~~THE ROYAL MONITOR~~

RUNAWAY PRINCE SPOTTED…AT A TEXAS DUDE RANCH!

After days of speculation regarding the whereabouts of Montavia’s own heir to the throne, Prince Luc has been spotted in Texas, at a dude ranch, of all places! Could our roguish royal possibly be in search of a queen? Maybe…But what worries this reporter most is the pictures the palace has of him actually riding horses and roping cattle. If this is what one does on a dude ranch, then for a man of such regal lineage to behave like a common farmer is just too much to believe. But pictures don’t lie. And will it be only a matter of time before the future king of Montavia is running our beloved country dressed in chaps and a cowboy hat?

Dear Reader,

April is an exciting month for the romance industry because that is when our authors learn whether or not their titles have been nominated for the prestigious RITA® Award sponsored by the Romance Writers of America. As with the Oscars, our authors will find out whether they’ve actually won in a glamorous evening event that caps off the RWA national conference in July. Of course, all the Silhouette Romance titles this month are already winners to me!

Karen Rose Smith heads up this month’s lineup with her tender romance To Protect and Cherish (#1810) in which a cowboy-at-heart bachelor becomes a father overnight. Prince Incognito (#1811) by Linda Goodnight features another equally unforgettable hero—this one a prince masquerading as an ordinary guy. Nearly everyone accepts his disguise except, of course, our perceptive heroine who is now torn between the dictates of her head…and her heart. Longtime Silhouette Romance author Sharon De Vita returns with Doctor’s Orders (#1812), in which a single mother who has been badly burned by love discovers a handsome doctor just might have the perfect prescription for her health and longtime happiness. Finally, in Roxann Delaney’s His Queen of Hearts (#1813), a runaway bride goes from the heat and into the fire when she finds herself holed up in a remote location with her handsome rescuer.

Happy reading!

Sincerely,

Ann Leslie Tuttle

Associate Senior Editor

Prince Incognito
Linda Goodnight

www.millsandboon.co.uk

I dedicate this book to Allison Lyons, my editor from the beginning. You have cheered my successes. You have steered me in the right direction when I strayed. You have encouraged me in disappointment. And lest we forget the really important matters, you introduced me to iced caramel macchiato. What more could an author want?

Books by Linda Goodnight

Silhouette Romance

For Her Child… #1569

Married in a Month #1682

Her Pregnant Agenda #1690

Saved by the Baby #1709

Rich Man, Poor Bride #1742

The Least Likely Groom #1747

Sometimes When We Kiss #1800

Prince Incognito #1811

LINDA GOODNIGHT

A romantic at heart, Linda Goodnight believes in the traditional values of family and home. Writing books enables her to share her certainty that, with faith and perseverance, love can last forever and happy endings really are possible.

A native of Oklahoma, Linda lives in the country with her husband, Gene, and Mugsy, an adorably obnoxious rat terrier. She and Gene have a blended family of six grown children. An elementary school teacher, she is also a licensed nurse. When time permits, Linda loves to read, watch football and rodeo, and indulge in chocolate. She also enjoys taking long, calorie-burning walks in the nearby woods. Readers can write to her at linda@lindagoodnight.com, or c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

Dear Reader,

Four years ago, Silhouette Romance published my first full-length novel. Right away, I knew I’d found a home for the kind of warm, romantic stories I loved to write as well as read. Prince Incognito, my eighth book for this line, continues that tradition, but with a twist.

I thought it would be fun to write a modern Cinderella story complete with handsome prince, a klutzy Cinderella who thought she was an ugly stepsister and a zany fairy godmother like Teddi. I hope you enjoy watching Luc and Carly fall (sometimes quite literally) in love. And I hope you get a chuckle or two out of Teddi.

If you enjoy Prince Incognito, please write and let me know. I love hearing from you! Thank you for all the support you’ve given me since I began writing for Silhouette Romance.

Blessings to you and yours,

Linda Goodnight

www.lindagoodnight.com

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

Prologue

Carson Benedict stood on the balcony overlooking his domain, the Benedict Guest Ranch. Today was his birthday and, as it turned out, not a particularly happy one.

Teddi, his wacky sister, saw to that. She was pestering him with another of her goofy ideas to make the ranch more prosperous. This one took the cake.

“Look at these ledgers, Carson.” She thumped the thick record book and sent six beaded bracelets dancing up and down her slender arms. “We have to do something fast or this guest ranch is going down the tubes.”

“We’re not doing that bad.” They weren’t doing that great either.

“Bookings have dropped this summer. Again. Western dude ranches have lost their ambience. The whole romantic mystique of the cowboy is passé. We have to come up with something fresh and modern.”

Stifling a groan, Carson stepped through the French double doors into his office, though he knew there was no escaping his sister when she was on a roll. “And you think turning the place into a love nest is going to fix that?”

“You’ve already ruled out a meditation spa for holistic cleansing,” Teddi said, tip-tapping right in behind him with the persistence and energy of a hungry mosquito. “Besides, love is the answer to everyone’s problems. Love and aromatherapy.”

Carson couldn’t hold back a laugh. His baby sister was as NewAge as they came, a true disciple of peace and love and healing herbs. With a heavy emphasis on love.

“This is a working ranch, not a bordello.” Having guests on the place was bad enough. He sure didn’t want a bunch of lovesick greenhorns mooning around.

“Oh, pooh.” Teddi tossed her head. A green pyramid-shaped earring, complete with eyeball in the center, flapped against her neck. “That’s not what I’m talking about at all. Remember the Love Boat? Why not a Love Ranch? A place where lonely singles come to find their one true love.”

“No.”

“Matching singles is all the rage right now, Carson. It’s on the Internet, in churches, colleges. There are even professional matchmaking companies.”

“Not here there aren’t.”

“Okay, then.” Teddi tapped the pointy toe of her lime-green shoe with intentional nonchalance. “You win. Let the ranch sink deeper in debt. Let Cousin Arnold buy us out and turn the place into an outlet mall.”

She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Carson knew that body language. And he also knew his sister would talk incessantly about love until he was ready to jump off the balcony and run screaming through the pasture.

