Just Stop Me (Escape to New Zealand, Book 9)

  by Rosalind James

  Text copyright 2016 Rosalind James

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design Inc., http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com/

  Sometimes you have to run away to find yourself.

  Lots of young women dream of being a princess. Nina Jones isn't one of them. After escaping from her palace/prison in the back of a gardener's van, she ends up in a beach cottage on New Zealand's South Island. She's meant to be looking after a cantankerous widower. Too bad she doesn't know how to boil an egg.

  Iain McCormick may be an All Black, a member of New Zealand's elite rugby team, and a bona fide celebrity. During the offseason, though, he's meant to be a regular Kiwi bloke. A good son, a good neighbor, and a good citizen. But civility comes harder when you've been dumped at the altar. He doesn't need anybody he has to look out for. He definitely doesn't need to fall in love.

  Yeah, right.

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  The Swan Princess

  Truth and Dare

  No Surprises

  Dream Come True

  A Little Backbone

  A Biddable Girl

  Farewell Spit

  Done With Women

  On My Sheep Farm

  Homecoming. Or Not.

  Off the Rails

  Funny Face

  Can’t Boil Water

  The Couple That Bins Together

  Semi-Famous

  One Emotion. Or More.

  Wolf Eyes

  Mistaken Identity

  Guilty

  The Y-Word

  Getting Real

  A Big Unit

  Barbarian 1. Or More.

  So Disappointing

  Real and Then Some

  Tipping Point

  Your Favorite Shoes

  No Princess

  Rough Waters

  Second Thoughts

  Desperate

  Back to Church

  The Right Thing

  Step One

  Lonesome Me

  Our Life

  Closing the Chapter

  Try Me

  Bad Dream

  Simmer to Burn

  The Lucky One

  An Unexpected Turn

  All the Way Home

  Getting Out

  Let Freedom Ring

  Real Life

  Frustrated Efforts

  My Soft Side

  Back in Business

  The Conquering Hero

  Like a Princess

  New Choices and Second Chances

  Turn the Page

  Doing the Job

  Island Time

  Win the Girl

  Erased

  My Other Shoe

  Surprise

  Not Fast Enough

  Real

  Epilogue

  A Kiwi Glossary

  Links

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.

  - From The Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams

  The Swan Princess

  Nina Jones lay sleepless in the Swan Bed and thought about Marie Antoinette. And not in a frivolous-queen kind of way. More in a head-chopped-off kind of way.

  Marie had slept in this bed, too. It hadn’t worked out all that well for her.

  You are not getting your head chopped off. You’re getting married. Get a grip.

  She stared up at the underside of the bed’s canopy in the light cast by the ornate antique lamp set on the rococo side table. The gilt carvings gleamed, and the cream silk draperies, shot with gold thread and embroidered with flowers, cascaded down on either side of the bed. A huge gilt-framed mirror on the opposite wall reflected the room, from the wedding-cake icing of wreaths and ribbons in the heavily plastered white ceiling to the golden curtains pulled across the expanse of multi-paned windows, sealing in the warmth against the January chill. And, of course, there were the priceless paintings, part of one of the world’s great collections, making their own statement. Paintings that would have been beautiful if they hadn’t looked so . . . gloomy. Still lifes and portraits of bewigged ancestors, almost all with black backgrounds.

  Why did still lifes always have to include rabbits, anyway? Who wanted to look at a dead bunny?

  She closed her eyes and imagined a bedroom in a tiny cottage at the beach. Wide plank floors with a little sand sifting, unremarked and disregarded, between the cracks. A white iron bed piled high with pillows, with a cream-colored throw tossed across at the foot just in case you wanted to snuggle in. The windows open to the soft sea air, the tang of salt nearly palpable, bringing in all those mood-altering ions. Plain white curtains hanging to the floor, drifting a little with the night breeze. The sound of wind in the trees—palm trees? Yes, definitely. Maybe wind chimes, too. Bamboo ones, off in the distance, their faint music lulling you to sleep, stealing into your dreams.

  No. She opened her eyes again. That wasn’t real life. She had to quit daydreaming.

  She’d never played Truth or Dare—she hadn’t had that kind of adolescence­—but it was time for it now. Call it Truth and Dare.

  She pushed the down comforter aside, swung her bare feet onto the exquisite, antique Chinese silk rug, and prepared to get real.

  Truth and Dare

  Nina headed out her bedroom door and down a hallway lined with carved wainscoting, passing the marble busts of severe-looking ancestors set on pedestals in semicircular niches. All the way down the broad corridor and around to Matthias’s suite, situated in a corner of the seventeenth-century building overlooking the lake. The best view, for the most important person.

  Matthias hadn’t gone to bed yet. She found him working at his laptop, sitting in his private study wearing a dark paisley dressing gown over his pajamas, his blond hair gleaming in the light of a desk lamp.

  As always, he closed the lid when she entered the room. “Sabrina,” he said. “We discussed this. We are not spending the night together this week. Not until the wedding.”

