The Reluctant Princess

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

Inside Bay Number Two at Rowdy’s One Stop Garage in Charlotte, North Carolina, a Brad Paisley song blared from a nearby radio. Oil, gasoline, and grease scented the air. Isabel Poussard bent over a Chevy 350 small block engine. The bolt she needed to remove wouldn’t budge, but she wasn’t giving up or asking for help. She wanted the guys to see her as an equal, not a woman who couldn’t make it on her own.

She adjusted the wrench. “Come on now. Turn for Izzy.”

A swatch of brown hair fell across her face so she couldn’t see.

Stupid ponytail. Strands always fell out.

If she had any extra money, she would visit a hair salon and have them cut off the length. She didn’t dare try it herself. For years, her uncle Frank had chopped her hair with whatever was handy, scissors or razor blades. She’d grown up looking more like a boy than a girl. Not that any dresses hung in her closet today.

Izzy tucked the stray pieces behind her ear. As she struggled with the wrench, her sweaty palm made it slip. Frustrated, she blew out a puff of air. “No one will let you work over the wall during a race if you can’t loosen a little bolt.”

She imagined the start of the Daytona 500. The roar of the crowd. The heat from the pavement. The smell of burning rubber. The rev of engines.

Excitement surged through her.

Being on a professional pit crew had been Uncle Frank’s dream for as long as Izzy remembered. An aneurysm had cut his life short. Now, it was up to her to make his dream into a reality. He’d spent his life caring for her and sharing his skill and love of cars. More than once, he’d had the opportunity to join a race team, but he hadn’t wanted to leave her. This was the least she could do for him.

As soon as Izzy saved enough money, she would enroll in a pit crew school. She wanted to put her days at dirt tracks and stock car circuits behind her and take a shot at the big leagues.

For Uncle Frank and herself.

She had bigger goals than being on a pit crew. She wanted to be the crew chief. Izzy would show those kids who laughed at her grease-stained hands they were wrong. She would do something with her life.

Something big.

She adjusted her grip on the wrench and tried again. The bolt moved. “Yes!”

“Hey, Izzy,” the garage owner’s son and her closest friend, Boyd, shouted to her over the Lady Antebellum song now playing. “Some folks here to see you.”

Word of mouth about her skills kept spreading. She not only fixed old engines, but hybrids, too. Her understanding of the computer and electronics side of things coupled with a gift for diagnostics drew in new clients daily. Her boss, Rowdy, was so happy he’d given Izzy a raise. If this kept up, she could enroll in school come fall.

With a smile, she placed her wrench and the bolt on her toolbox.

As soon as Izzy stepped outside, fresh air filled her lungs. Sunshine warmed her face. She loved spring days better than the humid ones summer brought.

In front of her, a black limousine gleamed beneath the midday sun. The engine idled perfectly. Darkened windows hid the identity of the car’s passengers, but uniformed police officers stood nearby.

Not “some folks” wanting to see her. Must be a VIP inside the limo if they needed police escorts.

Izzy couldn’t imagine what they wanted with her since the car sounded like it was running fine.

She wiped her dirty hands on the thighs of her cotton coveralls. Not exactly clean, especially with grease caked under her fingernails, but cleaner.

An officer gave her the once-over as if sizing up her danger potential. A good thing she’d left the wrench in the garage.

A chauffeur came around the car and opened the rear door. A blond man exited. He wore a designer suit and polished black dress shoes. With a classically handsome face and short clipped hair, he was easy on the eyes. But his good looks seemed a little bland, like a bowl of vanilla ice cream with no hot fudge, whipped cream, and candy sprinkles. She preferred men who weren’t so pretty, men with a little more...character.

“Isabel Poussard?” the man asked.

She stiffened. The last time anyone used her real name had been during her high school graduation ceremony when she’d received her diploma. She’d always been Izzy, ever since she was a little girl. Uncle Frank had taught her to be careful and cautious around strangers. He’d worried about her and been protective. She knew he’d be that way now if he were here.