He heaved a sigh strong enough to blow papers off his desk. As uncomfortable as the idea made him, a significant downturn of fortunes for the Benedict Ranch had occurred. They did need some kind of advertising gimmick to bring more guests to the ranch. He had hoped the lure of the Old West would do the trick, but Teddi was right. It hadn’t.

“Think of something other than a Love Ranch.”

“Just because Suzy tossed you over for Brad Holder and his oil wells is no reason to be sour on love.”

Carson’s blood did a slow boil at the mention of his ex-wife Suzy and the wealthy Brad. Suzy’s love had been true and forever—or so she’d said—until his finances had gone south.

“I’ll worry about this some other time.” He had a budget to wrestle, cattle to cull and a stupid birthday party to endure. “Discussion is closed.”

“No.” Teddi clamped a hand on each hip, earrings dancing in indignation. For all her flighty ways, she was nearly as stubborn as Carson. “This is my home, too. And keeping it intact affects me as much as it does you. The only way to bring in more guests is to come up with a marketing theme. And what is more appealing than romance?”

“Eating razor blades?”

She narrowed her eyes in speculation. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

Uh-oh. She had that look. He was about to be whopped upside the head with one of her universal relevance statements. “What’s it?”

“You, my darling brother—” she slapped a hand on his desk “—are scared.”

He frowned. “Of what?”

“That little four-letter word. L-O-V-E. You are so afraid of love that you couldn’t convince Romeo and Juliet to go out for free pizza.”

“Sure I could.” She was starting to make him mad. The very idea that he, a trail-hardened rancher and businessman, was scared of anything put a burr in his saddle. “I just don’t want to.”

“You could not.” Teddi slid onto the edge of his desk, crossed her legs and swung her foot back and forth.

“Could, too.”

“Not, not, not.” Her foot tapped with each consecutive not.

She was taunting him, darn her hide. And it was working. “Look. I had a bad experience, but I am not afraid of love.”

“Prove it,” she sang in her happy-go-lucky voice.

“How?”

“Do a little matchmaking between our guests.”

“No way.”

“See,” she said smugly. “I knew you couldn’t do it.”

Carson ground his teeth. Nobody told him he couldn’t do something. Not even his flibbertigibbet sister. “Wanna bet?”

“You won’t do it.”

“I said I would.”

“Okay, then. I’ll bet that you cannot get the next two single guests to fall in love.”

He stuck his nose in her face. “And if I do?”

“I will not say another word about a Love Ranch. But if you lose, I get to rename the ranch and send out the ads.”

He felt a smile coming on. “You’ve got yourself a bet.”

Teddi exploded off the desk and into his arms. She almost knocked all six foot two of him onto his jeanclad backside. “Oh, this is perfect. I’ll even help you.”

“Whoa, wait a minute.” What had he gotten himself into? “Why would you help me?”

“Because once you see how powerful love is, you’ll be hooked and you’ll want us to become the Love County Love Ranch.”

Carson was appalled. “No way. You said you’d drop the subject.”

“I will.” She gave him a sly glance. “If you still want me to. But first you have to make that match.” She danced around the office, and Carson knew the wobbly wheels inside her head were in full motion. “We have an absolute hunk of a guy here already.”

Carson stiffened. “If you mean Luc Gardner, he is off-limits.”

For once Teddi stood still, pinning him with a curious gaze. “He’s single, isn’t he?”

Yes, he was single and a lot more that a woman would appreciate, but Carson had promised to shelter his royal friend and give him a summer of privacy, not find him a wife. Lucky for him, Teddi had been away contemplating the mysteries of the universe the last time Luc had been to Oklahoma.

“Not Luc,” he repeated.

“Has to be. He’s the first single guy, and that was the bet.”

At the sound of a car door, Teddi rushed to the window and peeked through the gauzy curtain. She turned with a flourish and clapped her hands. “And there is a perfectly acceptable young woman—a little tacky-looking maybe but still a female—arriving down below right this minute.”

She sailed to him, kissed him on the cheek and rushed to the door, flinging it open with such exuberance Carson flinched.

“I’ll just run down and make her welcome.” She started out the door, then stopped, turned and pointed a finger at him. “You made a bet, Carson. You can’t renege. It would be very bad karma and upset the cosmic balance of this ranch.”

The cosmic balance, as Carson saw it, was already in bad shape. But he’d never reneged on a bet in his life. Much as he wished he’d kept his mouth shut, his word was his bond. He was about to push his royal college buddy down the road to romance.

He stifled a shudder.

Anything to keep from renaming his ancestral home the Love County Love Ranch.

Chapter One

Exiled.

With a huge groan of dismay, Carly Carpenter popped the trunk on her green Camry and dragged out the one bag she always carried on assignment along with her tape recorder and a laptop. On second thought, she shoved the recorder back inside. Who in Maribella, Oklahoma, would be worth taping?

She stared up at the sprawling three-story turn-of-the-century guest ranch located in the middle of ten thousand acres of nothing and wondered why on earth her sister, Meg, had picked this spot for her exile. Oh, she had said it wasn’t an exile, but Carly knew better. Meg’s husband, Eric, owner and head detective at Wright Stuff Investigations, would have fired her on the spot had Meg not sent her somewhere to hide until the smoke cleared.

“One little mistake,” she muttered. The night had been dark. She hadn’t even seen the flowerpot. Having finally caught Sam Kensel out of his wheelchair and neck brace, she’d been too excited to notice the open window. After all, the guy was suing his workplace for millions, claiming total disability from an on-the-job injury. And then there he was, big as Dallas, pumping hundred-pound weights like Arnold Schwarzenegger, sans neck brace, sans wheelchair and without a trace of pain on his face. She’d tiptoed closer, grappled for her camera and stumbled over the azaleas, through the open window and right into Sam Kensel’s private den.

Sure, the investigation was completely blown after seven long months of tailing, spying and secret recordings. Sure, her brother-in-law had lost a boatload of money and a healthy slice of his reputation as the best in the west. But was it her fault someone stuck a blasted azalea pot under the window? And wasn’t the embarrassment of being Carly the Klutz punishment enough?

