Page 4 of The Princess and the SEAL

As we walked further, I kept stealing glances at her, trying to assess her. Giselle had perfect posture, luxury clothing, expensive jewelry, and an elegant way of speaking. I still couldn’t place her accent—I wanted to say it was French or Italian. Still, judging by her grammar, it was obvious that she had been educated in English-speaking schools.

Maybe she was the daughter of a diplomat. Or of a global entrepreneur. Or of some head of a cartel or Mafia-type organization. Or from a deeply religious family. Who else would force her into an arranged marriage?

I’ll find out tonight.

After walking only a few minutes, a man ran in front of us, his camera flashing in our faces.

“Gisela! Votre Majesté!” He was speaking so rapidly that I couldn’t follow what he was saying.

What the fuck? I knocked his camera out of his hand, but it was attached to a strap around his neck. The man yelled more words I didn’t understand and continued taking pictures of us.

Giselle shielded her face and ran up the street. The man chased after her.

Where was she going? Who was this girl?

I bolted after her, racing past the loser with the camera, tripping him on the way.

Once I reached her side, I grabbed her arm then turned her to face me.“Why is a paparazzo taking pictures of you? Who are you? Don’t lie to me.”

Her eyes blinked like she was deciding whether or not to tell me the truth. Finally, she spoke.

“I didn’t lie to you. My name is Giselle . . . Garabaldi.”

She looked at me expectantly, as if the name should mean something.

“I’m afraid I’m not current with Swedish pop music.” I took a stab in the dark.

She gave a bitter, mirthless laugh. “No. I’m not a singer.”

“I’m lost, babe. Are you famous or something?”

“Yes, you could say that. I’m the Crown Princess of Santa Cariña.”