“Yes, but not for me.” Really, did he despise their time so much he didn’t even want the Pissarro? “Thank you, Captain.”
“Anytime, Miss Del Rey.” He touched his hand to the brim of his hat. “Is it true? What the paper said? You’re a princess?”
Corina pushed the elevator button, clinging to her dignity, not willing to break down in the lobby in front of Captain. “No, I’m most definitely not a princess.”
The doors pinged open and she almost longed for the slither of remembrance that used to cross her soul when she heard that sound. That she had a secret. That she’d caught a prince. That she’d been wildly in love.
The elevator arrived and she stepped in, pushing the 9th floor button. Her prince did not want her, nor her gifts.
She fell against the side of the car and let her tears go. Now that their secret had been exposed to the world, she’d lost her connection with him, how the slightest ringing, tinging sounds took her back to their love. If he truly returned the painting, then that was the end. They’d have nothing left between them.
She’d not intended to cling or manipulate. Only to bless him. And yes, perhaps, remind him. But . . .
Oh Lord, loving well is so very, very hard.
“There you are, Corina.” Neighbor Mrs. Putman scooted down the corridor in her robe and slippers as Corina stepped off the elevator.
It was five in the afternoon, but Mrs. Putman often wore her bed clothes for days. The widow of a former Harris Corp executive, she spent her mornings drinking coffee and reading, her afternoons watching the Soap Network. “A very large package was delivered for you.”
“So I heard. Captain told me.” Corina adjusted the printer box on her hip as she unlocked her door.
“A crate of some kind. The kind used for expensive things.” She crossed arms and raised her delicate chin. “Did you buy yourself something expensive?”
“No, I didn’t buymyselfanything expensive.”
“Someone did. Perhaps . . .” Mrs. Putman leaned toward her. “Your prince?”
Corina laughed. What else could she do? Besides, the woman made such a comical face. “Mrs. Putman, I do not have a prince. I’m not a princess and my life is not a soap opera script. I’m just a regular, ordinary, run-of-the-mill American heiress.”
“But the story in thePostsaid you’d married a prince. In secret!”
“We’re not married.”
“It was a lie?” Her eyes narrowed in skepticism.
“Let’s just say it’s not true.” Corina crossed over her threshold, dropping the printer-paper box to the floor. Mrs. Putman peered inside, her nose raised, scanning the foyer for the box.
Corina eased the door closed. “Have a good evening, Mrs. Putman.”
“Not so fast.” The woman pressed her hand to the door. “I want to know what’s in that box.”
“As do I.” Corina leaned on the door, inching the woman further into the corridor.
“You let me know when you open it. My husband sent me a box like that once and it contained a lovely portrait of our daughter.”
“What a very special gift. I’ll be sure to let you know what it is.” The woman was like a dog with a bone.
“Why can’t I watch you open the crate?”
Corina sighed. She felt for Mrs. Putman. Widowed and alone, her children scattered across the country, busy with their own lives. “Tell you what, come for tea tomorrow at ten. You can see what’s in the crate.”
“Tomorrow at ten?” The woman pinched her expression. “Won’t you be at work?”
“No, I won’t. I resigned. Tomorrow at ten?”
“Yes, t–that would be lovely.” Mrs. Putman’s glossy eyes reflected the truth. She was lonely. And she was grateful.
When the door was shut, Corina faced the box leaning against the foyer wall. It was a painting crate all right. A bit deeper than she’d have thought, but no doubt, Stephen had shipped her the Pissarro.