Izzy raised her chin and stared down her nose. The gesture had sent more than one guy running in the opposite direction. “Who wants to know?”

Warm brown eyes met hers. The guy wasn’t intimidated. If anything, he appeared amused. “I am Jovan Novak, aide to His Royal Highness Crown Prince Nikola Tomislav Kresimir.”

Jovan’s accent sounded European. Interesting since this was NASCAR country, not Formula 1 territory. “Never heard of him.”

“He’s from Vernonia.”

“Vernonia.” The name sounded vaguely familiar. Suddenly, Izzy remembered. “That’s one of those Balkan countries. Fairy-tale castles and snowcapped mountains. There was a civil war there.”

“Yes.”

“Hey, Izzy,” Boyd shouted from behind her. “You need any help?”

The bear of a man stood with a mallet in one hand and curiosity on his face. She appreciated how Boyd treated her like a little sister, especially since she had no family. That had made things interesting the few times a date picked her up after work. “Not yet, Boyd, but I’ll let you know if I do.”

Jovan appeared to be in shape, but she could take him without Boyd’s help, thanks to Uncle Frank. When she was younger, he’d bartered his mechanic skills for her martial arts class tuition. Now she worked out every day to get in shape for the work required by a pit crew member during a race.

“Isabel. Izzy.” Smiling, Jovan bowed. “It is such a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your—”

“Is this about a car repair?” He acted so happy to meet her. That bothered Izzy. Most customers limited their interactions to questions about their cars. Some ignored her. A few men propositioned her. “Or do you want something else? I’m in the middle of a job.”

Not exactly the most friendly customer service, but something felt off. No customer would know her real name. And the guy smiled too much to be having car trouble.

“One moment, please.” With a smile still on his face, Jovan ducked into the limousine.

Time ticked by. Seconds or minutes, Izzy couldn’t tell since she wasn’t wearing a watch. She used her cell phone to keep track of time while she worked. But that was on her toolbox.

Izzy tapped her foot. She had to finish the Chevy so she could work on the Dodge Grand Caravan. Somewhere a frazzled mom with four kids was waiting for her minivan to be repaired. It was up to Izzy to get the job done.

Jovan stepped out of the limo finally.

About time.

Another man in a dark suit followed.

Smokin’.

The thought shot from Izzy’s brain to the tips of her steel-toed boots and ricocheted to the top of her head.

The guy was at least six feet tall with thick, shoulder-length brown hair and piercing blue-green eyes framed by dark lashes.

She straightened as if an extra inch could bring her closer to his height. Her head barely came to his chin.

But what a chin.

Izzy swallowed a sigh.

A strong nose, chiseled cheekbones, dark brows. The rugged features made for an interesting—handsome—combination despite a jagged scar on his right cheek.

Talk about character. He had it in spades.

Not that she was interested.

Spending her entire life surrounded by men—car mechanics—gave her an understanding of how the opposite s*x thought and operated. The one standing in front of her wearing a tailored suit and shiny shoes was trouble.

Dangerous, too.

The limo, expensive clothing, personal aide, and police escort meant he lived in a different world than her, a world where she was viewed as nothing more than a servant or wallpaper or worse, a one-night stand. Having to deal with mysterious rich people intimidated her. She wanted nothing to do with him.

Though she didn’t mind taking another look. The man belonged on the cover of a glossy men’s magazine. He moved with the grace and agility of an athlete. The fit of his suit made her wonder what muscles he had underneath the fancy fabric.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d reacted this way to a man. No doubt the result of working too much overtime. Time to take a night off and have fun. That would keep her from mooning over the next gorgeous guy who crossed her path.

“You are Isabel Poussard.” His accent, a mix of British and something else, could melt a frozen stick of butter.

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

His assessing gaze traveled the length of her. Nothing in his expression hinted at what he might think about her.