“Sheesh.” She slammed the trunk only to discover the sleeve of her oversize shirt-jacket was caught inside. She yanked hard. Then heard a rip. Sadly she looked down at the shirt borrowed from her dad. She preferred baggy, oversize clothes, and his fit the bill. They made her feel shorter, instead of a gawky, lanky five-foot-nine tower of hair and arms and legs.

Not that she cared about such things as fashion. Not Carly Carpenter. She was a private investigator—or wanted to be—with no time for fancy fingernails or frilly clothes or afternoons spent in beauty parlors. Each morning she pulled her thick brunette hair into a wad at the nape of her neck with a rubber band, shoved one of those teeth-clamp thingies in it and hoped the mess stayed in place. It never did.

She shrugged, and the aforementioned hair tumbled forward. Big deal. Let the stuff fall.

Her job was her life, and she was good at it, though her brother-in-law and half of Dallas would argue that point. Somehow she had to get back into their good graces. Breaking a case was the best way, but where would she find a case worth investigating here amidst miles and miles of cows and grass? Sheesh, she could just see the headlines now. P.I. Busts Mayor for Midnight Cow Tipping.

“Take a vacation. Rest up. Recharge your engines,” her sister had said, handing her the brochure for the Benedict Guest Ranch less than two hours’ drive from Dallas. “This place is a real ranch complete with cowboys and horses and cattle drives. You’re gonna love it.”

When she’d tried to argue that she really wanted to be investigating something, Meg had held up a commanding hand.

“I’m trying to save your job, sis. You have a paid vacation coming. Go. Let things around here cool off for a while. Give me time to work a little magic on Eric.”

And so here she was, with one ripped shirtsleeve and a very bruised ego, exiled to the Benedict Guest Ranch for an undetermined amount of time. Meg had said not to come home until she called for her. Now there was a scary thought.

Refusing to let her shoulders slump, she approached the large wraparound porch. The three-story house was right out of a John Wayne movie.

A movement from above drew her attention. On the upper balcony a curtain twitched and a face briefly appeared.

Her private investigator’s curiosity leaped to the fore. Who would be the least bit interested in her arrival?

She shrugged, and the torn overblouse slid down on one shoulder. Absolutely nobody. She hiked up the sleeve, set down her bags, pushed on the brass door handle and entered a massive foyer. The antique portrait of a sour-faced man with slicked-down hair and his equally sour-faced wife glowered down from the Victorian rose wallpaper. Why would anyone hang such an unwelcoming picture in the entryway?

From the corner of her eye she caught sight of a large open area to the right complete with a horseshoe-shaped reception desk.

Still staring at the ugly couple, she stepped sideways directly into the chest wall of a tall, very well-built man. An expensive-smelling man. She lifted her gaze past the pearlized shirt buttons, over the classic Western yoke and into a face straight out of Greek mythology. Breath lodged in her throat.

“Hello.” He gave her a smile that said he was very accustomed to having women fall at his feet. What he didn’t know was that Carly fell at everybody’s feet, handsome or not.

Fumbling for words while trying to close her fly-trap mouth, she managed, however reluctantly, to push herself away from the hard, muscular chest.

“I am so sorry. I’m so clumsy at times, but that picture…” She glanced over her shoulder and grimaced.

He removed his hat and Carly’s mouth went dry. Oh, man.

The gorgeous cowboy had bad-boy hair, the kind that drove women wild. Unruly, curly and a tad too long, the dark blond locks were a fantasy created for a woman’s fingers.

“If I understand correctly, those were the original Benedicts who built this house. And the photograph was taken on their wedding day.”

Carly forced her gaze back to the ugly picture with a stern reminder that she was not interested in men, no matter how hunky and hot. “Not exactly a match made in heaven, was it?”

The cowboy-god laughed. “According to the family, they were actually very happy together.”

“Takes all kinds, I suppose. But it does make you wonder about the rest of the Benedicts.”

“Actually the hospitality is exceptional.”

“Thank goodness. Those are not faces I would enjoy seeing over the dinner table every night.”

“So you are a guest here, too. No?”

The odd turn of phrase elevated Carly’s investigative antennae. Did she detect a wisp of an accent? She checked him out one more time. He looked like a cowboy. But then this was a dude ranch. Anybody could buy a hat and boots.

“I’ll be staying for a while.” She thought of herself as more of a prisoner than a guest.

“And you are not too happy about that?”

“Long story.” A humiliation she did not care to share with anyone, certainly not a gorgeous man who exuded class. She bent to retrieve her bags, but the cowboy was too quick for her.

“Allow me.”

Carly gawked at the perfectly vee’d back moving away from her, a bag under each arm. Since when did cowboys talk so cultured? And walk with the erect bearing of a soldier and the smooth grace of someone born to privilege? Cowboys slouched. Or strutted.

But not so this guy. She had a quick vision of servants and valets and bellboys rushing to accommodate his every wish. And women lined up to ride in his fancy Italian car.

She didn’t care if he wore spurs and chaps and shouted, “Yee-haw.” This fella was no more a cowboy than she was. An aristocrat, no doubt, with blood bluer than his eyes. The smell of money and privilege teased her senses as much as his designer cologne.

She turned up her nose. Guys like this thought they were so hot. He’d probably expect her to fall all over him, flirt and generally make a nuisance of herself. And maybe, just maybe, he’d drop a crumb in her lap.

Carly didn’t worry about that in the least. She might fall on him, but not out of attraction. Not Carly. She’d been ignored by the best and dumped by the worst. No big deal.

Hiking her torn shirtsleeve, she followed the man across the gleaming oak floor to the horseshoe reception desk. A mouse of a woman awaited her.

“I’m Carly Carpenter.”

The skinny woman whose name badge read Macy shoved a pair of enormous black plastic glasses toward her nose.

“Of course, ma’am. We were expecting you.” She pushed a form across the desk. “Please sign this and you’ll be set to go. The second floor is our guest area. You are in room number—” she squinted at the key in her hand “—three. Just down the hall past Mr. Gardner. I see the two of you have already met.”

“I guess you could say we bumped into each other.”

Lowering Carly’s bags to the floor, the man flashed his million-dollar smile. Carly decided not to notice. She was off men like feathers off a plucked chicken. Permanently.

He extended a well-groomed hand. No dirt under those fingernails. “I am Luc Gardner.”

