Hell, even his family’s Sunday dinners were public.
His phone buzzed. A quick peek showed a text from one of his older brothers, Prince Alessandro, asking if Stefano would make it to Sunday night dinner. Fabulous.
He should convince his siblings to take another family trip to Sicily. The house was still available to them should they want it and there was plenty of space. The property boasted a pool for afternoon swims, a fully outfitted kitchen for meals, and acres of land to keep any media at a distance. It might be just the thing his parents needed to know that their children still cared for them and wanted to spend time with them, despite the pressures and distractions that came with adulthood. How hard could it be to arrange a weekend’s respite?
He smiled as Megan pulled Anna into her lap over the girl’s protests. Anyone observing the pair would see that Anna was at the age where she enjoyed being close to her mother when they were alone, but demanded her independence if she thought anyone might be watching.
He wondered how Anna would handle their meeting tomorrow, assuming Megan didn’t balk between now and then. Would Anna be frightened? Indifferent? Curious? So much depended on Megan and how she presented the idea to Anna.
For all he knew, they could be discussing it this very minute. If so, he hoped it was an easier discussion than those he’d shared with his own parents.
Chapter Nine
“You’re sure you’re okay with this?”
Megan studied Anna’s face, trying to ensure her daughter was as nonplussed by meeting Stefano Barrali as she professed. True, Megan deliberately put Anna in a receptive mood with pool time, a fantastic lunch—allowing Anna the leftover cake from Santi despite the fact she wasn’t quite done with her school project—and the promise she could go on a beach outing with her best friend late tomorrow afternoon. Still, shouldn’t being told she’d be meeting her biological father, a man who happened to be a well-known prince, give Anna pause?
The whole idea certainly gave Megan pause.
“Mom.” Anna allowed the fluffy pool towel to drop from her shoulders as she reached out to put her hands on Megan’s pool-dampened cheeks. With exaggerated bossiness, she said, “He’s a prince. Not a superhero or a god. Get it straight.”
Megan leveled her with a look. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”
“I get it from you.”
“Don’t try to kiss up,” Megan said, rolling her eyes at the sarcasm in Anna’s voice. “And please, let’s keep the funny business tamped down during lunch.”
“I know how to behave, Mom. Geez.” Anna wrapped her towel around her shoulders once more.
“Good. Then I’ll give him a call and tell him we’re set.”
Anna gazed across the pool deck while Megan retrieved her cell phone from under the magazine she’d brought outside. “Think he swims?”
“Definitely.” The man looked sexier cutting through the waves in Venezuela as a rough-around-the-edges college kid than any of the men she’d seen gracing Barcelona’s beaches over the last few years. Even now she could imagine the water beading on his chest and across the corded muscle of his arms as he waded out of the water, slicking his hair out of his eyes as he smiled at her.
Anna was wrong. The man was a god, just not the type Anna imagined.
“But we’re not bringing him to the pool,” Megan clarified. “Too many windows overlooking the deck. I think it’s best you meet him for the first time in a quieter spot.”
“Gotcha.”
The reception desk put Megan’s call through to the prince’s suite. As she waited for it to ring, she wondered if he could see them now, assuming he was upstairs. She hadn’t thought of it until this moment, but if he’d wanted to, he could’ve watched her and Anna the entire time they’d been swimming.
She pulled her towel tighter as his voice came over the line.
“It’s me,” she said simply. “I’ve made arrangements for lunch.”
Without hesitation, he asked, “Where and when?”
“My suite at one, if that time works for you. I think that’s where Anna would be most comfortable.” Anna mouthed, What are we gonna eat? Can I make something? Pleeease? as Megan spoke, but Megan waved her away. Anna pulled a face, then dropped her towel to the deck and half-walked, half-skipped toward the diving board. “If you’re seen knocking on my door, no one on the staff will question it. They’ll assume it’s business. And eating in my suite means we can speak freely.”
When Stefano agreed, Megan gave him her suite number.
“Anything I should know beforehand?” Megan thought she detected trepidation in his tone as he added, “I’d like this to go as smoothly as possible.”
