As Chicagoans primped for the society event of the season, blushing bride Alexandra Connelly wasn’t dreaming of her walk down the aisle; she was apparently planning her escape route. On the eve of her near-million-dollar nuptials, the heiress was nowhere to be seen, stranding a flock of white doves and standing up a few hundred guests. Not even scion Grant Connelly knew where the bride-not-to-be had gone.

Paparazzi claim she’s now licking her wounds across the Atlantic in brother Daniel’s kingdom of Altaria, where the azure seas and cloudless skies are warming her frozen heart. Rumor has it that the immensely eligible Prince Phillip of Silverdorn is doing his share of heating up the runaway heiress. The two have been spotted in numerous tête-à-têtes around the picturesque island. Is Phillip catching Alexandra on the rebound, or making his own play?

Meanwhile, back on the home front, Grant Connelly is again making news, having hired two private investigators to look into the dealings at his corporation. Seems the Connellys are up to their eyeballs in mysteries on both sides of the Atlantic….

Dear Reader,

What could be more satisfying than the sinful yet guilt-free pleasure of enjoying six new passionate, powerful and provocative Silhouette Desire romances this month?

Get started with In Blackhawk’s Bed, July’s MAN OF THE MONTH and the latest title in the SECRETS! miniseries by Barbara McCauley. The Royal & the Runaway Bride by Kathryn Jensen—in which the heroine masquerades as a horse trainer and becomes a princess—is the seventh exciting installment in DYNASTIES: THE CONNELLYS, about an American family that discovers its royal roots.

A single mom melts the steely defenses of a brooding ranch hand in Cowboy’s Special Woman by Sara Orwig, while a detective with a secret falls for an innocent beauty in The Secret Millionaire by Ryanne Corey. A CEO persuades a mail-room employee to be his temporary wife in the debut novel Cinderella & the Playboy by Laura Wright, praised by New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber as “a wonderful new voice in Silhouette Desire.” And in Zane: The Wild One by Bronwyn Jameson, the mayor’s daughter turns up the heat on the small town’s bad boy made good.

So pamper the romantic in you by reading all six of these great new love stories from Silhouette Desire!

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

The Royal & The Runaway Bride
Kathryn Jensen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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KATHRYN JENSEN

has written many novels for young readers as well as for adults. She speed walks, works out with weights and enjoys ballroom dancing for exercise, stress reduction and pleasure. Her children are now grown. She lives in Maryland with her writing companion—Sunny, a lovable terrier-mix adopted from a shelter.

Having worked as a hospital switchboard operator, department store sales associate, bank clerk and elementary school teacher, she now splits her days between writing her own books and teaching fiction writing at two local colleges and through a correspondence course. She enjoys helping new writers get a start and speaks “at the drop of a hat” at writers’ conferences, libraries and schools across the country.

MEET THE CONNELLYS

Meet the Connellys of Chicago—wealthy, powerful and rocked by scandal, betrayal…and passion!

Who’s Who in

THE ROYAL & THE RUNAWAY BRIDE

Phillip, Prince of Silverdorn—Lately his inherited title brings him nothing but trouble—female trouble. It’s enough to make the virile royal totally swear off women—almost, anyway….

Alexandra Connelly—After running away on the eve of her wedding, she’ll take no vow except to remain single and celibate…. Single, anyway…

Gregor Paulus—The palace aide’s manners are impeccable, but what about his motives?

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

One

It wasn’t that he disliked royal functions. Phillip Kinrowan had grown up in aristocratic circles, attended his first ball before he’d been able to walk, ridden his first Grand Prix champion jumper at Monaco before he turned six and owned an estate by the time he cleared the hurdles of puberty. It was just that he hated advertising his title because of the attention it got him. Attention that more often than not resulted in trouble. Female trouble.

He was reminded of those dangers as he stepped forward to be announced by the page before the ballroom crowd of beautiful people in formal attire. “The kingdom of Altaria welcomes His Highness, Phillip Kinrowan, prince of Silverdorn!” The page’s voice rang out in Italian first, then in French and finally in English, in deference to the American in whose honor the celebration was being held.

