Dance with a Dynasty Page 4

  “This problem you had with the car,” Prince Eduard addressed his son on a rumbling voice, “will it cause you to forfeit the race?”

  Burke grinned as he put his snowy white damask napkin onto his lap. “Sorry. But it was simply a loose hose.”

  “Your mother worries about you.” Eduard glared from beneath shaggy pewter brows, looking fierce enough to send enemies to dungeons, dangerous enough to conquer countries. But from the furrowed lines creasing the older man’s forehead, Sabrina got the impression that it wasn’t just Burke’s mother who worried.

  “I know.” Burke exchanged another fond glance with Jessica. “And I promise that I will not take any undue chances.”

  On the other side of Sabrina, Chantal rolled her eyes and muttered something into her water goblet.

  “I suppose that’s all a mother can ask,” Jessica agreed. Her warm gaze was laced with both acceptance and maternal concern. “However, I can’t help wishing that you harbored a burning desire to be European backgammon champion, instead.”

  The rich deep sound of Burke’s laugh plucked a distant chord within Sabrina. She frowned and directed her attention toward her dessert.

  The conversation turned first toward Burke’s chances of winning the Montacroix Grand Prix, and then to the upcoming coronation, and finally, Jessica amused the group by sharing stories of moviemaking during what had become known as Hollywood’s golden age.

  “I just realized where I’ve seen you before,” Burke said quietly to Sabrina as his mother cheerfully described how she’d been perched atop a rock on the island of Mykonos, playing the role of a mermaid caught in a Greek fisherman’s net, when she’d met the man who would become her husband.

  The moment he set eyes on her, Burke had been struck by a feeling that they’d met before. He’d flipped through his mental file of names and faces while he’d showered and dressed, unreasonably frustrated when the answer hadn’t come immediately to mind.

  Sabrina glanced up at him, mentally bracing herself to deny those horrid tabloid stories. She’d not have thought a prince would stoop to reading such garbage, but there had been a time when she hadn’t believed that sleazy papers could get away with printing out-and-out lies, either.

  During the past year, her admittedly messy divorce following her collapse onstage and her subsequent emergency surgery, and then the tragedy of her father’s death had made headlines all over the world. There had been occasions when Sabrina felt as if the Darling family were keeping all those gossipy tabloids in business single-handedly.

  “Oh?” she asked with blatant disinterest.

  Her gaze was strangely shuttered. Burke watched the wall going up in front of him and wondered at its cause. “I was in Great Britain attending a banking summit when you performed Private Performances in London’s West End.”

  The mention of that particular performance, which critics had proclaimed her best, brought back unhappy memories that Sabrina would have just as soon not discussed.

  After graduation from Tennessee State College with a degree in drama, ignoring Sonny’s warnings about working with damn Yankees, she’d headed north to seek her fortune on the New York stage.

  Once in Manhattan, she’d quickly discovered that Sonny’s name, legendary in the music business, opened no doors on Broadway. On the contrary, once she heard a director refer to her as “that little barefoot hillbilly.”

  Miles away from her family, homesick, discouraged and horribly lonely, Sabrina had allowed herself to be rescued yet again. This time by Arthur Longstreet, a renowned, twice-married playwright—old enough to be her father—who cast her in the lead role of his new play, made her his third wife and spent the next six years putting every aspect of their personal life up on the New York stage.

  Sabrina had resented having her every thought, word and deed dissected in public. But when she professed her feelings, even that became the basis for a new story, entitled Private Performances.

  The play, which debuted with a two-week run in Great Britain, prior to returning to Broadway’s famed Majestic Theater, had been her least favorite of the six plays in which Sabrina had starred. It had also been her last.

  The day she walked out on her marriage, Arthur’s latest protégée—Sabrina’s former understudy—took her place onstage as well as in Sabrina’s bed.

  “Private Performances sold out in four hours,” Sabrina said. It had, she recalled, set a record for West End ticket sales.

