“You’re not going to run away again, are you, Cinderella?” About the Author Title Page Acknowledgments CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN EPILOGUE Copyright

“You’re not going to run away again, are you, Cinderella?”

“My name is not Cinderella,” Paula said stiffly.

“Oh? But you did run away at the stroke of midnight.” She was halfway out of the door, but he blocked her way. “Wait. Don’t go. Why are you so angry?”

“I’m not angry. I just...I don’t indulge in fairy-tale games, Mr. Vandercamp.”

“This isn’t a game.”

“Whatever you call it, I don’t like it. I came here to...to work!”

Eva Rutland began writing when her four children, now all successful professionals, were growing up. Eva lives in California with her husband, Bill, who actively supports and encourages her writing career.

Her Own Prince Charming
Eva Rutland

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Special thanks to the University of California School of

Veterinary Medicine, and all the members of the noble

profession of veterinary health.

And to John and Irene, with fondest memories

of the Renegade.

CHAPTER ONE

“I DON’T like red hair,” Rae said.

“His hair’s not red. It’s brown.” Whitney buttered a piece of toast and bit into it. “A touch of red, maybe, but that just brightens it up. I rather like that color.”

“What you like is the color of his money . . . green and growing.”

Whitney giggled. “That’s the icing on the cake, isn’t it!” she said, lifting her cup. “Paula, heat this up, will you? Or better still, bring me a fresh cup.”

Paula dried her hands, emptied and refilled Whitney’s cup while the two sisters continued to postulate.

“You needn’t get your hopes up, dear heart. He’s in San Diego for the polo match, not to see you.”

Paula listened idly as she scrubbed the frying pan. The San Diego Polo Classic, sponsored for charity each October, had for weeks been the main topic of conversation. Now that the Vandercamp yacht was anchored at the San Diego Yacht Club and they had had a glimpse of Brad Vandercamp, who would participate, he was the main topic. And not because he was the so-called Prince of Polo! Like Rae said, it was his money. He was single, eligible and sole heir to the Vandercamp millions. Or was it billions?

All San Diego was agog that they were honored by his presence. At least, she corrected herself, a smile hovering on her lips, those of the elite set who would attend the polo matches and the grand balls attendant upon the event.

“But see me he will!” Whitney said, with smug certainty.

Paula, noting the gleam of conquest in Whitney’s eyes didn’t doubt that he would. Not that Whitney was all that beautiful. Her lips were too large, too voluptuous, and her nose...

I’m being catty, Paula scolded herself as she put away the frying pan, and went into the laundry room to sort the clothes. Whitney was fairly attractive, with that black hair and sensuous dark eyes. But mainly it was her confidence and that inviting sexuality that drew men to her. Yes, the prince will see her, and yes, Rae will be jealous, and—

“Where’s that girl?” Mrs. Ashford’s voice, slurred but sharp, cut into her thoughts. Paula dropped the lingerie she held and hurried to the kitchen. “Oh, there you are! Why didn’t you bring my coffee to my room?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I thought you were still sleeping.”

Mamie Ashford dropped her plump form into a chair and pressed a hand to her temple. “Oh, my poor head! How could anyone sleep with all the racket going on in this house! Can’t you girls manage to cease your squabbling long enough to let your poor mother get a bit of rest!”

Her daughters apologized profusely, each insisting it was the fault of the other.

Paula placed two aspirin and a glass of tomato juice before her. “This might help, and I’ll bring your coffee right away.”

“Mother, I do hope you’re not going to have one of your nasty migraines,” Whitney said. “You know we’re to go shopping today.”

“Oh, sure,” Rae said. “Whitney’s got to get decked out for the costume ball where she plans to dazzle the prince!”

“As if you’re not planning to—”

“Girls! Must you! My head... And I do feel a bit queasy. I think I’d better have something on my stomach, Paula. Bacon and maybe some of your cinnamon toast.”

“Coming right up!” Paula took out the frying pan she had just scrubbed and hoped she wouldn’t have to miss class again. If she could get the washing done and the beds made before twelve, she could make it. That is, if they got out of the house before Mrs. Ashford could think up something else for her to do. She hoped to goodness the migraine wouldn’t stop the shopping trip.

It didn’t. Three cups of coffee and a hefty breakfast did wonders. Or perhaps it was the mention of Brad Vandercamp that did the trick.

“So rich! And so British!” Mamie Ashford’s eyes took on a dreamy haze. As if she was as young as her daughters, as hopeful of catching his fancy.

“And he’s so good-looking,” Whitney said.

“As handsome as his grandfather,” her mother said. “And just as big a devil, I hear!”

“Devil?”

“The same eye for a pretty lady. One affair after another, just like the old man. Cyrus Vandercamp, his grandfather, started the family fortune with railroads. But they do say he spent a big chunk of it on that movie queen of the thirties. She was no lady, mind you! But he practically deserted his family. They tell me it was quite a shameful scandal.”

Rae said she wouldn’t put up with that from any man.

Whitney sniffed “Once I get his ring on my finger, Brad Vandercamp can have as many mistresses as he chooses.”

Mrs. Ashford agreed that the ring was the thing. Thank goodness both her daughters were ladies and wouldn’t settle for less. But she did hope the polo prince would turn out to be more like his father.

“How so?” Whitney asked.

“Not a breath of scandal about him. Seems more interested in playing with gold mines, oil wells and such than with women. He’s parlayed that railroad fortune into billions. Married some Lady. Somebody whose family was poor as church mice. They say he’s turned Balmour, her family’s crumbling estate, into a real showplace. Lord, I’d like to see it!”

“Well, you never know.” Again Whitney sounded smug. “Did you say he had an eye for a pretty lady?”

Mamie Ashford chuckled. “Yes, and that’s what you are. Far prettier than any of the others, all of whom will be after him. Hadn’t we better get to Mademoiselle’s Boutique first? There’s sure to be a rush.”

