Prince Arne Magnusson, second in line to the throne of the Baltic kingdom of Aegiria, paced in front of the floor to ceiling window in the VIP lounge of Heathrow Airport Terminal Five, his phone held to his ear. He hated waiting on hold, and for his brother, no less. He clenched his jaw and tried to be patient. Alek had been through a lot in the last month, including a bizarre kidnapping, for which they still hadn’t figured out the real motive. Kidnapping someone just to make them stop a wedding didn’t seem right. There had to be something more to it. Either way, the ordeal was traumatic for Alek, so Arne was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Deep lines of frustration formed between across Arne’s brow. He stopped his pacing and stared out the window to the tarmac. Several private jets were gearing up for flights, the royal jet of Aegiria among them. He was eager to get home, to get back to his family, especially since so much was going on. Family meant everything, whether it was his nuclear family, his mother and brothers, or the kingdom of Aegiria itself. He’d dedicated his life to helping Aegirian families bond through the arts, music especially, in his position as Aegiria’s Minister of Culture. Why, his whole trip to London had been to attend a conference on music education so that he could spearhead efforts to enrich the lives of children. He was excited to put the things he’d learned into practice.

But even more than that, his duty to his family was about to take over his whole world for the summer. His mother, Queen Viktoria, had recently become engaged, and Arne was responsible for planning the gala concert at which the wedding would be announced. He had his work for the family cut out for him, because instead of marrying an Aegirian or a European dignitary from a long and distinguished line, his dear mother had fallen in love with the quirky, awkward, bumbling, American scientist, Dr. William Hayes, who had tutored Arne and his brothers in science now and then while growing up.

Arne shook his head, uncertain if he was more irritated by still being on hold or by the marriage itself. He turned away from the window to the group of rowdy Americans who were monopolizing the leather lounge chairs and sofa at the far end of the room. In his heart, he knew that not all Americans were loud, garish, and inappropriate, but at the moment, the darker part of him was having a hard time believing it. Particularly after everything he’d had to deal with to set up his mother’s concert.

“Arne, are you there?” Alek finally picked up his end of the call.

Arne turned back to the window, forcing himself to block out the noise of the Americans. “About time you picked up,” he told Alek, smirking even though his brother couldn’t see it.

Alek laughed ironically. “You don’t know how it’s been around here. Not only does Mother have me up to my ears in preparations for her announcement, after the incident last month, she won’t let me go anywhere without a whole regiment of bodyguards.”

“I bet Toni loves that,” Arne teased. After the kidnapping, his brother had started dating his female bodyguard, Toni. They were keeping it pretty low-key, but Arne and Alek were close enough that Alek had confessed everything he felt about Toni. It was great, though. Alek deserved happiness.

“It would be nice if I could take it easy for a while,” Alek went on. “The more I keep things normal, the better chance I have of figuring out why things just haven’t felt right lately.”

The group of Americans burst into a collective laugh. Arne frowned and moved farther away from them, toward the bar at the other side of the lounge. There were only two people sitting there, a sour-faced businessman nursing what looked like scotch and a surprisingly pretty woman in casual clothes. Her long, chestnut hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she wore little if any make-up. Arne caught himself smiling at the sight of her. She turned and saw him…and smiled back.

“Arne? Hello, Arne? You there?”

Arne blinked and shook his head, focusing on the call. “Yeah. I just got distracted for a second.”

Alek laughed. “What’s she look like?”

“Hey, just because I lost my train of thought for a second doesn’t mean…. She’s a gorgeous brunette who knows how to wear a pair of jeans like they’re a second skin.” He chuckled at himself.

Alek made an approving sound. “Go over and talk to her.”

“I can’t. I’m on the phone with you, and we’ve got business to discuss. Family first,” Arne said, making his way slowly to the bar. As he slid onto the stool one down from the brunette, he said, “What’s this I’m hearing about technical problems with the Solrighavn Arena?”

“Technical problems?” Arne could practically hear the shrug in his brother’s voice. “I haven’t heard anything about technical problems.”

“The arena needs to be ready for the concert by Friday, but the email I just got from Sven said to get in touch with him ASAP to discuss technical problems.”

Sven Kroner was the manager of Aegiria’s largest sports and entertainment arena, which was nestled in the heart of the kingdom’s capital city of Solrighavn. Along with being home to the Aegirian football team—or as the noisy Americans at the other end of the lounge would have called it, their soccer team—any concert that was too big to take place in the city’s main orchestral venue was held at the arena. And the announcement of the royal wedding was definitely big. And it had been Arne’s job, as Aegiria’s Minister of Culture, to organize it. But nothing had gone right, not from the start.

