“I’m the better-looking one,” Alessandro retorted as Vittorio and Emily guided him out of the library with Massimo and Kelly at their heels.
“Remember what I said about their egos,” Stefano muttered before leaving with his wife and daughter.
Before Sophia departed, Carlo touched her arm to stop her. Fabrizia didn’t miss the meaningful look on his face. “Thank you, sweetheart, for leading the pack. It meant the world to me.”
“Good. It was supposed to.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss her father on the cheek. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
“I won’t, unfortunately,” Bruno said. He clapped a hand on Rocco’s shoulder. “I have an exam in the morning and need to get back, but I look forward to getting to know you over the coming years. I hope to meet Enzo and Lina, as well.”
“I read that you’re planning a medical career?” At Bruno’s nod, Rocco said, “I’m sure we’ll have plenty to talk about.”
“Rocco might enjoy a tour of the kennel,” Fabrizia said once she was alone with Carlo and Rocco. To Rocco, she explained, “It’s Carlo’s favorite spot in the entire palace complex. We have a new litter of Sarcaccian Shepherds. They’re beautiful, loyal dogs.”
“Umberto mentioned that Massimo has one. We saw it in the garden, playing fetch with one of your staff.”
“No doubt someone trying to keep the beast out of the fountain. Gaspare loves the water.” She offered Rocco what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’ve matters to attend to, but thank you so much for coming. I’ll see you again at dinner.”
She gave her husband a quick pat on the arm as she passed by, then kept her pace brisk as she exited the library and made her way to the apartment. She had nothing on her agenda for the rest of the day—she’d assumed she’d be holed up watching news reports of the press conference, with Carlo ducking in for updates when he needed a break from reading the large pile of government documents in his office—but perhaps viewing the aftermath by herself would be better.
If it exploded as she anticipated, it’d distract her from wondering what was so important Carlo wished to speak to Rocco alone.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Seventy-two hours.
The local news blathered in the background as Justine ate her lunch of grilled fish, roasted beets, and spinach salad. It was her go-to meal when she was in training. No wine, no gnocchi, no cheesy calzones. Not that she felt deprived. Nothing she ate registered on her palate since Rocco called it quits on their marriage night before last.
I need to let you go.
She rolled her eyes as she remembered their last moments together. What a stupid phrase, especially since Rocco needed her now more than ever. But given the determination she’d seen in his eyes alongside the hurt, she’d decided to get out of the car rather than point out the obvious. She told herself she’d give him seventy-two hours—three days and three nights—to absorb his conversation with Carlo, to reassess what he wanted, and to think through what was best for both of them.
He loved her and wanted her. That much was clear in the way he physically held himself back from touching her. But, self-sacrificing, valiant male that he was, he obviously hadn’t realized that she was better with him than without.
He was a man of science. He’d figure it out.
“I hope,” she grumbled to herself as she forked through her salad to spear the last tomato. Teresa had nearly ruined their relationship once before. Justine would be damned if she’d allow Teresa to do so again from the grave.
Rocco should recognize that, too. Justine Flyte didn’t go down without a fight.
She picked up her cell phone to re-read the message from the ski coach who’d contacted her late last night saying he’d heard she’d successfully completed rehabbing her leg and was hoping to compete next season. He was currently working out of a training center in Switzerland and wanted to set up a time to talk on the phone. The man was well-known in the sport and had coached several of her friends and competitors over the years. Justine knew his style would be a good fit for hers, but she hadn’t answered yet. Rocco had a few more hours before the mental timer she’d set for his response ran out.
Not that she had a plan if the hour ticked by with no contact. Should she call? Show up at his doorstep? All she knew was that she didn’t want to leave Croatia without talking to him again.
She was about to set down the phone when another message appeared, this from a Norwegian coach she’d interviewed and nearly hired years ago. As with the first coach, this one wrote to say she’d heard through the rumor mill that Justine was ready to ski again and in the market for a new coach. She said she’d love another chance to discuss working together. As Justine closed the message, yet another appeared. Another world-class coach, and a message nearly identical to the first two.
Her former coach must’ve meant what he’d said about putting out feelers for her. It was gratifying to see top-flight coaches show interest, especially after they’d witnessed her gruesome wreck, but until Rocco reasoned his way through their relationship, Justine was trapped in limbo.
She tossed back the last of her iced tea and carried her plate to the sink, only to stop short when she noticed the image on the television. She couldn’t hear the newscaster’s exact words, but the photo of King Carlo in the upper corner of the screen sent her scrambling for the remote so she could turn up the volume. Before it was loud enough for Justine to hear, video feed from inside the palace panned from where the Barrali siblings stood against a lush green wall, past a doorway, to land on two figures in the corner of the room.
