LITMIR.BIZ

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milling about the past month. Not because of how Carlos Montigo’s gaze had just shamelessly undressed her, and in response she’d thanked him with her best what happens on my last night in St. Michel stays in St. Michel smolder….

      Her cheeks burned, and she strengthened her resolve to resist temptation.

      “I thought you were coming back?” Sophie said. “We’ve been looking for you.” With her head, she gestured to Carson Chandler, who waited in the doorway. “Carson wants to talk to you.”

      Talk to me?

      Sophie had introduced Lindsay to Chandler earlier that week. Tonight, as she and Sophie walked toward him, he’d acknowledged her with a polite, “Good evening, Ms. Bingham. Lovely to see you.”

      Why did he want to talk to her?

      The billionaire media mogul had turned a travel guide business into an empire. Everyone knew his name. Sort of like how people knew of the Rockefellers or William Randolph Hearst.

      Sophie gave Lindsay a look and mouthed, surprise!

      “What?” Lindsay mouthed back.

      But Sophie ignored her, turning instead to Chandler. “Carson, would you do me a favor?”

      He smiled. “Certainly, your highness, your wish is my command.”

      “Will you dance with Lindsay? My handlers are beckoning.” Sophie rolled her eyes and gave her head a quick shake. “Don’t think I’ll ever get used to having handlers. Or, for that matter, the fact that I need to be handled.”

      She turned on a flourish of tulle and silk, leaving Lindsay and the older man alone. There was an awkward pause during which Lindsay’s mind spun. Carlos would be back any minute with the champagne. She couldn’t just leave without excusing herself. What kind of surprise could Carson Chandler have for her? He was handsome in an aloof, moneyed way, but then again didn’t all men look gorgeous in white tie? Still, he was old enough to be her grandfather. She resisted the urge to fidget, or worse yet, glance around for Carlos.

      Finally, Chandler tilted his head to one side in a regal gesture and offered his arm. “Shall we?”

      Feeling suddenly shy and exhausted, Lindsay tried to let him off the hook. “Please don’t feel obligated to entertain me.”

      She was the kind of wrung-out tired that made even the thought of dancing feel like an effort. Since she was leaving tomorrow, what she really wanted to do was go upstairs and enjoy one last long, hot soak in that huge, marble tub in her suite.

      “Dancing with you, Miss Bingham, would be my honor,” said Carson. “Besides, I have something I need to talk to you about.”

      “Oh. Well, then.” How could she deny a man his honor? One quick dance wouldn’t hurt. In fact, she might even be back before Carlos returned with the champagne. “But please call me Lindsay.”

      She took his arm and walked back into the ballroom with him. When he smiled, he vaguely reminded her of Ricardo Montalbán sans accent. Of course he would. Because wasn’t St. Michel Fantasy Island? How could she have missed that? A place where her best friend got to be a princess and Lindsay had been able to play Cinderella. For an entire month.

      Here she was at the ball. Even though tomorrow her coach would turn back into a pumpkin and she’d board a plane homeward bound for Trevard, she’d had the time of her life.

      Of course, she wished her Cinderella fantasy came with Prince Charming and happily-ever-after. But as Carson Chandler whirled her around the gilded and mirrored ballroom, she glanced up at the crystal chandeliers, admiring the way the light played through the facets, illuminating the cut crystal like brilliant diamonds.

      How many women got to attend a royal wedding in their lifetime? She should be grateful for the experience, even if the handsome prince didn’t come chasing her across the Atlantic to see if the slipper fit.

      Her gaze wandered back to the doors to the terrace. She wondered if Carlos was back yet. She hoped he didn’t think she’d run out on him. Surely he’d wait. Wouldn’t he? A ridiculous tangled sense of conflict flooded through her.

      Oh, well. They’d just met and tomorrow she’d go home. Her “New Me” plan didn’t call for leaving one Jimmy Choo behind on the palace step with the slim hope a man—even Carlos Montigo—would find it and bring it to her on the other side of the ocean.

      “The princess tells me you’ve worked in television, Miss Bingham.”

      Carson’s voice startled her back to the present.

      “Excuse me?”

      The orchestra was loud. She must not have heard him correctly. He leaned in closer. A little too close for Lindsay’s comfort.

      “You’re such a beautiful woman. Actually, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since we were introduced earlier this week. Princess Sophie tells me you have broadcast journalism experience?”

      Her cheeks warmed and graceless dread unfurled in her belly, working its way up until it blocked the words to explain her short-lived journalistic career. The question unlocked a door in the recesses of her mind behind which she’d stashed a very bad memory. The memory of an incident that cost Lindsay her dream.

      “I was curious about the type of television work you’d done?”

      Sophie was one of the few people who knew of this thwarted dream. Why would she tell Chandler?

      “I don’t know what Sophie told you.” Or more important, why. “But in college, I majored in broadcast journalism, and I reported for a network affiliate for a short time.”

      “Why for only a short while? I have a feeling the camera would love your face.”

      Lindsay stiffened, suddenly aware of his hand on the small of her back. Nothing improper, but now the door that had been closed tight for years had opened and a flood of bad memories…of a powerful man taking advantage…poured out.

      “Relax, Miss Bingham, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’m a happily married man.”

      Okay.

      She felt a little silly for jumping to conclusions. With her penchant for bad boys, obviously, she was no prude, but those relationships had always been mutual and consensual. Even if the men in her past had ended up being bad choices, she’d never sold herself for a job. And she never would. That’s why she’d left the television industry in the first place.

      “You didn’t answer my question, Miss Bingham. Why are you no longer working in television?”

      She wished she’d simply told him she had no experience rather than opening this can of worms. Oh, Sophie, what did you do?

      “It just wasn’t the career for me.”

      Again, his hand pressed into the small of her back as he gently led into a turn on the dance floor.

      “Do you work now?” he asked.

      She laughed. She couldn’t help it.

      “Well, yes. Of course I do. Not everyone here is royalty or independently wealthy.”

      Ugh, that sounded rude. She hadn’t meant it to.

      “I work for Trevard County Social Services in North Carolina. That’s how I know Sophie.”

      “The same line of work as the princess’s former job?”

      “No. Not exactly.”

      “Well, what exactly do you do?”

      She bristled. Why the game of fifty questions? She wasn’t embarrassed by where she came from or that she’d chosen not to be a television talking head. She had an honest job. That was more than some could say—those who had no qualms about sleeping with a married man on their quest to the anchor desk.

      “I’m the office manager.”

      “And

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