“It’s just lunch. Casual, like you suggested. Take your cues from Anna and you’ll be fine.” She hesitated, then asked, “Why? Is there anything you think I should know? You’re not going to drop a bomb on us, like news you have seventeen other kids in various countries or that you’ve secretly enrolled Anna in clown college?
Megan rubbed her temple. Why had she said that? As Anna had so bluntly stated, Megan wasn’t funny.
Nerves. Chalk the idiotic attempt at comedy up to nerves.
“No, no bombs. Had enough of those this weekend.” His laugh sounded genuine. “But you should know…you look smashing in red. Especially that red.”
Before she could absorb his words, he said, “Tomorrow. One p.m.” And hung up.
* * *
She answered the door wearing black.
The simply cut, sheer lace top contrasted with Megan’s light skin and flaxen hair, while at the same time making her eyes appear more brilliant than ever. White slacks hugged her in all the right places.
Secretly, however, Stefano had hoped she’d wear red.
He rarely had trouble speaking to people—he’d been trained from birth to say the most diplomatic thing possible in any situation—but watching Megan sitting poolside in her bikini, seeing her bright smile from above as she’d first spoken to him about lunch, then observing the way she rubbed her forehead when she’d made the awful crack about clown college…well, he’d been momentarily smitten. He wanted her to know he was watching her, admiring her.
When he’d ended the call, he could swear her face turned as red as that delicious swimsuit.
Nevertheless, he should’ve kept the thought to himself.
“Prince Stefano, it’s good to see you again. Please, come in.” Megan stepped back from the door, holding it open and waving him inside. As she’d said, it would appear to anyone watching from the hallway—not that anyone wandered the twentieth floor hallway at noon on a Sunday—as if they were meeting to discuss business.
He entered, pausing once inside the narrow entry hall to allow her to lead the way into the rest of the suite. That’s when he noticed she was barefoot. Bright red toenails peeked out where the hem of her slacks brushed the tops of her feet. When she closed the door, a woven red silk bracelet punctuated by tiny gold beads peeked out from under the cuff of her shirt. He couldn’t help but smile. The toenails she could’ve painted days ago, but the bracelet was a deliberate choice, especially given its contrast with her basic black top. Had she worn it because of his comment?
“Why are you grinning?” Her voice was quiet, but filled with suspicion. “You look like the cat who ate the canary.”
He shrugged. “Whatever you’re cooking smells amazing.”
She eyed him for a moment, as if weighing his response, then said, “Anna asked if she could make pizza. She’s become obsessed with cooking lately. Mostly it’s desserts, since that’s what she wants to eat, but my mother taught her to make pizza dough. She does a competent job of it, too.”
“In that case, I look forward to it.”
He followed Megan to the kitchen, checking out the decor along the way. There was no mistaking the place for anything other than the hotel suite it was, but there were personal touches, too. Photos of Megan hugging Anna, a niche containing pottery he recognized
as being made by a co-op near where they’d worked in Venezuela, and a small painted plaque declaring You Have a Home in Minnesota made the space unique.
When they reached the kitchen, all thoughts of the suite faded away. The girl he’d seen at the pool yesterday had her back to him and her hands fisted at her hips as she bent to peer in the window of an oven. Though dressed more casually than Megan, she’d clearly taken time with her appearance. Her denim shorts were topped by a white camisole, over which she wore a transparent sky blue top. Her thick, dark hair shone as if she’d spent a good deal of time going over it with a hairbrush. It hung off to one side, over her shoulder, as if she’d carefully arranged it there after looping it through a silver ponytail holder. Not a single strand was loose. When she bent further and splayed her hands across the top edge of the oven, he caught himself smiling at the sight of sparkly hot pink and robin’s egg blue polish on alternating fingertips.
“Anna?”
At Megan’s voice, the girl straightened and turned. A hard lump formed in Stefano’s throat. Megan was right. This child had his green eyes, his darkly slashed eyebrows, even his forehead. God help him, but there was no mistaking that this child was his. She might be wearing feminine clothing and nail polish, but Stefano could tell she had his attitude without her having spoken a word.