Her heart clenched as she recognized Rocco as the man on the right, looking larger than life. He wore a dark jacket over an open white shirt that emphasized the richness of his olive skin and the bright amber of his eyes. He’d allowed his beard to grow over the last three days, but rather than making him appear scruffy, even that short growth gave him the dark, dangerous air he’d had when he’d entered her apartment the night Karpovsky had come for her. The overall effect was one of power, as if Rocco belonged with the Barrali family, in their palace, standing next to Umberto and taking stock of the room.
But, of course, he would look that powerful. Rocco carried the Barrali genes. He was as intelligent as any of them, Carlo included, and was self-made, having reached the pinnacle of success in a challenging field without having had the benefits of being raised a Barrali.
Perhaps that was a reason for the beard, though it may have been a subconscious one. It differentiated him from Vittorio and Alessandro.
“…stood in the back of the room during the press conference, away from the king’s legitimate children,” the woman identified as an expert on the royal family was saying. “Though he was not introduced, based on photographs taken at Johns Hopkins, this does appear to be Rocco Cornaro, the man the king named as one of his illegitimate children with Teresa Fedeli. Two other children, Enzo Cornaro and Lina Cornaro, did not appear to be at today’s press conference. The palace has neither confirmed nor denied any of the Cornaro siblings’ presence at the palace today, nor commented on the nature of the relationship between the Cornaros and the royal family.”
“What does this mean for the line of succession?” the news anchor asked as the camera flashed back to the news desk. “Since Rocco Cornaro is older than the crown prince, can he make any claim to the throne?”
“None whatsoever,” the woman responded. “Sarcaccian law is quite clear that only legitimate children of the monarch may inherit. However, it’s astounding that such a secret has been kept for over forty years. You can bet that in the coming days, political observers throughout Europe will ask what other secrets the Barrali family has hidden. It will also be interesting to see whether this impacts the family’s high approval rating. Sarcaccia is rare in that the monarch is a true head of state. A slide in the Barrali family’s popularity may open debate in the country about whether they should remain a monarchy or move to a more democratic system of government.”
/> “The country does have an elected parliament, but the king holds the true power. Has there been any indication that could change with this revelation, Maria?”
“It’s too soon to tell. Right now, the media is scrambling to learn all they can about these illegitimate children, all of whom are well into adulthood. I think the long-term question will be about their late mother. The king danced around the fact that a crime was committed here. He used words like ‘inappropriate’ and ‘improper’ to describe his relationship with Teresa Fedeli. Even if the king was a willing participant, this is a clear-cut case of statutory rape, given that he was under the legal age of consent at the time it began.”
“Much more to come on this story as it evolves,” the anchor said before he segued to report on a fire that gutted a warehouse near the town of Split.
Justine moved closer to the television, flipping through channels to catch what tidbits she could from other news reports. When the lunch hour ended and afternoon programming began, she switched to her computer, bringing up story after story until she found video of the entire press conference. King Carlo’s statement had been brief, centering on the bare facts and asking for privacy for the Cornaro siblings.
She doubted it’d do much good, either for the king or for Rocco, let alone for Enzo and Lina.
It certainly wouldn’t help her. Rocco had backed up his determination with action. He’d never call her now, not to reunite, not if he knew the press was watching his every move.
I need to let you go.
“It’s not true,” she said to the empty room. He needed her. He wanted her. He loved her. Maybe, at the height of emotion following his discussion with Carlo, he’d been able to pull away from her, but only because he’d wrapped his hands around the steering wheel to prevent it. And because she’d finally gotten out of the car.
But did she want a man willing to walk away from her based on principle?
Yes. Hell, yes. She wanted him more. Because she knew he was doing it because he thought it was best for her.
Not because it was the easy way. The convenient way. Or because it was for Teresa.
A slow, wicked smile crept across Justine’s face. He had to come back, if only to retrieve what he’d left in her handbag. Well, now he’d probably have to travel halfway around the world for it.
Deep in her heart, she knew he’d make the right decision when he saw her face-to-face.
She picked up her phone and began tapping out messages to the coaches.
* * *
“You said you wouldn’t be home when the news broke,” Carlo said once Queen Fabrizia left the library. “I didn’t interpret that to mean you’d be here.”
Rocco smiled at the king’s tone. “Seemed the rational place. Reporters won’t camp out at my villa to hunt for me or question whether or not we’re acquainted.”
Carlo regarded him for a beat, then said, “I suppose that’s true. Walk with me.”
They passed through a half-dozen rooms filled with ornate furniture and antique rugs. Paintings Rocco assumed to be invaluable covered the walls. Many featured past kings and queens, while others depicted Sarcaccia’s gorgeous waterfront in years gone by. One painting in particular caught Rocco’s eye.
“You like that one?”
