2. AMANDA

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!”

“Gah!”

Every nerve in my body ignites at the same time as the shout rings out from the prince’s office. It makes me drop my tea, dumping Orange Pekoe all over the blue satin blouse I bought specifically for meeting with him. Meanwhile, the cup and saucer tumble to the stone floor and shatter into a thousand jagged shards.

Awesome, I groan inwardly. Just fucking perfect. Way to make that first impression, Amanda.

I can’t believe this is happening – any of this, not just spilling my tea and making a fool of myself.

A month ago I was on a sabbatical in Malta, poring over old documents in a dusty library vault to research my dissertation. Now I’m in a palace on Isola D’ora, the most beautiful place on the face of the planet, and standing outside the office of Prince Dante of Morova, the hottest royal bachelor on the face of the planet.

And my new boss. Sort of, anyway.

Now, here I am soaked to the skin with tea and standing over two obliterated pieces of bone china that have probably been in the prince’s family since before the Renaissance. Thank God the tea went tepid while I was talking to my new friend Maria, or I’d have blisters forming on my chest right now, as well.

I must look a sight because Maria rushes over to see if I’m okay. She grabs a napkin off the silver service tray and starts dabbing at my blouse.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, looking me over like a protective mother. Not surprising, given her years as a de facto nanny to the prince’s niece and nephew, Oriana and Vito.

“Just what little pride I had when I came in,” I say with a half-grin. “I hope the prince wasn’t directing that at me.”

She takes my arms and looks me in the eye. Maria is a stunning woman, the epitome of Northern Italian beauty: burnished oak hair, honey skin, sea-blue eyes. Me, on the other hand? My mom’s Irish roots might as well be a neon sign on my head: red hair, a complexion like coconut milk, and pale blue eyes that look more like faded jeans than Maria’s startling sapphire ones.

“Dante can be a real ass sometimes,” she grumbles. “But trust me, he wasn’t talking to you.”

She calls the prince by his first name. I wonder if maybe they’re involved? Maria has been his secretary for years, although the title doesn’t do her job justice. She’s a hell of a lot more than a receptionist. I can’t help but wonder if she’s more than just a family friend, too.

I’m not going to ask her, though. That would be incredibly rude, especially since Maria is the one who plucked me out of obscurity and gave me a job that’s going to establish my career and probably guarantee my PhD. Not to mention pay me enough to give Dad some substantial help with the ranch’s finances.

Assuming I survive this meeting, of course.

“Although I am curious about what set him off,” she continues, trying to erase the tea with some seltzer, and soaking me even more in the process. “He can be volatile at times, but he rarely forgets his manners like that. He’s had a lifetime of programming on how to act, after all.”

I wish I had training on how to act. Talking to my professors is difficult enough for me, let alone someone like Prince Dante. He’s the full-meal deal: tall, rich, charming, a reputation as a bad boy. Sorry, but as far as I’m concerned, Harry is a distant second in the hot royal bachelor department.

Yeah, as if I have a shot with either one of them. How could Dante resist a charming compliment like “the full-meal deal”? Every last bit of my Montana cattle ranch upbringing shines through in that one.

“Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not you,” says Maria. Her efforts have left me sopping, but at least the stain is gone.

“Thank you so much,” I say, but my relief is short-lived: looking down, I see that my breasts are on full display against the satin. I might as well be in a wet tee-shirt contest.

What else could go wrong?

“Good afternoon, ladies,” says a male voice from behind me.

My heart hammers in my chest as I turn reflexively to see a gorgeous man enter the room through the arched doorway. It’s Dante’s cousin, Emilio – I recognize him from my studies, and, of course, the rolling news coverage of Dante’s social life. Emilio is usually somewhere in the background, all blond curls and dimples and Michael Phelps bod. He’s no Dante, but I wouldn’t kick him out of my bed for eating crackers.

Really sophisticated, Amanda. Witty lines like that will get you a managerial position at Chicken Shack in no time!

And how would I know what it’s like to kick a man out of my bed? I’ve never even had a man in my bed.

His dreamy eyes meet mine, then drop to my soaked chest, and I feel hot blood coursing into my cheeks. To his credit, he immediately looks over at Maria, giving me time to cross my arms. Thank God.

“Maria,” he says warmly, taking her hand. “Sounds like he’s in a mood?”

“Yes, we’re not sure what the problem is,” she says with a thin smile. I’m horrified when I realize that she’s going to introduce me to him, when all I really want to do is turn invisible and press myself against the wall until everyone leaves.

Maria waves a hand in my direction, obviously embarrassed by my situation but bound by protocol and good manners to go through with it. If anyone understands that, it’s me, unfortunately.

“Prince Emilio Steiger, this is Amanda Sparks, from America. I’ve hired her to oversee Dante’s 30^th birthday celebration.”

My eyes go wide as I contemplate taking my arms away from my chest to shake his hand. Instead, he saves me the shame and gallantly bows from the waist in my direction.

“A great pleasure, Ms. Sparks,” he says with a radiant smile. “I’m sure you’re doing an excellent job. Maria has quite a reputation for discovering talent.”

“You’re only saying that because it’s true,” says Maria. “I actually came upon Amanda quite by accident – she was working with another graduate student who needed to meet with Carlo for some reason. Amanda and I got to talking, and it turns out she’s an expert in European royal protocol.”

I never did find out what was so important that my friend Peter had to talk to Prince Dante’s chief counsel. All I know is he was studying the Trentini family’s ceremonial sword, and suddenly he was wild-eyed, phoning around like crazy, trying to set up a meeting.

Of course, once Maria offered me the job of planning the prince’s royal birthday gala, I kind of stopped caring about Peter. In fact, I haven’t seen him since. Granted, the past several days have been a bit of a whirlwind.

Things have had to move quickly; Maria told me she didn’t know until last week whether Dante would even be in Morova for his birthday. She finally had to read him the riot act – well, as much as a chief of staff can with a prince – and tell him his adoring public expected him to be there.

“That sounds perfect,” Emilio says to me, making sure to keep his eyes on mine. “I’m sure you’re aware of how much Morovans love their protocol and traditions. Typical bankers, I suppose. And the Swiss influence, of course – precision is everything.”

I am aware of all that. I’ve read that Dante is actually seen by many of the principality’s citizens as being a bit too… Italian for their tastes. Passionate and intense, as opposed to reserved and polite, like his cousin. Emilio’s mother, Duchess Isabella, is the sister of Dante’s mother. She’s half-Swiss, and Isabella’s husband was full-Swiss, so Emilio ended up looking more Nordic than Mediterranean.

This is the kind of thing you learn in my field of study. It’s a party a minute, I tell ya. But hey, it got me this job – assuming my meeting with the prince goes well and I don’t do anything to blow it. My blouse drying up would be a step in the right direction at this point.

Of course, that doesn’t happen, because the very next moment, the office door comes flying open and Prince Dante crashes right into me, wet tits and all.