Maggie, right? I’m Victoria McCallan, secretary, fellow American and your guide to all things royal. Victoria, never Vicki, although honestly I can’t say why. It started when I was little. I think I was in a mood and I haven’t gotten over it.”
Victoria smiled as she spoke. She was a few inches shorter than Maggie, even in her insanely high heels. She wore a tailored blouse tucked into a short, dark skirt. Her skin was perfect, her nails long and painted and her hair curled to her shoulders. She was the very essence of everything female. Maggie suddenly felt tall and awkward. Not to mention seriously underdressed in her jeans and T-shirt. She didn’t want to imagine what Victoria would think about the coveralls she had in her duffel.
“You are Maggie, aren’t you?”
“Most days.”
Victoria laughed. “Welcome to the palace. It’s great here.”
“Is there a map?”
“If only. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been lost. We need internal GPS or something. They could implant us with a chip and track us.” She wrinkled her nose. “On second thought, maybe not. Are you really here to fix a car?”
“Work on one. I’m restoring an old Rolls-Royce.” She thought about going into more detail, but figured the other woman’s eyes would glaze over.
“On purpose?”
“It’s not going to happen otherwise.”
“I never got the car thing.”
Maggie looked at Victoria’s perfect outfit. “I never got the clothes thing. I hate shopping.”
“I shop enough for two so you’re covered. Come on. I’ll show you the way.”
Victoria waited while Maggie grabbed her duffel.
“Do I want to know what’s in there?” the other woman asked.
Maggie thought about her personal tools and coveralls. “No.”
“Good to know. The El Deharian palace was originally built in the eighth century. There are still parts of the old exterior walls visible. I can show you later, if you’d like. The main structure is broken down into four quadrants, much like the interior of a cathedral, but without the religious implication. There is artwork from around the world on display. At any given time, the paintings alone are valued at nearly a billion dollars.”
Victoria pointed to a painting on a wall. “An early Renoir. Just a little FYI, don’t even think about taking it back to your room for a private viewing. It’s protected by a state-of-the-art security system. However, if you insist on trying, rumor is they’ll take you down to the dungeon and cut off your head.”
“Good to know,” Maggie murmured. “I don’t know much about art. I’ll keep it that way. How do you know so much about the palace?”
“I like to read. There’s a lot of great history here. Plus I’ve been asked to fill in a few times when foreign dignitaries want a private tour after dinner when the regular tour staff has gone home.”
“You live here—in the palace?”
“Just down the hall. I’ve been here nearly two years.” She paused at a staircase. “Look at that hideous baby in the painting.” She pointed to a large oil painting on the wall. “It’s the easiest way to remember your wing and floor. Trust me, most of the other art is much more attractive.”
“Good to know.”
Victoria started down the stairs. “As live-in staff you’re entitled to a whole bundle of goodies. Free laundry, access to the kitchen. I will warn you that you have to be careful with the food. You can really pack on the pounds in a heartbeat. I gained the freshman fifteen when I first moved here. Now I make sure I walk everywhere.”
Maggie eyed her high heels. “In those?”
“Of course. They go with my outfit.”
“Don’t they hurt?”
“Not until about four in the afternoon.”
Victoria led her downstairs, then along a long corridor that led to the rear garden. At least Maggie thought it was the rear garden. It looked a little like what she and Qadir had passed through the day before.
“Back to the kitchen,” Victoria said. “You can call in your request at any time. They do post a menu online, so if you want to just order from that, they’ll love you more. Everything is delicious. Unless you want to weigh four hundred pounds, avoid the desserts.” She looked at Maggie. “Of course, you’re probably one of those annoying women who doesn’t have to watch what she eats.”
“I’m pretty physically active during my day,” Maggie admitted.
“Great. And here I thought we’d be friends.” She pulled a key out of her skirt which, apparently, had a pocket, and passed it over. “You have private access. Very impressive.”
She waited while Maggie unlocked the side door, then they stepped into the massive garage.
Victoria paused by the door as the automatic lights came on, but Maggie walked directly to the Rolls, stopping only when she could touch the smooth lines of the perfect beauty.
Victoria paused behind her. “It’s, um, old.”
“A classic.”
“And dirty. And kind of in bad shape. You can fix that?”
Maggie nodded, already visualizing what the car could be. “I’m going to be searching for original parts, if I can find them. It will be a pain, but in the end, I want her exactly as she was.”
“Okay, then. Sounds like fun.” Victoria walked to a door. “This is your office.”
Office? Maggie had expected a bay in the garage and a toolbox. She got an office, too?
The space was large, clean and fully equipped. In addition to the desk with a computer, there were bookshelves filled with catalogs and a wall-size tool organizer.
Victoria opened the desk drawer and pulled out a credit card. “Yours. You are allowed to get whatever you need for the car. Qadir has placed no restrictions on your spending. I’m thinking you’ll want to avoid a trip to the Bahamas, however. What with the whole beheading thing.”
Maggie laughed. “Thanks for the tip. Is this really for me?”
“All of it. I was in here late yesterday and set up your computer. You’re already connected to the Internet.”
“Thanks.” Maggie had been excited about the job before—working on the Rolls would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience for her. But to have all this, too, was unbelievable. “Guess I’m not still in Kansas.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
“Colorado. Aspen.”
“It’s supposed to be beautiful there.”
“It is.”
“How’d you end up in El Deharia?” Victoria asked. As she spoke, she rested one hip on the desk.
Maggie figured with those shoes, she would want to stay off her feet as much as possible.
“My dad had talked to Qadir about restoring the car. They were still working the deal when my dad got sick. Cancer. Things were put on hold, then he died and I decided I wanted the job.”
It was the simple version of the story, Maggie thought, not wanting to tell someone she’d barely met that she had been forced to sell the business to pay for medical bills and that this job with Prince Qadir was her only chance of keeping her promise to her father about buying it back.
“I’m sorry about your loss,” Victoria said. “That has to be hard. Is your mom still alive?”
“No. She died when