The Tourist of Zenda

By Christine Merrill

The peaceful country of Seravano is best known for its herds of spotted goats, and the impending wedding between Crown Prince Paolo Zara and the beautiful but flighty actress, Sylphine Jones.

But when the bride gets two black eyes a week before the ceremony, the prince needs to find a stand in for the engagement documentary.

Enter Dana Miller, unsuspecting American tourist and a dead ringer for Sylphie. Dana wanted a romantic European adventure.

She’s about to get more than she bargained for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christine Merrill
• Release date: Apr 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452489087

Christine Merrill

Christine Merrill wanted to be a writer for as long as she can remember. During a stint as a stay-at-home-mother, she decided it was time to “write that book.” She could set her own hours and would never have to wear pantyhose to work! It was a slow start but she slogged onward and seven years later, she got the thrill of seeing her first book hit the bookstores. Christine lives in Wisconsin with her family. Visit her website at: www.christine-merrill.com

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The Tourist of Zenda

CHRISTINE MERRILL

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 by Christine Merrill

All rights reserved. Except for purposes of review, this material may not be reproduced, displayed, modified or distributed without the express prior written permission of the copyright holder. For permission, contact the author, at [e-mail]

Cover art by Holly Gault

DEDICATION

A big thank you to my beta readers, Rachel Berens-VanHeest, Bobbi Dumas, Corrina and Erin Lawson, and Jill Purinton.

CHAPTER ONE

Dana Miller counted through the pile of bills in her wallet, sorting pinks from blues from oranges, trying to decide how many of them could be used for lunch.

No matter what, she wouldn’t touch the credit cards. With the specter of unemployment looming at the end of the vacation, she’d learned not to live in the moment. There were two more days before she caught the train for Switzerland. The pathetically small amount of money she’d allotted for this portion of the trip had been stretched to its limit. Hotels and pensions had been downscaled to hostels. Lunch had become the big meal of the day. And the little country of Seravano had become a much longer stop than she’d planned.

But Let’s Go Europe assured her that it was A charming place: peaceful and picturesque, with its colorful people and herds of spotted goats.

As far as she could see, that was shorthand for: Not a whole lot going on. But it was pretty, it was cheap, and best of all, it wasn’t home.

Dana glanced at the carefully lettered items on the folded card in front of her. The menu was nearly unintelligible. Judging by the few words of Seravish she knew, it was divided into chicken, beef, and something else.

Probably cheese. There was no coast, so seafood here was unlikely. According to the guidebook, the chief sources of income in Seravano were goat cheese and tourism. Since she’d seen few other tourists, she hoped that cheese sales were brisk.

It would have been so much easier to take a guided tour for her first vacation abroad. Or at least to have brought a friend who had a little more worldly experience. But this trip was supposed to be an adventure. She was never going to have that if she insulated herself against accident and surrounded herself with experienced others.

So she closed her eyes and plunged a finger down onto the menu, searching for more familiar words on the line where her nail rested.

A waiter appeared. Or perhaps it was the proprietor. He looked too old to be bussing tables in a café, and was smiling in a way that might be pride in ownership. Or maybe everyone in this country was actually that happy. They did seem to be a surprisingly contented people.

English? Dana said hopefully.

He shook his head.

She tapped the menu with her finger, hoping that she was not starting with a dessert.

Perhaps I could be of assistance. The English of the man who had joined them was faintly accented but spoken with such confidence that she was sure he was fluent. She raised her eyes slowly, from the crease in his well tailored pants along the front of his crisp white shirt, the immaculate black jacket and silk tie, to the face: hawk nose, Mediterranean blue eyes and smooth black hair. He had the sort of urbane polish that she had come to associate with countries where money and rank were old and entrenched.