Phillip winced but kept his facial expression neutral as he descended the grand curving staircase to the gleaming marble floor. Already he was bored. The same faces greeted him at nearly every function. Only the Americans were new to him, as they were to everyone else in his elite social circle. But it was protocol to honor a new king, regardless of where he was raised.

Chicago. Phillip hardly knew where the place was. Somewhere in the middle of the United States, he seemed to recall. On a big lake? No matter. Among Daniel Connelly’s family, odds were Phillip might find someone of interest to talk to. His glance drifted down the receiving line, finding no one to spark his curiosity until close to the end.

A young woman, her raven hair trimmed almost boyishly short, stood awkwardly behind the guests of honor. She wore an elegant gown that matched the color of her eyes—vivid green. Among the domino black-and-white attire of the rest of the room, she stood out like a gemstone. But what really seized his attention was the way her eyes shifted restlessly around the vast, chandeliered room, not even bothering to hide her impatience with the pomp and circumstance. A kindred spirit!

Phillip stepped out of the line of guests waiting to pay their respects and moved to one side of the room where he could watch her better. She looked so out of place. Who was she? As he watched, she nudged the woman in front of her, whispered something in her ear then hiked up her billowy skirts in both fists and hightailed it for the doors leading to the garden. In a flash she was gone, but he was chuckling to himself at the parting image of chunky brown leather boots, laces dangling loose, revealed beneath layers of satin and chiffon. A little rebel. How charming!

Glancing quickly around the room to make sure no one was paying any attention to her, or him, Phillip followed the young woman. Something drew him toward her, something as natural as gravity and just as impossible to resist yet far more difficult to understand.

A stone balcony off the rear of the palace dropped away in wide steps to a formal garden, baking under Mediterranean heat even as the July sun set that evening. Sculpted shrubs formed arches, a maze and screens for the rose garden, interspersed with statues collected by the royal family over generations. Phillip wondered if the American clan was accustomed to such grandeur, then remembered the gossip that the Connellys were one of the wealthiest families in their own country. He caught a glimpse of emerald fabric whipping around a corner of hedgerow that separated the stables and yard from the prettily manicured greenery.

“Hey, you there, wait up!” he called, breaking into a run.

But if she heard, his shout had no effect. When he emerged from the shrubs to stand at the edge of the exercise yard, there was no sign of the less-than-daintily shod damsel in what had appeared to be Doc Martens. He caught the eye of a stable boy who was leading a chestnut mare across the yard.

“Did you see a young woman in a ball gown come this way?” Phillip asked in Italian.

The boy shook his head and kept going.

A low whinny and snort caught Phillip’s attention, and he whipped around, moving toward the sound like a cat stalking its prey. Ducking into the dark interior of the stable at the third doorway, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the sudden lack of light, then looked down the long aisle strewn with sweet-smelling straw. She stood on the lowest rail of a stall, reaching over to stroke the nose of a pure white horse. Her attention was so fixed on the animal, she didn’t react to his approach.

“Does the stable master know you’re messing about with one of his most valued mounts?” he asked.

She jumped and snapped her hand back but recovered quickly, tipping her nose into the air. Her green eyes flashed defiantly at him. “Of course. He asked me to look in on him.”

“He did, did he?” Phillip grinned, even more curious about her now. From a distance, she’d been intriguing. Up close she was dazzling, with a delicious hint of recklessness. “And why would he do that?”

“Because I’m…I’m a trainer. He asked me to work with—” Her gaze shifted almost imperceptibly to the bronze plaque on the stall’s half door. “—with King’s Passion.”

“A trainer,” he repeated, thinking that might well account for her mixed attire and uneasiness in a formal setting. His own trainer would do just about anything to avoid socializing with Phillip’s friends. Although why, as a mere employee, she should be included at all in the celebration wasn’t clear. “You’re an American.”

“Yes,” she said, hopping backward off the rail. Her narrow shoulders settled firmly and her long, elegant neck straightened until she was looking him in the eye. “I work for the Connellys but came as a favor to lend a hand at the royal stable for the celebration.”

“I see,” he said. “So you’ve had a lot of experience with horses.”

“Oodles.” She flashed him a cocky grin.

