Thanks to all who have followed, favorited, alerted and reviewed! I appreciate you all.

Thanks to Sarcastic Bimbo for making this pretty because I had it oh so ugly with tense and grammar mistakes. Like embarrasingly ugly. Thanks to Mandy for prereading and saying this will be her favorite story of mine yet. She says that with every one though so...

Let's meet Bella, shall we?

Fic Rec(s): There are two classics today. Bella Swan: Kidnapper by the Kambria Rain and Distractions by Wyndchimes.

The American Princess

Chapter 2

EPOV

I stand in front of the mirror and take a long hard look at myself.

Suit: Dior and impeccable.

Hair: Lots of product to control it.

Shoes: Shiny like a new coin.

Nothing is out of place; sort of like my life.

Still, something is missing. I pull my phone out of my inside pocket and shoot off a text.

Wish you were here.

Such a simple phrase, yet so meaningful at the same time. Here I am, all ready to go, but no one is with me. Unless you count Marcus, which I do not.

It is a metaphor for my life. I am all ready to settle down and my father decides now is the time to be picky. Not when my brother married, not when Rosalie brought this guy and that guy home, but when it is my turn. Not that I don't love Alice, I do. She is a lovely girl who brings much to our family. As for Rosalie—none of her suitors are royal material but my father indulges her anyway.

The back of Marcus' hand raps on my door.

"Sir, I wish to speak with you. It is a most urgent matter."

"Come in." This is unusual. Marcus is the most steadfast, stoic man I have ever met, aside from my father, yet his tone alarms me.

"What is it?"

"I just received word that my mother has taken ill. I must go at once."

Marcus' mother is in her late eighties and is a kind and wonderful woman.

How she sired Marcus, I have no idea.

"Of course, Marcus. The plane is at your disposal."

"Thank you, Sir. I have arranged for extra security in my absence."

I refrained from rolling my eyes. We already employ two security guards for our tour of the United States How many does one prince need?

"Of course, Marcus. Thank you," I reply graciously.

"You have the charity event tonight from eight to midnight. Please stay at least two hours. It is benefitting St. Jude's Children's Research Hospital. Then tomorrow, you are left to your own devices until dinner with the mayor and governor. The day after that, you will head back to London. Any questions?"

"No, Marcus. I'll be fine. Please give my regards to your mother. I will be by to see her as soon as I can."

Marcus bows his head. "Thank you, Your Highness. I must go pack now. Your car is waiting downstairs."

I take one last look at my expression and my phone screen.

Both are blank.

***TAP***

"Do you play polo? Is it true you have to step on horse poop on purpose?"

"What do you do besides being royal? Is that even a job?"

"My room number is 1127. I'll be happy to leave a key at the desk for you."

Honestly, I don't think it is possible for my eyebrows to raise any further than they already are. Even one of my security detail is having trouble keeping a straight face. He clears his throat so much tonight, I ask him if he has a cold. One look at the mirth in his eyes and I know he isn't sick, just amused.

Glad someone is.

I politely excuse myself… again. I wander around the ballroom and glance around quickly. It is quite hard to peruse a room and not make eye contact with anyone, lest they want to corner you into a vapid conversation.

As a prince, I am interesting to people. As a prince who will someday be king, I am carrying a bullseye on my back.

And a lot of these women tonight are holding the darts.

I look at my watch. Nine-thirty. I promised Marcus two hours. I can make it another thirty minutes.

I spot a set of French doors to my left and I motion with my head to my security detail. Fresh air will be nice, and a good way to kill time.

I am relieved to see that it is deserted; after all, it is balmy outside. My security stands just outside the doors and I walk several feet away from them to a bench and sit down. They can still spot most of me, yet I have the illusion that I am alone.

That is as good as it is going to get, I'm afraid.

I pull out my phone again. No Kate. It is the middle of the night there but she is always up late; instead, choosing to sleep in.

I am about to text her again when I hear the clickety-clack of high-heeled shoes.

"I have got to get these off my feet, Em. I promised you an hour and I gave you more than that. Here, catch."