God help Megan.
Anna assessed him with confidence. “Hello, Prince Stefano. Welcome to our home.”
Then she curtsied. All the way to the kitchen floor.
“Honey, that’s not what we discussed—”
“You don’t need to do that,” Stefano said at the same time. He wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed or to laugh.
Without a hint of sarcasm in her voice or expression, Anna asked, “Am I supposed to bow? Because I thought bowing was for boys.”
“For a first meeting, I think a handshake will do.” He reached across the granite countertop that separated the kitchen from the living space and waited. After few painful heartbeats, Anna stepped forward and clasped his hand with her own. Her grip was surprisingly firm for someone so small. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Prince Stefano.”
He kept his smile steady. He couldn’t quite believe he was shaking hands with his own daughter. “Why don’t you call me Stefano? ‘Prince Stefano’ feels too formal.”
Anna glanced at Megan, then back to him. “I’m not supposed to call adults by their first names. My mom’s says it’s a respect thing. Is Mr. Barrali okay? Or is that wrong, since you’re a rich and famous prince and everything?”
Megan propped her forearms on the countertop and flashed Anna a warning look for the choice of words. “This is a bit of an unusual circumstance. It’s fine with me if you call him Stefano while we’re here in our apartment. But if you ever address him in public, go with Prince Stefano. Not Stefano. And definitely not Mr. Barrali.”
“Sounds like a good compromise,” Stefano said, hoping to alleviate the awkwardness of the situation. He’d spent more hours of his youth than he cared to remember being drilled on the finer points of etiquette, but this particular scenario was never addressed. He doubted there was a protocol guru in the world who knew the proper way to handle parent-child introductions.
“So you’re, like, my father? For real?”
“I am.” Seeing Anna in the flesh left no doubt.
Beside him, Megan shifted and cleared her throat. He imagined she was trying to steer Anna in a different direction, but he kept his focus on Anna, who quirked one side of her mouth as she studied him. “Can I ask a stupid question? Since you’re my father and you’re a prince, does that make me a princess? Or not really?”
“It’s not a stupid question at all. The way royal titles work is complicated. But technically, no, because your mom and I aren’t married, you’re not a princess under the laws of my country.” Keeping a straight face at the unexpected question proved difficult. He wasn’t about to explain Sarcaccian legitimacy. He wanted to tell her that it was fine not to be a princess, but wasn’t sure how a girl her age would view such a statement.
“Huh.” Much to his surprise, Anna didn’t seem bothered by the information. Rather, she appeared to weigh it in her mind as if she’d been handed the solution to a complex math problem and now wished to work it backward to be certain she understood.
He nodded toward the oven. “When I came to the door, I told your mother that whatever you’re cooking smells amazing. Is that pizza?”
The question earned him a guarded smile. “My grandma was here last week and she taught me. But after I made it I figured you probably don’t eat pizza, so it’s okay if you want to order lunch instead. My mom does it all the time. We have menus.” She gestured toward one of the kitchen drawers. “My grandma says that you can freeze pizza after it cools and it’s still good, so I can eat it later. It won’t get wasted.”
She might take after him physically, but she had Megan’s practical streak. Always thinking of a Plan B. He told Anna, “I don’t eat pizza because no one ever offers. People assume I prefer fancy dishes with colorful sauces and radishes or cucumbers cut to look like flowers. Truth is, I’d much rather have pizza.”
“No way.”
The combination of hesitancy and surprise in her voice reminded him of how he’d sounded as a child on those rare occasions his parents allowed him something he was positive wouldn’t be permitted. “It’s true. Pizza is a treat for me. What kind of topping did you put on it?”
“On them. I made two. Wanna see?”
He circled the counter before crouching beside her to peek through the oven’s window. Inside, a perfectly browned pizza occupied each of the two racks, their surfaces bubbling with cheese, green peppers, and mushrooms. He looked sideways at her, noting the satisfaction in her expression as she inspected her creations. “Did your mother tell you what to put on these?”
