A Royal Bride of Convenience

REBECCA WINTERS, whose family of four children has now grown to include five beautiful grandchildren, lives in Salt Lake City, Utah, in the land of the Rocky Mountains. With canyons and high alpine meadows full of wild flowers, she never runs out of places to explore. They, plus her favourite vacation spots in Europe, often end up as backgrounds for her Mills & Boon^>® Romance novels because writing is her passion, along with her family and church.

Rebecca loves to hear from her readers. If you wish to e-mail her, please visit her website at www.cleanromances.com

Look for an exciting new novel from

Rebecca Winters,

Miracle for the Girl Next Door,

available from Mills & Boon^>® Romance in June 2010.

Dear Reader,

I find royal stories irresistible because they represent life in another universe that’s right here on earth. They appeal to my love of fantasy, yet they’re grounded in reality.

I lived with several ‘real’ princesses when I attended boarding school in Lausanne, Switzerland. Like me, they were students there, but I was aware they lived a life of privilege. When the holidays came, their ‘highnesses’ were whisked away from school in limousines with royal crests in order to reach the airport in Geneva where they would fly on their royal planes to reach their royal households.

My own headmistress, good friends with a lady-in-waiting to the Queen of Spain, often went to the apartments of the Queen when she was in residence in Lausanne. That was a long time ago, yet my experiences abroad still creep their way into my romance novels.

A Royal Bride of Convenience, based in Geneva, might be a flight of fantasy to provide reading pleasure, but the fact remains that the fictitious Prince Niccolo and Princess Francette do exist in real life somewhere.

Enjoy!

Rebecca Winters

www.millsandboon.co.uk

“I RELINQUISH my time to Prince Raimondo Niccolo Giancarlo di Castellani.”

“Thank you, Mr. Secretary General.”

Nic leaned forward to speak into the microphone so he’d be clearly heard. Though his parents and the majority of people who knew him called him Raimondo, to his closest friends in his military unit he was simply Nic, the name he preferred.

“For three days now, the discussion going on before this council of the United Nations has done little more than incite rancor from every side.

“We’re all assembled seemingly for the same goal—to decide how our world body should act to stop crimes against humanity, prevent genocide and end war crimes. Yet instead of putting our heads together to come up with a plan to enforce this doctrine, there are those among you once again debating the policy’s validity!

“As the chosen delegate from the Enclave of San Ravino, and personal envoy of my father, King Leopoldo, I’m making a formal protest and walking out of this conference until such a time as a majority of you can find the courage to act for the welfare of the oppressed.” His black eyes flashing, he said, “I call on any delegates in this room who feel as I do to walk out with me, as a show of solidarity against this sort of shameful filibustering.”

Before his anger turned to rage, Nic shot to his six-foot-three height and headed down the aisle to the nearest exit, carrying his attaché case. To his satisfaction other members, maybe sixty of them, got up at the same time he did. Not as many as the hundred he would have liked to see, but it proved he wasn’t a lone voice.

More suited to freefall paratrooping than sitting in a chair listening to parsed rhetoric going nowhere, he burst through the doors to his waiting limo. The heat was surprising for early June. His driver maneuvered him through New York’s heavy noon traffic to the airport.

While en route, Nic called his father’s personal secretary on the satellite phone and asked to be put through to him so he could make his report. Knowing the U.N. proceedings were being televised, no doubt someone on the staff had been keeping his father updated. By now King Leopoldo probably knew his hot-headed, thirty-three-year-old son had made an explosive departure from the world stage today, upsetting the entire proceedings.

Never let it be said he hadn’t warned his parent he was a military man, not a diplomat. However, he’d agreed to represent San Ravino at the assembly in order to appease his father, who believed in talk. He was of the old school. Nic, still to be convinced, was a man of action, not words.

For the last nine years Nic had been a part of the Raiders, a secret special operations force working in Africa, the Middle East and elsewhere. He loved what he did. The Spartan lifestyle appealed to him enormously. The only time he took leave from his unit was at the royal request of his father, and couldn’t be disregarded.

Nic wasn’t unaware that the days were ticking away until July, the dreaded time when he’d promised his parents he would get out of the military and take up his duties at home.