Crowned: The Palace Nanny (17 page)

‘And an island like Khryseis would support that how?'

‘I have no idea,' the doctor said sadly, and he turned to Elsa and smiled. ‘This man tries to save the world and I wish I could help him. But of course he's right. We can only do what we can do. So let's do that, young lady. We need to get your surgery scheduled. When?'

‘But you just said…'

‘I said the operation's not urgent. That means it doesn't have to be done as soon as possible. The only way to keep you pain-free is to give you so much opiate as to risk addiction, and I suspect you made the decision some time ago to live with the pain. But, because it's hurting, you're not weight-bearing evenly. That will cause long-term back problems. There's tenderness already in the lower spine and I'm concerned there'll be too much pressure on the muscles around the lower vertebrae. So when can we schedule surgery?'

‘We can't,' Elsa gasped.

‘I can be back here in seven weeks,' Stefanos said, ignoring her. ‘Can we schedule it just after Christmas?'

 

They left the hospital grounds without speaking. Elsa should have been furious. She tried to dredge up fury all the way to the shops. But instead she simply felt bleak. The cab stopped, Stefanos paid, she got out and looked around her—and she decided there and then to cheer up.

She was here shopping. For a gorgeous dress. This was obviously where the wealthy women of Athens shopped.

Indignation—and bleakness on Stefanos's behalf—would have to wait until later.

‘What are we waiting for?' she said. ‘Do you have the royal credit card?'

‘I believe I do.'

‘Then let's not let the little pet get cold,' she said and dived happily into the first shop.

 

It was as if her visit to the doctor had unleashed something in her that had needed to be unleashed for a long time.

Her exultation—dizzy bordering on hysteria—lasted until she was standing in front of a mass of mirrors wearing a gown that fitted her like a second skin, crimson silk, shimmering and lustrous, flecked with strands of glittering silver. The gown had shoestring straps, the bodice clinging and curving around her lovely body, then falling in generous folds to sweep the floor. She gazed into the mirror in incredulity. She met Stefanos's gaze in the mirror and stared at him as if he were part of the same fairy tale.

Then she seemed to come to earth with a crash. She dragged her gaze from his—and lifted the price tag.

And yelped.

‘We'll take it,' Stefanos said, and grinned as her mouth dropped open. He'd obviously put aside his bleakness as well. ‘One gown down, half a dozen to go—dear,' he said.

‘D…dear?' she spluttered.

‘Sorry…' he said, and smiled.

The salesgirl was looking on with incredulous delight. ‘You want more?'

‘Maybe the others don't need to be quite so formal,' Stefanos decreed. ‘But we do want at least three more. And what about some sexy lingerie to go with them?'

‘Sexy lingerie!'

‘It's in the royal nanny dress code,' he said, straight-faced. ‘Don't tell me you haven't read it?'

‘But I don't need…'

‘You do need.'

‘What about your Third World kids?' she demanded. ‘Don't you need all your money for them?'

‘They're not watching,' he said. ‘Quick, buy.'

‘Stefanos…'

‘Tell you what,' he said with magnanimity. ‘For every dollar you spend on your wardrobe I'll donate ten more to my Third World medical network. I can't say fairer than that, now can I? So if you refuse to spend, you're doing an orphan out of medical treatment.'

‘Stef…'

‘You want to start calling me Steve?' he asked, and suddenly his tone was gentle.

‘No,' she said and then, more strongly, ‘no. You're Stefanos. Prince Stefanos. And I'm the nanny. But I'm a nanny who won't say no to a dress or two.' Then she blushed. ‘Or…or even lingerie. But, Stefanos…'

‘Yes?'

‘You know when you stayed outside while I saw the doctor?'

‘Yes.'

‘Step outside, Your Highness,' she said, smiling sweetly. ‘In the interest of Third World aid, I need to discuss knickers.'

 

He'd booked them into a hotel. At first she was incredulous. The taxi dropped them outside the most lavish hotel she could imagine. She stared out at the ancient Grecian columns—how had they incorporated them into a modern hotel?—and then she gazed back at Stefanos.

For a moment she said nothing. And then…‘Ten times the cost to a Third World orphan?'

‘You have my word,' he said solemnly. ‘My orders are for you to have fun tonight. That's all I ask.'

‘I'll wear my second best frock,' she said. And then, more cautiously still, ‘I didn't think we were staying the night. I don't have a toothbrush.'

‘I believe these things are obtainable for a small fee,' he said. ‘Multiplied by ten, of course. And you did buy enough
lingerie to keep you respectable—or maybe not respectable—for a month.'

She blushed. ‘How did you know I bought…?' He'd been out of the shop. ‘How…?'

‘You gave me the receipt,' he told her. ‘So I could multiply by ten.'

‘Right,' she said and blushed some more. Then, ‘Okay. So I'll buy a toothbrush.' Then she had another thought and her blush moved from pink to crimson. But somehow she made herself sound stern. ‘But it's definitely separate rooms.'

‘Separate suites,' he corrected her.

‘Oh, of course,' she said and suddenly she giggled. ‘This is ridiculous.'

‘I have a feeling there hasn't been enough ridiculous in your life.'

‘I don't need it.'

‘You know, I'm very sure you do,' he said gently. ‘And maybe the same goes for me. Maybe we both need a good dose of crazy.'

 

They ate by candlelight in the hotel restaurant, with a view over all of Athens. A view to die for. Food to die for.

