The Prince's Cinderella Doc
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Louisa Heaton
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CHAPTER ONE
FOR YEARS DR KRYSTIANA SZENAC had walked along the beach with her dog Bruno, allowing her gaze to fall upon the faraway façade of Il Palazzo Grande—the Grand Palace. It was like a fine jewel in the warm sunshine. A glittering building set atop a hill, with every window, every white wall, reflecting the light. She’d often wondered about what it would be like to live in such a place, but had never imagined for one moment that she would ever pass through the arched gates into the royal sanctuary where the King and his son the Crown Prince lived.
He didn’t know it, but she felt a kinship with the Prince, and every time she thought about their connection—which was often—she would smile to herself, knowing it was ridiculous because he didn’t even know she existed!
But he was about to.
Krystiana sucked in a breath as the large armoured car drove her through the gates and into the palace grounds. She gazed out of the window, feeling like a silly little tourist as she took in the guards in their dark blue uniforms and the white sashes that crossed their chests, the flower displays—perfectly tended, not a weed in place—and the architecture: solid white walls rising high, the crenelated roof with the billowing flag of the royal family and the circular towers in each corner.
It had all the hallmarks of the castle it had once been, even down to the other guards she saw at the top of each tower, ever watchful, even though there had been no threat to Isla Tamoura for hundreds of years. It was pomp and circumstance for the tourists who flocked to the island in their droves, keen to explore this jewel off Italy’s south-eastern coast.
Did Crown Prince Matteo feel safe behind these walls? She couldn’t see why he wouldn’t. All the barriers... All the guards... Security was high. She’d already had her bags searched before she was even allowed in the car. A rugged, dark-suited secret service agent had frisked her down too—the most bodily contact she’d had in years.
It had made her feel uncomfortable, but she’d bitten her lip until it was done and then smiled politely at the agent as he’d opened the car door for her. ‘Grazie.’
The agent hadn’t said much. He’d had that mysterious, moody, steely exterior down perfectly, getting into the car and saying into his phone in Italian, ‘I have the parcel. Delivering in fifteen minutes—that’s fifteen minutes.’
She’d raised her eyebrows, having never been referred to as a parcel before. She’d been called a lot of other things in her life, but never a parcel.
The car purred its way through another set of arches and then came to rest outside a columned terrace. The agent got out, adjusted the buttons on the front of his dark suit and looked about him before opening her door.
Krystiana stepped out, her nerves getting the better of her at last, and wished she’d had something to eat before leaving home. Just something that would have settled her stomach. But there’d been almost no time to prepare. The call had come in unexpectedly. She was needed immediately. There had just been time to pack a bag for an overnight stay. To call her neighbour and ask her to feed and walk Bruno.
A day of living in the palace! It was almost a dream. That a woman like her—a woman who had been raised initially in Krakow, Poland—should find herself hobnobbing with royalty.
Well, it wasn’t exactly hobnobbing. It was work. Standing in for the royal doctor to run the Crown Prince through his yearly physical. She’d been chosen because she shared a clinic with Dr Bonetti, the King’s private physician, and had already had her background checked. That was what happened when your colleague was the King’s doctor. There could be no chance of any impropriety connected with the royals.
They’d already had enough excitement, after all.
A red carpet led from the car up to the white stone steps and into the palace proper.
On wobbly legs she ascended the stairs, aware that the agent was following along behind her. She assumed someone else would bring her bag. As she neared the top of the steps and saw the opulent interior of the palace she felt her pulse quicken, and her mouth went as dry as the Dune Dorate—the Golden Dunes.
She tried her hardest to appear nonchalant as she walked across the marble floor towards a man dressed like a butler, who had the rigid stature of an old soldier.
‘Dr Szenac, welcome to the Grand Palace. It is a pleasure to welcome you to these halls. My name is Sergio and I shall be your attendant whilst you are here. Have you been to the palace before?’
She shook her head, her long golden plait swinging at her back. ‘No. It’s my first time.’
‘Oh! Well, please don’t let it be your last. I’m reliably informed that the public tours are very entertaining and informative, if you wish to know anything of its history.’
She’d never been one to study history. History should stay in the past, where it belonged. Not be dragged back into the present at every opportunity. She could appreciate beautiful architecture, and respect the amount of time a building had stood in place, but she was far more interested in the people who lived in it now.
‘Thank you. I might do that one day.’
