to encourage and entertain
Love Never Fails
“Jesus looked at them and said, ‘With man
this is impossible, but not with God; all
things are possible with God.’” Mark 10:27
Wanted: Royal Princess of
An excerpt from
“Your Serene Highness,” the official representative of the royal House of Graziani began in his dispassionate tone. “Miss
Ciara Janicki is here.”
Blocked by the barrier of Tonino Masselli’s body in the doorway, Ciara could only fume at the Lieutenant-Columbo-ish
bafflement in the voice drifting out of the office of the Minister of Finance, Tourism, and Sports and into the carpeted
corridor where she stood waiting for the royal come hither.
Ciara found it irritating enough the prince had been too busy to meet her arrival at the airport, but now, after her nine hours
flight over the Atlantic Ocean, five hours of being driven all over the Italian peninsula, half hour boat ride across the Adriatic
Sea, followed by another twenty minute car trip to arrive here at the palace, flustered and fatigued, and to hear him sound so
disorientated, so…so discombobulated, well, irritation didn’t even come close to what fired her blood and rammed back the
fluster and fatigue.
Murder took on a more appealing nature with each second she remained waiting in the corridor.
The man was not simply all flash with no substance, she seethed in angry silence, but he was such a…such a…a man. If
professionalism had permitted it, she would have punctuated her denunciation with a stamp of her high-heeled foot,
preferably driving the stiletto heel of her shoe through his royal, silk-lined chest.
“Miss Janicki, the public relations consultant from Inspired Ideas, has arrived and is here to see you, sir.”
A thirty second delayed reaction, then “Grazie, Tonino. Please send her in,” came the royal summons, delivered in a
“Miss Janicki, you may go in now.” When she made no move, Masselli gave her a raised brow look. “Miss Janicki?”
With effort, Ciara smiled, managing to keep her voice light despite her homicidal thoughts. “Grazie, Mr. Masselli, for all
“My pleasure.” With a stately bow, Masselli retreated, leaving her to stand alone outside the oak-paneled door.
Reminding herself she possessed the singular trait of pampering and entertaining the client without allowing her personal
feelings to interfere and reiterating her need to exercise diplomacy and affability, not only to support her reputation as a PR
consultant, but to garner both the clients’ trust and their valued referrals for her own PR firm, she adjusted the purse strap
over her shoulder, threw back her shoulders, lifted her chin, and stepped into the opulent office of Cristiano Graziano, the
prince of flash and no substance.
And drew in a sharp breath, almost a gasp.
It was not the expensive Italian rugs that stole her breath. It was not the exquisite paintings on the walls, either. Nor was it
the elegant 18th-century style desk taking center stage in the room.
But the man who sat behind the desk.
Prince Cristiano Giuseppe Isaia Carmine Graziano.
Prince Cristiano of the Principality of Mondoverde.
Prince Cristiano with whom she was to closely work.
The photograph in her briefcase fell short on the reality-o-meter. Strikingly short. Her brain, though sluggish, cranked out
the verdict. The prince wasn’t just good-looking. He was gorgeous. Eye-popping gorgeous. Mouth-dropping gorgeous.
The kind of dizzying gorgeous that could take a mature, professional, not-in-the-least-interested-in-the-male-species
woman of twenty-five and have her shake her head with the confidence born of desperation.
She remembered her need for air and ordered her lungs to draw in oxygen. She drew in air all right. She also drew in the
tantalizing scent of the prince.
Brown hair fell over the collar of his navy suit jacket. Smooth bronze skin was enhanced by the sharp white of his shirt. A
sturdy jaw. A strong face. And the darkest, deepest, most seductive blue eyes Ciara had ever seen.
She remembered her need for words. She was supposed to say something. Say something like… Words failed her again.
Words were her business, but they had failed her again. She’d lost them. She had them before she stepped into the office.
She knew she had. She’d thanked her escort with them. But the moment she stepped into the office, the words had vanished.
Those eyes, those seductive blue eyes had chased away her words.
Those eyes, those same seductive blue eyes now held a twinge of bafflement in them as he rose to his feet. Bafflement and
some dawning realization. A dawning realization quite against his will, if his expression was to be believed.
“Signorina Janicki,” he said, after a private and visible struggle of some kind, and came around his massive desk.
“Welcome to Mondoverde.” He headed toward her with long, sure strides, the awkwardness of a moment earlier beat into
submission, if the devastating smile curling his attractive—and appealing—lips was to be believed.
His scent, part woodsy cologne, part clean all-male, wholly intoxicating, and had her senses racing to drink it in, reached
her before his outstretched hand. Why, why did she react this way? And toward a man? A vague, prickling alarm danced in
the pit of her stomach.
Protocol called for it, good manners demanded it, so when he reached for her hand, she expected him to shake it. What
she did not expect was the skidding of her pulse when his fingers touched hers. Though she concentrated, real hard, she
couldn’t level it. Nor could she do anything else but stiffen when he brought her hand to his mouth, for hardly more than a
flash of a second, but long enough for him to feel it, too, to feel the buzzing in the air, the heightening of awareness, the
tightening of the abdomen, she saw by the lift of his brows, the loss of his smile.
Excerpted from Wanted: Royal Princess of Convenience by Anna Dynowski Copyright 2015 by Anna Dynowski
Excerpted by permission by Write Words, Inc. All Rights Reserved