The Royal Bastard

by Nicole Burnham

  “That’s true.”

  “You also told me he asked your permission to marry your mother, despite the fact you were only in elementary school at the time.”

  “Also true.” He’d forgotten about that.

  “Then Jack was your father in every sense of the word. No matter that King Carlo was the man present at your conception.”

  He released Justine’s hand, pulled her fully into his arms, then planted a kiss on top of her head. When her arms snaked around his waist, he exhaled in relief. “Thank you.”

  Her answer was to tighten her hold on his waist. He closed his eyes, savoring the feel of her body against his and the tangle of her legs with his on the bed. After a lifetime spent keeping that part of himself locked away, it felt good to let it out, especially with the one person with whom he’d wanted to share.

  “I wish you’d told me before now,” she murmured into his chest. “It explains so much. Why Teresa didn’t trust me, why she was so protective of you. It wasn’t protectiveness so much as fear that all your lives would be shattered if the wrong questions were asked.”

  “I wish I’d been able to tell you before, too.” He kissed the top of her head once more, then shifted so she could straighten and look him in the eye.

  “I understand why you didn’t.” Her gaze didn’t waver. “I forgive you.”

  “I didn’t ask for forgiveness.”

  Much as he wanted it, it wasn’t warranted. Not knowing how Justine would react—and given that the risk in revealing the secret wasn’t his alone—he wouldn’t have acted differently if he had it all to do again.

  “I’m giving it anyway. You were in an impossible position, one that wasn’t of your own making.” She placed her palm against his chest and spread her fingers, warming him. And making him want her all the more. “Despite that, you should’ve told me.”

  “I gave my word.”

  “Your mother’s mistakes shouldn’t stand in the way of your happiness. Or mine. Giving your word—even if you did it before I entered the picture—nearly ruined our marriage.”

  Framing Justine’s face with one hand, he looked into her gentle, intelligent blue eyes. Moisture edged her dark lashes. “Nearly ruined?”

  “We have a lot of fixing to do.” One side of her mouth lifted into a grin. In a passable Monty Python imitation, she added, “But it’s not dead yet.”

  He moved his mouth toward hers, so close he caught the scent of the Zinfandel on her breath and heard the hitch in its rhythm. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time. Because I’ve never wanted you more. I’ll do whatever it takes to hang on to you. To hang on to us.”

  Slowly, he closed the gap between them. At the first brush of her gorgeous lips, he was completely, utterly lost.

  Chapter Nine

  The tender sweep of Rocco’s lips against hers sent Justine’s senses reeling. For months now, she’d fought her attraction to him, knowing that as long as he kept so much of himself hidden, he’d never be able to fully give himself to their relationship. But as he angled his head, encouraging her to open to him and deepen the kiss, a pang of need tore through her that made him impossible to resist. Her fingers moved lower down the front of his shirt, spread against the soft fabric, and found the hard-packed muscle of his abs underneath.

  A low groan of satisfaction rumbled through him and she was lost.

  Making love to Rocco had been off-the-charts fantastic from the first. He might be a buttoned-up, focused biomedical engineer by day, but at night, he knew exactly how to touch her and when to ease off, when to be playful and when she demanded intensity. When to murmur in her ear and when silence spoke volumes. More than what he did for her physically, however, was the emotional response he drew from her whenever they made love. Before Rocco, she’d never derived such satisfaction from making another human being happy.

  Rocco might not be willing to admit the depth of his suffering out of allegiance to his mother, but his kiss told Justine everything she needed to know. He hated that he’d had to live with such a secret and he was willing to do whatever he could to make their marriage not only survive, but thrive.

  If she could give him a measure of peace by forgiving him, it would make her happier than she’d been in a long time.

  Justine shifted her body closer, needing to feel him fully against her. He buried his fingers in her hair to kiss her hard and deep. She brought up her knees so she could straddle him, intent on returning his kiss with equal passion as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

  He pulled back, eyeing her with suspicion. “This better not be pity—”

  “If that’s what you think, I’m doing it wrong.”

