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  Princeton Highfield looked very incongruous

  sitting in the old desk chair in the middle of the children’s library section. The man looked like a million bucks. Literally. His suit most likely cost what she made in a month. Never mind his shoes—probably imported from Europe.

  He met her gaze as she had the children stand and stretch before the next story. He smiled.

  She melted. Oh, what was he doing here? Why were there butterflies in her stomach, her palms growing damper by the moment? Was he here because of her? Should she smile back? For some strange reason, a string of romantic stories started running through her mind. Cinderella, My Fair Lady. The rich guy falls in love with the poor girl, thereby allowing her to avoid all life’s problems and live happily ever after. Pretty Woman. Even a hooker could be rescued from her life and find true love.

  The thought made her giggle and returned her to sanity. She had learned first-hand fantasy was fantasy. Standing at the back of the church on that fateful day when George hadn’t shown up had cured her.

  First of all, she no longer believed in romantic love, and second, she loved her life, and had nothing to be rescued from. Her life was full and rich and rewarding—keeping her little family afloat, making sure the kids had what they needed to grow healthy and strong. That commitment took all her time and energy. In real life, there was no time or desire for fairy tales or fantasy.

  Praise for

  Christine Bush’s writing

  “Christine Bush creates living, breathing characters, then adds witty dialogue and enough plot twists to keep this reader turning the pages. Her heroines are empowered women of the new millennium unafraid to meet life head on! It is always a pleasure to read a novel penned by the talented Christine Bush.”

  ~C.H. Admirand, author

  “Compelling emotion and believable characters fill this romance and have the reader rooting for a happily-ever-after.”

  ~Caridad Piniero, author

  “You can count on Christine Bush for a great story. She’s done it again.”

  Shirley Hailstock, author

  “CINDY’S PRINCE is a charming tale that keeps you laughing even as the romance melts your heart. Master storyteller Christine Bush always leaves her readers feeling warm and fuzzy and believing in fairy tales at the end of every book.”

  Debra Mullins, author

  Cindy’s

  Prince

  by

  Christine Bush

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Cindy’s Prince

  COPYRIGHT Ó 2011 by Christine Bush

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

  The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Sweetheart Rose Edition, 2011

  Print ISBN 1-60154-887-7

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to Eddie

  with love and respect,

  And to each and every one

  of my terrific, ever-loving family,

  And to Mary Ann Volk,

  and all the therapists and clients

  at the Center for Families and Relationships

  in northeast Philadelphia,

  who strive every day to make people’s lives better.

  Chapter One

  Princeton Edmund Highfield stomped the accelerator of his beloved Aston Martin Vanquish with much more force than was his usual style. The Aston was his baby. The car surged with power and merged onto the expressway. The hazy August silhouette of Philadelphia lay like a picturesque postcard in the distance, and all around him, drivers vied for position on the busy, hectic highway. Man, he hated traffic. The cars ground to a halt.

  He fumed, tapping a beat on the steering wheel. When James Bond drove his Aston Martin, he never had to deal with rush-hour traffic. He never had to deal with family pressure or stupid errands, either.

  A bright red minivan sat to his right, a perky mom at the wheel. In the back seats, he could see the small heads of several rowdy kids. One, his face against the glass, made an obnoxious snarl at Prince.

  He grimaced and returned his gaze to the stalled traffic, preferring to look at bumpers than the squished-face kids. He fought the urge to make an equally grotesque face back. He was an adult, after all, wasn’t he?

  His neck tensed as his temper ran hotter than the August sun scorched afternoon. Kids were aggravating. Traffic was aggravating. And why was he exposed to these aggravating things? Because his father, Hugh Highfield, head of the dynamic and successful Highfield Enterprises—and also perhaps one of the most aggravating men in the universe—had deemed it so.

  “You’ll do it, and you’ll do it today, young man!”

  His pulse hammered at the memory. Anger mingled with a large dose of shame. For the first time in his twenty-eight years, he yelled back at his father. “I’m not your damned puppet. I’ll do it when I’m damned ready.”

  His outburst was probably long overdue. Although he sure believed in respect. His father was often a crude, controlling autocrat, and he was sick to death of being under his thumb, treated like a twelve year old errand boy. But that wasn’t the man he wanted to be. So he was as angry at himself as he was at his dad. And he backed down. “It’s a simple task. Your brother sent this package from Iraq to the sister-in-law of a man who died in his command. She’s somewhere in Philadelphia, raising her deceased sister’s kids, but she keeps moving around, and no one has her current address. Benedict thinks she works at the library. Go find her. This is the least you can do after all the heroic things your brother has done…”

  So here he was. Prince grimaced and jammed on his brakes to avoid rear ending the car in front of him. His brother.

