Billionaire's Runaway Princess Read online

After a hair raising ride in which Marisol was sure they were going to greet death any minute, the driver let her out at a library that was close to Central Park. Marisol paid him with a twenty, which she supposed would give him a big enough tip. She wasn’t used to doing such things. When she went out in public everything was done for her. At home everything was done for her. She giggled. She was done with other people doing things for her.

  Marisol was cheered by the banner that flew over the door displaying a lion’s head. Surely such regal icon won’t lead her wrong, but she found to her disappointment that the library was closed. Marisol would have to wait to the next day to find her mother’s family. The scent of food wafting from food wagons reminded her stomach that she was hungry.

  She went to one of the carts and ordered two hotdogs. She had never eaten a hotdog in her life but they smelled delicious. The cart attendant suggested potato chips and soda and she bought these too. It was a marvelous feeling getting food for herself instead of being served it, and making her own choices instead of eating what was given to her. Marisol was enjoying her adventure.

  Marisol took her food and walked into the park looking for a good place to eat her food and collect her thoughts. She looked around and didn’t see any tables to sit at, and she frowned. She walked to the closest tree and sat on the grass. This was different too. In the palace garden in Dalyasia, there were plenty of benches spaced along the walkways to see and contemplate its different beauties.

  She ate as she looked around taking in her surroundings. A couple of dark-skinned young men walked up to her, and she smiled.

  “Hey, shorty,” one said. “Wassup?”

  “Just having dinner,” she said.

  “Dinner,” he snorted. “Yeah. I’d like some dinner. And some other things too.” He licked his lips and Marisol understood that the man had bad intentions.

  “I think I’d better go.” She stood, leaving her food on the grass, and tried to walk for the gate, but the second man stood in her way.

  “You aren’t going anywhere, Shorty,” the first man said as he slammed her into the tree.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mugged

  The man’s hands were all over purposefully. He felt the bulges in her jeans and pulled out the jewelry. As he did, the rest of Marisol’s money tumbled to the ground.

  “Hey, Julio. Looks like we scored.”

  The other snorted. “Nay. Probably just costume stuff, but bring it. The pawn shop might take it anyway. The cash though, that’s good.”

  “What else do you have here, Shorty?”

  “Leave me, alone,” protested Marisol. “Help!” she cried.

  The man put his hands over her mouth.

  “Shut up, bitch,” he said.

  Marisol didn’t like the taste of the man’s hand in her mouth. It was sweaty and dirty and made her want to gag. In her own fit of anger, she bit the man’s hand as hard as she could and kneed him in the crotch. He screamed and backed away cursing.

  At the same time a uniformed man came at them riding a horse yelling at them to lie on the ground. Marisol’s heart beat hard in her chest as she realized this man was a police officer. No way could she let the police find her. They would drag her back to her father and that horrible Prince Tristan. Marisol did the only thing she could.

  She ran.

  Her legs burned under her as she sought to put distance between the awful men in the park and the police officer. She ran several blocks before she realized that no one was following her.

  But by now it was dark. She stopped, sweaty and her lungs heaving. Though she swum laps in the pool at the police, that was a far from a fitness regimen she followed. Now she regretted not doing more. Marisol was pitifully out of shape.

  She checked her pockets and while she found her phone and passport there, the jewels, the money and more importantly the credit card was gone. She was tired, hungry and no means to buy herself anything.

  Marisol walked down streets not knowing where they led. She held out the hope that tomorrow she could get in the library and find her mother’s family, but her legs felt like lead and she didn’t know if she could move much farther. Ahead of her was a line of people. She should be safe in a line, right? All she had to do was stand there and think through what she was going to do next.

  Marisol walked to the end of the line that seemed to snake to the right beside the side of the building at which she stood.

  An older woman stood in front of her quietly waiting.

  “Excuse me,” said Marisol. “What is this place?”

  The woman stared up at her. Her gray hair was scraggly, and her clothes were dirty, but her eyes were kind.

  “New to the streets, eh? Had an argument with your parents?”

  “You can say that.”

  “And no friends to stay with?”

  “None here.”

  “Your accent.

  “I come from France.”

  “France. Yeah. I took French in High School, but that was a long time ago, before Billy died.”

  “Billy?”

  “My husband.”

  “Oh, shut up, you old cow,” said a man ahead of her.

  “Shut up, Billy,” said the woman.

  “Who is that?” asked Marisol.

  “My husband,” she replied.

  “We ain’t never married and stop telling people that. And stop telling people I died. Someone might start believing it.”

  “He’s so cranky when he hasn’t eaten.”

  “How long has it been? Since you’ve eaten?”

  “Two, three days,” she said with a shrug.

  “Shut up, you old bat,” said Billy. “We ate here last night.”

  “We did?”

  “Yes, we did. Geez.”

  “Sometimes it’s two or three days,” said the woman to Marisol. “He forgets sometimes.”