Not that she cared. Not much anyway.

A hottie would never be interested in a grease monkey. Still, he was a yummy piece of eye candy. One she could appreciate.

Izzy raised her chin again, but she didn’t stare down her nose the way she’d done with Jovan. She wasn’t ready to send this one on his way yet. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“I am Prince Nikola of Vernonia.”

“A prince?”

“Yes.”

She supposed a prince would have a police escort and an aide, but this was the kind of joke Boyd would pull and kid Izzy about for the rest of her life. She searched for a camera. “Am I being pranked?”

Jovan grinned.

Nikola pressed his lips together. “No.”

Yeah, on second thought, she couldn’t imagine the police participating in a joke. But she had a hard time believing royalty would be at Rowdy’s. This wasn’t the sketchiest part of town, but it wasn’t the best, either. “Am I supposed to call you Your Highness or something?”

“Niko is fine.”

Better than fine, but he probably knew that. Men as attractive as him usually did. “So, Niko, why are you here?”

Jovan started to speak, but Niko held up his hand and silenced his aide.

Nice trick. Maybe he was a prince. Or maybe he enjoyed being the one to talk.

“You posted on the internet searching for a key,” Niko said. “The box is mine.”

“I don’t think so, dude.”

He winced.

“It belonged to my mother,” Izzy added. “I just want the key.”

“I know, but the box in the picture never belonged to your mother.”

Oh, boy. Rowdy and Boyd had told Izzy if she posted on the internet she would receive strange responses. But she’d received only one reply from a person who described the box so perfectly she’d sent him a picture of it. “You’re H-R-M-K-D-K?”

“That’s my father,” Niko explained. “His Royal Majesty King Dmitar Kresimir.”

Like a king would email a total stranger about a wooden box. Sure, it was pretty, but it was old. Izzy thought the only value was sentimental. Maybe she was wrong about its worth. “I corresponded with your, um, dad, but I told you, the box belongs to me.”

“The box is technically yours, but only because I gave it to you.”

What a ridiculous statement. The box was her only link to her mother who had died when Izzy was a baby. That was why she was desperate to find the missing key and open the bottom portion to see if anything was inside. With Uncle Frank gone, she had no family, no connection to her past. She wanted to know something...anything.

Fighting her disappointment over not finding the key, Izzy squared her shoulders. “I’ve heard of Vernonia, but I’ve never been there. I’m certain we’ve never met. I’ve had the box for as long as I can remember.”

“You have had the box for twenty-three years. I gave it to you when you were a baby.”

“A baby,” she repeated as if hearing it again would make more sense than the first time. It didn’t. The guy wasn’t that much older than her—that would mean he’d been a kid, too. Ridiculous.

“Yes,” Niko admitted ruefully. “I must sound crazy.”

If he wasn’t, then she was. “You do.”

“I can assure you I’m not crazy,” Niko stated matter-of-factly. “Isn’t that true, Jovan?”

“Not crazy,” Jovan agreed, though he continued to seem amused by the situation.

“I’m guessing you’re paid to agree with him, Jovan,” Izzy said, irritated.

“Yes, but I’m also a lawyer if that adds to my credibility.”

“It doesn’t.” Maybe this was how attractive, eccentric royals wasted their time and money. She wished they would go bother someone else. “I think you both must be certifiable.”

The two men stared at her with puzzled expressions.

“Insane.” Izzy couldn’t imagine police officers wasting tax dollars protecting a mental case claiming to be a prince. Surely they would have checked him out and asked to see his diplomatic papers or passport. “Let’s pretend what you say is true—”

“It is true,” Niko said.

She took a deep breath to control her growing temper. “Why would you give a baby the box? Is there some significance to the gesture?”

“It’s customary.”

This made no sense. “Huh?”

“Tradition,” Niko clarified. “When a Vernonian prince gets married, he presents his wife with a bride box on their wedding day.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you would give me the box.”

“Because I am your husband.”