Most stories originate when authors begin asking themselves, "What If?" I can tell you the exact date I had my 'what if' moment for GOING TO THE CASTLE -- June 19, 1999. I had a couple of articles due to bridal magazines later that week, and a ton of yardwork to do. However, I decided to take a break and crash in front of the television with a gigantic bowl of popcorn to watch England's Prince Edward marry Sophie Rhys-Jones. Since I write for bridal magazines, I told myself that watching a royal wedding qualified as 'work.' (Yeah, right!)

During the endless commercials, I flipped to CNN, where the discussion focused on the continuing conflicts in Kosovo and the Middle East. Soon I began asking myself, "What if?" What if a refugee camp worker in a war zone -- maybe even someone who spent her days digging latrines or scrounging for much-needed medicines -- met up with a crown prince? Could people from such disparate backgrounds learn something from each other? Or would they even give each other a second look?

Before I knew it, I'd abandoned the popcorn in favor of my keyboard. Jennifer Allen and Prince Antony diTalora demanded I get their story on paper. I missed the rest of the wedding, but I had a whopper of a story outline. And the day ended up counting as a 'work' day after all!

At Thirty-Four, Antony Refuses to Settle Down

THE ROYAL PALACE, SAN RIMINI (AP). More than three hundred carefully selected guests converged on this postage stamp-sized country last night to celebrate Prince Antony Lorenzo diTalora's thirty-fourth birthday in the royal palace's Imperial Ballroom. Conversation throughout the evening focused not on the prince's planned state visit to China later this week, but on the fact that Antony is now the oldest San Riminian crown prince not to have wed and produced an heir.

Despite the hushed gossip filling the ballroom, the crown prince appeared unconcerned about finding a bride anytime soon. Recent reports have linked him to Lady Bianca Caratelli, but Antony lived up to his reputation as southern Europe's Playboy Prince last night, bringing as his date German supermodel Daniela Heit, a descendant of England's Queen Victoria.

Over the course of the evening, the prince was spotted dancing with Lady Bianca numerous times, but he chose to dine with Heit and his sister, Princess Isabella. Heit departed early, claiming an early-morning fitting for an upcoming fashion show. Antony seemed not to mind, however, leaving the ball well after midnight with a group of his sister's friends for an after-hours party at an undisclosed location.

Noticeably absent from the festivities was King Eduardo, fueling rumors that the aging monarch's health is in decline. An official palace statement claims the king was "tending to important matters of state." However, sources close to the royal family fear a relapse of Eduardo's earlier heart trouble and suspect he spent the evening secluded in his palace apartments.

If the latter is true, Prince Antony may not remain the Playboy Prince much longer. According to several members of the San Rimini nobility, King Eduardo's failing health is forcing him to consider an arranged marriage for his eldest son.

"It makes perfect sense," admits Count Giovanni Alessandro, a longtime friend of the king's. "Eduardo places his royal duties above all else, and he believes his primary duty is to ensure the continuation of the diTalora line. If Antony is not married soon, Eduardo will feel he has failed the people of San Rimini."

Antony is said to resist the move.

The latrine threatened to overflow in an hour, tops.

Jennifer Allen leaned on her shovel and drank deeply from her worn canteen. Her arms and back throbbed from an afternoon of heavy digging in the summer heat, and sweat ran into her eyes, making her contacts burn, but she couldn't quit now.

If she and the other volunteers didn't finish the hole for the new latrine soon, the residents of the Haffali refugee camp might opt to use the nearby river to relieve themselves. Unfortunately, the river supplied their only source of clean drinking water.

Jennifer dropped her canteen to the ground, then turned to continue her dusty job. As she raised her shovel to dig, she caught sight of an American network news van making its way down the rough mountainside to the camp and leaned her shovel against the side of the pit.

"Hey, Pia," she pointed out the van to her assistant camp director. "Any idea what that's all about?"

The Rasovo civil war had raged for six months now and few American news agencies had visited the camp, even during the early days of the war when American interest in the displaced Rasovars peaked. With no recent bombing in the area, Jennifer couldn't imagine why journalists picked today to make a surprise visit.

