“I think I know your name,” Ambra told him, blushing as she shook hands with Prince Julián, the future king of Spain. He was far taller than she had imagined, with soft eyes and a confident smile. “I didn’t know you were going to be here tonight,” she continued, quickly regaining her composure. “I imagined you as more of a Prado man—you know, Goya, Velázquez … the classics.”

“You mean conservative and old-fashioned?” He laughed warmly. “I think you have me confused with my father. Mallo and Miró have always been favorites of mine.”

Ambra and the prince talked for several minutes, and she was impressed by his knowledge of art. Then again, the man grew up in Madrid’s Royal Palace, which possessed one of Spain’s finest collections; he’d probably had an original El Greco hanging in his nursery.

“I realize this will seem forward,” the prince said, presenting her with a gold-embossed business card, “but I would love for you to join me at a dinner party tomorrow night. My direct number is on the card. Just let me know.”

“Dinner?” Ambra joked. “You don’t even know my name.”

“Ambra Vidal,” he replied matter-of-factly. “You’re thirty-nine years old. You hold a degree in art history from the Universidad de Salamanca. You’re the director of our Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao. You recently spoke out on the controversy surrounding Luis Quiles, whose artwork, I agree, graphically mirrors the horrors of modern life and may not be appropriate for young children, but I’m not sure I agree with you that his work resembles that of Banksy. You’ve never been married. You have no children. And you look fantastic in black.”

Ambra’s jaw dropped. “My goodness. Does this approach really work?”

“I have no idea,” he said with a smile. “I guess we’ll find out.”

As if on cue, two Guardia Real agents materialized and ushered the prince off to mingle with some VIPs.

Ambra clutched the business card in her hand and felt something she had not felt in years. Butterflies. Did a prince just ask me for a date?

Ambra had been a gangly teenager, and the boys who asked her out had always felt themselves to be on an equal footing with her. Later in life, though, when her beauty had blossomed, Ambra suddenly found men to be intimidated in her presence, fumbling and self-conscious and entirely too deferential. Tonight, however, a powerful man had boldly strode up to her and taken total control. It made her feel feminine. And young.

The very next night, a driver collected Ambra at her hotel and took her to the Royal Palace, where she found herself seated next to the prince in the company of two dozen other guests, many of whom she recognized from the society pages or politics. The prince introduced her as his “lovely new friend” and deftly launched a conversation about art in which Ambra could participate fully. She had the sensation that she was being auditioned somehow, but strangely, she didn’t really mind. She felt flattered.

At the evening’s end, Julián took her aside and whispered, “I hope you had fun. I’d love to see you again.” He smiled. “How about Thursday night?”

“Thank you,” Ambra replied, “but I’m afraid I’m flying back to Bilbao in the morning.”

“Then I’ll fly up as well,” he said. “Have you been to the restaurant Etxanobe?”

Ambra had to laugh. Etxanobe was one of Bilbao’s most coveted dining experiences. A favorite of art aficionados from around the world, the restaurant boasted an avant-garde decor and colorful cuisine that made diners feel as if they were seated in a landscape painted by Marc Chagall.

“That would be lovely,” she heard herself say.

At Etxanobe, over stylishy presented plates of sumac-seared tuna and truffled asparagus, Julián opened up about the political challenges he faced as he attempted to emerge from the shadow of his ailing father, and also about the personal pressure he felt to continue the royal line. Ambra recognized in him the innocence of a cloistered little boy but also saw the makings of a leader with a fervent passion for his country. She found it an alluring combination.

That night, when Julián’s security guards whisked him back to his private plane, Ambra knew she was smitten.

You barely know him, she reminded herself. Take it slow.

The next several months seemed to pass in an instant as Ambra and Julián saw each other constantly—dinners at the palace, picnics on the grounds of his country estate, even a movie matinee. Their rapport was unforced, and Ambra couldn’t remember ever being happier. Julián was endearingly old-fashioned, often holding her hand or stealing a polite kiss, but never crossing the conventional boundaries, and Ambra appreciated his fine manners.

One sunny morning, three weeks ago, Ambra was in Madrid, where she was scheduled to appear in a segment of a morning TV show about the Guggenheim’s upcoming exhibits. RTVE’s Telediario was watched by millions live around the country, and Ambra was a little apprehensive about doing live television, but she knew the spot would provide superb national coverage for the museum.

The night before the show, she and Julián met for a deliciously casual dinner at Trattoria Malatesta and then slipped quietly through El Parque del Retiro. Watching the families out strolling and the scores of children laughing and running about, Ambra felt totally at peace, lost in the moment.

“Do you like children?” Julián asked.

“I adore them,” she replied honestly. “In fact, sometimes I feel like children are the only thing missing in my life.”