  “That’s what I want to talk about. The wedding. I’ve had some . . . thoughts.”

  He sighed; a faint, patient sound. “There’s nothing to talk about, or to think about, either. The arrangements are all made, and you have nothing to do but attend. You have your schedule. If there’s any difficulty, you can consult Raoul.”

  She wasn’t getting fobbed off on his scary chief of staff, though, not this time. She sat down on a silk-upholstered chair in a masculine pattern of rust and brown. “I do have a difficulty, and I’m not going to consult Raoul. I’d like some . . . time.”

  “Some time,” he repeated. “What sort of time? I’m not understanding you.”

  He still looked handsome; a fairy-tale prince from a fairy-tale romance. He still looked coolly good-natured. It had taken her a while—too long, but then, his whirlwind courtship hadn’t allowed much time for thought—to realize that he always got his way. If he didn’t have to raise his voice, that didn’t make him any less determined, or any more willing to compromise. It just meant he made assumptions other men couldn’t afford. Assumptions that he would be able to get exactly what he wanted.

  “It’s all gone too fast,” she said. “We’ve hardly been together in the past two weeks, ever since I arrived in Neuenstein. I know this is any woman’s dream come true, but I’m not . . . I’m not sure.”

  His brows shot up. “Have you discussed this with your mother?”

  Everything in Nina tightened. “No. And that’s another thing. My mother? I’m twenty-five. I’ve been earning my living since I was four.” She saw the faintly derisive twist of his handsome mouth and said, the force of her fury shocking her, “And, yes, that’s exactly what it’s been. Earning. Hard work.”

  “Modeling.”

  “Yes. Modeling.”

  Be a good girl. Do what the man says. And she’d done it, no matter what. When she’d been scared, when she’d been sad, when she’d been sick, for more than twenty years. She’d been reliable, and she’d been professional. Always on time, always prepared, always in shape. And always prepared to do what the man said, because it hadn’t been only her future, it had been her mother’s, too. She’d known that from the time she’d known anything. But it had become harder and harder to shut down the feeling of “wrong,” and now, it was impossible. There was an alarm shrieking in her head, and she couldn’t turn it off.

  She’d always told herself that eventually, she’d be done with modeling, and then she’d be in charge of her own life and could choose her own path. Well, the rest of her life was here, and it was now.

  Matthias must have noticed her stiffen. “Well, that’s all over, isn’t it? And a girl’s best friend is her mother, they say. Cold feet are natural, but there’s nothing to worry about. Go to bed, Sabrina.”

  She wasn’t just stif
f now. She was rigid. “I’m not ready to marry you,” she said, and saw his head jerk back at last. “I want to wait until I’m sure.”

  His expression wasn’t quite as amiable, although his faint smile didn’t alter. “Not possible. The guests have already begun to arrive. The wedding is in five days.”

  “I know it’s inconvenient,” she said, hating the pleading note in her voice. “I know it’s embarrassing. But how inconvenient and embarrassing will it be if we find out afterwards that we’ve made a mistake? And you can do this. You’re the prince.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “So you can do what you like. You know you can. Give me a month. We can always do it quietly later on. I feel rushed, and I don’t think that’s right.”

  “We don’t have a month, and there’s no such thing as ‘quiet.’ Not in my world. So here’s what we’re going to do,” he went on, overriding her protest. “Tomorrow, you and your mother will go to the hunting lodge for a few days. Take some quiet time in the mountains. I know this has been an adjustment, a strain, and the last thing I want is an unhappy bride. Once you get some rest, you’ll feel better. I’m afraid you’ll have to do the appearance at the children’s hospital first, but after that, you can have some time in the fresh air, far away from the cameras and the public. Restore your equilibrium.”

  “No,” she said, and saw his blue eyes widen, his mouth harden, just for a moment. “A few days aren’t going to do it,” she continued. Strong, she told herself desperately. Determined. “I need an announcement. That we’re putting it off.”

  “But you must see, my darling Sabrina,” Matthias said, his tone gentle, “that that’s impossible. We are going to be married.”

  “Would you rather I say it in the cathedral? Because that’s how I feel.” She forced herself to continue despite his change of expression. “I can’t say ‘I will.’ I can’t say it and mean it. I try to see myself saying it, and I . . . I . . .” She groped for the words. “I can’t,” she said again. “I know this hurts you,” she added desperately, “and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I know your mother—”

  She broke off, then. His face had taken on a grim look she’d never seen. She’d never dared to bring that up, and she’d been right.

  For a moment, she felt a disquieting shudder that was nearly fear, and then he spoke. “It’ll be all right on the night,” he said, and he was back to looking calm again. So self-assured, so self-controlled. The things she’d always admired in him, and the things that had always intimidated her, if she were honest. “Stay at the hunting lodge until the day before the wedding, in fact. It’ll add to the mystique. The bride unveiled. You and your mother can relax in the meantime, and you’ll see, it’ll be everything you’ve dreamed. You wouldn’t want to let her down, or me either, because of a whim or a childish fear, would you? And if you’ll excuse me,” he said, getting to his feet, “it’s time for both of us to be in bed, especially you. You have a busy day tomorrow, and you’re feeling overwhelmed right now. I understand that. It’s enough to make anyone hysterical, isn’t it, being a princess? You’ll see, though, how you settle in once the deed is done. Meanwhile, you can take some time, restore your nerves, and prepare yourself to make me proud.”

