Her Own Prince Charming
Reform of the playboy!Brad Vandercamp was rich, handsome and charming. No wonder his nickname was Prince! He could have any woman he wanted–but it was Paula who caught his eye: at a party where he was the guest of honor, and she was serving the champagne!They were worlds apart–and Paula didn't belong in his. Prince was a playboy, and until he changed his ways she could never love him. Then Paula discovered that there was more to this handsome stranger than the millions in his bank account. He had a passionate heart–and Paula longed to tame it!
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“You’re not going to run away again, are you, Cinderella?”About the AuthorTitle PageAcknowledgmentsCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENEPILOGUECopyright
“You’re not going to run away again, are you, Cinderella?”
“My name is not Cinderella,” Paula said stiffly.
“Oh? But you did run away at the stroke of midnight.” She was halfway out of the door, but he blocked her way. “Wait. Don’t go. Why are you so angry?”
“I’m not angry. I just...I don’t indulge in fairy-tale games, Mr. Vandercamp.”
“This isn’t a game.”
“Whatever you call it, I don’t like it. I came here to...to work!”
Eva Rutland began writing when her four children, now all successful professionals, were growing up. Eva lives in California with her husband, Bill, who actively supports and encourages her writing career.
Special thanks to the University of California School of
Veterinary Medicine, and all the members of the noble profession of veterinary health. And to John and Irene, with fondest memories of the Renegade.
CHAPTER ONE
“I DON’T like red hair,” Rae said.
“His hair’s not red. It’s brown.” Whitney buttered a piece of toast and bit into it. “A touch of red, maybe, but that just brightens it up. I rather like that color.”
“What you like is the color of his money . . . green and growing.”
Whitney giggled. “That’s the icing on the cake, isn’t it!” she said, lifting her cup. “Paula, heat this up, will you? Or better still, bring me a fresh cup.”
Paula dried her hands, emptied and refilled Whitney’s cup while the two sisters continued to postulate.
“You needn’t get your hopes up, dear heart. He’s in San Diego for the polo match, not to see you.”
Paula listened idly as she scrubbed the frying pan. The San Diego Polo Classic, sponsored for charity each October, had for weeks been the main topic of conversation. Now that the Vandercamp yacht was anchored at the San Diego Yacht Club and they had had a glimpse of Brad Vandercamp, who would participate, he was the main topic. And not because he was the so-called Prince of Polo! Like Rae said, it was his money. He was single, eligible and sole heir to the Vandercamp millions. Or was it billions?
All San Diego was agog that they were honored by his presence. At least, she corrected herself, a smile hovering on her lips, those of the elite set who would attend the polo matches and the grand balls attendant upon the event.
“But see me he will!” Whitney said, with smug certainty.
Paula, noting the gleam of conquest in Whitney’s eyes didn’t doubt that he would. Not that Whitney was all that beautiful. Her lips were too large, too voluptuous, and her nose...
I’m being catty, Paula scolded herself as she put away the frying pan, and went into the laundry room to sort the clothes. Whitney was fairly attractive, with that black hair and sensuous dark eyes. But mainly it was her confidence and that inviting sexuality that drew men to her. Yes, the prince will see her, and yes, Rae will be jealous, and—
“Where’s that girl?” Mrs. Ashford’s voice, slurred but sharp, cut into her thoughts. Paula dropped the lingerie she held and hurried to the kitchen. “Oh, there you are! Why didn’t you bring my coffee to my room?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I thought you were still sleeping.”
Mamie Ashford dropped her plump form into a chair and pressed a hand to her temple. “Oh, my poor head! How could anyone sleep with all the racket going on in this house! Can’t you girls manage to cease your squabbling long enough to let your poor mother get a bit of rest!”
Her daughters apologized profusely, each insisting it was the fault of the other.
Paula placed two aspirin and a glass of tomato juice before her. “This might help, and I’ll bring your coffee right away.”
“Mother, I do hope you’re not going to have one of your nasty migraines,” Whitney said. “You know we’re to go shopping today.”
“Oh, sure,” Rae said. “Whitney’s got to get decked out for the costume ball where she plans to dazzle the prince!”
“As if you’re not planning to—”
“Girls! Must you! My head... And I do feel a bit queasy. I think I’d better have something on my stomach, Paula. Bacon and maybe some of your cinnamon toast.”
“Coming right up!” Paula took out the frying pan she had just scrubbed and hoped she wouldn’t have to miss class again. If she could get the washing done and the beds made before twelve, she could make it. That is, if they got out of the house before Mrs. Ashford could think up something else for her to do. She hoped to goodness the migraine wouldn’t stop the shopping trip.
It didn’t. Three cups of coffee and a hefty breakfast did wonders. Or perhaps it was the mention of Brad Vandercamp that did the trick.
“So rich! And so British!” Mamie Ashford’s eyes took on a dreamy haze. As if she was as young as her daughters, as hopeful of catching his fancy.
“And he’s so good-looking,” Whitney said.
“As handsome as his grandfather,” her mother said. “And just as big a devil, I hear!”