Sergio led her up a curved stairwell, adorned with portraiture of Kings and Queens of the past. She could see the familiar glossy black hair and beautiful blue eyes of the Romano family in most of them. Occasionally there was a portrait of someone who had married into the family, including the one she stood in front of now: Queen Marianna, sadly passed.
‘She was beautiful, wasn’t she?’ asked Sergio.
‘Most definitely.’
‘And not just in looks. She had a very kind heart. It broke her when her son was taken. She died never knowing of his safe return.’
Krystiana nodded. It was tragic. Crown Prince Matteo’s kidnapping had been a story she had followed with bated breath, praying for his safe release. It had been a couple of years ago now, but still, she knew in her heart that it would never be forgotten by those involved.
‘The Prince must have been devastated when he got home to discover his mother had died?’
Sergio nodded sadly. ‘They were very close. Ah, here are your quarters.’
He stopped in front of a set of double doors and swung them open wide, and once again she tried to appear unaffected by the riches within, simply nodding and smiling.
‘Thank you, Sergio. These look wonderful. I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable.’
‘Your initial appointment with the Prince is at three this afternoon. Take time to settle in. Pull this red sash—’ he indicated a brocade sash that hung by the white marble fireplace ‘—if you want anything and I’ll be with you momentarily.’
‘Thank you.’
‘A servant will bring up your bag. Are there any refreshments I can get you? A drink, perhaps?’
She was thirsty, and now that some of her nerves were settling she felt that maybe she could eat. ‘Some coffee would be wonderful. And some water? Maybe a bite to eat? I had to come here in rather a rush and I’m afraid I didn’t get a chance to dine.’
‘I’ll have a selection of food brought up to you immediately. Do you have any allergies or food preferences?’
‘No.’
He bowed. ‘Then I will be back shortly. Welcome to the Grand Palace, Doctor.’ And he departed, closing the doors behind him.
Krystiana spun around, headed straight over to the doors in the far wall and flung them back, allowing in the bright sunshine, the freedom of the outdoors, as she stepped out onto a large terrace and breathed in the scent of bougainvillea, jasmine and columbine.
An array of flowers grew in small ornamental pots, framed by clipped firs in taller blue pots. A table and six chairs were sheltered by a large umbrella. Below her were the private royal gardens and she took a moment to take in the sight. They were simply gorgeous: a low maze with a water feature at its centre—a stone horse crashing through stone waves—an ornamental garden, a lily pond, a mosaic. Little paths ran here and there—one down to a grotto, another through a set of rose arches to a circular bench and a bust.
Someone had poured a lot of heart and soul into this garden. She wondered who. Some gardener? A series of them? Each of them adding something new during their term, perhaps?
Beyond the palace walls she saw olive groves, small terracotta-coloured churches, roadside shrines and undulating hillsides that shimmered with heat from the overhead sun. It was something she could paint. She often turned to creativity when she was stressed. She’d never had such a view before—she had to sketch it before she left.
Not that I could ever forget this.
The view had a timeless quality. She almost felt she could stand there all day admiring it. But reality beckoned, and so she turned to observe her rooms more carefully. It was the most sumptuous suite—all white marble and silver accents. A large bed occupied the centre of the bedroom, with pristine white sheets and a gold counterpane. There was a desk and chair in the living room, a comfortable pair of sofas in palest cornflower-blue and vases of fresh flowers on almost every surface. A door in the corner of the bedroom led to an en-suite bathroom, with a sunken bath in the centre, a walk-in shower, a toilet and bidet and a huge assortment of toiletries in a room that was all mirrors.
Briefly, she wondered about the poor maids who had to clean it each day, buffing it to a shine, because not a single surface had a fingerprint or a smudge on it anywhere.
But what would you expect in a palace?
The opulence was meant to make her feel good. Treasured and important. But Krystiana had always preferred simplicity and rustic touches. Wooden bowls, plain knives and forks for her food. Simple cloth mats beneath her plate. Watercolours. Plain whitewashed walls—the minimalist look, with stone and driftwood she’d collected from the beach where she walked each day, barefoot, her trousers rolled up as she paddled in the water.
All of this was nice. Amazing, in fact. But it wasn’t real.
She felt like Alice through the looking glass, looking at a world she didn’t quite understand. But she was keen to know more.