They did leave in plenty of time. Paula was able to finish the laundry, clean the kitchen and tidy the bedrooms before eleven. By eleven-thirty, she had showered, dressed and was on the bus headed for the university.

Paula had dreamed of being a veterinarian for as long as she could remember. She loved animals, from the tiniest kitten to the biggest horse on the Randolph cattle ranch in Wyoming, where her father was a ranch hand and her mother the family cook. As soon as she could read she became immersed in the tales of James Herriot, the famous vet who tended the sheep and cattle on the Yorkshire moors. As often as allowed, she would tag along with a cowhand or vet who tended a sick cow or horse. She and Toby, the foreman’s son, planned to marry and buy a spread of their own. He would train race-horses, and she would be a veterinarian. That dream had lasted through two years of college. Then, the next fall, Toby had fallen head over heels in love with a freshman named Cynthia, and it was as if Paula had lost an anchor she had clung to all her life. Devastated, she floundered and nearly flunked out of college.

It was her uncle Lew who had steadied her. That summer, on his yearly visit to the ranch, he had a long talk with her. “Toby’s just one man among millions. Stuck on this place, you just been so close to him you never looked around. And don’t forget. You’ve still got your dream. Toby ain’t got nothing to do with your being a veterinarian. That’s up to you.”

He was right. That would be hers, her career, a part of her that no man could take away. She determined to have it. She threw herself into her classes, made up her failures and graduated on time. But with not enough credits for the hoped-for grant to the school of veterinary science.

Disaster struck again. Her father had a spell of illness that strained the budget, and prospects for vet school were dim. They were discussing the possibilities when Lewis Grant, her father’s brother, came again for his yearly visit. He offered to pay half the monstrous tuition, but even that would not be enough.

“Guess Paula’ll have to stick around the ranch this year,” Hank, her father, said, “maybe be a help to her mother.”

“She’d rather help you,” Lew said.

Paula smiled. Of course Pop would never permit her to go out on the range, but she was very much at home on a horse and rather liked tending the animals, had even assisted at a difficult calving a couple of times. “You’re right,” she said. “I would rather help Pop.”

“Beats me,” Lew said, “why anybody would want to be on a horse out in rough weather rather than be nice and cozy in a warm kitchen.” He shook his head. “Can’t understand it.”

“To each his own,” Paula said. She remembered that Lew had long ago deserted ranch life for the city. Any city. After much traveling and several odd jobs, he finally landed a steady one as chauffeur and handyman for a Mr. Angus Ashford of San Diego, California.

“We could manage the tuition,” her mother said, returning to the main topic. “But not the room and board.” The state college was a hundred miles away, over mountainous roads treacherous with snow during the long winter months.

Lewis looked at Paula. She knew he understood. “Still got that veterinary bug in your head?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Well,” he said, “maybe you could come to San Diego with me and go to school there.”

They stared at him. What difference would. that make?

“Room and board,” he said. “The Ashfords’ live-in maid just gave notice.” He gave Paula a keen look. “Got any objection to a little housework?”

She grinned. “You mean like I’ve been doing all my life?”

“Well,” he said, still studying her, “I might could get you on. I can’t promise, but maybe... And the old man’s a pretty decent guy. He might allow you to take time for some classes.”

Paula thought about it, her spirits lifting. San Diego U. “Does the university have a veterinary school?” she asked.

“Don’t know about that.” He hesitated. Then his chubby face lit up. “Oh, yeah! It sure does. That’s where I took the old man’s collie when she had to be put down.”

Paula’s eyes brightened. “That would be perfect! That is, if I could get admitted.”

She looked at her father, reading the message in his eyes even before he spoke. “It won’t be like living in a dorm, and you’ll be a long way from us.”

“I’ll be there to look out for her,” Lew said. “Don’t forget...I’m her godfather.”

As Hank nodded his consent, Paula threw her arms around Lew. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! Lucky me... I’ve got a real honest-to-goodness fairy godfather.”

Her parents laughed, but Lew frowned. “We ain’t there yet. I better phone the old man. I’ll pour it on thick about how my very smart niece wants to go to vet school and needs a job. He owes me. After you drive a man home and put him to bed slopping drunk a few times...”

That was how it had happened. The unknown Mr. Ashford approved of a young woman’s ambition, and of course he had no objection to her arranging her work to allow time for classes. Moreover, he did have some influence. She should get her papers to the school right away, and he would contact the dean.

“Lew, you’re wonderful!” Paula cried, throwing her arms around her uncle.

“Maybe you won’t think so when Mrs. Ashford gets hold of you,” he said. “None of the other maids have lasted more’n a few weeks. She’s tough. And there’s another thing,” he added dubiously. “You’re much too good-looking. If you could tone down a bit...” He looked at Paula as if trying to diminish her slender willowy figure, the golden curls, the alert bright blue eyes.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Paula asked.

“Well. Mrs. Ashford don’t like nobody outshining her girls.”

“I don’t understand.”

“They’re... what you call it? Debs this year, pictures in the paper and everything. The old lady sets a big store ’bout them being prettier than the other ones. They’re big society, you know, and she has big plans, like getting both of them hooked to some big shot that’s loaded.”

“For goodness sake, that’s nothing to do with me. I’d be the maid. I surely wouldn’t be hobnobbing with them!”

“Right,” Lewis assented, but he still looked dubious. “Anyway, I’m glad you got hired sight unseen.”

Angus Ashford’s influence got her admitted that fall, and against his wife’s wishes, Paula was allowed to arrange time for classes. She was grateful and worked hard during early morning hours and sometimes late at night so nothing was left undone. Even Mrs. Ashford began to rely on her.