  “The telephone lines were jammed, making it nearly impossible to reach the box office,” Burke agreed. “By the time my secretary was able to get through, all the tickets had been sold. Fortunately Diana invited me to share her box.”

  He mentioned the glamorous British princess with a friendly ease that led Sabrina to decide that he was not trying to impress her by name-dropping. Still, for some reason, his words rankled.

  “Obviously it’s true what they say—rank does have its privileges.”

  “Not always.” Burke thought of the large, silent man who’d spent the afternoon hovering about like some overprotective guard dog. Even now the bodyguard was posted just outside the dining room door. Putting aside his frustration, Burke flashed Sabrina his practiced smile. His teeth were strong and straight and brilliantly white in his rugged, outdoors complexion.

  “The two hours I spent in that darkened theater will go down as one of the highlights of my life. You were magnificent.”

  She’d seen that smile before, on numerous magazine covers since the announcement of Prince Burke’s upcoming coronation. But no photograph had done it justice or prepared Sabrina for the effect it would have on her.

  The murmur of voices, the discreet sounds of silver on china and crystal faded into the distance.

  “Thank you.”

  “Diana and I went backstage, after the performance, to congratulate you on such a tour de force after the final curtain. But your husband informed us that you were tired and overwrought from your performance and preferred to rest.”

  Sabrina’s temper flared. Damn Arthur! The truth was, they’d had a terrible fight before the curtain rose that night. She’d accused him of having a mistress, something he’d steadfastly denied. Right up until the end.

  Obviously he’d chosen to punish her for having the nerve to question his behavior by keeping any admirers away.

  No wonder her dressing room had remained depressingly empty, Sabrina realized now. At the time, she’d been devastated, believing the lack of visitors had been because the London audience hadn’t enjoyed her performance.

  “That night was difficult,” she murmured, unwilling to admit that her former husband had wielded such iron control over her life. Control she had naively handed over when she’d married.

  The day she packed her bags and left their Trump Tower apartment, Sabrina had vowed never to be that foolish again.

  “And for the record, I’m never overwrought.”

  Burke was intrigued by the emotion that had sparked in her eyes, like the warning flash of lightning on the horizon before a thunderstorm. There was a tender spot there, he determined, choosing to ease around it, for now.

  “I can certainly understand why you would have been exhausted. If anyone could have harnessed the energy you were putting out that night, they would have kept every lamp in London blazing well into the twenty-first century.”

  Even the usually savage British critics had raved about her performance, Burke remembered. Indeed, the normally stodgy Times had declared her a world-class actor, stating that the lovely young American had possessed the “Sarah Bernhardt factor.”

  “You’re very flattering.” Sabrina reluctantly gave him points for his charm.

  “I’m merely stating a fact. Didn’t I recently read that you were playing Maggie in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof in New York?”

  He’d also read that she had gotten a divorce. Indeed, the so-called inside reports of her failed marriage had set new lows for an already-tawdry celebrity journalism.

  N
ow that he’d placed her, Burke wondered why he hadn’t made the connection before, when Chantal had first brought up the idea of the female trio performing for the festival. Although Sabrina had used her married name—Sabrina Longstreet—on the stage, he vaguely recalled his sister mentioning something about two of the Darling sisters being actresses.

  But his mind had been on other things—the coronation, the race, and the anonymous death threats—and he hadn’t really been paying attention. If he’d realized that this woman was scheduled to arrive in Montacroix, it definitely would have piqued his interest in the trio’s performance.

  “Actually, it was Westport, Connecticut, not Broadway. But I was playing Maggie. Unfortunately I had to leave in order to do the tour with my sisters.”

  So this singing tour wasn’t her first choice. Not that he was surprised, given her acting talent. Burke wondered why a successful actress would have given up a role in which she’d received acclaim in order to suffer the rigors of life on the entertainment road.