  Benedict Highfield, his oldest, superhero sibling, was currently doing a second stint in Iraq. He was leading troops, flying commando missions and risking his life for flag and freedom. His picture was prominently perched on the center of the living room mantel in the family’s Main Line mansion. The crisp beige uniform commanded respect, his piercing gaze demanded attention. Benedict was everybody’s hero. He was even Prince’s hero, though the truth was, he was sick and tired of being compared to his brave and focused oldest brother and coming up short.

  The traffic started to move again, and Prince sighed and put the Aston Martin into gear. He looked down on the package on the seat, wrapped in plain brown paper and sealed with enough tape to hold Houdini hostage. The label read “to Cindy Castle.” He’d find her, and deliver her brother-in-law’s effects. But he didn’t have to like it!

  The Philadelphia Public Library echoed as his footsteps traveled across the shiny marble floor. The air also had an intimidating and aged smell saying “old books”. It wasn’t as if Prince hadn’t ever been to a library. At prep school, and also in his days at Princeton University, he had spent many a night gathering information and studying—usually, of course, at the last possible minute—in the college library.

  As a child, he had occasionally visited this main branch of the Philadelphia Public Library. But his family wasn’t the type to hang out at a library or read stories. They were society pe
ople. Walking in the door made the memories flood back, the awe seeing room after book-filled room made him sigh. He noticed the hushed movements and voices, the sight of people reading, and searching the racks. He sniffed the library book smell permeating the place. He loved books.

  The impressive stone building was gracious, a landmark of Philadelphia architecture and history. As a lifelong resident of the city of Philadelphia, Prince appreciated this. He had a major in American History. From the arrival of William Penn, through the birth of the Declaration of Independence, to the complex city today, he knew a lot about Philadelphia. Despite his father’s rather vocal and persistent claim his youngest son was an unproductive and lazy rich kid, Prince knew he was a well-educated man, with a respect for knowledge. And that included a respect for libraries.

  But not today. He didn’t want to be here today. He wanted to find one Cindy Castle, complete his mission, and return to his beloved car. His car was parked illegally by a fire hydrant around the corner because he was hot and tired and could not find a nearby parking space. He refused to walk blocks in the oppressive heat to do this simple errand, which should take just a minute.

  So he started across the expansive front lobby, his goal in mind. To the right of the doorway, a little girl sat on the marble tile, sobbing. To tell the truth, though he didn’t know squat about kids, he assumed crying was pretty normal for a little kid. But for some strange reason, he stopped in his tracks.

  A woman stood near her, face tensed up in concern, hands wringing. The mother? Probably. But not the point.

  On the floor beside the little girl sat a young woman, wavy dark hair flowing down her back. The woman sat cross legged, the skirt of a flowing dress swirling around her.

  He stared, feet screwed to the floor. The woman turned her head, her profile clear in the lobby light. His breath stopped. Despite the rush of air-conditioned coolness greeting him a second ago, a jolt of heat ran through him. He hadn’t had a reaction to a woman like that in a good long time…if ever. He swallowed hard.

  She looked into the little girl’s distressed face, talking calmly and gently.

  Prince could just barely hear her soft voice from where he stood, and its timbre made his mouth dry. He stood and watched, listened. Her eyes sparkled, face animated as she spoke. He had the totally bizarre thought that she was an angel by the way she comforted the little girl. The kid’s tears subsided, as she gently stroked her cheek.

  Finally, a hesitant smile appeared on the kid.

  The angel woman stood then, and turned her head.

  He squinted. He noticed what he hadn’t seen before. What the devil was she wearing on her head? How the hell can a person look so sexy in Mickey Mouse ears?

  “So you just stay happy, Danni,” she said. “And remember you’ll be back next week. No need to cry.” She took off the ridiculous mouse ears and plopped them on the girl’s head.

  The little girl bounced out the door with her mother. The angel woman—minus ears—turned and walked back through the lobby, long flowered skirt swinging gently.

  Puzzled by his whole response, he swallowed. He watched her go, forcing his thoughts back to his mission, attempting to ignore the fire still mysteriously raging. Strange. She was so not his type.

  Prince took a deep breath, gathering some of his usual arrogance, and turned back to the white haired woman at the information desk.

  “Excuse me, I need to find one of your employees,” he announced.

  “Shhh!” whispered the woman, picking up the half-glasses she wore on a chain around her neck, and placing them on the bridge of her nose. “This is a library, sir. We do not raise our voices here!”

  “Yes, well, I am in a hurry. I need to locate—”

  “Shhh!” she said again, pointing to an aged sign hung on the wall. “Quiet please.”

  Was she kidding? “Yes, well, if you would just point out—”

  “Shhh!” she repeated, her whisper now more like a rasp. “Have you no manners? Were you born in a barn?”

  No, I was born in a multimillion dollar estate on the Main Line, he wisely did not say. He had finally realized he was wasting time. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and saw the old woman smile and nod her head. “I’m looking for someone named Cindy Castle.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” she whispered back. “You just missed her. I saw you standing there watching her. There she goes out the front door!”

