Chapter One
Prince Philippe Montvidant was exactly the kind of man Ella Jamison despised. Not that she’d actually met him. Even so, a quick scan of the tabloids told her all she needed to know about him. Rich. Womanizing. Shallow. And all too attractive. Four reasons to hate him. She knew all about men like him, men who took and used and didn’t care. She had no desire to make his acquaintance, but unfortunately it was a professional necessity.
Sighing, she leaned back against the seat of the limo that was taking her to JFK Airport and flipped through the file of information she’d compiled on the prince for her boss, architect Chase Bryant. He had submitted a bid to design a luxury hotel on Montvidant’s unspoiled Mediterranean coast—and
he
was the one who was supposed to meet the royal at the airport and take him out to dinner. But earlier today, Chase had called Ella at the office.
“I’m tied up this afternoon, Ella. You’ll have to meet Prince Philippe yourself.”
“Tied up? He’s your biggest potential client—”
“I know that.” Chase’s usual easy humor had been replaced with a surprising curtness. “Something came up. You’ll have to do it.”
“I could arrange a limo service—”
“Every major firm in the city wants this bid. I can’t risk giving any of them access to the prince. You need to be on him, Ella.”
“On him,” she repeated, disliking the images those words called to mind.
“On him. Like a tick on a dog.”
“Lovely.”
“I try.”
She smiled, glad to hear her boss’s good humor briefly restored, even though she was still uneasy about accepting this assignment. She’d rather not get too close to a man like Prince Philippe, but she was utterly committed to her job. After all, it was pretty much the only thing she’d had in her life for the past four years, the only thing she felt she’d made a success of. “You’re still on for dinner at the Mandarin at eight, right?”
“Yes,” Chase said after a second’s pause. “Just get him to his hotel.”
That should be simple enough, Ella told herself as the limo pulled up in front of the terminal and she hopped out. She was surprised that the prince was traveling by commercial airline. Trying to prove to the masses he was just like everyone else, she thought cynically.
The plane from Paris—there were no direct flights to Montvidant—had only just landed, so Ella knew she had a few minutes to wait, even if the prince got special treatment and was hustled through Customs and Baggage Claim. She glanced disparagingly at a rack of newspapers, and saw a photo of Prince Philippe with not one but two bodacious blondes on his arm as he stood in front of a glittering casino. The Playboy Prince Visits the Big Apple!, the headline gushed.
A stream of people was emerging from Arrivals, and her gaze zeroed in on a tall, lithe man in an elegant gray suit, two burly dark-suited men walking three paces behind him. Prince Philippe and his security detail. Quickly—and more nervously than she would have liked—Ella stepped forward.
“Prince Philippe?”
He stopped midstride, quirked an eyebrow. “You are not Chase Bryant, I think.” His voice was low and faintly accented, his gaze both assured and assessing.
“No, I’m afraid Mr. Bryant has been delayed. My name is Ella Jamison, I’m his assistant.”
She stuck out a hand for the prince to shake, not sure if that was proper protocol, and he shook it. The warmth of his hand as it encased hers almost made her drop his hand and step back. Awareness tingled from her fingers, spreading a treacherous heat through her whole body. She determinedly ignored the sensation. Basic bodily reaction, that was all.
All she had to do was deliver this man to the hotel, then Chase would take over. She’d have done her job as successfully as she always did, and she wouldn’t spend any more time with the Playboy Prince. Simple, she told herself as he finally released her hand. It
Prince Philippe Montvidant was exactly the kind of man Ella Jamison despised. Not that she’d actually met him. Even so, a quick scan of the tabloids told her all she needed to know about him. Rich. Womanizing. Shallow. And all too attractive. Four reasons to hate him. She knew all about men like him, men who took and used and didn’t care. She had no desire to make his acquaintance, but unfortunately it was a professional necessity.
Sighing, she leaned back against the seat of the limo that was taking her to JFK Airport and flipped through the file of information she’d compiled on the prince for her boss, architect Chase Bryant. He had submitted a bid to design a luxury hotel on Montvidant’s unspoiled Mediterranean coast—and
he
was the one who was supposed to meet the royal at the airport and take him out to dinner. But earlier today, Chase had called Ella at the office.
“I’m tied up this afternoon, Ella. You’ll have to meet Prince Philippe yourself.”
“Tied up? He’s your biggest potential client—”
“I know that.” Chase’s usual easy humor had been replaced with a surprising curtness. “Something came up. You’ll have to do it.”
“I could arrange a limo service—”
“Every major firm in the city wants this bid. I can’t risk giving any of them access to the prince. You need to be on him, Ella.”
“On him,” she repeated, disliking the images those words called to mind.
“On him. Like a tick on a dog.”
“Lovely.”
“I try.”
She smiled, glad to hear her boss’s good humor briefly restored, even though she was still uneasy about accepting this assignment. She’d rather not get too close to a man like Prince Philippe, but she was utterly committed to her job. After all, it was pretty much the only thing she’d had in her life for the past four years, the only thing she felt she’d made a success of. “You’re still on for dinner at the Mandarin at eight, right?”
“Yes,” Chase said after a second’s pause. “Just get him to his hotel.”
That should be simple enough, Ella told herself as the limo pulled up in front of the terminal and she hopped out. She was surprised that the prince was traveling by commercial airline. Trying to prove to the masses he was just like everyone else, she thought cynically.
The plane from Paris—there were no direct flights to Montvidant—had only just landed, so Ella knew she had a few minutes to wait, even if the prince got special treatment and was hustled through Customs and Baggage Claim. She glanced disparagingly at a rack of newspapers, and saw a photo of Prince Philippe with not one but two bodacious blondes on his arm as he stood in front of a glittering casino. The Playboy Prince Visits the Big Apple!, the headline gushed.
A stream of people was emerging from Arrivals, and her gaze zeroed in on a tall, lithe man in an elegant gray suit, two burly dark-suited men walking three paces behind him. Prince Philippe and his security detail. Quickly—and more nervously than she would have liked—Ella stepped forward.
“Prince Philippe?”
He stopped midstride, quirked an eyebrow. “You are not Chase Bryant, I think.” His voice was low and faintly accented, his gaze both assured and assessing.
“No, I’m afraid Mr. Bryant has been delayed. My name is Ella Jamison, I’m his assistant.”
She stuck out a hand for the prince to shake, not sure if that was proper protocol, and he shook it. The warmth of his hand as it encased hers almost made her drop his hand and step back. Awareness tingled from her fingers, spreading a treacherous heat through her whole body. She determinedly ignored the sensation. Basic bodily reaction, that was all.
All she had to do was deliver this man to the hotel, then Chase would take over. She’d have done her job as successfully as she always did, and she wouldn’t spend any more time with the Playboy Prince. Simple, she told herself as he finally released her hand. It
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