  “I can see that,” said Marisol indulgently. This was the type of person her mother would have moved mountains to help. Queen Alonda hated the thought of elderly people without care. She’d set up special homes for the aged funded by extensive fundraisers. Queen Alonda, it seemed, knew everyone and knew what it took to raise money. Marisol’s father said it was her special gift. People loved doing things for her.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Marisol. Marisol Duv…Morrison.”

  “That a very American name for a French girl.”

  “I was raised abroad.”

  “Oh, but you ended up here.”

  “I was supposed to marry someone, but I can’t.”

  “Oh. Did he hurt you?”

  Marisol shook her head.

  “Cheated on you?”

  “Oh yes. He’s a terrible womanizer.”

  “Probably drinks too.”

  “Like a fish.”

  “Stop getting in other peoples’ business, Flo,” complained Billy.

  “Shut up, Billy. Or you’ll be sleeping alone tonight.”

  “Good,” he said with a huff.

  “So what are you going to do?” asked Flo.

  “I have family in the city, but I don’t know where. As soon as I get to the library, I can find their address.”

  “Good plan,” said Flo. “Well, you’re probably in the right place, for tonight anyway.”

  The line had inched ahead as the spoke and finally Marisol rounded the corner and saw a lighted sign above the door people entered. “Saint Christopher’s Shelter.”

  “What is this place?” said Marisol. She knew Saint Christopher was the patron saint of travelers, but this didn’t seem to have anything to do with this place.

  “Do they not have places for homeless people abroad?”

  “Well, yes, of course.”

  “Then there you go?”

  “Pardon?”

  “This is a homeless shelter. Stick with me. I know the people here. We’ll get you a bed for the night. Me and Billy, we’re here for the dinner. It’s stew night, and they have the best stew in th
e city.”

  Homeless. The thought sent shivers through Marisol, but what did she expect? She ran away from her life. And now she had no money and no way to get any.

  They walked into the shelter, where was a long counter just beyond the door. A harried-looking young woman stood there handing out little tickets. She smiled at Flo when she gave her a ticket.

  “Hello, Flo. How are you doing tonight?”

  “Fine. I have a friend here. Marisol. She needs a place to sleep.”

  “I can’t guarantee anything. We have a waiting list tonight, so we’re doing lottery tickets for the last ten beds.”

  “For summer?”

  “It’s supposed to rain.”

  “Rain? Pah. A little rain wouldn’t do anyone harm, except for Marisol here. She’s so sweet she might melt.”

  “Sure, Flo,” the girl said with a smile. She offered a blue and red ticket to Marisol.

  “The blue ticket is for dinner, and the red ticket is for the bed. After we finish serving, we draw the tickets for the beds.”

  “Thank you,” said Marisol.

  “Well, good luck. If you need anything, let me know. We do intake in the morning, so if you don’t get a bed, come back and we’ll see what services you qualify for.”

  “Services?”

  “Yes,” said Flo. “They have social workers in here in the morning taking applications for food stamps, housing, medical, legal, that sort of thing.”

  “They’ll help with all that?”

  “We do what we can,” said the girl. “Services are limited, and it takes a while to process things through the State. It can take up to a month to get a determination. And not everyone qualifies, but we can point you in the right direction for emergency services.”

  “That sounds very generous,” said Marisol.

  “That’s nice of you to say, but really there’s not enough to go around. That would be generous.”

  “Come on, Flo,” said Billy grumpily. “I’m not waiting all night to eat.”

  “Go on,” urged Marisol. “I’ll catch up with you later.” She suspected Billy had more need of Flo than she did and she didn’t want to cause trouble between the two.

  “Billy,” said the woman. “Make sure Flo gets to the clinic tomorrow to test her blood sugar and blood pressure. Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure,” grumbled Billy.

  “I’m sorry,” said Marisol. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Margaret Kelley, but everyone calls me Peg or Peggy.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Marisol. “Let me ask you. Is Flo going to be all right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She seems a little disoriented.”

  “It happens on the street. The endless dealing with the elements, finding shelter and food. She’s doing well, all things considered.”

  “But can’t something more be done for her?”

  “Not if she doesn’t want it. We can’t force her to take services. Her children tried to put her in a nursing home. From her description, it was an awful place. They kept her so drugged she didn’t know what day it was. One day she just walked away. She’s afraid if she applies for her social security again, her children will find her and put her back in a nursing home.”

  “That sounds awful.”

  “Believe or not, there are worse places than the street.”

  “Yes,” said Marisol. “I know about that.”

  “Do you?” asked Peggy. She looked over Marisol with an appraising eye. Marisol supposed that after the incident in the park she was bedraggled, but not as much as other people in the shelter.

  “Do you need to see someone?” Peggy said. “We have a nurse here—”

  “No,” said Marisol. “I’m fine. Just a little hungry.”

  “Well, the dining room is through there,” she said pointing to the door Flo and Billy went through. “And you probably should hurry. We close the line at eight.”

  Marisol walked into the dining room. Immediately she was overwhelmed with the scope of what she saw. There were a least two hundred people at the tables, from every age group from the very young to the elderly. She had no idea that homelessness had such scope in a very rich country like the United States.