  He made a mental note to ask Chantal more about the three Darling sisters—particularly the enticing Sabrina. “I remember reading that you’d received rave reviews for that role, too.” The role of Maggie suited her, Burke considered, lecturing himself for picturing her in some hot and steamy southern climate, clad only in a sexy silk slip. Even discounting her vaguely feline eyes, she radiated an almost electric sexual quality that nearly obscured the deeper vulnerability necessary for that role.

  Sabrina shrugged as she took a bite of a sweet, dark red strawberry. The floaty dress slipped completely off her shoulder, revealing an intriguing bit of creamy flesh.

  “Tennessee Williams wrote a powerful story. And, of course Maggie the Cat is one of those wonderful scenery-eating parts that any actress would murder for. Although I have to admit that it wasn’t easy reinventing a woman from the 1950s in today’s postfeminist world.”

  “Are you saying that Maggie couldn’t exist today?”

  She put down her spoon and gave Burke her full attention. “Maggie was doing her best, in her own way. She was fighting hard, with all the weapons she possessed at the time. I think that if the play were written today, that as frightening as the prospect of being alone might be, Maggie would look around and see that she had other options.

  “I truly believe,” she continued, “that with all her ambition and guts, she’d ultimately stop looking to her husband for her own happiness. And eventually she’d escape that cage she and Brick had somehow gotten themselves locked into.”

  As she had done. Albeit belatedly, Sabrina admitted it reluctantly. If only she’d followed her instincts and left that first year, when she had come to the unhappy realization that a handsome prince could ultimately turn out to be a frog. And a long-coveted palace could become a prison.

  Burke watched the myriad of emotions come and go in her eyes. Regret, anger, determination. “Isn’t it difficult to project so much raw emotion each evening?” he asked, curious as to how she managed to keep her emotional compass steady.

  “Sometimes. But it’s also cathartic. After all, how many people get to act out their deepest, darkest, most dangerous emotions?”

  She’d never been a woman to guide her emotions, but allowed herself to be guided by them. And while she knew that many might consider such behavior foolhardy, on balance, even considering her disastrous marriage, her twenty-eight years were filled with more pleasurable memories than unhappy ones.

  “And do you possess such dark and dangerous emotions?”

  “Don’t we all?” Her brows lifted and her chin angled slightly, as if daring him to argue.

  “Touché.” Since his own emotions were none too steady at the moment, Burke decided to steer the conversation back to her career. “So, is that how you choose a role? By its emotional impact on the audience?”

  “Right now, I’m not exactly in the position to be choosy.”

  Unfortunately, as so often happens in divorces, former friends and associates had ended up taking sides. Since Arthur Longstreet’s name translated into a fortune in ticket sales, and since the incestuous theater world revolved around money a great deal more than it would ever admit, Sabrina had found herself out in the cold.

  “I just want to take on different and challenging parts and have the freedom to choose. Freedom,” she said with a burst of feeling, “is the greatest luxury in life.”

  “Rassurez-vous, Mademoiselle Sabrina,” Burke said. “I am certain that an actress of your caliber will be able to select any role you wish for as long as you continue performing.”

  The man was definitely smooth. No wonder he had such a reputation with the glamorous women of the Concorde Set.

  “Actors come and go,” she answered with the old bromide. “Only agents last forever. But I do appreciate your vote of confidence.” She returned his smile with a cool, polite one of her own.

  At that moment, Chantal captured everyone’s attention by ringing the edge of her sterling dessert spoon against the crystal rim of her water goblet.

  “I have an announcement to make.” When her vermilion lips tilted upward in a faint, self-satisfied smile that vaguely reminded Sabrina of the Mona Lisa, Caine left his seat across the table and came to stand beside his wife.

  “You and Caine are returning to Montacroix,” Prince Eduard guessed, crossing his arms over his broad chest with obvious satisfaction. “It’s about time.”