“The last thing I need is for there to be problems at the arena with this ridiculous American pop star coming in to perform,” Arne went on.

The beautiful woman sitting near him glanced up from her coffee, her smile fading. Arne suddenly felt as though it were his personal responsibility to make her smile again, so he sent her his most charming look.

“I know you lobbied to have the London Symphony Orchestra perform at the announcement,” Alek said, “but Mother insisted.”

“Mother caved, you mean.”

“Whatever Willy wants, Willy gets,” Alek said with a sigh. “And Willy wants what Cassandra wants.”

Cassandra was Dr. Hayes’s daughter. Arne had never had a problem with her. He’d liked her, even. At least up until she’d casually dropped the idea that they should hire American rock star Fuchsia to perform at the royal announcement concert. Cassandra might not have been serious, but her father took her suggestion to heart and insisted on Fuchsia. Arne had instantly rejected the idea. And just as instantly, he’d been overridden by his besotted mother.

“I really wanted to raise the cultural bar with this concert,” Arne said, rubbing his temple. “There’s a wealth of musical talent out there, and it’s crucial for young people to have exposure to as many forms of music as possible. I’m going to see if I can increase the school music budget after this.”

The woman’s smile returned and brightened. She was obviously listening in, but Arne found he didn’t mind. Mostly because she watched him with the kind of look that said she had no idea who he was.

“Am I wrong to be irked that we’ve had to jettison brilliant performers in order to make room for some tacky, auto-tuned wannabe?”

No sooner were the words out of Arne’s mouth than the woman’s smile disappeared. She frowned—Arne couldn’t tell if she was angry or sad—and lowered her head to the book she’d been reading. For some inexplicable reason, he instantly felt like a heel.

“You’re not wrong, so cheer up,” Alek said. “You’re still at Heathrow, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, according to the itinerary Mother gave me earlier, there’s a chance you could run into your auto-tuned wannabe. If you’re unlucky.”

Arne laughed. The woman glanced sideways at him. “I wonder if the people making all the noise in the lounge have anything to do with her,” he thought aloud.

“You should go over and introduce yourself,” Alek said.

Arne glanced unashamedly at the woman, who was definitely not reading her book. “I think I have much pleasanter things to do.”

Alek laughed. “Don’t let me keep you from making new friends.” His tone suggested he had a pretty good idea of what Arne planned to do as soon as the call was over. “I’ll see you at the airport later,” Alek finished.

“See you, storebror.” Arne ended the call. He took a moment to grin at his phone. Someone somewhere might argue that it wasn’t particularly manly of him to be so fond of his brother, but heck, the man could have been killed during the kidnapping. Not only would that have landed Arne in the position of crown prince, it would have robbed him of the best friend he’d ever had.

He was shoved out of his fond thoughts as the woman at the bar said, “Tacky, auto-tuned wannabe, eh?” Her accent was American, and she glanced up at him with a flash of challenge in her eyes.

Arne felt his face heat in an instant, and he regretted having the conversation with Alek in English instead of Aegirian. “No offense to people who enjoy that kind of music,” he said, feeling like he’d ruined his chances with the woman before he’d even started. “But really, if a singer wears that much make-up and goes by the name Fuchsia, it makes you wonder if there’s any substance underneath all the hype.”

The woman closed her book and swiveled her stool to face him. “All that make-up? What about David Bowie in his Ziggy Stardust days? Or the entire glam-rock era, for that matter? Do you think Kiss were a bunch of tacky wannabes?”

Arne winced. “That was a different era. In the seventies, musicians were experimenting with nonconformity and gender roles as a reaction against the staid morality of mid-century. They were testing the boundaries. These days?” he shrugged. “It seems as though experimentation has given way to shock and commercialism. What was once meaningful has become nothing more than a gimmick.”

Emma stared at the man, her lips pursed. She hadn’t expected him to have a well-thought-out answer. She’d expected him to be just another arrogant promoter—at least, that’s what she assumed he was, based on the phone conversation she’d overheard. Although maybe he was some kind of politician instead. What kind of promoter was he if he disparaged exactly the sort of thing he should have been selling? Politicians, on the other hand….

The only reason she hadn’t gotten up and walked away, giving him the finger as she went, was because it was clear as day he didn’t have a clue that she was Fuchsia. Or at least, she was when she was stuffed into her glittery costumes, loaded down with make-up, wearing one of the wigs they made her wear, and, more or less, unrecognizable to herself.

“How can you be so certain that modern performance artists are nothing more than corporate shills, and that they aren’t seeing how far they can stretch boundaries?” she asked, leaning toward him.