“No. Why? You don’t like mushrooms, do you? I knew it.” She stared at the pizza in dismay. “Well, I left half of one pizza plain, just in case. The mushrooms never even touched it, so you’re safe if you still want it.”
“No way.” He took a risk in using her phrase, then gave her a gentle elbow to the side. “My favorite pizza is mushroom with green peppers.”
She glanced at him and rolled her eyes. “You’re only saying that to get me to like you.”
“Like me or not, it’s true. Maybe it’s hereditary.” Still crouched in front of the oven, he frowned over his shoulder at Megan. “Though apparently your mother and I like the same kind of omelets for breakfast.”
“What can I say?” Megan spread her hands. “Anna and I have good taste. I told her to pick whatever she wanted from the fridge to put on the pizza.”
“I like sausage, too,” Stefano confided, giving Anna a sideways just-between-us look. “Do you have a sausage pizza hiding in there?”
When she shook her head and told him she couldn’t stand sausage, he said, “I doubt the three of us could eat a third pizza, anyway.”
“You haven’t tried my pizza, so you never know.”
“Think I’m about to find out.”
“Timer says six seconds left, so…here goes!” She straightened, then pulled a pair of oven mitts from a nearby drawer and asked Megan to help her take out the pizza. Stefano sidled out of the narrow kitchen, watching as the pair removed the pizzas and made quick work of slicing them. When he noticed a festive-looking stack of napkins and plates at the counter’s edge, he took them and went about setting the table.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d set a table, let alone with confetti-specked paper plates. It felt odd, but good.
“Oh, Stefano, I was going to use real plates,” Megan said, glancing over at him from the kitchen. “Those were left over from one of Anna’s class events. I can’t imagine you’d—”
“I seem to recall the two of us eating off old, peeling plastic plates while sitting on a dirt floor in a family’s shanty. I think I can handle paper.”
That drew a cautious
smile from her. “If it’s fine with you, it’s fine with me.”
A few minutes later, as they ate the pizza, which was every bit as delicious as it smelled, along with a salad Megan prepared, Anna asked him what it was like to live in a palace.
He glanced at Megan before giving his answer. “Well, it’s certainly beautiful. There are chandeliers in nearly every room, and Persian rugs so thick you can curl your toes in them. Since it was built in the days before electric heat, the fireplaces are so tall and wide you can walk into them.” He tried to imagine what Anna would notice, were she to walk the palace’s wide halls or sleep in its rooms. “The palace has gorgeous gardens on three sides. I played there all the time when I was a child. Then there’s a parade ground in the front where tourists come to see equestrian demonstrations in the summer. There’s also a giant clock tower beside the front gate that tolls every hour. When I was growing up, I would lie in bed at night and count the strikes, then listen for the last reverberation to fade away. I liked timing it, because the sound could change depending on the weather.”
Her mouth dropped into an O. He could virtually see the wheels spinning in her mind, imagining life in a palace as if it were a fairy tale come true. “That sounds fantastic!”
“In many ways, it is. But have you ever heard the phrase, ‘living in a fishbowl’?”
She hesitated. “Like, living underwater?”
“Not quite.” He explained the meaning, then said, “Sometimes, it’s like that for me. When I’m in the palace, I have very little privacy. I don’t always control where I go, who I see, or even my own phone calls and e-mail. Everyone knows what I’m doing at all times.”
“That must suck. Big time.”
“Anna—” Megan’s warning came despite the fact she’d just taken a bite of pizza.
“Not always. For instance, I don’t have to clean anything or make my own bed. I don’t even have to shop, because people who work at the palace bring me whatever I need. But can I tell you a secret?” At her nod, he said, “I don’t mind making my own bed. And there are days I wish I could walk out my front door on a whim and shop the way you do. Not because I like to shop, but because it’d be fun to wander through a pedestrian shopping area and see the sights or stop for an ice cream without worrying about being watched or having my picture taken. I occasionally do it when I’m traveling, but it’s rare while I’m at home. I’m usually recognized too quickly to have much time to myself. Living in the palace especially makes me appreciate times like this, when I can visit friends and eat whatever I want and be myself.”
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