Em, whoever Em was, missed. I know this because a black shoe hits me square in my face and falls in my lap. I glance at it dazedly through instantly watering eyes and then up at the offender.

She throws the other shoe to the ground as her hands fly up to her mouth. "Oh, shit! Fuck, I'm sorry."

Suddenly, there are hands fluttering around my face, trying to catch the blood gushing from my nose. I am too discombobulated to stop them.

What in the bloody hell just happened?

"I hit you with my Louboutins, because Emmett can't catch for shit." She scowls at someone behind me.

"Sir, I'm so sorry. She's… spirited. And seeing as how you just broke the guy's nose, I'm gonna say you threw it too low, Nolan Ryan." The infamous 'Em' comes from behind me with an apologetic look on his face.

"Stop apologizing for me and go get him some ice and towels." She takes a quick look at me. "Lots of towels," she amends.

"I'm not your maid, Bells. You threw your damn shoe; you go get him some towels."

Where the hell is my security, I wonder. Surely this is when they should step in.

I cup my hand around my nose and it comes back bloody. This is going to be lovely to explain.

"Em. Now!"

He huffs but leaves to do her bidding.

She smiles kindly and helps me to tilt my head back. "Here, pinch your nose." I do as she asks, wincing because it hurts horribly. "I really am sorry. He made me wear these shoes and they hurt my feet and I wasn't trying to hit you, just him. I normally don't do these events because I hate to dress up. I'm more of a t-shirt and jeans kind of girl, you know? But it's for St. Jude's. How do you say no to sick kids, right? Oh, I'm Bella. And you are?"

"Did you even take a breath?" I reply, my voice sounding nasal to my ears.

"Oh. No, probably not. Emmett says I talk too much. Occupational hazard, I guess."

I raise my eyebrow in question, wincing as I do so. She gently guides my head back again.

"I work in the film industry," she says, vaguely.

"Movies, television or adult entertainment?" I ask. My entire head is hurting something awful.

"Are you asking if I work in the porn industry?" She blinks rapidly a few times.

My head snaps to the side in order to look at her.

"No! I'm sorry. My filter must have been damaged with the blow to my face. You have a quite an arm. Of course, you are not in the adult industry."

"And why the hell couldn't I be, if I wanted to?" she asks belligerently.

I look at her or at least, I try to. The angle at which my head is resting combined with the fact that my eyes are faucets make it a little difficult. She is slim, petite–about 5'5–pretty. She has striking brown eyes and wavy–almost unruly–shoulder length brown hair. She is wearing a multicolored, knee length dress that shows off her slightly boyish figure. I can see through the sheer sleeves and spot several tattoos on her arms and hands. All of which are on the small side but there doesn't seem to be a rhyme or reason to any of them. She has no accessories on.

I make my way back up to her face where she is wearing an expectant look on her face.

She is still waiting on an answer from me.

What a conundrum I am in. I was raised to always be polite and taught that everything you say must be proper and befitting of a prince.

Yet, if I am to be honest with this young lady, nothing proper or polite will be exiting my mouth.

"Well?" she asked.

"Miss…"

"Swan," she supplies.

"Miss Swan, this is not a proper conversation and I must insist on changing the subject."

There. That should do it.

"Oh, no way. You just blatantly asked me what form of entertainment I was in. You could have stopped after television. So, your mouth got you into this improper conversation and I insist on having an answer," she demands mockingly.

I glance around at my surroundings. My security detail is looking the other way. What exactly am I paying them for, anyway? Emmett hasn't come back with my provisions. Apparently, he is knitting a towel and waiting on the ice to freeze.

"Okay, Miss Swan. I must admit I have never watched adult entertainment but if I were to believe what I have read and heard, you don't have the figure for it."

"Meaning?"

Must I spell it out for her?

"Your breasts are too small."

She blinks spastically for a moment then throws back her head in laughter.

My security detail arrives a second later.

"Sir, are you alright? We didn't realize you had company."

Then… "What the hell happened to your face!?"

I put my hand up to stop them from advancing. I don't need anyone else fluttering about me.