  In the hunting lodge. The hunting fortress, more like. Remote. Isolated. Guarded.

  She looked into his calmly smiling face, and she knew that he meant it. He wasn’t going to let her go.

  No Surprises

  Iain McCormick’s mother was late. Again.

  He signed autographs for a couple of eager young boys, then stepped back, pulled his hoodie a little farther down over his face, and slouched against the wall of the International Arrivals Hall in the Auckland airport, attempting to conceal his 6’6” frame as best he could.

  It wasn’t that he minded signing, exactly. It was more that he wasn’t fit for public consumption. He wasn’t shaved, he wasn’t rested, he wasn’t happy . . . and he wasn’t under any illusion that any of that mattered.

  Harden up.

  He’d been up at five to meet his mother off the London flight and accompany her south to Nelson. Which wasn’t bad—she was his mum, after all—but she should have come out the doors first. That was what you paid the extra money for. Passengers kept straggling out, though, without her appearing amongst them, and he was getting a bad feeling.

  Then she turned up, and the bad feeling got worse.

  It wasn’t that she looked bad. She didn’t. Slim and fit as always, her brown eyes sparkling with vitality, her dark hair cut sleek and shorter than usual. She’d clearly had a glam cut in London.

  But she wasn’t alone. Oh, no. Of course she wasn’t. She was carrying a bald, chubby baby and chatting nineteen to the dozen to a frazzled-looking woman pushing a luggage cart piled with two suitcases, a stroller, and an infant seat. The three of them were trailed by a teenage kid in baggy black track pants, a bright red flat-billed cap with “SF” on it, and an orange fleece jumper. Iain noticed the kid because he was pulling the big flowered suitcase that could always and only belong to Iain’s mother.

  He’d offered to buy his mum a new suitcase last year. She’d said, “But why, love? I’ve had this one for yonks, and it still suits me. Besides, I can always find it on the carousel.” Which made sense. Anything louder than that hot pink, bright yellow, and fluorescent green would have been banned on humanitarian grounds. Add in the orange fleece and the cap, and the kid pulling the case was a screaming neon sign.

  Iain waited another moment while the woman with the cart was greeted by a big fella in shorts and jandals. The bloke was kissing his missus and taking the baby now, though, so Iain grabbed his duffel and ambled forward at last, shoving his hood back along the way.

  His mother saw him coming, of course. Most people did. But most people didn’t have the same reaction she did to the sight. She called out, “Iain!”, grabbed him close, and squeezed him tight, then pulled back, laughing, and reached up to hold his face between her hands, her eyes searching his. “How are you, my darling?”

  Embarrassing, maybe. But it was nice to know your mum was always happy to see you.

  “Not too bad,” he said, which wasn’t quite true, but close enough.

  She smiled, gave him an affectionate pat on the cheek as if he’d been two, and said, “But where are my manners? This is Angela . . . and Tom, isn’t it? Feel as if I know you already. I’m Carmella. I met your wife and the wee fella on the journey. This is my son Iain, here to meet me.”

  Iain shook hands with the bloke, who looked up at him and said, “Iain McCormick, that right?”

  “Yeh,” Iain said. “Pleasure.”

  The woman said, “Well, there’s another surprise,” and laughed. Keyed up, still. Fatigue could take you that way, after twenty-five hours or so. “Your mum’s been so kind, trading seats with me and all, just because Oliver was fussing. Traveling in style, that was us,” she told her partner. “First class all the way from London, can you imagine?”

  Iain glanced at his mother, she looked straight back at him with a challenging glint in her brown eyes, and the couple moved off after a few more words of good-bye.

  “Every time,” Iain told his mother once the little family was out of earshot. “Every single time. I don’t know why I bother.”

  “It’s not every time,” she said. “It’s occasional. Consider it your charity work, via me. Anyway, how ever could I relax up there in my comfy bed after meeting Angela? The baby was fussing, poor wee thing.”

  “I do my own charity work. And everybody in Business Select must’ve loved that.”

  “Rubbish. Babies cry. It’s their job. If anybody minded, they could just get over it.” She looked searchingly at him again. “Still narky, I see. Iain, you’ve—”

  “Nah, I’m fine,” he said, cutting her off. “How’s Vanessa?” He’d much prefer to talk about his sister, the reason for his mum’s UK visit.

  She paused a moment as if deciding whether to push it, but finally said, “Going on well. Sad for me to leave, she said, but I imagine Henry was keen to have me gone. Three weeks with a mother-in-law in the house is about as much as flesh and blood can bear, new baby or no.”