  “You’re incapable of doing it wrong.”

  His hands dropped to her waist as he kissed her, then cradled her rear to crush her lower body to his, giving her physical evidence that she was doing everything exactly right. She sighed her surrender. In one swift motion, he rolled and pinned her beneath him before giving her another fierce, fiery kiss. Every fiber of her being, from the top of her scalp to the soles of her feet, burned for him. They’d done this hundreds of times, yet there was a new, delicious, aching, facet to their lovemaking, one brought on by knowing they’d laid their emotions bare. Rocco’s deepest secret was out. They’d fought danger together and—thus far—had won. They were on the same team, together in every way.

  Rocco’s hands slid between them, lifting the front of her shirt to expose her bra, then his hot mouth went to her stomach. She couldn’t get his shirt off fast enough, needing to feel his bare skin against hers, to drag her mouth over his shoulder and neck, to savor the salty sweet taste of him. Soon her jeans and his joined their shirts somewhere on the cabin floor.

  “Oh, Rocco,” she whispered as he brought his body back down to hers, his hands bracketing her ribs, then sliding around to her back, arching her from the sheets so they were chest to chest. His heart pounded against hers, his warm breath electrified her as his lips found her cheeks, her throat, her collarbone. “Yes, yes.”

  She could sense the tension ratcheting higher and higher within Rocco. A deep moan escaped him, then his mouth was on her breast. Her head fell back as she clutched at him. If they weren’t on the ferry, with passengers in cabins on either side of theirs, she’d have screamed with the pleasure of it.

  He captured her thigh, encouraging her to open more fully to him before he cupped her, stroked her, drove her mad with need.

  She rewarded him with a groan as he found her most tender spot and massaged her in slow, agonizing circles. He pressed another kiss to her collarbone as she pressed kiss after kiss to the top of his head. Oh, but she missed the feel of him against her. The familiar scent of his shampoo, the texture of his thick hair. The strength of his broad, muscular back. But there were new sensations, too. The rough scratch of his beard against her skin. The security of knowing this wonderful, protective, complicated man trusted her with his darkest secrets.

  “We should slow down,” he murmured against her shoulder.

  “Don’t you dare.” She’d never wanted him more desperately.

  “Thank God.”

  A choked cry of, “now, please, now, now,” erupted from her, spurring him onward as he shifted, and in one move, buried himself fully inside her, then pushed her back to the sheets and made love to her with a mixture of both heated desire and tender awe.

  The energy coiling within her intensified. She wrapped her legs tighter around his sweat-slicked back, hanging on to him as if her life depended on it, and met him stroke for stroke.

  “Jus…I’ll explode if I—” he hissed through his teeth. “I never—”

  Her muscles tightened, spasmed. In a rush, her entire body seemed to unspiral as jolt after jolt tore through her, so powerfully even her face heated with the force of it. Moments later, Rocco’s muffled cry of soul-deep satisfaction accompanied the cascading wave of his own ferocious release.

  As he collapsed against her, cradling her to h
im, her first thought was mind-blowing. It wasn’t simply the physical euphoria, but a profound sense of intimacy, one she’d never before experienced, even with Rocco.

  She knew from the poignant, lingering touch of Rocco’s lips to her damp forehead that he felt it, too.

  His fingers interlaced with hers. “I’m never letting you go again.”

  Her only response was to clutch him tighter.

  * * *

  Morning arrived faster than Justine thought possible. She stretched, anticipating the stiffness that came from sleeping in a strange bed, but found her muscles and joints warm and loose. Only her left calf ached, reminding her of her injury, but that happened no matter how she slept.

  A pair of solid arms encircled her waist. A moment later, Rocco’s lips danced a trail across her shoulder. Into her ear, he whispered, “How long until we disembark?”