But when Mr. Ashford’s liver gave out and he died a year after she had been there, Paula was afraid Mrs. Ashford, who had not fully taken to her, would dismiss her.

However, fate intervened. It turned out that Angus Ashford had not only been more of an alcoholic than his wife, he had also been an inveterate gambler and an unwise investor. With the death of her husband, Mrs. Ashford found that her income was somewhat reduced. She had to rid herself of the gardener and the woman who came once weekly for the wash and heavy cleaning.

Mrs. Ashford was inclined to be a bit silly, but she was no fool. She knew who would and who would not willingly do it all. She retained Lewis as chauffeur, gardener and handyman. Paula became the cook, washwoman and maid. All with very little increase in salary.

Paula didn’t complain. She was used to hard work. I’m just lucky I didn’t have to drop any classes, she thought that afternoon, as she joined her group in the chemistry lab.

As she was leaving class, Link, one of the boys in her lab group, caught her arm. “Hey, Paula, some of us are going over for a little volleyball and then to the Hut for some pizza. Want to come along?”

“Oh, Link, I’d like to, but I don’t have time. I’m sorry,” she said.

“Jeez, you never have time,” Link complained as he moved off with the gang.

Paula looked after them with longing. But what could she do? She had to get back in time to make dinner.

She couldn’t seem to still the sense of longing. It was intensified that evening after dinner when the Ashford women displayed all the outfits purchased that day. The black linen Whitney would wear at the match, the outfits and fancy masks for the costume party, and turquoise chiffon, sure to be a hit at the final ball.

“That color does so much for my eyes, don’t you think?” Whitney focused her sultry eyes on Paula. “But you’ll have to tuck in the shoulders a bit. Not too much.” She giggled. “Wouldn’t want to spill that cleavage that’s going to knock him out!”

Rae tried to get in a word as Whitney preened before the mirror. “Do you like this blue on me, Paula? And will you do my hair for the dance? You know, like you did last week!”

Paula praised and promised and tried not to be envious. But the next day, as she made the tuck in the turquoise chiffon, her fingers lingered over the soft material. She had never in her life owned such a dress. How would it look on her?

Well, why not see! While they were out buying more. What harm would it do?

Quickly she shed her jeans and shirt. Stepped into the soft folds and zipped it up. It was too big and too long, but she gathered the dress about her and preened as Whitney had.

She brought her face close and peered into the mirror. Did it do something for her eyes? She tried to look sultry.

No good. Her eyes were too big.

But they did take on that color, didn’t they? She bet if she went to the dance and he looked at her, his eyes would melt into hers, and they would dance and dance and...

Oh, for goodness sake, she’d best stop twirling around. If she tore that dress there’d be hell to pay.

And why was she standing here, wasting time? She couldn’t afford such a dress, and, even if she could, where would she wear it? She wasn’t going to any ball, and she certainly wasn’t going to dance with him. And why was she thinking of him, anyway. He wasn’t a real prince. Not that she gave a dam if he was.

She took off the dress and went back to work.

When she had first come to San Diego, Paula had signed up with a caterer. She was often on her own in the evening and could earn a little extra money serving at a catered affair. She was putting away as much as she could for the time when she might enter veterinary school. But with the extra work at the Ashfords,’ she hadn’t had much time for other jobs.

“I’m not sure I can make it,” she told Harry, the caterer, when he called, wanting an extra hand for the Moody costume party. “The Ashfords will be attending, and she likes me to help them get dressed.”

“That’s okay. Aren’t they going to some dinner first? Everybody is.”

“Yes, they are,” Paula said, remembering.

“Well, then, that gives you time. I don’t care if you’re a little late. Please, Paula, I really need you.”

“Can’t you get somebody else this time?”

“Then I’ve got the problem of a uniform.” The caterer was persnickety about uniforms and had had Paula fitted for one.

“Well . . .” Paula felt guilty about the uniform, and the caterer did pay well. “All right,” she said, though she didn’t want to go. She was tired.

But that night, as she stood in the Moodys’ oversize pantry arranging hors d’oeuvres and setting out clean glasses, she didn’t feel at all tired. Somehow, the gala party mood seemed to revive her. She was fascinated by the colorful costumes of the masked figures that talked, laughed and danced to the beat of the band. The scintillating music penetrated the thick walls of the pantry and seeped into her funstarved heart. She threw back her head, humming the melody, her feet tapping in perfect rhythm as she danced around the table.

She did not hear the door open and was unaware that he watched.

“Perfect. Beautiful. But must you dance alone?” The deep voice startled her.

She stopped in her tracks. Despite the mask, she recognized him immediately. He was more handsome than in the newspaper, and his hair was like copper. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she muttered, feeling humiliation flood her cheeks. “I was... I... Can I help you?” she asked.

“Indeed you can.” He held out his arms. “May I have this dance, fair lady?”

She tried to laugh. “No. Sorry, but I’m not a guest. I work here.”

“Oh? Well, let’s fix that.” The amber eyes that showed through his mask glittered with mischief. From somewhere he produced another mask and tied it over her face. “There. Now you’re my guest. Shall we dance?”

She couldn’t resist. He drew her to him, and for a long time she was only aware of the feel of his arms about her, the pleasant fresh smell of aftershave and the gentle firmness of his guidance as the music swelled around them. She followed his lead with easy grace, abandoning herself to the joy, reveling in the colorful pageant, the dance.

From somewhere an old grandfather clock intoned the midnight hour. The music stopped, and someone shouted, “Masks off!”

Dear Lord, she was in the middle of the ballroom!

The man bent toward her, his hand cradling her neck, his lips lightly touching hers. “Time to unmask, little one.”

The slender gold chain of her necklace snapped as she fled.