Carly placed her hand in his. She, with hands long enough to have been a concert pianist, was dwarfed by a blond god in cowboy boots. An interesting sizzle of awareness shimmied up one arm. That would not do at all.

“And I am Carly Carpenter, klutz deluxe. Look out for the shine on those boots. If I’m anywhere near, they’ll be toast.”

He smiled, and somewhere an orthodontist rejoiced. “Toast? As in breakfast?”

Carly blinked twice. What kind of guy didn’t understand American idioms?

A lightbulb came on inside her head.

“You’re not American.”

“As you would say, busted.” The corners of his ocean blue eyes crinkled, but she detected a flicker of reservation. Had he not wanted her to realize the obvious?

But Carly had no opportunity to probe further. An elf of a woman bounded down the staircase to the right, long stained-glass pyramids swinging from her earlobes, brown curly hair flying around her shoulders.

“Hi, Luc. So sweet of you to play bellhop. I don’t know where those ranch hands have gotten off to.” A fleeting pucker came and went, replaced by an impish grin. “Out playing cowboy, I imagine.” Then she stuck out a hand toward Carly. “I’m Teddi Benedict and you must be Carly Carpenter.” Before Carly had a chance to answer, Teddi whipped around toward the mousy little receptionist. “Macy, did you tell them about tonight’s barbecue for Carson and the trail ride in the morning?”

Carly’s head swirled as fast as the woman’s colorful gypsylike skirts. This must be one of the Benedicts.

“Today’s my brother’s birthday.” Teddi flashed a grin. “And we’re celebrating with a bash at seven o’clock. A great way to get acquainted with the staff and the other guests.”

“Oh. Well. That’s…good.” Just what Carly didn’t need. To have to make nice when all she wanted to do was go up to her room and fall into a hot bath and a long depression.

“Here you go.” Teddi shoved a piece of paper that looked like something of a schedule into Carly’s hand. “Everything you need to know is right there. Now, Luc, sweetie, would you mind carrying Carly’s bags up the stairs for her?”

No one had carried anything for Carly since Harold Watersnout in the fourth grade. And he’d only done it then so she’d teach him to whistle through his front teeth.

But the man with the designer smile, the continental bearing and athletic body inclined his head and hoisted her bag and laptop one more time. “It would be my pleasure.”

An exaggeration, no doubt, but Carly gave him points for good manners. Carrying a guest’s suitcase couldn’t be a normal occurrence for a Greek god.

Investigator’s curiosity—at least that’s what she told herself—drove her to watch him. Long, athletic, jean-clad legs carried Mr. Golden Gorgeous up the staircase.

She tugged at the neck of her ripped shirt.

My goodness, it was warm in here.

Everything about her new acquaintance screamed wealth and privilege, the kind of man who normally left her as cold as a tile floor on Christmas morning.

But something about the pseudo cowboy intrigued her. Purely detective’s instinct.

What was a man like Luc Gardner doing on an Oklahoma dude ranch?

She shrugged once more to hike the torn sleeve back into place. She was a detective. She’d find out soon enough.

As she clumped up the rather narrow staircase behind him, Carly did her best not to drool. The man was scary handsome. Fairy-tale handsome. And Carly was a realist who did not believe in fairy tales.

“Room three, isn’t it?” He paused outside the door a few feet down the gleaming wood-floor hallway.

“Yes.”

He extended his hand. She stared at him like an idiot for a full minute before understanding that he wanted to unlock the door for her.

Flattered, she handed him the key. “I’m perfectly capable of opening the door for myself.”

“And my mother would be appalled if I allowed it.”

She smiled. “I like your mother.”

He returned the smile, and Carly prayed her eyes wouldn’t cross from the brilliance. “As do I.”

He inserted the key, then stood back, allowing Carly to enter first.

After setting her bag on the floor, he placed the laptop on the small table next to the bed.

“Someone left you a newspaper.” He picked the thing up as he would a dead mouse.

She grimaced. Hadn’t this very Dallas newspaper carried the story of her arrest for breaking and entering? Sheesh. She’d fallen and entered, and the only thing she’d come close to breaking was her own neck.

“The last thing I want to see while I’m here is a newspaper.”

Luc Gardner dropped the Dallas Daily Mirror into the trash can. “I feel exactly the same.”

“You don’t like the media?” She went to a small round table to smell the flowers and finger the fruit. Her shirtsleeve slid down again. This time she gave up and left it.

“Not particularly. Prying into someone else’s private life for gain is not my idea of a worthy occupation.”

Ouch. “Really?”

If he thought reporters were nosy, what would he think of a private investigator? Better lie low with this guy and keep her career goals to herself.

Carly polished a shiny red apple on the tail of her shirt and tried not to watch him from the corner of her eye. He really was gorgeous. “How long have you been here?”

He crossed his arms and leaned against the open door facing her. “Two days.”

“Planning to stay long?” Rats. Where had that come from?

“As long as it takes.”

Interesting answer. “To do what?”

“Get to know you, of course.”

Carly laughed. She knew her shortcomings. Guys liked her. They confided in her. Asked her advice. Treated her like a sister or a best friend. A few even dated her. But no one tossed compliments to Carly the Klutz.

Certainly not guys like this one.

So why had he?

Chapter Two

Luc unlocked the door to his own room and went inside, tossing the white cowboy hat onto the bed. He was still thinking about the latest guest to arrive at the Benedict Ranch.

She amused him, did Miss Carly Carpenter, with her quick wit and baggy attire. Not the usual woman of his acquaintance, but that was the appeal, he thought. She hadn’t simpered and fawned over him.

Probably because, to his enormous relief, she had no idea who he was. For once he was in a place where not one person—other than his old college mate, Carson Benedict—had even a hint of who he was.

Never in his life had he been out of the limelight, though he’d lived in the shadow of his brother for most of the time. But since Philippe’s death, the European paparazzi had turned into blood-sucking leeches, draining every moment of peace from his life. The American press, while fascinated by him during his brief time at university, had yet to discover his presence this trip.

He could thank Carson for that. His friend had graciously agreed to protect his privacy and in effect hide him out for this last summer. His summer of decision.

