A.C. Arthur - To Marry A Prince

The afternoon had proceeded with Peta—once she’d asked Landry her name—calling her every five seconds to do any-and everything for her. That day led to Landry being invited to Peta’s Paris fashion show three weeks after that and later to receiving personal invitations and previewings to Peta’s collection from the moment Landry opened her doors for business. Keeping her mouth shut had been an invaluable lesson and Landry reminded herself of that constantly.

Now well versed in the ins and outs of the personal stylist business, Landry admitted, there wasn’t much to be said about Malayka Sampson. She’d been in LA for just about a year when Landry had first met her. When she’d queried her services, Landry had discreetly asked around about the woman, who was neither an actor nor singer, or notable figure. All that could be said was that Malayka had been at all the right parties and premiers. She had dinner with the governor and lunch with a senator. There were pictures of her with record producers and none other than Peta Romanti, which had been the deciding factor in Landry choosing to work with her.

Landry figured that was enough of a platform to style Malayka for the months leading up to her wedding. Add that to the gorgeous scenery that Landry was already aching to see more of, and this was a good opportunity for her career. Her family, however, would say otherwise.

“The men are never a problem,” Malayka was saying, loudly this time. “It’s the females who are always jealous.”

Landry had been closing the box filled with jewelry she’d brought into the room with her. The sound echoed throughout the high-ceilinged room. She cleared her throat.

“I’ll see you in the dining room in a bit,” she said as she quickly clasped the lock on the box and picked it up.

The dresses to be returned were all bagged and hung on a rolling rack she’d pushed down the long marble-floored hallway to get to Malayka’s private rooms. In her estimate, the palace was roughly the size of at least two Beverly Hills hotels, and that was only a hunch. Earlier that day Landry had been met outside of Prince Kristian’s door by a pinch-faced older woman with a heavy accent who escorted her to a room that seemed a couple city blocks away. She figured her approximation was almost accurate.

“You’re going to dinner?”

Apparently that surprised Malayka, whose dramatically arched brows were raised as she touched the diamonds glittering at her neck. The woman was just a shade or so lighter in complexion than Landry. They probably maxed out at the same height when neither were wearing heels—five feet six inches tall. She was older than Landry who had just turned twenty-six last week. A marvelous plastic surgeon and a good regimen of weight loss supplements were most likely responsible for Malayka’s slim, but stacked, size six frame. Her hair, or rather the expensive wigs she wore, were of the highest quality and were always on point. As was her makeup, courtesy of the other two stylists she’d brought to the island with her. She was perfect to look at, but not the friendliest person in the world.

“Yes. I was told to be ready at six,” Landry said as she lifted her arm and looked down to her watch. “I’ve got twenty minutes to make it or the stern warden lady that gave me the directive might pop a button in that crisp uniform she wears.” Landry made sure to chuckle after her words. She wouldn’t have the future princess thinking she had no respect for the staff.

Malayka only blinked, the long fake eyelashes fanning dramatically over her smooth skin. “I thought it would be a private dinner tonight. Family only.”

Landry nodded and headed out of the closet. “See you in a little bit,” she yelled over her shoulder without turning back.

She moved through the sitting area of Malayka’s room. It was the size of the entire front end of Landry’s studio in LA, plush cream-colored carpet and gorgeous antique furnishings, complete with stunning oil paintings of what she suspected might be the landscape of the island draping the walls. The knobs on the double doors were crystal and reminded Landry of the old doorknobs in her grandparents’ house. She was certain these were real, as opposed to the ones Nana used to joke about selling and becoming rich.

When the rack and the other two bags she’d left on the couch in the sitting room were through the doors, Landry turned back and closed them with a quiet click. Then she sighed. The last couple of hours had been taxing but worth it, she supposed. Malayka did look good and that was her sole purpose for being there, so she whispered a job well done to herself and headed back in the direction she’d remembered traveling to get there.

These were the glossiest and prettiest floors she’d ever seen and Landry had been to a lot of sophisticated venues. Nothing compared to this palace. The word palace alone meant this place was classier than anything she could ever imagine. It was certainly living up to its hype, and she was only in the hallway.

Columns jutted from the floor to the ceiling, some wide, some slim, all giving an air of royalty as she moved through. What seemed like secret alcoves encased sculptures of pirates and ships. Closer to her rooms there were busts of people she was sure she had never heard of, but who nevertheless looked extremely important. The color scheme here was the barest hint of peach flanked in beige-and-gold textured wallpaper, highlighted again by the swirling marble floors. There were large floral arrangements on small round tables; the tropical plants added bursts of colors and scents as she moved through the area. Every few feet or so, the walls would break to an opening that displayed a gorgeous mermaid sculpture and fountain in its center. This one showcased a courtyard that had access to the outside so sun and sea-salted air filled the atmosphere.

It was just around the corner from that courtyard that Landry’s rooms were located. Yes, she had a sitting room, also a private bathroom, bedroom and balcony. The space was elegantly decorated. She probably could have comfortably stayed here during the times she was not taking care of Malayka. The stern-faced lady had told her that she could simply pick up the phone on her nightstand and dial zero for assistance, which included having meals brought to her room. Free room service in a royal palace; for a second, Landry thought she could get used to living like royalty.

That thought had her chuckling as she entered her suite, pushing the clothes rack to the much smaller walk-in closet she was using for some of the items she’d preselected for Malayka. There was a coat closet and another enclosure, which she figured was supposed to be a linen closet. But Landry had decided to store her own clothes here.

She rushed into the bathroom to shower and slip into the dress she’d already chosen for herself. Being a college student and working two jobs, added to the two years she’d spent in New York when her internship had been extended, had taught Landry how to dress in a hurry. She lined her eyes, stroked on mascara and added a bit of color on her eyelids. The quick makeup routine stalled momentarily when she discovered she was getting low on her favorite lip gloss. It only took another second or so for her to browse through her makeup case and settle on a nude gloss instead. Swiping that on quickly, she found her earrings—silver buttons that matched the bangle she pulled onto her arm. Slipping into five-inch-heel sandals was next before standing again and grabbing a random bottle of perfume and spritzing herself generously. Her hair was already up in a messy bun and once she looked into the mirror, Landry decided it was the perfect accent to the otherwise neat and almost demure dress she wore.

It was navy blue, with a layer of lace over the tight bodice and full asymmetrical skirt. There was also a slip to the dress, crinoline, the most despised fabric in Landry’s opinion. Still this dress needed that extra poof to the skirt. As she stood looking in the mirror, moving from side to side the way she’d seen Malayka doing, Landry thought she looked like the twenty-first-century Audrey Hepburn. She smiled because she liked it.