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mean you can’t be successful.”

      “But I’m not interested in him that way.” She didn’t think she would ever be interested in another man. Loving and losing Jon had been too painful.

      “Can you honestly look at me and tell me you aren’t the tiniest bit excited by the thought of dressing up in fancy clothes and dancing with Qadir?”

      “We’ll dance?”

      “See! You’re interested.”

      “No. It’s just I’ve never done anything like that.”

      “All the more reason to do it,” Victoria told her. “Come on—it will be fun. We’ll both be fabulous and the princes won’t be able to resist us.”

      Maggie had a feeling she would always be resistible, but allowed herself to momentarily wonder what it would be like to dance with a prince.

      Chapter Three

      “What is the longest river in America?” the guy on the radio asked.

      “The Missouri,” Maggie said as she undid the first screw in the window cranks from the door. “The Mississippi is the biggest, but the Missouri is the longest.”

      “Ah, the Mississippi,” the contestant said.

      “No, that’s not it.”

      “Ha!” Maggie crowed as she set the screw into the small labeled plastic container next to her. “You have to pay attention in school.”

      “Or have a mind for trivia,” Qadir said from his place at her desk.

      She looked at the open office door and sighed. “You can hear me?”

      “Obviously.”

      The American radio station in El Deharia ran a quiz every afternoon at two. She’d gotten in the habit of listening. Usually she was alone.

      But today Qadir had stopped by to check out the parts list she’d put together. She’d sort of forgotten he was still in her office.

      At least she’d gotten the answer right, she told herself. It beat getting it wrong.

      Qadir stepped out into the garage. “You’ll need access to a machine shop,” he said.

      “Along with a good machinist. I can explain what I want, but I can’t make it myself.”

      She was rebuilding the engine rather than buying a new one. Unfortunately time had not been kind to many of the original parts and replacements were difficult, sometimes impossible, to find. She would buy what she could and have the others custom-made.

      She smiled. “I’m sure you have contacts for me.”

      “I do.”

      “I figured. The thrill of being royal.”

      “There are many.”

      “I can’t imagine.”

      “It is all I know. But there are disadvantages. My brothers and I were sent away to English boarding school when we were eight or nine. The headmaster was determined to treat us as if we were regular students. It was an adjustment, to say the least.”

      “Doesn’t sound like fun,” she admitted, grateful for her normal life. “Were the other boys friendly?”

      “Some of them. Some were resentful, and eager to show us they were stronger.”

      “Bullies.” She went to work on the second screw.

      “Sometimes. My brothers and I learned how to fit in very quickly.”

      “At least you had a palace to come home to.”

      “And a pony.”

      She laughed. “Of course. Every royal child deserves a pony. I had to make do with a stuffed one. It was one of the few girly toys I liked. I was more into doing things with my dad than hanging out with the other little girls in the neighborhood. I hated playing dolls. I wasn’t very popular.”

      “Until the boys got old enough to appreciate you.”

      He was being kind, or assuming something that wasn’t true. Either way, she didn’t know how to respond. That combined with a particularly stubborn screw caused her to slip and jam the screwdriver into the side of her hand.

      “Ouch,” she yelped and set down the screwdriver. Blood welled up.

      Qadir was at her side in an instant, taking her hand in his. “What have you done?”

      His touch was warm and sure. “Ah, nothing. I’m fine.”

      “You’re bleeding.”

      Still holding her hand, he led her to the small bathroom and turned on the water. “Is it serious? Will you need stitches?”

      Stitches? Just the thought of a needle piercing her flesh was enough to make her woozy. “Not if I haven’t cut anything off.”

      She pulled free of his touch and shoved her hand under the water. The wound stung, but wasn’t too bad. She managed to rub on some soap without screaming too loudly, then held still as he applied a bandage he’d found in the medicine cabinet. He was surprisingly competent at the task.

      When he’d finished, he took her hand again and examined it. “I think you will survive.”

      “Good to know.” Even not thinking about the needle, she felt a little lightheaded. How strange.

      Maybe it was the bathroom itself. The space was pretty tight and Qadir took up a lot of room. But even all that didn’t explain the sudden thumping of her heart or the way she couldn’t seem to catch her breath.

      She was aware of the flecks of gold in his dark eyes and couldn’t stop staring at the shape of his mouth which was, by the way, a very nice mouth. They were close enough for her to inhale the crisp, clean, masculine scent of him.

      He smiled at her. “You will be more careful next time?”

      She nodded without speaking.

      “Excellent. I must return to my office.”

      He released her hand and walked away. Maggie stayed where she was, her body oddly tense, her fingers tingling despite the pain from the cut.

      What had just happened? She couldn’t seem to focus and the few thoughts that did pop into her brain seemed unrelated to anything. The tiny puncture wound couldn’t be responsible and there was no way she’d lost a significant amount of blood. It was the weirdest thing.

      She looked toward the garage to where Qadir had stood only moments before. This couldn’t be about him, could it? She wasn’t attracted to her boss. It was a recipe for disaster. She knew better. And even if she didn’t, she was still mourning the fact that she and Jon weren’t together. She wasn’t interested in anyone else. She couldn’t be.

      Maggie stared at the rack of elegant, sophisticated, expensive gowns and felt as if she’d stepped into a movie star’s dressing room.

      “I thought they’d be like prom dresses,” she admitted. “These are real gowns.”

      “I know,” Victoria said with a sigh. “They’re beautiful.”

      “I can’t afford them.”

      “Neither can I. Fortunately we get a discount.”

      Unless it was an ninety-five percent discount, there was no way Maggie could buy one of these dresses. She needed the money to buy back her father’s business. She couldn’t waste a few thousand dollars on a dress she would wear once.

      “Still,” she murmured, not sure how to explain to her friend that there was no way this was happening.

      Victoria patted her arm. “You have to trust me. I don’t want to endanger my IRA any more than you do. These are

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