A man to die for.

The set-up was so corny she half expected an orchestra to materialise at any minute and strike up with
Love Me Tender
or something equally soppy. And, just as she thought it, a pianist slipped behind a grand piano and started playing. Not
Love Me Tender
—but close. She was wearing her second best dress, which was a fantasy of Audrey Hepburn proportions. Pale lemon silk with tiny white polka dots. Tiny waist, huge skirt. Cleavage.

She'd twisted her hair into a casual knot, trying for Audrey's look. She thought she looked a bit scruffy for the Audrey look, but Stefanos's long, lingering gaze when he'd come to her room to accompany her downstairs said she didn't look scruffy at all.

She was still nervous. Stupidly nervous.

‘Should we be talking politics?' she asked as the waiter brought them plate after plate of food she'd never tasted before but would taste forever in her dreams.

‘No politics.'

‘About Zoe, then.'

‘No children.'

‘About your medicine? My turtles?'

‘Nothing,' he said softly. ‘Just you.'

‘Well, there's a boring night,' she said, feeling breathless. ‘There's nothing to talk about there.'

‘We could dance,' he suggested as the pianist started a soft waltz in the background.

‘Right. And my hip?'

‘Let me dance for you,' he said. He stood up and held her hands and tugged her to her feet.

‘I can't.'

‘You can. Take your shoes off and put your feet on mine.'

‘That's ridiculous.'

‘Not ridiculous at all. Trust me, Elsa. Dance with me.'

Then he took her into his arms—and waltzed.

 

He moved with the effortless grace of a panther, a dancer who knew every move and who knew how to take her with him.

She hadn't danced since she'd injured her hip. She'd hardly danced before then, but it didn't matter.

Her feet were on his. He was holding her weight so her hip didn't hurt, so she could move with him, as one with him, in this slow and lovely dance, as if she weighed nothing.

How had she got herself here? She'd agreed to buy one dress and now…she was being seduced.

Seduced?

No. This was payola for what she'd agreed to do. He was giving her a very nice time.

And if it was seduction…She didn't care, she thought suddenly. What did it matter if her employer seduced her? Employers did these things. Princes did these things.

Um…no. Elsa Murdoch didn't do these things.

‘Did you dance with your husband?' he murmured into her ear…and the fairy tale stopped, right then, right there.

‘Pardon?' She froze in his arms. Her feet slipped off his, and she could have cried. She was on solid earth again and the lovely dance had ended.

‘I didn't mean…'

‘To remind me of Matty? I'm very sure you did.'

But he was looking confused. As if he'd been in a kind of dream as well.

‘I did dance with Matty,' she said, jutting her chin. ‘We danced very well.'

‘You loved Matty?'

‘With all my heart.'

‘And you grieve for him still?'

‘I…yes.' What was a girl to say to that, after all? But something went out as she said it—a light, an intensity in Stefanos's gaze.

And its going meant grief. How could she say she'd loved her husband but she was ready to move on?

How could she think it?

‘You'll dance again when your hip's healed,' he was saying softly.

‘I won't,' she muttered, coming back to earth with a crash. ‘I shouldn't.'

‘Elsa…'

‘I don't want to think about Matty,' she whispered. ‘Not here. Not with you.'

They were alone on the dance floor. There were maybe ten or so tables occupied, but the lights were low, the other two couples who'd danced with them to begin with had left, and there was now just the two of them. The pianist had shifted from waltz music to something soft and dreamlike and wonderful.

There was nothing between them. Only a whisper of breath. Only a whisper of fear.

‘Elsa…' he murmured, and her name was a question. His
hands slipped from the lovely waltz hold so they were in the small of her back.

‘Elsa,' he said for the third time, and he bent his head…and he kissed her.

It was a long, lingering kiss, deep and wonderful, hot and warm and strong, demanding, caressing, questioning.

It was a kiss like she'd never been kissed before.

She was standing in the middle of a dance floor, her arms around his neck and she was being kissed as she'd always dreamed she could be kissed.

She was being kissed as she'd wanted to be kissed all her life.

Matty
…

Stefanos himself had pulled her husband into the equation. He was with her still—maybe he always would be. His kisses had been just as wonderful, but different—so different, another dream, another life. He wasn't stopping her kissing right back.

This was the most wonderful dream. Her hip didn't hurt, her worries about Zoe were ended, she wasn't responsible for anything, for anything, for anything…

He was lifting her so he could deepen the kiss, cradling her, loving her and she thought her heart might well burst, as she realised she was so in love with him.

In love with him.

She, Elsa, was in love with a prince. Wasn't Cinderella only in story books?

And, almost as soon as the thought was with her, the spell was broken. People were…clapping?

She twisted, confused, within the circle of Stefanos's arms and found the tables of diners were all watching them, smiling, applauding.

‘It's Prince Stefanos from Khryseis,' someone called out in laughing good humour. ‘With the Princess's nanny.'

Oh, right. She pulled back as if she'd been burned and Stefanos let her go to arm's reach. But he was still smiling. Smiling and smiling.

‘Not the nanny,' he murmured. ‘Elsa.'

‘In your dreams,' she muttered and it was so close to what was real that she almost gasped. Not in his dreams. In
her
dreams.

‘Stefanos…'

‘I'm falling in love with you,' he said, simply and strongly and she gasped again.

‘You can't. I'm just…'

‘You're just Elsa. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever met.'