  She took a tray as she saw other people do and slid it along the metal ledge. There were several people dishing out food, but the one that immediately caught her eye was a blond headed man. He was wearing simple clothes, a white button-down shirt and khakis, but from the fine sheen of them the clothes were of obvious high quality. A small boy, maybe around six, was ahead of Marisol, along with an elderly woman and the man’s eyes lit up when he saw him.

  “Hello, Simon. How did school go today?”

  School? Marisol never considered that the homeless went to school, but then she didn’t imagine that so many children were homeless.

  “It was great! We learned about dinosaurs!”

  “Come along, Simon,” said the woman. “Let’s not bother Mr. Ryan today. There are other people in line.”

  “It’s no bother, Mrs. Harrigan. Here let me help you with Simon’s tray.” The man hurried around the end of the hot tables and helped Simon and Mrs. Harrigan taking the unwieldy trays from both.

  “One moment,” he said, turning to Marisol. He stared a Marisol for a moment and then blinked. “I’ll be right back.” Quickly he led them to a table with a few empty spots, settled the trays and returned to his station.

  “Thanks,” he said with a wide grin. He spooned Marisol a generous helping of the stew. “You’re new here aren’t you? I mean, I haven’t seen you here before today.”

  “You’re right. I haven’t been here before today.”

  “Well, come back whenever you like. We’re here to help.”

  “Thanks,” said Marisol feeling her skin blush. She liked this unassuming man with an easy manner.

  A nun in a black habit came up behind Ryan.

  “Mr. Kelley, let’s move the line along. We’re closing the kitchen in five minutes.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Ryan. He smiled at Marisol.

  “Catch you later.”

  Marisol shook her head as she headed to the tables to find a place to sit. It used to be that she was out of the league of many men she met. Now the tables were turned. She was homeless, and someone like Ryan Kelley were out of her league.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The End of Her Rope

  For the third time this evening, Marisol was unable to eat. The stew tasted good, though it wasn’t something she was used to eating. She nibbled on the biscuit she was given, but even that didn’t soothe her jangled nerves.

  What am I doing here? What have I gotten myself into?

  Her father must be worried sick. Gustav, their head of security, who her father surely would have called by now, must be ready to tear apart the streets of New York. She should return and apologize to her father.

  Marisol fingered her cell phone in her pocket. Maybe she could at least call him and let him she was all right. But no. He’d talk her into coming back and she couldn’t. Each time she contemplated that thought the image came to her of Tristan being rude to her, saying those awful things, but what was the absolutely the last stray was him fingering her in her intimate places at the head table while she was sitting next to her father. No. The man was intolerable. She couldn’t marry him, not now. Not ever.

  She noticed Ryan talking to Simon and Mrs. Harrigan again. He smiled and joked with them, and then brought out a small red car from his pocket.

  “No. Mr. Ryan. You’re spoiling him.”

  He winked. “No, I’m not. Simon isn’t spoiled at all, are you.”

  “But the other children, Mr. Ryan.”

  “Not a problem,” he said. “Peggy,” he called.

  Peggy came around the corner holding some bags. “You could help, you know.”

  Ryan smiled and took one of the bags, while Peggy trailed him with other. Out of the bag came different things: Small toys, or penc
ils and notebooks, or books. He seemed to have something specific for each child. Marisol watched Peggy follow him. They were both blonde and attractive. Marisol sighed. Of course, Ryan Kelley would be married, and of course, to someone who matched him perfectly.

  “Sister Margaret,” snapped the nun in the black habit.

  Peggy turned around.

  “What have I said—”

  “Don’t blame her, Sister Mary Agnes. I brought them,” said Ryan. “Please. A little something to brighten their day can’t be bad.”

  A nun? Peggy Kelley was a nun? Then she couldn’t be married to Ryan.

  “It is when they come to me expecting the same thing.”

  “Kids, don’t go to Sister Mary Agnes for toys, okay?”

  “Yes, Mr. Ryan,” they said in unison.

  He turned around and held out his hands. “See, no problem.”

  “At least it’sn’t ice cream,” muttered the nun, but then she smiled evilly at Ryan. “Not this time.”

  “Can we have ice cream?” one child said.

  “Shush,” said her mother. “No ice cream. Not today.”

  “Oh, please,” said the child.

  Ryan shook his finger at the nun. “See what you did? This is your fault.”

  Sister Mary Agnes laughed and walked back into the kitchen.

  “Well, I guess the next time I come, I’ll have to bring ice cream,” said Ryan.

  “Yay!” the children cheered.

  “Now, who has homework?”

  A few children raised their hands, and Ryan went to them while the adults cleared the tables. Some of the adults without children left quietly. Next to Marisol, a teenaged girl had her face squinting in frustration.

  “Homework?”

  “Yeah,” said the girl cautiously. She pulled her book back as if suspicious of what Marisol wanted from her.

  Marisol managed to peek at the girl’s book.

  “French?”

  “Yeah. It’s a bitch. I can’t get it.”

  “What are you trying to do?”

  “I have to read this passage and translate it into English.”

  “I remember when I learned English, I had to do the same thing.”

  “You had to learn English?”