Crown Prince Matteo Romano shook the hand of the cultural attaché from Portugal and bade him a safe journey home. He was looking forward to the future visit he would take to Lisbon, to see for himself the amazing artwork said to be displayed in Galleria 111. The attaché had done a fine job of convincing him the place was worth fitting in to his schedule, especially as he was such a fan of the surrealist painter António Dacosta, the work of whom the gallery had confirmed they had a huge stock.
As soon as the attaché had left, Matteo let out a breath and relaxed for a moment. He was almost done with his schedule for today. A few brief moments alone, and then he would meet the new doctor who had been brought in due to Dr Bonetti’s family emergency.
He hoped everything was all right with the man’s family. He’d known Dr Bonetti for years, and had met his wife and children. They’d all dined together on occasion and he thought very well of them all. He envied the doctor his happy marriage and his smiling children. They all seemed so together. So...content.
None of them had the stresses that were placed upon his shoulders. Who could understand the burden of being a prince, a future king, without having lived in his shoes?
He reached for the coffee that Sergio had brought in earlier, along with the news that the stand-in doctor had arrived and was settling in. The drink was cooler than he’d like—his meeting with the Portuguese attaché had gone on longer than he’d expected—but he continued to drink it until it was finished. Then, needing the freshness of the outdoors and the calm that viewing the gardens gave him, he stepped out of the terrace doors onto the balcony to gaze down into the palace gardens.
As always, he felt serenity begin to settle in his soul and he closed his eyes and breathed in the warm, fragrant air. Perfezionare. Perfect. His hands came to rest on the rich stone balustrade and for a moment he just stood there, centring himself. Grounding himself.
Behind him there was the gentle sound of Sergio clearing his throat. ‘Dr Krystiana Szenac, sir.’
‘Grazie, Sergio.’
He turned and there she was. Dressed in a black knee-length skirt and an emerald-green blouse, her blonde hair flowing over her shoulder in a long plait. A hint of make-up and an amazing smile.
She curtsied. ‘Your Highness.’
‘Dr Szenac. It’s a pleasure.’ He stepped forward to shake her hand. ‘I appreciate you coming at short notice and hope our pulling you from your schedule hasn’t disrupted your life too much.’
‘No. Not at all. I was able to make new arrangements. When your country calls, you answer.’
He smiled. ‘Indeed. I take it your journey was uneventful?’
‘It was wonderful, thank you.’
‘And Dr Bonetti?’
‘His wife has been taken into emergency surgery, but I’m afraid that’s all I know.’
Emergency surgery? That didn’t sound good.
‘Let us hope she pulls through. Alexis Bonetti is a strong woman—I’m sure her constitution will hold her in good stead.’
She nodded. ‘I hope so.’
‘May I offer you a refreshment before we settle down?’
‘I’m fine, thank you. Sergio had some coffee brought to my room.’
‘Excellent.’
He stared at her for a moment more and then indicated that maybe they should sit down at one of the tables on the sun terrace. He pulled out a chair for her, and she smiled her thanks at him as she sat down.
He sat opposite. ‘Well, I’ll try not to keep you here too long. I just need my yearly physical to be carried out. Dr Bonetti usually does the deed, but this year it will be down to you—if that’s all right?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘He usually runs a barrage of tests—I’m sure there’s a list somewhere. And then, if I’m all okay, he signs me off for another year.’
‘I know what to do—don’t worry. He emailed me your file, with a list of assessments I need to put you through and the paperwork that needs filling out.’ Dr Szenac smiled. ‘According to your file you’re in very good health, and your last couple of physicals had you back at full health after your...’ she looked uncomfortable ‘...blip.’
‘My kidnapping. Yes. Well... Two years in a cave, will do that to any man.’
She nodded. ‘Yes. My apologies for bringing it up.’
‘Not at all. My therapist says it’s good to talk about it. The more often the better.’
She smiled her thanks.
He didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable, so he tried to change the subject. ‘You’re originally from Poland?’
‘Yes. Krakow.’
‘I’ve never been there. What’s it like?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t been there for years. I just remember the grey and the cold.’
He saw her shiver and it intrigued him that she could still feel it, all these years later, just thinking about it.
‘When did you move here?’
‘When my mother died. My father was...away, and I had no one else except for my Aunt Carolina, who lives here.’
‘On Isla Tamoura?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’m very glad you’re here.’ He smiled.
She nodded. ‘Yes. Me too.’