CHAPTER TWO

“HEY, wait!” Too late. She had slipped through the crowd and vanished. All that was left of her was a slender gold chain dangling from his fingers. Feeling strangely bereft, he started after her. She would be in that room where—

“Brad Vandercamp, take off that disguise!” The daughter of his host blocked his way. She tugged at his mask. “You didn’t fool anybody, anyway. We all knew you.”

“Oh?” He looked at the costume that hugged her figure and glittered with sequins in the shape of fish scales. “Well, my little mermaid,” he said trying to remember her name, “some of us are not as clever as—”

A sultry voice interrupted. “No matter how clever, you couldn’t hide that copper hair.”

“No more than you could hide those eyes.” Sensuous and suggestive, he thought.

Whitney gushed with pleasure. “So you knew me! Tell me, are my eyes distinctive?”

“Indeed they are. They’re, er, so...so expressive,” he said, thinking of the last dance. She had been as light as a feather in his arms, and her blond curls had a fresh soapy scent, more tantalizing than any perfume. He must see her again, ask—

“Come along.” The mermaid took his arm. “Let’s have a refreshing drink. They’ll be serving breakfast in a few minutes.”

She will be serving, he thought, as he was borne off between the two women.

Breakfast, however, was served buffet-style, with several well-groomed waiters attending. No sight of long slender silk-clad legs beneath a short maid’s costume. No sight of merry blue eyes and golden curls topped by a frilly bit of lace.

“You don’t have a thing on your plate. Here, try this.” The woman with the eyes popped a small sausage into his mouth. “Like it?” He nodded, and she piled more on his plate. “There. Now what kind of omelet would you like?”

“Spanish!” Carl, Brad’s closest friend and teammate, ordered. “Give him some of that old San Diego flavour.” He punched Brad on the back and added in a whisper, “Get with us, buddy! Where’s your mind?”

In the kitchen, Brad thought, as he watched the chef preparing the omelet. Was that where she was? Best not go back there asking if someone had lost a necklace and, if so, what is your name and where do you live?

Never mind. Later. He would find her. The slender gold chain rested in his pocket...like a promise.

“Nobody knows who she was, but she was dressed as a maid.”

“Maybe she was a maid.”

Paula’s heart lurched, and she stopped in the hall to listen. The sisters’ voices were clear as they discussed last night’s ball from their adjoining rooms where they were dressing for the first game. If they even suspected...

“Don’t be silly. She wasn’t a maid.” Rae sounded sure. “She was a guest. She had a mask on. And—” Whatever she was going to say was cut off by the shout from across the hall.

“Paula! Where’s that girl!” Mamie Ashford demanded somewhat piteously.

“I’m right here,” Paula said, hurrying to her. “Just lie still and allow that bromide to settle.” She adjusted the pillows and replaced the ice bag. “There now. You’ll feel better soon.”

“My poor head. I don’t see how I’ll make that committee meeting.”

“You’ll be fine,” Paula assured her. “Just rest for a little while. I’ll be back in time to help you dress.” She felt sorry for the always-anxious woman. Not easy on her limited budget to buy the proper outfits and maintain the proper social commitments so important to her and her demanding daughters. Seeing that she was about to fall asleep, Paula closed the draperies and tiptoed from the room.

As she emerged, Whitney called, “Paula, where’s my dress?”

“Almost ready.” Paula rushed downstairs to finish pressing the dress. She returned to find Rae in Whitney’s room holding out two outfits.

“Which should I wear?” she asked.

Whitney didn’t answer. She carefully applied eye shadow and stared dreamily into the mirror. “He said my eyes are so expressive.”

“Bet he didn’t look at you like he looked at her,” Rae said a little spitefully. She frowned. “Who could she be? I don’t remember anybody dressed as a maid, do you, Whitney?”

“Plenty of serving maids around.” Whitney peered into the minor to inspect her makeup. “Maybe one of them sneaked onto the dance floor. I wouldn’t put it past that kind.”

Paula gulped, but Rae answered her sister. “I told you. She was a guest. And Brad knew her very well! The way he was holding her—”

“I thought you didn’t see her.”

“Sylvia did. She and Rod were dancing right next to them, and Sylvia said he was staring at her like there wasn’t anybody else in the room, and when he kissed her...”

Paula’s breath caught as Whitney turned to glare at her sister. “Kissed her?”

“Right there on the dance floor!”

Whitney frowned, then shrugged. “Doesn’t mean a thing. Don’t you read the tabloids? He’s always kissing somebody.”

Paula, who had gone rigid, forced herself to relax. Whitney was right. What was a kiss to Brad Vandercamp? And his kiss certainly meant nothing to her!

“Which, Paula?” Rae’s question jerked her to attention. “Should I wear this or the green one?” Rae held a yellow outfit against herself.

Paula advised the green instead while Whitney continued to muse. “So Sylvia saw her. She must know who she is.”

“No. She doesn’t. She said when everybody started unmasking, the woman...well, it was amazing, but she just disappeared. Sylvia asked Rod if he saw her face, but he didn’t. He said he was looking at her legs.”

Paula winced. This kind of talk was making her nervous.

Shucks! They didn’t suspect her. They probably didn’t even know she had been there. They knew she sometimes worked for Harry, often at affairs they attended. But, thank goodness, they were always too absorbed in themselves to notice her. Even when, as now, she was right under their noses.

Whitney didn’t even look at her when she held out the linen she had pressed.

“Here you are,” she said.

Whitney glanced at the dress, shook her head. “No. Changed my mind. Bring the dusky rose with the sexy short skirt.”

Paula fetched it, tied a green scarf becomingly into Rae’s hair and made sure Whitney’s makeup was in her bag, along with the binoculars.

As they made their way out, she heard Rae say, “He’s not playing today. Do you suppose he’ll be among the spectators?”