He walked around her, checking out her physique without hiding his intent. Her shoulders and arms looked strong enough for the job, and she was slender, lightweight as a jockey, and seemed to be coordinated. He guessed she’d look damn fine straddling one of his jumpers. The image excited him. He could see her taking a five-foot rail on his favorite gelding.

“It’s hard to find a good trainer these days,” he commented.

She shrugged, still looking more interested in the white horse than in him as she stroked the patch of pink flesh between the animal’s flaring nostrils.

“I have a problem horse in my own stable. Maybe you could break free of your duties here long enough to come over and take a look at him.”

Her brows knit. “Oh, well…I would of course, but I’m terribly busy here. And I expect I won’t be staying all that long.”

“Too bad. I would have paid you well.” No reaction. “And treated you to a fine lunch. My cook makes a bouillabaisse to die for.”

Now her pretty eyes widened. Good, he thought. He’d found a weakness. Food.

“I really don’t think I could—”

“Tell you what—” he stopped suddenly. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Alex—” She seemed to hesitate, then said again, “Alex.”

“Well, Alex, I’ll speak to our king before the end of the evening. Perhaps we can spring you for a few hours tomorrow or the next day. I’m sure he won’t mind. Besides, he owes me a favor.”

“Oh?” Her gaze finally swerved from horse to man.

“I’ll tell you about it sometime,” he promised with a wink. “So it’s a deal? You give my jumper a quick inspection, and I’ll treat you to the finest seafood concoction in the Mediterranean.”

She sighed, still looking unsure. “Agreed. But all I can spare is an hour or two at most.” She was studying him for the first time, and he felt as if she suddenly had him under a magnifying glass. What was she looking for? he wondered. Or was she afraid of agreeing to take a side job?

“Are you always so serious about accepting work?” He was delighted to see her eyes soften when they at last met his. For once he allowed genuine warmth to enter his own expression. After all, she was safe, not some husband-hunting debutante or social climber. Just a working gal. The more she resisted his invitation, the better he felt about spending time with her.

She blinked at him and the corners of her lips lifted tentatively. “Not always.” She crossed one booted foot over the other, still considering him. “Make it tomorrow. Early afternoon. You don’t have to ask Daniel Connelly for permission. I’m free to make my own decisions where my time is concerned.”

“Good, I’ll send someone for you around one o’clock, if that’s good for you. We’ll make it a late luncheon after you see my problem child. That way you’ll have the whole morning to work here.”

“Yes,” she agreed, her eyes skittering away from his. “I do want to make sure I finish up at the palace first.”

Alexandra kicked herself all the way back to the ballroom. What had possessed her to accept Phillip Kinrowan’s invitation to his estate? Sheer hunkiness, that was it! From the moment he was announced at the ball, she decided he was the handsomest man she’d ever laid eyes on.

And, on top of his looks, he owned a stable full of horses.

From the time she’d been a little girl, she’d adored the creatures. Unfortunately, they didn’t always return her affection—unless you could count as tokens of endearment all those bruises and fractures she’d suffered during lessons when she was a schoolgirl. Among the Connellys’ social set, proper English riding lessons were a must. As crucial an element of her education as knowing how to read the New York Stock Exchange quotes in the Chicago Sun-Times financial section, according to Grant Connelly, her father. She didn’t hold her failures against the horses. Under most circumstances, she hadn’t done badly at all. It was just that once in a while she seemed to develop a slippery bottom, and there she’d be on the ground, studying clouds. She could never be described as a polished horsewoman.

So, what had possessed her to tell Kinrowan that she was a trainer? A childhood fantasy, perhaps? It might have been all right if he hadn’t immediately asked for her help. Then her pride hadn’t let her admit the fib. She’d have to show up at his place and pretend to be knowledgeable. If she kept the visit short, Alexandra reasoned, she should be all right. Surely she knew enough about horses to fake her way through an hour or two of horse-related conversation.

