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Authors: Nora Roberts
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not have any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
CORDINA’S CROWN JEWEL
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Harlequin Books edition / 1992
InterMix eBook edition / January 2012
Copyright © 1992 by Nora Roberts.
Excerpt from
The Witness
copyright © by Nora Roberts.
All rights reserved.
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ISBN: 978-110-1-56822-4
INTERMIX
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To all the new princes and princesses in my family.
May you all grow up strong and live happily ever after.
Prologue
She was a princess. Born, bred and meticulously trained. Her deportment was flawless, her speech impeccable and her manners unimpeachable. The image she presented was one of youth, confidence and grace all wrapped up in a lovely and carefully polished package.
Such things, she knew, were expected of a member of Cordina’s royal family—at least in the public arena. The charity gala in Washington, D.C. was a very public arena. So she did her duty, greeting guests who had paid handsomely for the opportunity to rub elbows with royalty.
She watched her mother, Her Serene Highness Gabriella de Cordina, glide effortlessly through the process. At least her mother made it seem effortless, though she had worked as brutally hard as her daughter on this event.
She saw her father—so wonderfully handsome and steady—and her eldest brother who was serving as her escort for the evening, mingle smoothly with the crowd. A crowd that included politicians, celebrities and the very wealthy.
When it was time, Her Royal Highness Camilla de Cordina took her seat for the first portion of the evening’s entertainment. Her hair was dressed in a complicated twist that left her slender neck bare, but for the glitter of emeralds. Her dress was an elegant black that was designed to accent her willowy frame. A frame both she and her dressmaker knew was in danger of slipping to downright thin.
Her appetite was not what it had been.
Her face was composed, her posture perfect. A headache raged like a firestorm behind her eyes.
She was a princess, but she was also a woman on the edge.
She applauded. She smiled. She laughed.
It was nearly midnight—eighteen hours into her official day—when her mother managed a private word by sliding an arm around Camilla’s waist and dipping her head close.
“Darling, you don’t look well.” It took a mother’s sharp eyes to see the exhaustion, and Gabriella’s eyes were sharp indeed.
“I’m a bit tired, that’s all.”
“Go. Go back to the hotel. Don’t argue,” she murmured. “You’ve been working too hard, much too hard, I should have insisted you take a few weeks at the farm.”
“There’s been so much to do.”
“And you’ve done enough. I’ve already told Marian to alert security and see to your car. Your father and I will be leaving within the hour ourselves.” Gabriella glanced over, noted her son was entertaining—and being entertained by—a popular American singer. “Do you want Kristian with you?”
“No.” It was a sign of her fatigue that she didn’t argue. “No, he’s enjoying himself. Wiser to slip out separately anyway.” And quietly, she hoped.
“The Americans love you, perhaps a little too much.” With a smile, Gabriella kissed her daughter’s cheek. “Go, get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”
* * *
But it was not to be a quiet escape. Despite the decoy car, the security precautions, the tedium of winding through the building to a side entrance, the press had scented her.
She had no more than stepped out into the night when she was blinded by the flash of cameras. The shouts rained over her, pounded in her head. She sensed the surge of movement, felt the tug of hands and was appalled to feel her legs tremble as her bodyguards rushed her to the waiting limo.
Unable to see, to think, she fought to maintain her composure as she was swept through the stampede, bodyguards pressed on either side of her rushing her forward.
It was so horribly hot, so horribly close. Surely that was why she felt ill. Ill and weak and stupidly frightened. She wasn’t sure if she fell, was pushed or simply dived into the car.
As the door slammed behind her, and the shouts were like the roar of the sea outside the steel and glass, she shivered, her teeth almost chattering in the sudden wash of cool air-conditioned air. Closed her eyes.
“Your Highness, are you all right?”
She heard, dimly, the concerned voice of one of her guards. “Yes. Thank you, yes. I’m fine.”
But she knew she wasn’t.
Whatever might, and undoubtedly would be said, it hadn’t been an impulsive decision. Her Royal Highness Camilla de Cordina was not an impulsive woman.
She was, however, a desperate one.
Desperation, she was forced to admit, had been building in her for months. On this hot, sticky, endless June night it had reached, despite her efforts to deny it, a fever pitch.