“Of course, silly. The players always watch the techniques of the other teams. He’ll be there. And I’m sure he’ll linger at our box. He was quite taken with me. He said my eyes...” Her voice faded, and Paula gave a sigh of relief. If she couldn’t hear them talking about him, she could stop thinking about him!

She couldn’t. She stared at the rumpled sheets, the discarded clothing, a dresser cluttered with lipsticks, bottles, crumpled tissues and traces of spilled powder. But what she saw was a man with unruly copper hair and eyes that glinted with mischief. He smiled at her and held out his arms. Had he really held her in a special way? Then, when he kissed her...

Had he kissed her?

Such a fleeting touch. She might have arranged it.

No. No fantasy. Her lips had burned like fire.

Vividly she recalled the dream... music, voices, laughter and the tolling of a clock.

Then the kiss. Light and fleeting, yes. But it had ignited a powder keg of emotion, sending strange and exhilarating sensations exploding through her. For a moment, she was immobile.

The loud “Masks off” broke the spell and jolted her into movement, thank goodness!

She shook her head to clear it. She was far too practical to let a dream interfere with reality. Quickly erasing last night from her mind, she went to wake Mrs. Ashford. By the time Lew returned from depositing the girls, she had their mother dressed and alert, ready to be chauffeured to her committee meeting.

Paula tidied the bedrooms and baths, finished the laundry and vacuumed. Dinner was no problem, as the Ashfords were dining out. Time to retire to her little room in the attic and study.

Two hours later, she had finished the outline for her English term paper and prepared for tomorrow’s chemistry test. She heard the family car coming down the drive and glanced at the clock. Almost six. That would be Uncle Lew returning, and he would be hungry. She hurried to the kitchen.

“Where’s the chow?” Lew asked, as he tossed aside his chauffeur’s cap and popped open a can of soda.

“Coming right up,” she said. “I wasn’t sure when you’d be back.”

“Me, either. Been driving all day. Hauled the old lady to her meeting, the girls out to the polo field, back to pick her up and back to the field.” He sat at the table and took a long swallow from the can. “Waited till the game was over and squeezed out of that mess of traffic to get them into town to where they’re having dinner. Gotta pick them up at ten.”

“Did you see any of the game?” Paula asked as she set leftover meat loaf in the microwave oven and set the timer.

“Wouldn’t waste my time. Bunch of horses with bandages on their legs, all getting in each other’s way. Guys in fancy helmets whacking at a ball.”

“All for sweet charity, Lew! Lots of money,” Paula said. “Anyway, it’s a game. For fun. Like a rodeo.”

“Rodeo’s a hell of a lot more than fun. It’s . . . well, how to rope a calf, break a horse. Teaching people how to do things, not just showing off.”

Paula grinned. “Seems I often saw you showing off. Remember that rodeo where you—”

He gave a satisfied smile. “Yeah, I was good, huh? Expert at that stuff.”

“Sure, sure. I remember,” Paula said, as she fashioned cold mashed potatoes into cakes, sprinkled paprika and set them sizzling in a frying pan. “But I’ll have you know that these polo players are considered experts, too.”

“Humph!” Lew unfolded the newspaper.

Paula turned the potato cakes, set muffins to warm in the oven. “Some are quite famous, renowned for their expertise all over the world.”

Lew shrugged.

She removed the soda can, set out silver and napkins and bent to whisper in his ear. “Wanta hear a secret?” At his wary look, she gave him a conspiratorial wink and added, “I danced with the most famous one of all last night.”

Lew’s head jerked up. “You’re joking.”

She chuckled. It did seem like a joke. “The one they call the polo prince. He’s very rich, very famous and very handsome. And I danced with him. I really did.”

“You’re joking,” Lew said again, staring at her as she set out salads and filled two glasses with iced tea. “At least I hope to hell you are.”

“No, I am not joking. It was so funny. I was working for Harry at the Moodys’ costume ball, like I told you, remember? Well, I was in the pantry arranging canapés, and this man came in. I knew him immediately, in spite of his mask. Lord, I’ve heard him described a million times and I had seen his picture. Anyway, I was kinda dancing, like I do sometimes, and he...” She related the episode as she finished the dinner preparations. “He’s a real good dancer, and . . . oh, golly, I hadn’t danced in so long.... I guess I got carried away. I didn’t realize we were actually in the ballroom until—”

“My God! Mrs. Ashford . . . she’s gonna skin you alive.”

“Don’t be silly. Nobody saw me.”

“Hang on a minute—you were in the ballroom, dancing with the big shot every gal in creation’s got her eyes on, and you think nobody—Paula! Everybody saw you!”

“They didn’t know who I was. I told you. He put a mask on me,” she said, placing their filled plates on the table. “When some guy yelled ‘Masks off I hotfooted it out of there.”

“You’re crazy. How could they miss you? You didn’t have on a costume.”

“Oh, yes, I did. You should have heard Whitney and Rae this morning, trying to figure out who came dressed as a maid!” Paula almost choked on her iced tea. Now that the danger was past, it seemed very funny.

Lew wasn’t laughing. “That was a damn fool thing to do.”

“Oh, stop glaring at me like that. Nothing happened. The only thing is...” She touched her bare throat. “I lost my necklace, the one you gave me for my birthday. Remember, with the little gold horseshoe? I looked for it afterward, but—”

“You gonna lose more than that, fooling around with them high-society muck-a-mucks. Of all the damn fool shenanigans! Don’t you know the old lady don’t like nobody outshining her gals? And I don’t like you messing around with them empty-headed, do-nothing, high-society folks.”

“Oh, for goodness sake! I wasn’t outshining anybody, and I certainly have no desire to associate with the likes of Whitney Ashford even if, heaven forbid, I should ever have the chance to do so.”

“Well, seems to me you’re all gaga about messing around with that pretty polo fellow.”

“I wasn’t messing around with him!”

“I’d like to know what you call it.”