Alexandra shook her head, lifted her skirts and clomped in her favorite boots up the wide marble steps from the garden to the patio. Well, it would be a kick anyway. And a man who obviously had no interest in her other than professionally, and probably had tons more money than Daddy, couldn’t possibly hold the usual threat men had been to her. What the hell… Maybe an afternoon with Phillip Kinrowan would help her forget. Help her start to wash away the terrible pain, and stop thinking about the reason she’d run away from Chicago, from her friends and the most bitter disappointment of a young woman’s life.

The next morning the castle was quiet. Her brother, Daniel, and his wife, Erin, were breakfasting late on the veranda. She approached in her trademark Doc Martens, khaki hiking shorts and an oversized jersey. “You’d think after all that food last night, I wouldn’t be hungry,” she commented, sitting down and in one motion reaching for a plate of pastries.

Erin smiled at her. “I think we burned the banquet food off with all that dancing. I saw you on the floor with a dozen different men.”

Alex shrugged. “It was an okay party, I guess.”

“Leave it to Alex to understate any situation,” Daniel said, shaking his head. “A ball held in my honor at a castle, and my little sister says it was an okay party.” He laughed affectionately.

“Well, it was,” she objected, giving his cheek a sisterly pinch. “I mean, it isn’t as if Daddy hasn’t invited half of Chicago to celebrate every new business coup he makes.”

“I seem to recall one little girl’s birthday party that included pony rides and a half-dozen clowns hired from Ringling Brothers.”

Daniel was making fun of her and she hated it. If he was implying that she was in any way spoiled, he was wrong. It was just that when you grew up in a family like the Connellys it was hard to know how to live other than in luxury. Money had never been an issue, until she’d become an adult. Then she’d learned its power as well as its curses.

For the last several years all she’d known, in fact, were the curses. They’d kept her from feeling satisfied with herself, happy with her friends. More than anything, money had gotten in the way of her finding love. She might have grown up with a silver spoon in her mouth but she’d always believed in the basic honesty of people, particularly two people who cared deeply for each other. Until the day before her wedding, she’d thought that Robert loved her, because he had said he did and he’d acted as if he did. She’d even been able to ignore her brother Justin’s warnings about Robert a few days before. But then she’d overheard her fiancé’s conversation with Jessy Weintraub, her maid of honor. And her world had fallen apart.

“He’s kidding, right?” Erin asked. “Ringling Brothers’ clowns?”

“I’m afraid not. Our father likes to do things in a big way, in case you haven’t yet noticed. Money has never been known to hold Grant Connelly back.” But it had held her back. If she couldn’t find love, the very least she should have been able to find was herself. She hadn’t succeeded. She still wondered who Alexandra Connelly really was. Why had she been put on this planet? What was the special gift she had been meant to share with the world?

Or was she just another rich girl destined to marry wisely, chair committees for charities…and wish she were someone else?

So far, all she had discovered was that she was good at attracting men. Like Robert Marsh. Men who were intelligent, good-looking, aggressive at both work and play. In short, every woman’s dream. Every woman but her. Because these men all saw the same thing in her—a fast road toward wealth and success. When your father was the famous Grant Connelly, any man who married you was guaranteed a place in Connelly Corporation and a niche in a family that liked to share its prosperity.

For a moment, there was a vision of white silk and a beaded bodice, of a veil that had covered her face to hide tears on the day before her wedding. It had been during the final fitting that she’d walked in on her fiancé and best friend. The rest was a blur as she flung off shreds of priceless fabric, sobbing as she told herself she would fly to the Virgin Islands, to China, or to the most remote regions of Africa that very night. And, no, she would not be marrying Robert. Ever!

She had left him, if not literally at the altar, only hours away from it.

Bitterness and anger seethed within her again, subsiding only as she sipped a cool tropical juice drink. She should have seen the signs, should have learned over the years. The world was full of Robert Marshes, and the only way to have a safe relationship with a man was, ironically, by lying to him.

Thus she would be a horse trainer if that was what she chose to be for a few hours.

Phillip Kinrowan’s estate perched on a cliff overlooking the blue-green Tyrrhenian Sea. The day was bright and warm. The stone had baked in the sun all morning and felt smooth and pleasantly hot against the soles of Alex’s bare feet as she climbed. She squinted up the steep face of the cliff, then looked back down to the beach where the motor launch had left her, its driver pointing toward the ancient stairway. Above her she could see nothing but blue sky. The smell of wild jasmine and portulaca was almost overpowering, a heady brew when mixed with the brine of the ocean lapping at the rocks beneath her.