“I’m not certain,” the man said, as though they were engaged in a philosophical debate. “But men like Bowie and Marc Bolan had actual talent.”

“And you’re saying contemporary stars, like Fuchsia, don’t?” Emma could feel both her temper—and the massive pile of regret she stood on every time she took the stage—rising.

“Honestly, I haven’t listened to much Fuchsia,” the man admitted. “My personal tastes lie in other directions. But all these modern rock stars,” he waved a hand dismissively, “they rely so much on auto-tune that even if they did have talent—”

“Fuchsia isn’t auto-tuned,” Emma defended herself.

“She isn’t?” The man blinked in surprise.

“No.”

It was a point of pride for Emma. She’d worked her butt off to put herself through music school. She’d majored in voice and had taken vocal lessons since she was a kid. She prided herself on her instrument, on her range and the quality of her tone.

Of course, all of that had been tossed to the wolves when she’d signed on with Dazzle Productions. Her dad had told her she’d regret selling her talent to buy stardom. But her dad was now out of debt and retired, living in Arizona with her mom, and enjoying a break after working so hard his entire life to provide for his family. The trade-off had been worth it, but only barely.

At the other side of the room, Fuchsia’s production team burst into another round of laughter. Emma glanced toward them, frowning at the way Hoss, her manager, was making a typical show of himself. She wore rhinestones as part of her persona. Hoss wore them on his cowboy shirt and Stetson because he liked bling. Especially the bling she brought in, hand over fist, for him.

“Are you with them?” the man asked. Emma could tell by the way he nodded curtly to the crew that he didn’t approve of them.

“Yes,” she said as firmly as she could. She might not have loved everything she had to do as part of her contract, but she would stand by the people who made her what she was.

Well, most of them.

“Hey, kid, bring us another round of beers,” Hoss shouted across the posh lounge to the well-dressed attendant. It was all Emma could do not to wince.

“And I assume those are Fuchsia’s people?” the man asked on, nodding to Tracy, Emma’s PA. She was standing in the center of the group and laughing as loud as Hoss.

Emma hummed noncommittally. She hated lying about who she was, but between the non-disclosure clause of her rock-solid contract and the fact that her companion was hot, intelligent, and didn’t know who she was, the last thing she wanted to do was confess her alternate identity.

No, not her identity. Fuchsia was her job.

The man let out a breath and shook his head. “Sometimes I think I’m a dinosaur.”

The comment came from so far out of left field that Emma laughed before she could stop herself. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The man grinned. “It means that I’m far more at home with a symphony orchestra than with a modern rock band. I was raised with Bach, Albinoni, and Corelli.”

“Wow, you really are old, then,” she teased, then rested her chin in her hand and her elbow on the bar. “But I’d love to know what Vivaldi was like at school.”

He laughed, and the sound sent chills down her spine. All the way down to that sad, neglected spot that hadn’t enjoyed a man in far, far too long. It was so nice to feel turned on by a casual conversation that she was willing to forgive the man his jerky comments about Fuchsia.

“Vivaldi was a bit of a prude,” he answered with a sniff, playing along. “But Mozart, on the other hand….” He let out a sultry hum. “That man knew how to party.”

“I bet he did,” Emma said, arching a brow, wondering if the man in front of her was a party boy or the more studious type. She had her money on studious, but sensed he could let loose when he wanted to. “I studied music at Curtis,” she blurted. Instantly, her cheeks heated. She was bragging, but only because she felt as though the man would actually be impressed.

“Really?” His expression brightened, proving that he was. “I’ve always been impressed with the young talent coming out of the Curtis Institute. Their youth orchestra is one of my favorites, next to the Simon Bolivar Youth Symphonic Band.”

Emma sat straighter, impressed by the fact that not only did the man know about the Simon Bolivar orchestra, he knew it’s correct name. “They’ve accomplished amazing things,” she said, certain that, considering how big her smile had gotten, he would think she was throwing herself at him.

“I’d give my eye teeth to bring that kind of program home to—”

He was interrupted as a man in a suit rushed up to him and said something in a vaguely Scandinavian-sounding language. Come to think of it, his accent hadn’t quite been British. She suddenly found herself wondering if the man was more than a promoter/politician and where he came from.

But instead of giving answers to those questions and a thousand more she’d have loved to ask, he stood with an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, I have to go. Apparently, my plane has been ready for fifteen minutes, and they need me to—”

“Sir,” the man who had spoken to him said.

“Sorry,” he said one last time, then rushed off, leaving the lounge by way of the door that led directly to the tarmac.

Emma deflated, feeling as though she’d had a lottery ticket with four numbers that matched the winning numbers, but the last one was a miss. She’d have given anything to find out who the man was and to spend more time with him. A lot more time. She hadn’t connected with someone like that in years. She hadn’t even had the chance to give him her name.