“An incident. One dance. Done. Over and out!” She spread her hands in a gesture of finality.

But there was a dreamy smile on her lips as she cleared the table and stacked the dishes. She was unaware that Lew watched her with anxious eyes.

The Green Acres polo field was a colorful sight as the players rode in and lined up for the first game of the Classic. But Brad Vandercamp was not looking at the field.

“Which is the Moodys’ box?” he asked his friend Carl.

Carl pointed it out.

Brad started to move toward it, checked. He turned to Carl. “What’s the daughter’s name?”

Carl gazed thoughtfully at him. “Sheila. But that’s not a good idea.”

“Oh?”

“When the well-padded Brad Vandercamp glances in her direction, a lady gets ideas.”

“Cut it out, Carl! Simple courtesy. Thank you for the ball, and—”

“Uh-huh. And, yes, thank you for the dinner invitation. I’m itching to come and meet that fascinating maid of yours, and oh, yes, by the way, return this thingamabob that she dropped when she danced with me at your ball. Damn it, Brad! You want to lose the woman her job?”

“Nothing so crude as that. I just want to—”

“I know what you want. And you’d do better to hang around the house somewhere near the servants’ entrance.”

“Like a stage-door johnny! Not on your life.”

“Okay, okay. Do it your own way, chum. But...” Again Carl squinted thoughtfully. “What’s the big deal? One dance. Why are you so hell-bent to find her?”

Brad shrugged but didn’t answer. He didn’t know why.

He fingered the necklace in his pocket and wondered. Why did he feel that if he let the woman with the saucy smile slip out of his life, he would lose something precious?

It was crazy, but there it was. He moved toward the Moody box and didn’t hear Carl’s last admonition. “Careful, buddy! Women get ideas even when you don’t glance their way!”

CHAPTER THREE

THE Ashfords arose late the Sunday after the game. After all, it had been an exhausting week, with one social gathering after another. It was raining steadily and was a little chilly outside but warm and cozy in the cheerful breakfast room. The ladies lingered long over the delicious brunch Paula had prepared.

Sunday was officially Paula’s day off. But if she had nowhere to go, which was often the case, the Ashfords considered her at their disposal. Even if she retreated to her uncle’s quarters over the garage, she was easily on call. This morning she didn’t mind. She wanted to hear about the game. She had never seen one, and knew nothing about polo. But she knew horses. It must take exceptionally skilled horsemanship to play a game in which horses were engaged. Her ears were alert as she replenished the basket of hot homemade rolls and poured cup after cup of coffee. But it was as if they had not seen the game. The conversation centered on who sat with whom in which spectator’s box and who danced with whom when they retreated to the clubhouse.

“I don’t think he saw me,” Whitney complained. “Aunt Sally’s box is in that far corner, next to the Goosbys, who have all those guests. They blocked us off completely. We shouldn’t have sat there.”

Her mother sniffed. “And just where would you have us sit, missy! Nobody offered to share their box but my dear cousin. You should be grateful.”

“But it is so disappointing that he never found where I was sitting.”

“He found where Sheila Moody was sitting,” Rae interjected.

Whitney stiffened. “That was her doing! She was smiling and simpering and hanging onto him like glue!”

Rae giggled. “I guess your view wasn’t blocked by the Goosbys. You were watching them every minute.”

“I was not! I only—”

“Girls, girls!” Mamie Ashford intervened.

“Well, I don’t see why she’s so het up about Brad Vandercamp,” Rae said. “He’s not the only interesting man who’s here.”

“He’s the most interesting! And you needn’t be so smug because his friend, Lord Carl Wormsley, earl of something or other, danced with you three times. He might have a title, but anything else he has is in hock!”

“I suppose you have checked the financial records of all the potential—”

“Word gets around!” Whitney snapped. “Rumor has it that his title is up for sale to the highest bidder, and I’m afraid that lets you out!”

Paula stopped listening. All she was hearing was that Whitney was in a snit. A few days later, she was in more of a snit. The prince had paid a call upon Sheila Moody.

Mrs. Ashford had heard of it at the bridge table. “One visit,” she exclaimed. “And Ada Moody is hinting at a romance. I bet she’s already looking at bridal clothes.”

However, it seemed that the romance quickly cooled, and Whitney was somewhat mollified when the Ashfords received an invitation for a sojourn on Renegade, the Vandercamp yacht They would be among the many guests who would dine and dance during a moonlight sail down the coast.

Paula received an invitation, too. Harry was catering, and he pleaded with her. To no avail. She couldn’t take the risk.

What risk? He had probably forgotten all about her if he thought of her at all, and she...

All right. She was as anxious to view his yacht as she was to see him play polo.

Wrong. You’re anxious to see him, idiot!

Well... out of sight, out of mind. She gave Harry a definite no.

Well, not exactly definite. When Harry persisted, she hesitated.

She’d never been on a sailboat, much less a yacht. And, from what she’d heard, the Vandercamp yacht was something to be seen.

Why not? With so many guests, he’d hardly notice one serving maid. Especially if she kept well out of his sight.

He recognized her the minute she stepped on the gangplank. He handed the binoculars to his steward, who stood beside him on the upper deck, and pointed. “That is she.”

The steward nodded and hurried away.

Brad focused the binoculars on Paula. Caught by the buoyant enthusiasm reflected in her face, he felt his pulse quicken. That was why he had searched. For another glimpse of that face. Bright, smiling, bubbling with expectant wonder, as if always on the verge of some happy, exciting adventure.

Paula’s eyes were wide as she ran up the gangplank. This wasn’t a yacht, it was a ship! She tried to take it all in as she followed Harry and other workers across a deck that had been scrubbed and polished to a shining perfection. Down a hall and several spiral staircases to an oversize kitchen. No. It was called a galley, and it was equipped with ovens, refrigerators, counters and other appurtenances adequate for the average hotel. Certainly enough to accommodate one—

“Paula, honey, give me a hand here,” Ruth, Harry’s chief assistant, called. “These better go in the fridge. This here’s some boat, ain’t it?”

