Prince of Midtown / Marriage, Manhattan Style: Prince of Midtown

She swallowed and lifted her nightgown from a hanger. She’d splurged on a gauzy white cotton gown, trimmed with lace, that seemed appropriate for sleeping in a palace.

In front of the magnificent silk-draped bed, however, her nightgown looked more suitable for a milkmaid.

She changed, washed her face at the polished brass basin in the bathroom and brushed out her hair.

She stood for a moment at one of the long windows, holding the heavy drape back. Pale moonlight poured onto the floor at her feet, making the mosaic sparkle.

She climbed onto the cloudlike softness of the high bed, under the layered canopy.

She really should call Patrick in New York. She’d promised to let him know she arrived safely. He’d insisted on knowing every detail of her itinerary so he could get in touch with her at any time.

He was just like that. Caring.

But surely he wouldn’t mind if she called first thing in the morning?

It was nearly nine when Tessa finally awoke and peered at her watch in the curtained gloom. She could hear noise outside the windows, the distant honking of car horns, the mutter of conversations, even a clatter of hooves.

She sprang off the bed and hurried to the window. Bright golden sunshine streamed in as she parted the curtains.

Wow.

The room had a magnificent view over the city. Whitewashed buildings clung to the hillsides, their simple, organic shapes suggesting that they’d been there almost as long as the land itself.

The procession of crisp, white walls descended gradually toward a wide bay. Long seawalls created from massive stone blocks encompassed the harbor like two welcoming arms, the sea within them as calm as a pond.

The whole effect was like something out of an ancient myth. She half expected to see Helen of Troy sail into the harbor on a trireme rowed by a hundred oarsmen.

But modern life intruded cheerfully on the ancient splendor. Cars wound up and down the hill toward the harbor. Laughter and the strains of a Madonna hit mingled with the song of birds that fluttered back and forth between tall cypress trees.

Her cell chimed and vibrated on the dresser. She rushed to grab it. Patrick.

“Hi.”

“I’ve been worried sick. I even checked the airline flight data to see if there were reports of an accident. Why didn’t you call?”

“Oh, we got here so late and I was tired. It’s sweet of you to worry, but really, I’m fine.”

“Do you have your own room?”

She laughed. “No, I’m in the harem with all the king’s wives.” He didn’t laugh back. “Of course I have my own room, silly. And it’s so beautiful. But I’m not sure my blow-dryer will work here.”

“Do be careful of the voltage. You never know what to expect with foreign wiring. I am worried about you being all alone in a foreign country.”

“I’m not alone. I’m with Sebastian.” “I know.”

When she finally got Patrick off the phone with assurances that she had not been killed in a midair collision or sold into slavery, she had a quick shower. As she suspected, her dryer was a useless lump of plastic and metal since the wall outlet was a different shape than her plug. She towel dried her hair as best she could and was putting moisturizer on her face when she heard a knock on the door.

She almost dropped the bottle. “Come in?” The uncertainty in her own voice made her even more nervous.

The door flung open. Sebastian stood silhouetted against the bright corridor. “I trust you slept well.” His soft voice wrapped around her like the warm morning breeze.

“I did.” She pushed back a hank of her still-damp hair. “I can’t get over how lovely it is here.”

He smiled. “You’ve seen nothing yet. Come, eat.” He held out his arm for her to take it. He wore a collarless white linen shirt. Tailored black pants added to the impression of casual elegance.

Not that she cared what her boss wore.

Tessa walked across the room, the skirt of her pale green dress swishing around her legs, then matched his long stride down the colonnaded hallway.

He directed her into another wide, bright chamber. Floor-to-ceiling frescoes depicted a magnificent procession of men and horses, pennants flying.

Tessa tugged her gaze from the art and focused on the other people in the room. A middle-aged man and woman sat at one end of a long, white stone table.

“Mama, this is Tessa, my New York assistant.”

The woman rose from her carved chair, tall and graceful, her silver hair pulled back into a chignon. She held out a heavily ringed hand and Tessa hurried forward to shake it.

“It’s an honor,” murmured Tessa, attempting a curtsey.

This was The Queen.

“And this is my dad.”

Tessa shook his offered hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty.”

Maybe he heard her voice shake, but the king patted her hand gently and looked at her with the kindest eyes she’d ever seen. “The pleasure is all mine, my dear.”

He also had silver hair, with patches of black above his ears that indicated it must once have been as dark as Sebastian’s.

“What’d the cook rustle up for us this morning?” Sebastian reached forward and grabbed a rasher of bacon, then popped it in his mouth. “Mmm.” He pulled out a chair for Tessa, directly opposite the queen. She slid into it as gracefully as she could.

A plate materialized in front of her immediately, borne by a silent servant.

“Do help yourself, dear,” the queen said in perfect, British-accented English. “If you don’t see anything you like, we can have something prepared.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary, it all looks marvelous.”

Tessa had no appetite whatsoever in the presence of three crowned heads—including Sebastian. She’d never paid much attention to his being a prince before, perhaps because the whole concept of royalty seemed rather alien back in the States. Amidst the splendor of the royal palace, however, it was impossible to forget.

Sebastian offered her various dishes, and she took a small amount of each. Eggs scrambled with herbs, freshly baked rolls covered in fragrant sesame seeds, crispy bacon and spicy sausages, fresh peaches and plums, sliced and laid in an interwoven pattern, and a dish of creamy yogurt with sweet, golden honey.

“Tessa, what part of the States are you from?” The queen’s question had a tone of mild interrogation.

“Connecticut.”

“A lovely state. Are you near Greenwich?”

“Yes, very close.” In geography. In lifestyle, though, a million miles.