At last her head rose above the edge of the cliff and a long, low white structure came into view, set back from the rocks by a carpet of manicured emerald grass. She drew in a slow breath. “Oh, my…”

It wasn’t the largest house she’d ever seen, but it had character and charm and something that didn’t come from one or two generations of luck and money. This place had old-world history built into it. It might have been constructed of the gleaming white limestone in the days when Rome or Athens was devouring chunks of Europe. Or it might have been built centuries later to emulate the classic lines of antiquity. Slender white columns stretched up to support a portico of sun-catching stone. Long wings of the low building curved around a fountain, a circular drive, and a beautifully maintained garden. She judged that although there was only one floor, the house could accommodate fifty or more overnight guests within its many sun-drenched rooms.

Feeling less confident about her quick visit, she slowly walked up the path of crushed shells toward the main entrance of the estate. Before she reached the steps, a figure in a white shirt and pants, a straw Panama hat and leather espadrilles moved out of the shadows and came down the steps toward her.

Phillip smiled. “Welcome to my home, Sandora.”

“Have you been lurking there waiting for long?” she asked.

“The launch jockey radioed that he’d dropped you off on the beach.”

“I see. When you said you’d send someone to pick me up in Altaria-Ville, I assumed it would be a car.”

“It could have been, but it would have taken longer. And the view by water can’t be beat.” He held out a hand to her, and she assumed he was either going to shake hands American-style, or kiss her fingertips as Europeans do. Instead he enclosed her fingers in a warm grip and tucked them between his elbow and the side of his body, then began walking her across the lawn toward what she could now see was the stables.

“Well,” she said nervously, “the view was great. Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Lunch won’t be ready for an hour. I hope you don’t mind looking at Eros first.”

“Eros?” The god of love, if she remembered her mythology. Another name for Cupid, the imp who had caused Medea to fall in love with Jason while on his search for the golden fleece. The outcome had been tragic.

“My problem horse. He’s always been a wonderful mount. Won me a bundle of Grand Prix ribbons as a jumper. Aside from that, I just plain like him better than any other horse in my stable. But he’s refusing jumps now.”

“When did he start doing that?” she asked.

“About a month ago. It happened very suddenly. No warning at all. One of my exercise lads was taking him through his paces, just warming him up easy before I came out to ride for the day. By the time I reached the ring, the lad was on the ground cursing the horse, and Eros was in a lather, pacing the yard as if he’d been terribly frightened.”

“He might have been. You can never tell with horses what will spook them.” She felt satisfied with how astute and experienced she sounded. “Did you ask the boy what had happened?”

“Of course.” Phillip anxiously dragged fingers through his thick brown hair. “No one in the yard saw anything that might have scared the animal. Nothing out of the ordinary seems to have happened during those few minutes.”

“Hmmm,” Alex said, aiming for an expression of sage perplexity. “Well, let’s take a look at him.”

Phillip led her down a row of half doors, the generous-sized stalls behind them smelling of cedar chips, saddle soap and the natural muskiness of horseflesh. She had always loved this part of being around horses—the smells, rough and masculine textures, sounds of hooves restlessly shifting on wooden planks, snuffles and whinnies of horses talking to one another in their secret language. It was the riding part that hadn’t been as easy, or at least as painless.

Phillip stopped in front of a stall and whistled between his teeth. Almost immediately, an enormous black head with shining dark eyes appeared in the opening. “Hello, Eros, old man,” Phillip murmured tenderly. He ran a gentle hand beneath the horse’s chin and thumped the side of its neck.

“Phillip,” she gasped, “he’s gorgeous.” She meant it.

Her eyes took in the dark line of the animal’s body on the other side of the door. The classic lines of the Thoroughbred were perfected in the shining flanks, the delicate limbs and well-muscled barrel chest of the horse. She’d ridden some wonderful horses as a girl, up until the time she’d quit her lessons fourteen years ago when she turned sixteen and gotten up the nerve to tell her father riding just wasn’t for her. But Eros made them all look like commoners.