“Sure is.” Paula lifted a carton of shrimp. “Guess he likes to travel in style.”

“Shoot, he don’t travel on it. Least he didn’t coming here.”

“Oh?” Paula tried to remember. The Ashfords had been so excited when the yacht—

“Guess it don’t travel fast enough for him. He flew in from France or Italy... some fancy place on the Riviera where he was playing whatever game he plays there.”

“So why the yacht?”

Ruth shrugged. “Who knows?” Guess no San Diego hotel is grand enough for him. Anyway, this boat, the Renegade, sailed in while he was still frolicking in Italy, and he’s living abroad while here. Pretty decent living quarters, wouldn’t you say?”

“Nice.”

“One thing about working with Harry,” Ruth said. “You get to know how the other half lives.”

Right, Paula thought. At least Ruth certainly knew more about the prince than Whitney did. Heck, I’m learning more than Whitney while fixing shrimp, she thought, as Ruth rattled on.

“Costs a pretty penny just to park it—more than two thousand a day for a big one like this—and don’t forget the crew that’s always on hand, whether anybody’s aboard or not...eight or ten I heard.”

“That many?” Paula asked, incredulous.

“Oh, sure. Who’s gonna maintain and sail the ship? There are those who maintain and sail this thing, as well as those who serve His Highness and guests who don’t know how to pick up a plate for themselves.”

“And all for one person.”

“Oh, I don’t think he’s alone much, honey. I hear he’s always got some special lady aboard.”

“Oh?” Something else Whitney had missed. Was a lady—

“No lady with him now,” Ruth said, answering the question Paula had not asked. “Some Italian woman back where he come from, but I guess he left her there. Seems like he gets bored pretty quick.”

Paula remembered the mischievous eyes, the engaging smile. He hadn’t looked bored. But maybe that was the way it began, and then... She felt her face grow hot and shook her head in irritation. As if something had begun the night of the costume ball! Good Lord! She was as foolish as Whitney. One impromptu dance and—

“And ’course there’s always lots of entertaining, like this,” Ruth went on.

“Plenty of bedrooms for overnight cruises. And we didn’t have to supply no linen or china, stuff like that. And, Lord, if you’d seen the wine racks. I never—” She broke off at the appearance of a man, immaculate in a white tuxedo.

Harry turned from one of the ovens to greet him. “This is Mr. McCoy,” he said, addressing his employees. “He is chief steward on the Renegade, and we are pleased to be working with him and his staff tonight. Now, as to procedure, as you know, bars and buffets are being set up on the two decks and at various indoor parlors. Each of you will now be assigned to certain sections where you will be assisted by one or more members of the regular Renegade staff.”

After a short conference between the two men, assignments and directions were made. Paula, who had received no assignment, assumed that she was to remain in the kitchen arranging the platters and hot dishes that would go up on dummy waiters to the various levels. But when Mr. McCoy arose from the table, he nodded to her. “Please, will you come with me?”

Puzzled, she followed him from the galley and up more and more staircases. After what seemed like an endless climb, they reached a landing, which he crossed to a door. He unlocked it with a card key and stepped back for her to enter.

She walked in, looked around. Commodious, but definitely a private parlor, she thought, noting a small table set for two.

She was to serve only two people? She turned to question the steward, but he inclined his head and quickly withdrew, closing the door behind him.

She looked at the table, the ice bucket with champagne beside it, a loaded buffet within easy reach. Serving only two would be a piece of cake. Since they weren’t dining with the other guests, they obviously wanted to be alone. After serving them, she supposed she should, like Mr. McCoy, quietly withdraw. She chuckled. The only difficulty might be in finding her way to the galley.

Meanwhile, what had Ruth said? Yep, this was a good chance to see how the other half lives.

The sofa curving around the conversational area in one corner of the room was cushioned in shades of blue, somehow reminiscent of the tossing waves of the sea. The table centering the area held a big bowl of chrysanthemums that seemed to catch their color from the sunlit coastline displayed in the oversize picture on the wall. Everything spoke of good taste and money. She spotted a door, which she opened to a bedroom also tastefully done in shades of ocean blue.

Just as she started in, she felt the roll of the boat beneath her feet. They were off! Whoever she was to serve might come in at any moment, and she didn’t want to be caught peeking. She quickly shut the door.

Just in time, she thought, as she heard the click of the card key and saw the other door open. She was standing at attention when he came in.

The prince himself.

Of course. Who else? Why hadn’t it occurred to her before? Anybody who would sneak a servant he didn’t even know on to a dance floor where she should not be would think nothing of sneaking away from his own guests to have a private rendezvous with...how had Ruth put it? His present interest.

She was surprised at her own indignation. Why should she care what he did, when and with whom?

Curiosity got the best of her, and she looked beyond him. Where was she?

“Hello, again,” he said.

Her gaze flew to him. She had been too immersed in speculation to remember that he might recognize her.

She played it straight. “Good evening, sir. May I get you something? A drink or—”

“Allow me.” He took the champagne from the ice bucket, uncorked it with practiced dexterity and poured two glasses. He handed one to her, touched it with his own. “To us.”

What was going on? She set the glass down. “Thank you, sir, but I don’t drink while working.”

“You are not working. Tonight you are my guest.”

“I—I . . . Beg pardon?” What kind of game was this?

“I said tonight you are my guest. So, please...” He pulled out a chair and smiled.

She did not move.

“Come now,” he coaxed. “I’ve gone to a deal of trouble to arrange this bit of time. Let’s relax and enjoy.”

