Not Fit for a King - By Jane Porter Page 0,60
ball—a beautiful princess dancing with the handsome king—and just like the fairy tale, today she was no one. She’d been tossed into the streets.
Exhausted, Hannah closed her suitcase and got to her feet and stood in the middle of the train station, wishing she had a fairy godmother who could come wave a magic wand and make everything good again.
But fairy godmothers didn’t exist, and real life women like Hannah Smith had to sort out their problems and mistakes on their own.
Only her plight hadn’t gone unnoticed. An old gentleman working at the station ticket counter left his booth and approached her, speaking a mixture of broken English and Raguvian. “Do you need help?”
She nodded, hating the lump in her throat. “I need to find a hotel, something cheap, for a night or two until my father can send money.”
He pointed to a building across the street. “Nice and clean,” he said, with a sympathetic smile. “And not too much money. Tell them Alfred sent you.”
She shot him a grateful smile. “I will, thank you.”
He nodded and watched her hurry across the plaza to the small hotel tucked into the stone building on the other side of the cobbled street.
The woman at the front desk seemed to be waiting for Hannah at the front door. She ushered her in and got her registered at the small reception desk in minutes before personally showing Hannah to her room, explaining through gestures and smiles how the small ancient television and room thermostat worked.
When Hannah told her she needed a phone to make a collect call to the United States, the woman handed Hannah her own from her dress pocket.
But the phone operator couldn’t reach Hannah’s father for him to accept the collect call. They tried twice before Hannah gave up.
“You can try again later, as many times as you need,” the front desk clerk assured her. “I will be here all day.”
Hannah did try three more times, but each time she had the operator try to place the collect call, her father’s answering machine picked up.
By the end of the day, Hannah had resigned herself to the fact that she’d be stuck in Raguva at least another day. If not longer.
For the first twenty-four hours after Hannah left, Zale wanted revenge. He fantasized about hunting Hannah down and making her suffer as he was suffering.
He was still angry the second day after she’d left, and plotted her downfall, but now when he imagined doing something to her, he was doing something to her body. Something … pleasurable.
He hated himself for even thinking of her, much less desiring her.
The fact that he could imagine taking pleasure in her body baffled him after everything that had happened.
Why was he even thinking about her? How could he want her? She’d manipulated him and played him and he should hate her.
He didn’t. He couldn’t. Not when he loved her.
Zale ran a hand through his short hair, knowing he’d only been in love once before. It’d been six years ago when he’d lived in Madrid. She had been young, brilliant and vivacious, a breathtaking Spanish beauty, but when his parents had died he’d retired from football and ended their love affair, moved back to Raguva and never once looked back.
Zale knew how to move on without looking back. He knew how to be ruthless, relentless, hard.
And he’d force himself to be ruthless and hard now.
She was gone. And there would be no forgiveness. No second chances.
But when he pictured Hannah, he didn’t want to be ruthless and hard.
On the third day Zale woke, even more angry and frustrated than when he went to bed.
He would find her. He would. He’d take her in his hands and make her pay.
But first he had to find her.
Zale spent the morning making inquiries before turning to Krek at noon. Turns out he should have started with Krek as his butler already knew where Hannah could be found. “The Divok Hotel, Your Majesty, under the name of Hannah Smith.”
Zale tried to hide his irritation. “How did you know where she was?”
“Her Highness is distinctive. Word quickly spread.” “No one told me.”
“Everyone knew you were unhappy with her—” “Does everyone know why?”
Krek shrugged vaguely. “Lovers’ quarrel, something of that nature.”
“They are aware the wedding has been called off?” “Yes, Your Majesty, but they’re all hoping that you’ll come to your senses and forgive her so the wedding can be on again.” “It’s not going to happen.” “Whatever you think is best, sir.”
“Krek,