Princess (American Princess #1)(17)
Author: Courtney Cole

“Ow, ow.” She gasped, still laughing.  “Don’t make me laugh.”

“I didn’t mean to.” He gazed at her in such droll amusement that she had to laugh again.

“Oh, God.  Stop. It hurts.”  She wrapped her arms around her body and tried to still the quakes of amusement that threatened to erupt into laughter.  Every time she looked at him, the humor bubbled up again.  She couldn’t help it.  He looked so helpless holding her nightgown in his long masculine fingers.

“Okay.” She took a deep breath, quelling the remnants of laughter.  “If you can help me slide my shirt off and then help me ease my nightgown on over my head, it would be extremely helpful.  I can show you how the nurse and I did it this morning.”

He held her nightgown out helplessly and she burst into laughter again.

“At this rate, I’m going to need more pain pills,” she sighed after the laughing fit had subsided. “Okay, let’s try this again.”  He remained silent, afraid that anything he said would make her laugh and cause her pain again.

She began to shrug her arms out of her shirt and he lunged forward to help.  He grabbed the back of her collar and tugged it up over her head as she bent over to make it easier to slide it off.  As gentle as he tried to be, it still hurt.  A second later, she stood in front of him in only her lacy white bra and he stood with her shirt hanging limply in his hands.

She dared a glance into the mirror hanging over the battered dresser, flinching as she came face-to-face with her unpregnant body.  She had become accustomed to her swelling belly and the absence of it was a shock, causing her to gulp hard.  Large yellowish-blue bruises adorned most of her torso like an abstract painting. She was a walking bruise.

She was also surprised by her silhouette.  She had thought that she would be plumper than she was… but she hadn’t been hungry lately and it had clearly taken a toll on her. The twenty pounds in baby weight appeared to be gone and through the mottled bruising, she could clearly see her ribs.

“God, Sydney.” Stephen stared at her in sympathy, his eyes taking in her battered appearance.  “You need to rest.” Sydney noted that to his complete credit, his eyes didn’t even flicker down to her chest and to the way the top of her br**sts were peeking out from her bra.  He was a complete gentleman, through and through.  She was too tired to worry that he just wasn’t interested in looking.

As carefully as he could, he helped her ease into her nightgown, pulling it over her head and tugging it down to cover the rest of her bruised body.  She sank gently onto the bed and carefully leaned back onto the pillows, closing her eyes.

“I didn’t realize how tired I actually am,” she sighed.

Stephen slipped from the room to grab a 7-Up for her from the kitchen.  He knew that she didn’t have the stomach flu, but it just seemed like a logical thing to do. He poured it into a glass and stuck a straw in it before he carried it back to her room.

She was already asleep. He gazed at her for a moment longer before he backed quietly out, closing the newly hung door softly behind him.

CHAPTER FIVE

A year or two ago, a biographer had approached her father, wanting to document his rise to power, wanting to put to paper the years leading up to the Randall Ross that the world knew now.  He had declined. Graciously, of course, because it wouldn’t do to give the impression that they weren’t grateful for public interest and support, but it was still a decline, nonetheless.  He had privately told Sydney and her mother that he wanted to wait until he had become president. Yes, he was just that ambitious and confident.

Sydney rifled through photos in the small box that she had brought with her when she moved. It had been carefully sealed with gray utility tape until today, marked ‘Sentimental Items’ with a thick black marker.   She had always been the kind of girl who kept flowers from dances, love notes from old boyfriends and ticket stubs from great movies.

She used to stick them in little ornamental jeweled boxes that her father would bring home from business trips or the big heavy ornate chest that she had gotten as a gift from the Ambassador to India. When she had left that day five months ago, she had hurriedly taken a few handfuls of these memories and shoved them in a plain cardboard box.  They were all she had now.

Everything from her prior life was documented with pictures. She used to insist on it.  Her life was a fairy tale, right?  There was no reason to not want to freeze each moment in time so that she could look upon it later and smile.

In the ones scattered in her lap, her parents smiled the same picture-perfect fake smiles, a beautiful blonde Barbie and a charismatic dark-haired Ken. Barbie always had her head turned a certain way, in what she knew was her most flattering pose.  Ken had silver at his temples, but was still a handsome, elegant man with power radiating from his ultra-white politician’s smile and sincere brown eyes. 

Looking at her parents caused Sydney to cringe.  It was hard for her to remember her previous life. For the past months since she had left them behind, she had felt like a ghost… someone who had died and no one, especially not her parents, could see.  And now, for the two weeks since she had left the hospital, she had been living in a tattered, dinged up corner of her consciousness… the place least damaged from her loss, from her life, from her reality.

Stephen had been her savior, her guardian.  He had turned into her best friend and had let her wander in her parallel universe, with only gentle admonitions to eat or to rest.  He hadn’t imposed, advised, judged or instructed.  He had simply allowed her to immerse herself in quiet grief and silent reflection.  He instinctively knew that it was what she needed to recover.  And it was.  Today, for the first time, she felt like a living person again.

Loud, staccato knocking dragged Sydney back into the present. She knew she had to answer it because Stephen was out.  She padded lightly into the living room, clad only in a t-shirt and running shorts. She opened the door to find the unpleasant presence of Detectives Wills and Daniels on their doorstep. It was also unexpected.  She hadn’t spoken with them since their rude interview at the hospital.

“We’re sorry. Did we wake you?” Detective Daniels’ face was impassive, but he didn’t sound sorry.  Or even slightly concerned.

“No.  May I help you?” she asked coolly.