For no particular reason, she felt herself blush. He was the living example of the tall, dark continentals that haunted late night movies, sweeping naïve American tourists off their feet. She made a mental note to fill in another square on her imaginary ‘Seen in Europe’ Bingo card. And then she thought about the square next to it labeled ‘Fling,’

Without waiting for her answer, he glanced down at the place she was pointing and said, An excellent choice. If you are in the mood for… he paused for a minute, searching for a word. Sweetbreads.

Breakfast? she asked.

He shook his head. Offal. Pancreas, I believe.

She set the menu down.

If you wish a more conventional lunch, might I suggest… He took her hand, and slid it up the row to point to another line of unintelligible text.

For a moment, it was difficult to focus on anything but the feel of his touch, and the way his index finger seemed to rest comfortably on top of hers. He had nice hands: clean and manicured, but with a firm and confident strength.

She gave a weak nod, before remembering to ask what it was that she had agreed to.

He relayed the information to the waiter, who responded eagerly, and retreated with a slight bow. Then he seated himself in the empty chair opposite her. May I join you?

It seemed too late to politely refuse. But the Seravian man-candy in front of her was moving too fast for comfort. Dana glanced around the empty room, looking for a logical reason to put him off.

You have nothing to fear from me, I assure you. He smiled. While the effect was breathtaking, she was not sure if reassuring was the word she’d have chosen to describe it. Miss... There was an obvious upward inflection that invited a response.

Miller, she supplied.

And you are American. So few from your homeland take the time to visit here. We are small, I am afraid, and far off the path of the common tourist. He gave a self-deprecating shrug. But you are enjoying your visit to my little country, are you not?

Of course. It’s lovely. What I’d managed to see of it, anyway. Mr…" She gave him the opportunity to fill in the blank.

Zara, he finished for her. To truly know a place, one must take ample time to immerse oneself in the culture. I visited America as a student. I was fortunate enough to spend a year living amongst your people. It was most illuminating. He smiled again, as though an idea had just occurred to him. You must do the same. You are traveling alone, are you not?

The question was alarming, too personal and too soon in the conversation. There was no reason that she should be an open book to a complete stranger, no matter how blue his eyes were. Actually…

There is no one to complain if you remain a few extra days. No one is waiting for you in Switzerland.

How… It might have been easy to guess her destination. But it was disconcerting.

You will be my guest. Every effort will be made to provide for your comfort, of course. For a week, maybe longer. It will give you time to appreciate the beauty of the place…

Wait a minute.

His smile hardened into something much less flexible. I insist. He laid his hand on hers again. This time, the weight of it was heavy, as though it was only her lack of resistance thus far that kept him from seizing her by the wrist.

She pulled away, and put her hands in her lap. Listen Mr. Zara, I am not staying here for a week. And certainly not with you. What makes you think that I’m traveling alone, or that no one cares what I do? It wasn’t as if she had ‘just dumped’ written on her forehead, no matter how it might feel.

Miss Dana Miller, he said using the first name that she could not remember giving him. You were quite clear about this, when you were questioned by the customs officials. You are a tourist, traveling alone. You go to Switzerland in two days. If you lied to them? He gave another expressive shrug. Then of course it will be necessary to detain you, until certain things are made clear to the authorities.

Detain me? She was pretty sure there hadn’t been anything in the guidebook about Seravian secret police. She distinctly remembered the word ‘friendly.’

She took a deep breath and reminded herself that, in situations like this, it never helped to fan the flames. Then she used the simmer-down voice that she saved for sugared up kids on the Friday before Christmas. Now listen here. I did not lie to customs, or anyone else. I’m an American citizen. I’m here on a simple vacation. I’m leaving in two days. I have a train ticket in my purse. She reached down and grabbed her bag, rummaging around for her passport.

When she found it, the man across the table took it, and examined the stamp, then compared her to the tiny picture. It does not do you justice, he said, with an approving nod. You are much more attractive than I’d expected. More than suitable. He closed it, and tucked it into the pocket of his jacket.

Give me that. She made an abortive grab for the thing, then stopped herself, wondering if she’d planned to wrestle him for it. He was larger than she