He rubbed at the little knot of tension in his neck and went to the computer on the small desk next to the window. Though he wasn’t picky about accommodations, the room was pleasant and sparkling clean.

Knotty-pine walls surrounded an ample-size bed covered in a colorful red-and-blue Americana quilt. A large area rug was beneath his feet, and a small bathroom opened off to one side. He knew from conversations with Carson that the baths had been added when the ranch had opened its doors to visitors.

He felt for his old friend, a quiet loner of a man who must be constantly annoyed to have strangers running about his land. Carson had been as much a misfit at Princeton as he, though for far different reasons. They had become such good friends because they’d both sought solitude and peace where there was none.

Flipping open the lid of the laptop, Luc typed in his password and opened his e-mail, checking for word from the palace in Montavia. He’d promised his father, King Alexandre, that he would be in frequent communication should a crisis arise and he needed to return home—something he didn’t want to do anytime soon. Oh, he loved his country and the warm, gentle people living there, just as he felt the strong call of duty upon his life.

But when he’d come to Oklahoma on spring break with Carson during that one year Father had allowed him to attend a foreign university, he’d been free of the conventions and diplomacy that ruled his life—or tried to.

That one glorious year when he’d fallen in love with a country other than his own and had completed a degree in resort development. A degree that he had hoped to use as a means of strengthening his small country’s role in the global economy, though the press had mocked his interest as an excuse for the lesser prince to play.

“The playboy prince,” they’d called him. And though he was much less the playboy than the tabloids had indicated, he’d done his share of playing. He made no excuses for enjoying life. Race cars, fast horses, ski competitions. He’d gloried in them all.

Then, only days before his twenty-seventh birthday, Philippe, crown prince of Montavia, had died. His brother, his best friend, killed during Christmas vacation while they’d skied in the Alps.

With great effort Luc closed off the thought of that day, of the flash of red on white snow, the utter silence that had come after and the terrible knowledge of his own culpability.

Then he, Luc Jardine, the playboy prince, the second son, had become the heir apparent. And life had never been the same again.

He’d been reared to serve, reared even to reign should that become necessary, but no one had ever believed anything would happen to Philippe. Mother and Father had trained both sons in government, but Luc had resisted more than he’d cooperated. He had skipped as many international summits and state dinners as he’d attended.

Philippe, so serious and intellectual, had never taken his responsibility lightly, not the way Luc had. Philippe would have made a strong and able king, just as he’d been a steadfast and loving brother. Even now Luc’s heart bled with missing the best friend he would ever know.

He rubbed a hand over his suddenly misty eyes. Philippe had been the right man for the throne. Luc, the playboy prince, felt he never would be.

And that was where the indecision lay. Could he rule?

When Father had shipped him off to the military shortly following Philippe’s death, Luc had been too stunned and grief-stricken to argue. The experience had strengthened his character, taken the edge off his wildness and made him a better man, but had it made him a king? He didn’t know. And until he did, he could not accept the crown from his father.

A tiny computer voice announced that he had mail. The post was from his sister and only remaining sibling. His fingers tightened as he highlighted the e-mail. If Anastasia found out where he was, word would spread all over Europe—and America—by morning. Anastasia, much as he adored her, had never kept a secret in her life.

Luc! the post screamed. Wherever are you? Count Broussard is in an absolute frenzy over your disappearance.

Luc frowned at the screen. Count Broussard, royal counselor and personal advisor to the crown prince, was the main reason he had eluded his entourage of bodyguards and come to America.

From the time he was a boy and more so since Philippe’s death, the count had hovered over Luc like an overprotective mother—or a vulture. Luc could make no decision, go nowhere, do nothing without Broussard’s input—and frequently his disapproval. Nothing Luc did was right in the eyes of the royal advisor. Even his father had noticed and agreed with Luc’s decision to spend some time alone, away from the pressures of the palace, the press and the count.

Shaking off a sense of unease, Luc continued reading.

That wicked old Peter won’t tell me anything, and Father only shoos me away like some annoying insect. I will surely perish if I do not hear from you soon.

Anastasia’s flare for the dramatic triggered a smile. Next to Broussard, his little sister was the last person who could know his whereabouts. She loved to talk, especially to the Montavian press.

The next post was from his valet and confidant, the dependable Peter. Newsy and warm and full of humor, the post made Luc wish for home. One paragraph, written to bedevil, reminded Luc that Lady Priscilla was still miffed at him. He laughed aloud and dashed off an answering note.

Lady Priscilla, Count Broussard’s daughter, was a constant source of agitation and teasing between the two men. Luc’s father, as well as the count, would like nothing better than to see a match between the crown prince and Lady Priscilla. Time was passing. The unspoken pressure to marry an appropriate woman and produce a male heir grew stronger all the time.

He splayed four fingers through his unruly hair. He had no desire to settle down with one woman.

His thoughts went to the endearing bag lady he’d met in the lobby, Carly Carpenter. She was nothing at all like Lady Priscilla. But he had a suspicion that beneath the oversize shirt, floppy skirt and hiking boots there could be a lovely woman.

He shook his head, smiling. Perhaps not. Either way, his interest had been piqued. He had enjoyed the contradiction of her snappy attitude and bag-lady looks with her sexy drawl and full, lush mouth. A man could fantasize about a mouth like that.

Suddenly he was looking forward to Carson’s birthday party.

Carly had tried resting in her cute country-style room, but she wasn’t tired. She was, however, fighting an annoying bout of depression. She, who did not believe in allowing her emotions to run her life and who hadn’t even cried over her breakup last month with Lester, was in danger of becoming morose.

Lester the Molester, as she’d called him after threatening to amputate both his hands if he didn’t keep them out from under her skirt, was not worth her tears. Her career, however, was.

Sad to think that her job had been her life and now she didn’t even have a job. Maybe she’d never work again. Maybe she was washed up at the age of twenty-eight and would spend the rest of her life living in boxes behind Burger King, investigating half-eaten sandwiches and cigarette butts.

No, her sweet sister, Meg, wouldn’t let that happen. She’d wine and dine good old Eric, give him a few of her pretty pouts and hot looks, and soon enough Carly would be back to work.

Maybe. And then again, maybe Meg’s charm wouldn’t work this time.