Miss Swan stops laughing when she sees my security. She glances curiously between us. I can see her mind spinning around a mile a minute as she tries to figure out who I am to need two security guards at my disposal.

"We're fine. You may go back to your posts, Gentlemen."

They reluctantly do as instructed but are looking at us now.

"I'm sorry if I offended you. I have a headache and that was impolite of me," I apologized.

"No, you're right. They are small. And I work in the movie industry. Actress. Bella Swan." With that, she extends her hand to me.

Bella Swan. Queen of the independent film.

Princess of a few major motion pictures. Quite famous—and infamous—in the press. Alice is a big fan. I have seen one film of hers—but it was from several years ago when she was still a teenager—she is grown now.

I take her hand; but instead of shaking it—which is what I should be doing—I raise it to my lips and kiss it gently.

Her eyes widen, as do mine.

I let her withdraw it and we sit there awkwardly for a moment.

"So, what's your name?" she asks, breaking the silence.

And I can't tell you why I do it, but I reply, "Masen."

"Just Masen? Like Madonna?"

I chuckle. "No, not like Madonna. My British accent is real."

"So, what's with the Men in Black?" She gestures over to my security.

"So, what's with Emmett?" I fire back to her. "Your bodyguard could eat my two for dinner."

"Em's my publicist-slash-bodyguard. Two for the price of one."

"My butler demanded I bring them along," I confess.

"Your butler?" she asks.

"On orders from my father, I'm sure."

"Your father? You seem kind of old to follow your father's orders. Is he your boss or something?"

I suddenly realize that she isn't playing coy. She really has no idea who I am. I realize that I like that and I really don't want that to stop. It is rather refreshing.

"Yes, he is. He owns this big conglomerate and I am next in line to inherit it."

She nods, seemingly satisfied with my answer.

Emmett returns suddenly with the requested items.

"What did you have to do? Go to Timbuktu?" she asks. I wince as she wipes away at the blood, which has thankfully stopped, and at the temperature of the ice, but it soon starts to get numb. After about five minutes, I remove it and set it aside.

I glance at my watch. Ten-thirty. Well, I had kept my promise to Marcus.

I stood up. "I should be going. It's getting late."

She frowns, the movement wrinkling her forehead.

"You should really go to the hospital and get checked out. I think it needs to be set."

"It'll be fine." I wave her suggestion off.

Em butts in. "Dude, you need to get it set. It's crooked."

I pinch at my nose in frustration then grunt a bit at the sharp pain.

"Bloody hell."

Bella winces in guilt.

I am concerned that going to the hospital will end up in the tabloids. Yet, I don't want a crooked nose. After all, what will the family say?

"I have a suggestion. I have a friend who's a doctor. She's a pediatrician but I'm sure she would be willing to make a house call, if you want."

Somehow, without me a saying a word, she knows I am in an uncomfortable situation.

"That would be lovely, thank you."

She puts her hand out to Emmett, palm up. He reaches into his inside pocket and retrieves a phone. She taps the screen a few times then places the phone to her ear.

"Ang, hey. Yeah, it's great to hear your voice, too. You at home? Great. No, I was wondering if maybe you could come to me. I'm at the Four Seasons, Ty Warner Suite on the 52nd floor." She shoots a quick look at me. "No, I'm fine. I might have damaged someone irreparably, though." She lowers her voice but I can still hear her. "I hurt the prettiest face I've seen in a long time. And he has a British accent. Help me, please." She smiles. "Thank you so much, Ang. I owe you one. See you in an hour."

She disconnects the call and smiles wide. "She's on her way."

She stands up and extends her hand to me. "Want to grab the Men in Black and get out of here?"

For the second time today, her hand is in mine. She motions to Emmett and I motion to my guys and we slip through the ballroom without being seen, across the foyer to the elevators, and up to the 52nd floor.

A prince. An actress. And three bodyguards. Completely undetected.

Or so I think...

Before you say anything, no, a prince would probably never engage in a conversation of that sort with anyone ever. Nor, would Bella have been able to get close to him as he probably would have more guard than that but this is fiction, folks. Let's go with it, K?