She saw the mischief lurking in his eyes. Remembered all she had heard of him.

She didn’t like this arrangement. Didn’t like being alone with a well-known lover boy, somewhere out in the Pacific, in his private quarters at the top of his yacht, locked...

Locked? Her throat felt dry. She moved to the door. It swung easily open, and she felt a flush of shame.

“You’re not going to run away again, are you, Cinderella?” he asked, laughing.

Anger replaced the shame. “My name is not Cinderella.”

“Oh? But you did run away at the stroke of midnight. Deserted—”

She was halfway out the door, but he blocked her way. “Wait. Don’t go. Why are you so angry?”

“I’m not angry. I just—” She bit back the words don’t intend to be one of your easy pickups. “I don’t indulge in fairy-tale games, Mr. Vandercamp.”

“This isn’t a game.”

“Whatever you call it, I don’t like it. I came here to work, and I find myself tricked into . . . into this!” Her gesture expressed what she couldn’t bring herself to say.

“What’s wrong with this? How else was I to find you?”

“What?”

“No name. No place of residence. I didn’t even know where you worked. Naturally I assumed you were in the employ of the Moodys, and made several calls there. Saw no trace of you. It was only by lucky chance that during one of these visits, Sam, Moody’s son, dropped a hint. The costume ball was served by an outfit called Harry’s Catering Service. So—”

Paula, who had been fascinated into silence as much by his clipped British accent as his rapid words, broke in. “So why didn’t you just ask Harry? That would have been simple.”

“You think so? Of course I considered that avenue. But it seems Mr. Harry is reluctant to release information concerning his employees, ostensibly for their protection but, I surmise, more for his own. According to my father, one hates to have key personnel stolen from one.”

“Oh.”

“And what could I say? Blond hair...no, more gold than blond. Laughing blue eyes. About five foot four, with a just-right figure. Great dancer... light as a feather in my arms.” His mouth twitched. “Such a description might have a certain . . . well, unsavory connotation. I would not like to create such an impression. You do understand?”

“Of course.” In spite of herself, her lips curved in accord with his infectious grin.

“Likewise, the idea of a detective was abhorrent to me. As if I were in pursuit of a criminal or had some devious intent.”

“Yes, that would be rather tacky,” she said, entering into the game.

“Right. So you see why there’s a party aboard the Renegade tonight. And why it’s being catered by . . . guess who?”

She stared at him. “All that trouble. All these people. Why?”

“I just told you. I was having the devil of a time. I didn’t know your name. Still don’t, incidentally. Nor—”

“No. I mean why did you want to find me?”

The question seemed to puzzle him. He hesitated, smiled. “We do dance well together, don’t we?”

“That’s no reason.”

“It’s a beginning. There may be other things we do well together. Wouldn’t you like to find out?”

Again she saw the mischief in his eyes. “I . . . I don’t think—”

“Oh, don’t be so wary. I am a gentleman. And,” he added quickly as if he just remembered, “there was another reason I had to find you. I had something of yours that I was anxious to return to you. See?” He reached into his pocket and held it out to her.

“My necklace! You found it.” She was genuinely pleased.

“Actually, you left it with me when you withdrew. The chain snapped and—”

“And you had it fixed. No, replaced it,” she corrected, examining the new chain, a little heavier and obviously more expensive. Some basic rule about accepting expensive jewelry from a man... Maybe she ought not to accept. But she was so pleased to have it back. She looked at him, her face glowing. “Thank you. It’s very special to me.”

He touched the small charm. “You like horses?”

“Oh, yes!”

“I knew it! A lady after my own heart.” He took her arm and ushered her to the table. “Sit down. Let’s eat, drink and be merry while finding what else we have in common.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Vandercamp. I do appreciate what you’ve done, but—”

He picked up her glass and handed it to her. “My name’s Brad. What’s yours?”

CHAPTER FOUR

“YOU’VE hardly touched this,” he said later, as he removed their salad plates. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Oh. Yes, I am, only I feel...” Unreal, like she was floating on some imaginary cloud. But this was real. And it wasn’t true that he didn’t know how to pick up a plate. He’s waiting on me! Deftly, with the same casual ease with which he opened the champagne, she thought as he set a filled plate before her.

She tried to smile. “I’m not used to being waited on.”

“Enjoy. Tonight, I am here to grant your every wish, my fair lady.”

The savory scent of Harry’s famous Maiale al Pepe drifted from the plate. She looked at the succulent circles of pork in the tasty herb sauce, the tiny, crisp, not overdone string beans, rice with its separate grains still steaming. Amazing. Sent all the way from the galley and kept piping hot on—

He looked at her from across the table. “Now what are you thinking?”

About how the other half lives, she thought. “That this is very delicious,” she said.

“Then bon appetit!” He lifted his wineglass.

She touched it with hers, trying to relax.

“And stop looking as if you’re about to pull that Cinderella act again!”

“What?”

“As if you might run out on me any minute.”

“I . . . I do feel a little awkward,” she said honestly. “It’s like... Well, you have run out on your guests, and—”

“I did no such thing. I welcomed each one as they came aboard.”

“But now you’re here, and they—”

“Are eating and drinking, just as you and I. The decks, dance hall and private parlors are at their disposal. They won’t miss me.”

“But you...” She stopped, taken aback by the revelation. He really didn’t know that he was the main attraction.

“Well?” he prompted. “You were saying?”

“That you should be with your friends. It doesn’t seem right for us to be hiding away up here while your party goes on below.”

“But I’m trying to make a new friend.” He smiled, and she was caught by the way his eyes laughed as if at some mysterious joke. “That’s the whole point. I wanted us to have this time to ourselves so we could really get acquainted and...” He paused, his fork halfway to his mouth, and frowned. “Hiding? Oh, I hadn’t thought... You’d prefer us to be more public?”

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