Carly snapped off Court TV and looked at her watch. Nearly time for the evening’s entertainment, a diversion at least from her worries. She hitched her camera strap over one shoulder and headed down the hall toward the stairs.

Nearing room six—the drugstore cowboy’s room—she paused. Would Luc Gardner attend the barbecue?

Before she could think better of it, Carly lifted a hand to knock and ask. Hearing a tap, tap, tap, she hesitated and then decided against disturbing him. Silly idea anyway. Even if she was only being friendly.

The tapping continued, and true to her nosy inclinations, she pressed an ear to the door. Not that she was interested in him otherwise. But her instinct had been titillated by that accent of his and she aimed to find out more about him. What was he doing in there? Typing? Doing computer work? Was he a workaholic businessman who couldn’t leave his job behind even for a vacation?

Sheesh. She was a fine one to ask that.

Suddenly the tapping stopped and chair rollers clatered against the wood floor. Before she could be caught snooping, Carly rushed down the curving stairs. On the very last step she twisted her ankle and was forced to hop on one foot across the wide wraparound veranda.

Though she had yet to learn her way around the ranch, it didn’t take a detective to follow the scent of mesquite smoke. Stomach growling, ankle throbbing, she limped down a red brick walkway that snaked around the house to the wide backyard.

A recreation area of sorts sprawled out in all directions. She spotted a swimming pool at one end, horseshoe pits and a volleyball net at the other. In the center was a smoker the size of a tanker and enough men in cowboy hats to fill Dodge City. The women were outnumbered ten to one.

She should have been giddy at the opportunity to hang out with so many of the opposite sex. But not Carly. She was resigned to the hideous truth that men did not find her attractive. There were women with beauty and there were those with brains. She would never fit into the first category, so she darn well intended to claim the latter.

“Carly.” The effusive welcome committee, Teddi Benedict, danced toward her. Carly had visions of gypsies circling a campfire, tambourines a-jingle. “Come and meet everyone. Supper is almost ready.”

Over the next few minutes Carly was pulled from cowboy to cowboy for introductions. Head swimming with names like Slim and Dirk and Heck, her thoughts went to the one cowboy who looked more like Rodeo Drive than a real rodeo.

She glanced around. No sign of the intriguing Luc.

Teddi led her toward an enormous shade tree where a man and a small boy stood apart from the crowd. The ugliest dog on the planet sat between the two, never taking his spooky but adoring eyes off the child.

“And this,” Teddi announced with glee, “is my big brother, Carson, the birthday boy.”

“Happy birthday, Mr. Benedict,” Carly said. “Thank you for inviting me to your party.”

A tall, dark cowboy with black eyes and a blacker expression glowered at her.

“Welcome to Benedict Ranch,” he growled.

Carly blinked. Mr. Carson Benedict, birthday or not, was not a happy camper.

“And this little man is Gavin,” Teddi went on, indicating a smaller spitting image of Carson Benedict, complete with boots and hat and a belt buckle that covered his entire belly.

The darling boy stuck out a hand with solemn politeness. “Welcome to Benedict Ranch.”

Charmed, Carly bent from her considerable height to eye level with the child.

“Why, thank you, sir. I take it you are the owner of this fine ranch.”

The child beamed, and the real owner even managed a grudging reply. “Gavin will own this spread someday no matter what I have to do.”

Thinking his was an oddly defensive remark to a total stranger, Carly mumbled something and moved away. Carson Benedict was about as friendly as a rattlesnake. And he didn’t seem the least bit thrilled to have all these guests on his land, though he was the owner and must have the ultimate say in what happened here. And if he was in a celebratory mood for his birthday, she didn’t want to be around when he was ticked off.

Weird.

“Pay no mind to Carson,” Teddi said, catching up to her. “His bad attitude is just an act.”

“Well, he’s good at it. Has he ever thought of a career on the stage?”

Teddi’s musical laughter rang out. “Too busy worrying about this place, I think.”

No doubt operating such an establishment did require a great deal of work.

“How many guests can you accommodate?” she asked, taking in green pastures and barbwire fences that spread as far as the eye could see.

“Thirty at the most.” Teddi Benedict was never still, and in the evening sun her brown hair glinted with red highlights. “Other than the house, we have two bunkhouses—one for guests and one for the cowboys.”

“Ah. A real working ranch, then? Just like in the brochure.”

“Absolutely. If you want to ride out and work with the hands, you can do that. Or you can go for the planned events, trail rides, whatever you want.” Teddi did one of her mercurial shifts, hazel eyes dancing. “This place is perfect for the single female. You are single, aren’t you?”

“Uh…yeah.” Permanently.

As if Carly’s unattached status was something to celebrate, Teddi clapped her small hands and nearly did a jitterbug.

“Wonderful, Carly. You are surrounded by men.” She swept a hand toward the gaggle of cowboys who now held paper plates and chowed down on pork ribs. “Find one. Have a romantic holiday. Maybe even discover your one true love. This place can make it happen.”

Carly held up a hand to stop the tirade. “Thanks, but no thanks. Romance is the last thing on my mind.”

And would likely stay that way forever. She didn’t need a man; she needed to successfully investigate something and prove to her brother-in-law that she really could solve a case without screwing up.

As if that was going to happen out here in cowville.

At that moment Luc Gardner came strolling down the brick walk, thumbs in his belt loops, looking mouthwateringly delicious. Carly forgot what she was saying.

“Luc!” Teddi gushed, jewelry clanking like a ghost in chains. “I’m so glad you decided to join us.”

“The scent of Western barbecue could drive a man to madness.”

“Exactly the result we were going for. Tell you what. You met Carly earlier, right?”

Luc turned those Mediterranean-blue eyes on Carly and smiled. “Lovely seeing you again, Carly.”

“Yes, lovely,” she mumbled weakly. She was salivating, but it had nothing to do with the spicy barbecue.

Before she could make a bigger fool of herself, Teddi stepped in. “So, Luc, sweetie, will you be Carly’s dinner partner tonight and help her get acquainted?”

“That isn’t necessary.” Now that she’d found her voice and had shaken off the annoying attack of weak knees, Carly was embarrassed at Teddi’s machinations.