However, if the Rasovo Relief Society, for which she worked, wanted to keep Haffali camp open for women and children fleeing the fighting, they needed more donations. And even more importantly--she glanced at the long line for the latrine--skilled volunteers willing to travel to Rasovo and pitch in with both hands. Perhaps she could turn the news van's intrusion into an opportunity.

"Oh, shoot," Pia grumbled as she climbed out of the half-completed pit for a better look at the van. "They must've heard that rumor about Prince Antony. Hope they don't mind talking to us while we work."

"Prince Antony? What rumor?" Jennifer couldn't imagine what Europe's hottest tabloid cover boy had in common with the Haffali camp. Other than the fact that both Rasovo and his native San Rimini occupied the northern end of the Balkan peninsula, tucked in the Alps between Slovenia and Italy, she saw no link.

Pia raised an eyebrow. "I didn't tell you? Some of the refugees heard on the radio that Prince Antony is planning to visit the camp tomorrow. They came to me for confirmation, since I'm San Riminian. I never received anything from the palace, though, so I told them it was just a rumor."

Jennifer frowned. Nothing official had crossed her desk, either.

"I'm sure you're right. Prince Antony has hundreds of 'clean' charities elsewhere in Europe to use for his public relations purposes," Jennifer finally replied, alluding to the prince's reputation for making grand gestures to humanitarian organizations for the sole purpose of enhancing his family's public image. "He'd never come here. Why mess a good suit?"

She shook her head, thinking of the grandeur of the San Riminian palace. The Haffali camp stood only five miles from the San Riminian border, and thirty from the royal palace. But the ease of life in San Rimini made it feel a world away from the devastation in Rasovo.

Unfortunately for the residents of Haffali, most San Riminians liked to keep it that way.

A yell went up from some of the refugees who'd spotted the news van. "What do you want to do?" Pia prodded. "We don't have time for this."

Jennifer tucked a stray curl back under her Colorado Rockies cap, then picked up her shovel. "Let's keep digging. By the time the journalists locate me and learn there's no royal visit scheduled, the hole will be finished. Then I can try to talk them into doing a story on the camp itself. Get the word out that we're desperate for more staff."

Pia snorted as she climbed back into the pit to continue shoveling. "Nice thought, Jen, but it won't work. Why cover an overcrowded, depressing refugee camp when your assignment is to splash a few pictures of a filthy-rich, drop-dead-gorgeous Prince Charming across the TV screen?"

Jennifer silently agreed, but vowed to convince the reporters to publicize the need for more relief workers.

Besides, if she remembered the fairy tale correctly, Prince Charming never once got his hands dirty helping Cinderella with her chores.

She needed people willing to pitch in and help. Not Prince Charming.

Prince Antony let out a particularly un-royal expletive in his native Italian as his helicopter touched down just inside the Rasovar border. He'd traveled through Rasovo many times prior to the outbreak of hostilities, but didn't remember it reeking of raw sewage. Straining to be heard over the noise of the helicopter, he yelled, "I knew Rasovo had its problems, but...whew! Who would fight over a country that smells so bad?"

Giulio, Antony's longtime pilot, offered the prince a half-smile. "It's temporary, your highness. I understand they had a problem yesterday with the, uh...facilities. We're downwind right now. It won't be so offensive once you arrive at the camp itself."

Antony nodded, glad his secretary convinced him to wear a casual shirt and khaki pants instead of the tailored suits he usually sported for charity appearances. After the recent spate of fundraising dinners and hospice openings he'd been compelled to attend as part of his royal duties, he'd almost forgotten what it was like to visit an area plagued by overcrowding and poor sanitation. Messy, at best.

He patted his pocket. With any luck, the check he carried for a million San Riminian draema would solve the camp's problems.

He squinted, taking in the Rasovar terrain. The refugee camp sprawled in front of them, straddling the so-called Haffali River, the nearly dried-up stream which gave the refugee camp its name. West and south of the camp, jagged mountains isolated the river valley from the worst of the fighting. To the east and north another set of mountains, lower and more gently sloping, defined the border between Rasovo and San Rimini.

Nearby, two news vans parked at the edge of the makeshift landing pad. A Land Rover edged between them, then drove the short distance to the helicopter.