  “The horn blew and there was an announcement in Italian a few minutes ago, so we must be in the docking area. Ten to fifteen minutes at most.”

  “I was hoping you’d ignored the announcements. And the horn.” He nuzzled against her cheek, his facial hair rasping her skin. “I can do a lot in ten minutes.”

  “I’m well aware. It’s a tempting offer, Mr. Cornaro.”

  The horn sounded again, drawing a mumbled curse from Rocco before he rolled away. “You’d think the fine citizens of Ancona would protest being awakened by ferry blasts every morning.”

  Justine reached over the side of the bed to find Rocco’s pants and fling them over her shoulder for him to catch. “The sooner we’re ashore, the sooner we’ll be in Rome.”

  “And safe in a hotel.”

  One where they could lounge in each other’s arms for a full day before boarding their flight to the States. With that thought driving her, she kept pace with Rocco for the walk to the train station. Justine nabbed a seat at one of the station’s cafés while Rocco purchased their tickets. It didn’t take him long to join her.

  “First class to Rome, departing in an hour,” he told her after he ordered an espresso, eggs, and toast from the waitress. “We’ll be at Termini before one o’clock. There’s a family-owned bed and breakfast I know of located about five blocks from the station. Easy walk. We’ll see if we can get a room there when we arrive.”

  “If you’ve been there before, would Radich check it?”

  “I usually stay at the St. Regis Grand, which is a few blocks from the train station in a different direction.” He grinned. “That’s the only reason I know where this place is located. I’ve walked by it when sightseeing in the neighborhood around the St. Regis.”

  The idea of exploring Rome tempted her. “Too bad we can’t chance exploring the city. I’ve only been once. I had a connecting flight cancelled and was stuck for a day. Managed to see the Colosseum and Palatine Hill, but that was it. No time to see the Pantheon or other sights.”

  “Maybe on our return, once we know the designs are safe at Johns Hopkins.” He accepted his espresso from the waitress and Justine thanked the woman for her own cinnamon-topped cappuccino. “I’m stunned you’ve never spent time there, given how well-traveled you are.”

  “No slopes, no Justine.” Her globetrotting revolved around her training. In Italy, that meant the Alps, far to the north of Rome.

  Rocco’s smile had the very devil in it. “In that case, I’ll spend the next few days thinking of places we can explore together.”

  “The Vatican?” She’d always wanted to see St. Peter’s and the Vatican museum, but number one on her list was the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. She’d watched a public television special about the original Michelangelo work and a recent restoration project and had been fascinated ever since.

  “My thoughts were headed in a less saintly direction, but we’ll go wherever you like.”

  A flash of movement in the station caught Justine’s attention. She shifted to look past Rocco, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The lobby was crammed with well-dressed locals about to board their trains for work, families pulling suitcases toward the platforms, and backpackers toting maps and travel guides. No one seemed to pay them any attention. Most had their eyes locked on the station’s large arrival and departure board, waiting for their track announcements.

  Rocco stiffened. “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure.” The hairs on her arms stood on end. “I felt like we’re being watched, but I don’t see anything unusual.”

  Concern hardened Rocco’s amber gaze. “Keep your focus on me. Smile, act normally. We’ll eat our breakfast, then go to the tabacchi shop across the station. I’ll pick up some sunglasses, maybe some hair” —he swirled his hand around the back of his head— “thingies. Ponytail holders. Whatever you can use to change up your look once we’re on the train. We’ll go to our platform at the last possible moment.”

  “Make it tougher for anyone to see which train we’re boarding?” At Rocco’s nod, she told him, “You know, I’m likely being paranoid. It might’ve been my imagination.”

  He straightened as the waitress approached with their breakfast orders of eggs and toast. “And it might not have.”

  A moment later, he told her in a quiet voice, “I never did finish explaining everything. You wanted to know who warned me about the Russians.”

  She’d forgotten that in the shock of hearing about Rocco’s parentage. “Who?”

  “Queen Fabrizia herself.”