Giving it up as a lost cause, she paid the bartender, then wandered back to join her crew. It wasn’t like she would have been able to tell the guy who she was anyhow. Not without breaking her contract. And given the way Hoss stared at her as she rejoined the group, she already had enough hell to pay.

“Who was that?” Tracy asked, slipping up to Emma’s side as she leaned on the back of one of the sofas where her sound guys sat.

“I don’t know,” Emma sighed, glancing out the window at the rows of private jets. “Prince Charming?”

“Ooh! That sounds exciting.” Tracy sat beside her and nudged her with her shoulder. “He was cute. What nationality?”

“Aegirian, I think. Something Scandinavian at least, judging by the guy who came to whisk him away.”

“You didn’t get his name? His phone number?”

Emma sighed. “There wasn’t time. I wish I had, though. I’d go out with him in an instant.”

Tracy fixed her with a hard stare. “Does he know who you are?”

“No.” Emma grinned. “That’s why I’d go out with him.” She paused. “You don’t think it’d be breaking my contract to go out with a guy who doesn’t know Fuchsia from a hole in the ground, do you? To go out as my real self?”

Tracy shrugged. “I can pull up your contract and read the fine print, if you’d like.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Emma hugged herself, considering all the possibilities. A few seconds later, she puffed out a breath and let her arms drop. “It’s not like I’ll ever see him again anyhow.”

“You never know,” Tracy said with a wink.

“Mr. Hoss, your plane is ready,” one of the airport attendants announced as she approached the group. She glanced at the crew, probably trying to guess which one was Fuchsia.

“Very good, m’lady,” Hoss answered her with an offensively bad British accent.

The attendant continued to study them all as she led the whole group out of the lounge and through private corridors to the tarmac, where Fuchsia’s private jet waited. Well, not her private jet. It jet belonged to Dazzle Productions, but they’d painted it a garish fuchsia, with her logo and branding blazoned across the middle. All the same, it was a relief to retreat to the luxurious jet. At least there, everyone knew who she was and who she wasn’t, and she didn’t have to worry about breaking the terms of any contracts by slipping up.

Her thoughts stayed with the man from the VIP lounge as the flight crew prepared for take-off and taxied into the line of planes on the runway. He had been so handsome, his looks so fresh and refined. The suit he’d been wearing was expensive, and, now that she thought about it, embroidered with the crest of Aegiria.

Her stomach flipped, and it had nothing to do with take-off. Aegiria. That’s where she was heading. She’d been called in to perform at a concert hosted by the royal family on Friday. Duh. She could have facepalmed as she looked out the jet’s window while they soared out over the English Channel. She decided that the man was a promoter for the concert in Aegiria after all. She’d been so bowled over by his charm that everything she’d overheard before they started talking had slipped her mind. And if he was a promoter and involved in the concert, she’d probably see him again.

“Oh, crap,” she whispered.

“Something wrong?” Tracy asked from the seat next to her.

“Maybe,” Emma mumbled. As much as she wanted to meet the man again and find out who she was, the second the jet touched down in Aegiria, she’d be on the clock. Which meant she’d have to play her part. Even if she did meet the man again….

“The pilot says we’re now free to move about the cabin,” Beth, Fuchsia’s chief stylist said, getting up from the seat across the aisle from Emma and Tracy. “You ready to suit up?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Emma sighed.

She unfastened her seatbelt and climbed over Tracy into the aisle. She and Beth headed to the back of the plane, which contained a make-shift changing room, complete with stylist’s chair. Fuchsia’s travel wardrobe was stashed away in two, huge travel cases, which Beth went to and started unlatching.

For the rest of the hour-long flight, Emma was subjected to her usual routine of being poured into her skin-tight, glittery, glitzy costume, stuffed into an unreal wig—turquoise this time to match the colors of the Aegirian flag—and caked with stage make-up. She was amazed that Beth could work with the slight turbulence that accompanied their flight. As soon as they landed, Beth touched up everything that had come out wobbly and glued rhinestones to the side of her eye and forehead. It delayed their deplaning enough to make Emma nervous, but the end result was amazing as usual.

“There she is,” Beth grinned. “Goodbye Emma Sands, hello Fuchsia the Rock Star.”

Emma pretended to be thrilled with the transformation, but as she stared at her unrecognizable reflection in the mirror, her heart sank. What happened to that music student who just wanted to sing? Forget that, what had happened to the relaxed woman who had sat in an airport lounge, bantering with a handsome stranger? She would have done anything to get that woman back and to be her full-time.