"That's your ride, your highness," Giulio nodded when the sport utility vehicle stopped and its door opened. "I'll meet you here in two hours."

"Thank you. That will be more than enough time." Antony snapped his seatbelt off, then climbed out of the helicopter, stopping short when he noticed the driver of the Land Rover had already crossed the landing pad to meet him.

A female driver. For some reason, he hadn't expected a woman to be driving the masculine vehicle. Particularly not such a good-looking woman.

She struck him as outdoorsy. Tomboyish. And definitely American. Her long, curly red hair, similar to Nicole Kidman's, was pulled back into a tight ponytail and stuffed through the back of Colorado Rockies baseball cap. She sported a dusty denim shirt, a khaki vest, khaki shorts, and, he noted, scraped knees.

Despite her scruffy appearance, he bet she'd look better in a ballgown sashaying about the palace than most of the women he knew. She stood about five-foot-ten, and her worn outdoor clothing did nothing to hide her athletic curves.

She shook his hand--a nice, firm handshake for a woman--and offered what he assumed was her name, though he didn't catch it. The noise of the helicopter's blades, still slowing to a stop, drowned out whatever she'd said.

Not that her name really mattered. She might be pretty, but she was just his driver.

"Prince Antony," he leaned close, speaking near her ear in English. "I'm thrilled to have the opportunity to see your camp." He forced himself not to close his eyes as he caught a brief whiff of her scent. Clean, natural. Like she'd just showered and skipped the heavy perfumes he'd come to expect on a woman.

She smiled in welcome, a broad grin that nearly made him forget about the dust and odor of the rugged camp. "We're very happy to have you here, though I must say, it's a surprise. The palace only notified us of your visit a couple hours ago." She gestured to the Land Rover. "This way, your highness."

He waved to the journalists standing alongside the landing pad as he followed her to the Land Rover. Once seated comfortably in back, he popped open his briefcase and scanned the pages his efficient secretary, Sophie, had handed him earlier. He swore to himself, wishing he'd had more time to review the information on the Rasovo Relief Society.

It wasn't that he hadn't wanted to come. On the contrary, his father, King Eduardo, drilled it into his head from birth that it was his time-honored duty as San Rimini's crown prince to help out his principality's less fortunate neighbors. But he'd been told for months that the Haffali refugee camp wasn't safe, that he couldn't risk a visit.

He'd been stunned when Sophie entered his office yesterday evening, just as he returned from a ten-day state visit to China, and informed him that the fighting in Rasovo had moved to the south. She'd scheduled his trip for the next day, just in case the fighting shifted back. He'd been too exhausted from the flight to read the material she'd prepared.

Hopefully the generous check he carried would help disguise the fact he didn't know what he should about the organization.

He snapped his briefcase shut. Perhaps his beautiful-but-nameless driver could fill him in on the most important details.

"I've been told that the director of the camp is also an American. A Miss Jennifer Allen. Will she be giving me the tour today?"

"That's the plan," the redhead replied, her forehead creasing into a frown as she backed the truck away from the landing pad. "Jennifer Allen will be giving you your tour."

Did she not like Miss Allen? he wondered. He studied the driver's reflection in the rear view mirror. Her look of concern disappeared so fast he almost believed he'd imagined it. She possessed large, friendly blue eyes, a freckled nose, and a full, sensuous mouth. A mouth he bet smiled often, judging from the tiny laugh lines surrounding it. She didn't seem the type to dislike others without good reason.

Hoping to learn more about the camp director, he noted, "I'm surprised you were sent to the helipad alone. I thought Miss Allen and the rest of her staff would be here."

The driver shrugged, then glanced over her shoulder at him, once again wowing him with her casual beauty. "Actually, I'm surprised you made the trip alone. I assumed I'd also be driving a valet or bodyguard."

"I am afraid English is not my native language, so there are often words I do not understand. What is this word -- bodyguard?"

She nodded, as if remembering he spoke Italian in his day-to-day affairs. "Someone to watch over you. You know, for your safety."

"I see. I do not bring a bodyguard on charity visits."

Her eyes widened. Had he impressed her with his willingness to travel without protection?

"My guess is your charity visits are usually safer than this one."

Okay, maybe not.