“It would be my pleasure,” Luc replied over her protestations.

Teddi squeezed his bicep, setting her bracelets a-jingle. “Oh, I just knew you would. You are such a sweetheart. If y’all will excuse me, I really should go say hello to the new family from Ohio.”

Like a will-o’-the-wisp, she danced away, leaving Carly alone with Luc. How embarrassing. And how awful for Luc to be put on the spot this way. All her life her family had played matchmaker, dumping her on unsuspecting guys—and it never worked out.

“Really, Luc,” she said, liking the way his name rolled off her tongue but not particularly fond of her sudden propensity for stuttering, “I can fend for myself.”

“But I am alone here, too. I would enjoy sharing dinner with you.” He made it sound as though they were dining on caviar and champagne at the Ritz. “That is, if you are in agreement.”

Agreement? Ecstasy was more like it. Not because he was far more handsome than any man here. And not because his accent made her stomach flutter. But because she wanted to know why a man like him was here, alone, on an Oklahoma dude ranch a million miles from nowhere. That was all. Mere P.I.’s curiosity.

“You do not mind, however, if I greet our host first?” Luc went on. “Would you care to accompany me?”

After their initial meeting, she had no desire to play chummy with the dour rancher.

She grimaced. “I’ll pass.”

Luc looked at her quizzically. “Have the two of you met?”

“A few moments ago. And I have to tell you, the birthday boy isn’t the friendliest host around.”

“Carson?” Luc’s blue gaze flickered to the rancher now sitting at a picnic table with the small boy. The incredibly ugly blue-eyed dog sat on the bench, too. “Carson is all right. A bit too private to run a bed-and-breakfast but a good man nonetheless.”

His answer surprised her. How would a guest make that kind of evaluation in two days’ time?

“Then why don’t you go say hello while I get us a couple glasses of iced tea.” She pointed to a table covered in red-checkered vinyl. “I’ll meet you under that tree over there.”

Like a king honoring his subjects, Luc inclined his golden head. “Excellent idea.”

As Luc strolled away, Carly headed for a shaded area where Macy, the ranch’s receptionist, manned a spigoted container of sweet tea. Behind Macy an angelic-looking toddler sat on a quilt, gnawing a banana.

“Who’s the cutie-pie?” Carly asked.

Mousy Macy, as Carly had secretly termed her, lit up like the night sky on the Fourth of July. “That’s Hanna, my little girl. She’s two.”

The child, all blue eyes and curly blond hair, waved a chubby hand at Carly. “Hi.”

“Hi, yourself,” Carly said before glancing back to Macy. “She’s adorable.”

Macy filled a large plastic cup with tea and handed it to Carly. Her voice was soft and shy. “Thank you. I think so, too.”

Once upon a time when she had believed in fairy tales, Carly had thought about having kids. But that was before she’d grown up and discovered she was better at poking around in other people’s business than in forming lasting relationships.

After collecting the drinks, Carly headed for the shade tree and sat down. Sipping at the icy, sweet beverage, her attention drifted to Luc and the unfriendly rancher. Her curiosity hitched a notch. In Luc’s company, the grumpy Carson was laughing and relaxed. He clapped a hand on Luc’s shoulder as if they were old friends.

How would a remote Oklahoma rancher become acquainted with someone who oozed European class? Interesting question that Carly intended to answer.

“So,” Carly said a short time later as she sat across the table from Luc stabbing a fork into beef chunks loaded with spicy-hot barbecue sauce. “Are you and Mr. Benedict old friends?”

Nothing like going straight to the source with a direct question. She was much more adept at interviewing than conversation anyway. Concentrating on business would erase the discomfort of being thrust upon Luc like some wallflower at the junior prom.

Luc hesitated, lifting his napkin.

If possible, he looked even more fairy-tale handsome tonight in a chambray shirt that turned his eyes to a rhapsody in blue. And if that wasn’t enough to make her drool like a sick dog, he’d rolled back the sleeves to reveal muscled forearms that looked strong enough to take on anything. So interesting. Both muscles and manners in one stunning body.

To make matters worse—or better, depending on one’s outlook—he had removed the white cowboy hat. Carly had nearly choked on her barbecue. That wild bad-boy hair, like some sexy movie star or European racer, wreaked havoc with her imagination.

“Carson and I attended the same university for a short time,” he said. “So when I decided to vacation in the American West, I contacted him.”

Well, that explained it. Shoot.

Disappointed, she stabbed another beef chunk and poked it in her mouth. She’d hoped for a more exciting reason for a man like Luc to vacation at a remote dude ranch in Oklahoma instead of on the sunny shores of Spain.

She chewed and swallowed, savoring the tender beef. “Somebody around here has turned barbecue into an art form.”

“That would be Carson’s specialty. I remember when he invited me here years ago. He could hardly wait until I had tasted the family recipe. It is exquisite, no?”

There was that accent again, richer, warmer.

“You never did say where you are from.”

“No, I never did.” He smiled to soften the evasive reply, but Carly didn’t miss the diversion. Her antennae shot, happily, back up.

“Your accent is charming,” she said. “Is it French?”

She was prying but hoped Luc accepted the question as casual dinner conversation.

“You have a good ear,” he said. “Perhaps you speak français?”

“Oui.” She racked her brain to tell him that she had learned basic French in high school. “J’ai appris dans le lycée.”

His face, already too gorgeous for words, lit up in pleasant surprise. “Votre accent est tout à fait passable.”

Carly grinned at his compliment about her French accent and searched for the phrase to tell him not to tease her for sounding like a Texan.

“Ne taquinez pas. Je suis une Texan.”

Luc leaned back from the table and lay his fork aside to study her intently. “I am impressed, mademoiselle. ¿Usted habla español?”

Carly’s brain whirled to keep pace, but she was determined to be his mental equal. She might not be a beauty, but she had smarts.

She pointed her fork at him. “No fair jumping to Spanish without warning. But si, I do know some Spanish, though mine is mostly street language from living and working among the Hispanic folks in Dallas.”

“Quizás usted puede enseñarme.”

The pleasure of doing mental gymnastics with an intelligent man stirred Carly’s blood. Most men of her acquaintance were intimidated by her quick mind, but with Luc the situation was just the opposite. And tons of fun.