  Funny how a simple minute lost can change a day. He turned toward the door, getting a glimpse of the young woman who had just left. Prince registered the image of long dark hair, thick and curly, tied at her neck. He saw the pale blue summer dress, long and flowing above sandaled feet.

  Cindy Castle was the Mickey Mouse woman.

  Prince was tempted to yell, but the door closed behind her. Besides, he was over thirty yards away, and he was in a library. One look at grouchy Madame Librarian at the desk cured that instinct. She might be armed. Prince turned and darted for the door.

  He would have caught up with her, if not for the small red-headed woman who struggled to get a stroller filled with two noisy children up the three steps to the library door. Anyone could see the calamity waiting to happen. Anyone could see the woman needed help. Even Prince, who muttered under his breath and watched the slim brunette in the pale blue dress and sandals turn left at the sidewalk, and take off down the block. She could sure put on some speed in those Birkenstocks!

  He sighed, and stopped at the bottom step, putting two hands out to stop the red-headed stroller lady. “Wait. You can’t do that alone. Let me help you.” He handed her his paper-wrapped package. “Here, hold that.”

  And with a gallant demonstration of strength and chivalry—thanks to hours spent at the gym—he hoisted the stroller up the steps, and deposited the happy children inside the library foyer, followed by their grateful mom.

  “How wonderful. Thank you so much! You are such a prince,” she exclaimed. But he’d already darted back out the door, package back under his arm, gaze scanning down the block. He saw her, strutting in the distance. Should he run around the library and rescue his Aston Martin? If he did, he would lose her. Prince took off in a jog.

  As he caught up, he saw she had no idea she was being followed. She didn’t break her stride or turn around. Feeling a bit like Columbo, he decided against calling out, and continued following instead. Would she be heading home? Most probably. And where would that be?

  Curiosity drove him forward. The message from his father had stated that the US government hadn’t had her current address. So Prince would finish his delivery mission, jot down the address, and provide his brother with the contact information, and never have to deal with the eye catching, fast-walking, dress-flowing librarian again. Maybe.

  Several blocks later she stopped, waiting at a corner sign denoting a bus stop.

  He stepped up behind her, sweat trickling along his temple. The temperature was just too hot.

  Within seconds, a bus pulled to the curb and the door whooshed open.

  “Hiya, Cindy!” said the chubby bus driver, grinning at her, his dark face glistening in the late afternoon heat. “Busy day at the library?”

  “Hey, Bobby!” she replied.

  Her voice was soft and melodious, with a timbre that sounded like she was always ready to laugh.

  “Books, books, and more books. How about your day?” She pulled coins from her pocket, and deposited them into the bus meter.

  “My day was people, people, people. You got the better end of the deal. I’ll take books any old day. Here’s your transfer.” Bobby chuckled.

  Cindy put it in her pocket, and stepped back a few feet to the middle of the bus, sitting next to a young teenager with braids.

  Prince fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his money clip. “How much?” he said to the bus driver. He stood looking at Bobby, feeling like an idiot, fingers fidgeting with the bills in his packet. He didn’t know how much to pay for a bus ride. Truth was, he had never b
een on a city bus. With an inward wince, he thought longingly about his Aston Martin, parked on the other side of the library, right in front of the fire hydrant.

  “Two bucks, sir,” Bobby said, his face solemn.

  His words gave no sign of reacting to Prince’s question about the amount for bus fare. Prince pulled a twenty dollar bill from his money clip.

  “Exact change, sir,” said the bus driver with a shake of his head.

  “It’s the smallest I have,” Prince said through clenched teeth. “Surely you can make change?”

  “Exact change, sir,” repeated the driver. “Everybody knows that. Or you’ll have to give me your name and address, and the city will send you a bill.”

  Prince looked up to see about twenty-five sets of eyes staring his way with a range of emotions. He heard their mumblings. “What a dope.” “What planet is this guy from where he doesn’t even know what he needs to ride a bus?” Heat rose in his cheeks but he squared his shoulders.

  One set of blue eyes laughed at him. The eyes, of course, belonged to the adorable brunette he was following. Nothing like keeping a low profile. James Bond, indeed.

  He grimaced as the bus driver scrounged for his clipboard and pen. Several bus riders groaned out loud at the delay.

  Suddenly, there was a tap on his shoulder, and he turned to see the teenager who had been sitting next to Cindy trying to get his attention.

  “Here, Mister.” She waved two crumpled dollars. “They’re from Cindy.” The girl turned to Bobby and handed him the money. “She said it’d cost her more in babysitter fees if she was late getting home.”

  Bobby laughed and deposited the bills. “Go sit down, Buddy. It’s your lucky day.”

  Prince sat in the seat right behind the bus driver, a tell-tale flush creeping up his neck. He turned to look at Cindy, leaning out into the aisle to catch her attention. “I’ll pay you back,” he said, waving his twenty dollar bill.