  “Now, Papa,” Chantal chided, “you know that Caine’s business is in Washington.”

  “There is more than enough work to keep your husband occupied right here,” Eduard insisted gruffly. From the resigned expressions on the faces of the other members of the Giraudeau family, Sabrina got the impression that this was not a new argument. “Especially now, with—”

  “Why don’t you let Chantal make her announcement,” Burke interrupted mildly. He was smiling, but Sabrina thought she detected a silent warning in his dark eyes.

  “A man wants his children around him when he is entering old age,” Eduard grumbled.

  “You’re not anywhere near approaching old age, darling,” Jessica soothed expertly. “Why, anyone can see that you’re in your prime.”

  “A man in his prime should have grandchildren. Some prodigy to continue the line. Rainier has grandchildren, Philip of England has grandchildren—”

  “Papa,” Noel broke in mildly, “if you don’t allow Chantal to speak, it will be breakfast before we learn her news.”

  “I was merely pointing out that you are all breaking your mother’s heart. Women need grandchildren to spoil,” Eduard insisted. “It’s their nurturing nature.”

  “And people dare to accuse you of being a chauvinist,” Noel murmured. The daughterly love in her smile took the sting out of her words. “Wherever do they get such an outlandish idea?” She turned to her sister. “Go ahead, Chantal. We’re all ears.”

  “Actually, Papa, you’re right.” Chantal gave her father a warm and loving smile. “A man in his prime should have grandchildren.”

  A sudden silence descended on the room like a curtain.

  “Darling,” Jessica said, “are you saying—”

  “Caine and I are going to have a baby.” Chantal linked her beringed fingers with her husband’s. When Caine lifted his wife’s hand to his lips, Sabrina felt a prick of uncharacteristic envy at their obvious mutual devotion. “You, Papa dear, are going to be a grandfather.”

  For once in his life the prince was struck absolutely speechless. The entire room—Dixie, Raven, Ariel and Sabrina included—burst into delighted laughter at the sight of the stunned, red-faced patriarch.

  “Well,” he blustered finally, “it’s high time you did your duty, Caine.” He turned to the butler, who, Sabrina noticed, was grinning as widely as the rest of the family. “Joseph, this calls for champagne. Another Giraudeau is on the way!”

  “Another O’Bannion,” Caine corrected with a calm but steady smile.

  “That, too,” Eduard agreed benev
olently.

  After the toasts were made and the congratulations offered, Eduard turned toward his only son. “So, Burke, when are you going to follow your sister and brother-in-law’s excellent example?”

  Burke arched a dark brow. “You want me to father a child?”

  “I want you to get married,” Eduard bellowed. “Obviously the child will come after the ceremony.”

  “Of course,” Burke murmured. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “This is no joking matter. After the coronation, your duty will no longer be to yourself, but to your country. And your first responsibility to the citizens of Montacroix is to provide the principality with an heir.”

  Sabrina heard Burke’s slight sigh when the prince began listing suitable candidates—all, she noted, from various European nobility. It might be permissible for one of the Giraudeau princesses to marry a commoner, but obviously such independent behavior was inappropriate for the man who, in a few short days, would become regent.

  “Eduard,” Jessica finally broke in when the prince paused to take a breath, “we’ve discussed this before. You must allow our son to find his own wife. As you did,” she said significantly.

  “And, grandpère,” Chantal tacked on. She turned to the Darlings, “Have you ever heard the story of our grandfather?” When Dixie stated that they hadn’t, she smiled and said, “It’s a wonderfully romantic story. You see, once upon a time, in a faraway kingdom called Montacroix, there was a handsome prince named Phillipe. After his graduation from Cambridge, Phillipe went to Arles on holiday. The trip was a gift from his father, Prince Léon.”

  “Our great-grandfather,” Noel clarified.

  “That’s right,” Chantal agreed. “Anyway, during his holiday, he happened into a cantina that featured authentic gypsy dancing.”