  His admonition to smile and act normally went out the window as she gaped at him.

  “It surprised me as much as it surprises you. But now you know why I refused to reveal my source.” He rolled his espresso cup between his palms, then took a sip before continuing. “Do you remember when one of the Barrali twins disappeared last year and there was speculation he was in Croatia?”

  “Of course. It was big news.”

  “I was questioned at the farmer’s market by a reporter who thought I looked like the missing prince. Nothing came of it, but Fabrizia learned about the incident and decided to have me followed, just in case. That led her security team to Radich, who the led them to Karpovsky. Queen Fabrizia was worried about you because she learned that Radich was watching you during your dinner nights with your friends.”

  Justine sat back in her chair. Her social life in Croatia had been limited to a small group of girlfriends, women she’d met over the course of her skiing career who trained in and around Zagreb for parts of the year and came to Dubrovnik when they could for dinner. It was a different group each time, but they kept a standing reservation every other Tuesday. Now that she thought about those dinners, a connection clicked in her brain. “Radich ate in our section.”

  “Yes. He was spying on you.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment and sucked in a breath. “I never would’ve thought it. Not in a million years. He never stood out. Never seemed to pay us any attention at all.”

  “He’s easy to look past. It’s part of what makes him lethal. It also means it’s entirely possible he’s here in the station. When it comes to surveillance, he’s capable of anything.”

  Justine swallowed hard. The thought of facing the Russians again turned her stomach.

  “Finish your breakfast. I promise, it’ll be all right.”

  She forced a grin, but Rocco’s calm expression rapidly drew a natural smile from her. In that moment, she believed him. She trusted him.

  “You said first class, right?”

  His laugh was loud enough to shake the table.

  * * *

  Queen Fabrizia sensed her husband’s presence before she heard him enter. Carlo had charisma that seemed to precede him into a room.

  She smiled at her assistant, Daniela D’Ambrosio, as they finished preparations for the trip she and Carlo had the next morning. “The soft yellow Missoni would be ideal for our afternoon audience with the Pope. Then Armani has promised to deliver the red silk gown for the state dinner directly to our hotel in Rome.”

  “Both are good choices, your H
ighness.” The young woman consulted her notes. “You last wore the Missoni eighteen months ago for a private baptism, so it will be fresh. And I’ve confirmed that the Armani will be waiting in your suite when you arrive. Would you like the nude Brian Atwood pumps you wore last time with the Missoni, or would you prefer an Italian brand?”

  “When in Italy, we must go Italian.” Fabrizia scanned the shelves of her walk-in closet. “I’ll be on my feet for several hours. Let’s take the beige Ferragamo flats. Then the gold Giuseppe Zanotti heels for the state dinner. They should work well with the red gown.” Her feet ached as she looked at the Zanotti pair; they were elegant and stylish, and she knew the Italians would love her for wearing them, but dancing more than once or twice would be out of the question.

  “Perhaps the gold Prada heels as backup?”

  Fabrizia gave Daniela’s shoulder a grateful squeeze. “Brilliant.”

  The woman assured Fabrizia that everything would be packed as requested, curtsied to the king, then left the royals alone.

  “I’d love for you to model those for me,” Carlo said, angling his head toward a strappy pair of sparkling silver heels. “But don’t bother with the gowns. The heels alone are more than enough for me.”

  “Such simple tastes you have. Perhaps later tonight,” she said with a soft pat to his lapel. “Wouldn’t be appropriate in front of the Pope, however.”

  “I should say not.” He captured her hand and held it to his chest. “I missed you yesterday afternoon.”

  For a split second, she thought he was being his usual flirtatious self. Though his subjects never saw that side of him, she saw it daily, even after forty years of marriage. This was something else. “I thought you went to the kennel yesterday to see how the new puppies are doing?”

  “I did, but I didn’t stay long. I noticed your calendar was clear, so I was hoping you’d be here in the apartment if I returned early.”