Alex swallowed over a lump of emotion in her throat. Would she ever dare ride such a horse? Or course, Phillip probably didn’t let just anyone hop on the back of this magnificent creature, clearly his pride and joy.

“Any opinion?” he asked, interrupting her admiration.

“He’s wonderful, of course,” she breathed.

“I meant, your professional judgment.”

“Oh. Of course.” She recovered quickly, her mind racing to come up with something…anything that might sound like trainer-talk. “Ummm. Well, anyone can see he’s still jittery. Something has broken his confidence.”

Phillip scowled and reached out to rest his palm over the wide, velvety bridge of Eros’s nose. “You can see that in here? Just by looking at him?”

She nodded wisely. “Yes. I’ve seen this sort of thing a lot. The whole character of the horse can change after one bad incident.”

“But nothing happened to—”

“Nothing your stable hands will admit to,” she said quickly. “I don’t know about you, but people who work for my fa— my employer,” she corrected herself hastily, “although they may be loyal and honest in most ways, often have trouble admitting to a mistake. They don’t want to make their boss angry, so it’s natural to cover up, hoping things will mend themselves.”

He studied her for a long moment. “I suppose you’re right. I probably will never know what, if anything, got to Eros that day.”

“Exactly.” She felt more confident now that she’d gotten him to agree with her, even though her point was a vague one at best. “So all we can do now is build the horse’s confidence.”

“How do we do that?”

She only had to think for a second before she remembered how she’d recovered after a few bad falls. “You start at the beginning. Retrain him as if he’s never jumped before.”

Phillip shook his head. “My own trainer said that he must be made to take a couple of high jumps, then he’ll be fine.”

She let out a doubtful chortle. “Right. And how are you going to force a couple thousand pounds of horseflesh over a five-foot hurdle, short of using a forklift?”

He smiled and stepped closer to her, their shoulders touching, and she felt a tingle of excitement. “You have a point. Tell me more,” he said.

She let Eros sniff her palm then stroked his sleek black throat. “Ride him on the flat for a dozen or more loops around the ring. No jumps at all. Then walk him over a rail lying on the ground. After he’s comfortable with that, move up to a rail placed no more than four or five inches off the ground. Keep raising the height slowly, but don’t move him up until he takes the new level without hesitation. If it takes weeks, fine. Don’t push him.”

Phillip nodded slowly. “It sounds logical. You’ve used this technique before with other horses?”

“Zillions!” She smiled when Eros playfully nuzzled her cheek. And now, she thought, time for lunch. She couldn’t get enough of the wonderful Mediterranean seafood found all over the island.

But Phillip had other ideas. “Let’s get him saddled.”

“What?” She stared at him apprehensively.

“No time like the present. Besides, you yourself said you won’t be here for long. I want to take advantage of your expertise.”

“But I’m sure your own trainer—”

“He hasn’t succeeded yet, and I don’t want to take the chance that Eros might connect Marco with whatever originally spooked him. He seems to like you. Maybe a woman’s touch is what he needs.”

“I haven’t brought riding gear,” she objected.

“There’s plenty you can use in the tack room. Just down there.” He pointed. “I keep spare boots, crops and such for guests. What shoe size do you take?”

“Six, American,” she said wearily.

“I’m sure there’s something that will fit you. Go along. I’ll get him ready for you.”

Great, she thought glumly a moment later as she pulled riding breeches over her casual shorts and wedged her feet into leather riding boots. What was she going to do now? She could confess to Phillip Kinrowan that she had lied to him and wasn’t who she claimed to be. But that would be humiliating. She didn’t care if he was angry, but she wouldn’t be laughed at.

Or she could call his bluff and ride Eros. And risk breaking your neck by doing so, a little voice inside her warned.

But the timid jumper had seemed as gentle as a lamb in his stall. Sure, Thoroughbreds were unpredictable and their moods could change without warning. But she knew how to handle a basic trot around a ring or a walkover exercise, and that was all she was going to do. She’d explain to Phillip that pressing the horse to take a jump of any height today would be premature and could permanently ruin him for competition. What owner would take that risk?

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