“I would be delighted to share the street language I know—if you think you can stand it.”

“I look forward to your expertise. Möglicherweise sprechen Sie auch Deutsches?”

Darn. She’d used up her repertoire of foreign languages.

She shook her head. One lock of hair came loose and flopped into her face. She blew it back. “You lost me there. What was that? German?”

“Ja.” He took up his fork and knife again, slicing his beef as if it was filet mignon.

“How many languages do you speak anyway?”

She watched him eat, noting that though he enjoyed his food with manly gusto, he ate with a finesse not found on most ranches. Muscles, manners and an amazing mind. Who was this guy?

“Six fluently. And you?”

“Six? Now it’s my turn to be impressed. Sadly you have heard my entire litany of languages. Where did you learn to speak so many?”

Luc’s expression remained friendly, but his smile tightened. Interesting. They had both enjoyed their game of intellectual table tennis, so why the sudden tension?

“School. Travel.” He gestured with his fork. “You know.”

No, she didn’t know, but as a detective—junior though she might be—she recognized the carefully chosen words that answered without answering.

“French, German, Spanish, English and what else?” she pressed with her most charming smile. Was he being intentionally obtuse or had a couple of years of prying information out of reluctant interviewees made her overly suspicious?

“Italian and Chinese.”

“I’m out of the game on both of those. Isn’t Chinese incredibly difficult?”

“It is, but in my—” he hesitated slightly, and her radar went crazy “—family business we found Chinese to be an important asset.”

“So your family is in international business?”

“More…public relations, you might say.”

“But on an international scale?”

“The world has become a global economy. Every large business is now on an international scale, is it not?”

Ah, now she was a getting somewhere. He was in some kind of public-relations business that had been in the family for generations and had gone international. No wonder he reeked of money and privilege—and spoke more languages than the United Nations.

“And what of you, Carly?” he asked. “What do you do in Texas?”

Think fast, Carly. You’re about to get in over your head.

“My degree is in marketing.” Which was true. Never mind that she’d nearly gone loco during the single year she’d worked in the field. She and the nine-to-five suit set weren’t exactly a match made in heaven.

“Do you enjoy it?”

Hated it.

She shrugged and felt her sleeve slide south. “Some days are diamond and some are stone.”

Lately the stones had been winning.

Luc’s glorious eyebrows knit together in a question. “Pardon?”

“Oh.” She flapped one hand at him. “It’s just a job, like any other. I take the good with the bad.” She had to find a way out of this conversation quick. “My life is boring. Yours, on the other hand, with all that international travel must be fascinating. Tell me about your country.”

Hopefully her attempt to keep Luc talking about himself was subtle enough to catch him off guard. She was usually good at sneaky interrogation.

His already dreamy eyes took on an even dreamier expression. Wherever he lived was a place he loved.

“Ours,” he said, “is a small but lush and picturesque country surrounded by mountains, dotted with pristine villages and peopled by a warm and friendly citizenry.”

Sunlight shafting through the trees glinted off his bad-boy hair. Carly tried not to notice, though her fingers itched to smooth wayward waves. Listening to his rich voice with the hint of accent did enough strange things to her insides. Looking at him was a killer.

“You sound like a travel brochure.” She’d wanted to write those once upon a time, another career goal that hadn’t worked out too well.

His gorgeous mouth tilted at the corners. “I could be. Montavia is—how do I express it?—an undiscovered treasure. A tiny alpine paradise. And I want to make the rest of the world aware of her great potential as a first-class resort area.”

“Montavia?” Carly latched on to the word like a terrier on a T-bone. The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t bring up any data. “Exactly where is Montavia?”

Luc winced. He gathered the front of his hair and shoved it backward.

Dang. She’d wanted to do that.

As soon as the thought came, Carly thrust it out. She was onto something here. Getting distracted could get a P.I. killed. Well, maybe not here and now but somewhere. Besides, Luc had avoided revealing the name of his country. Why did it matter if she knew where he lived?

“Near Switzerland,” he finally said and then, smooth as French silk pie, he glanced toward the food table and changed the subject. “Would you care for some of Carson’s birthday cake?”

Yes, she’d have some cake, but she wanted some more answers, too. She jumped up from the table. To her everlasting dismay, one hand struck her half-empty tea glass. As if in slow motion, the glass tumbled forward and clattered onto the checkered cloth.

Carly squeezed her eyes shut. When she dared peek, sticky tea splattered the front of Luc’s handsome shirt.

With a groan of dismay Carly grabbed her napkin and rushed to repair the damage. Now she’d done it. Luc would leave to change his clothes and never want to see her again.

Luc Gardner was secretive about his home, leery of the press and smelled deliciously rich. To a good detective those added up to one thing: he had to be somebody. And Carly, who desperately needed to prove she could investigate anybody, anywhere, and come up with something, needed to find out who.

Investigating him would keep her busy during this odious exile, and if Luc turned out to be nobody, no harm done. But if she was really, really lucky, Luc Gardner just might be the answer to her prayers.

If her clumsiness didn’t kill him first.

Chapter Three

Regardless of one’s location, sunrise was a shockingly vulgar time of day.

These were Carly’s first thoughts as she crawled from beneath her star-of-Bethlehem quilt and stumbled across the polished oak floors into the bathroom. What had possessed her to agree to a trail ride at sunrise?

She’d forgotten to ask when breakfast was served and she’d bet a mocha Frappuccino there wasn’t a Star-bucks within a hundred miles.

In the city, where there was nothing but concrete and cars, morning arrived with the sounds of horns honking, sirens screaming and trucks roaring past. Good sounds. Normal stuff.

But out here in the Oklahoma outback, some love-struck bird had chosen her windowsill to belt out his twittering happiness. And above the air-conditioning she heard cows mooing. Any minute she expected a rooster to cut loose.

Might as well get used to it. Exile could last a long time.

She showered and dressed, hoping her Payless hiking boots would do for horseback riding. Not that she knew much about that dubious activity, but she was game. Sort of.

She tossed her camera over one shoulder and started out the door. Sunrise was a sight she didn’t plan to see too often. Might as well get some shots.

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