Rocco paused, studying the Impressionist rendering of a grassy field at sunrise. A horse stood near a fence to one side of the painting, its head raised in anticipation as if a beloved owner stood just out of the picture. “It looks like a Degas, but it’s lighter and cheerier than what he usually paints.”
“You have a good eye. Degas is known for his depictions of ballerinas and dance schools, but he also painted several scenes in Paris cafés and of racehorses. This one was done for my great-grandfather after he visited France and saw one of the Impressionist exhibitions. He was taken with Degas’s style and asked Degas if he’d consider memorializing a favorite horse.”
“That’s…stunning.” Rocco couldn’t imagine what an original Degas would fetch, especially one as beautiful and unique as this. There was a quality to the way the painting captured the light, making the field appear to sparkle with morning dew. It was the type of painting that invited one to linger and appreciate its nuances.
“What’s stunning is that Degas said no, then presented my great-grandfather with this painting as a gift six months later. It was a complete surprise. Years later, when Degas started to lose his eyesight, my great-grandfather offered the services of his personal physician. Degas refused. Said the king had become too reform-minded and that it wouldn’t be appropriate to accept help from such a person.”
Rocco looked at the painting in awe. It amazed him that Carlo’s great-grandfather—actually, his own great-great-grandfather—had known Edgar Degas and tried to help him in his later years.
Carlo ran his hand down the edge of the gilt frame. “Of course, it wasn’t a political or moral issue at all. Degas intentionally isolated himself from his friends as he grew older, using whatever excuse he could. Now it would likely be diagnosed as depression, but in those days it was chalked up to the vagaries of an aging artistic temperament.”
The king stepped back from the painting and smiled. “It was because of this painting I passed my art history course in college. My great-grandfather’s stories about Degas turning into a stubborn grouch who refused to accept kindnesses helped me remember which paintings he completed near the end of his life.” Carlo cocked his head. “I was a terrible art history student, but my parents insisted I take the class, given the nature of our family’s collection.”
“You seem to appreciate it now.”
“I appreciate the stories more than the art. My wife appreciates the works themselves.” He gestured for Rocco to continue walking with him. “I didn’t ask you to stay to discuss art, though even for me, art is an easier topic than anything of a personal nature.”
“The press conference.”
“The press conference.” The king nodded to a guard, who bowed before she pushed open a heavy wooden door for the king and Rocco to pass through. They emerged onto a set of stone steps. At the bottom, a gravel path wended its way through the palace gardens.
“How are Lina and Enzo?”
“They left their homes yesterday to avoid the coverage. I did the same, then told them I was considering coming here.”
The king folded his hands behind his back as he walked. “What did they think?”
“They didn’t say and I didn’t ask.” He wasn’t going to tell Carlo that mending fences with the twins would be an uphill battle. Not that Rocco had completely mended fences with the king himself. However, the fact that the king could’ve used the press conference to cast Teresa as a villain and protect his own reputation, yet chose not to do so, was a point in the monarch’s favor.
“The coverage will be brutal. I doubt they’ll escape it.”
“They can handle it.”
“Commentators will soon note that I’ve committed a crime.” When Rocco opened his mouth to argue that the crime was his mother’s, the king held up a hand to stay him. “I failed to report a felony and took steps to cover its existence for decades. Despite being the so-called victim, I’m also a head of state and held to a that standard. There will be calls by the usual malcontents to censure me for hiding what happened. I have no doubt of it.”
He slowed as they approached a bed of hot pink roses, most of which were still in bud. “The press may ask you, Lina, and Enzo whether you believe I should be prosecuted. Or they may interrogate you about your mother and what you knew about her relationship with me. I’ll do whatever I can to draw the attention from the three of you, but I can’t stop it entirely. For that, I apologize. None of you should be put in a position where you must defend your mother. Or me.”
Rocco glanced down at the label identifying the roses as a variety called the Princess Sophia. “You’ve thought about this a great deal.”
“I’ve had many years to do so. Years with a loving wife by my
side with whom I could discuss the issue.”
“You say that in a rather parental tone. I assume it’s because you’re making a point?”
Carlo bent to smell one of the newly-opened blooms, then turned his head to smile at Rocco. “You think I didn’t notice the look on your face when Massimo mentioned Justine? It spoke volumes.”
“I wasn’t aware of any look.”
“Nor was Massimo, but your response to him confirmed my suspicion. You didn’t say, ‘I’ll be sure to tell her’ or give any other indication that you plan to see Justine in the near future.”
Rocco’s spine stiffened at the king’s insight, but he managed to sound casual. “Was I supposed to?”
“If a prince told me my wife was amazing, yes, I’d say thank you and tell him that I’d pass the message along. So would you if you and Justine were together.” He released the rose and continued on the path. Rocco joined him. “I take it you’re not?”
He saw no point in denial. “It’s for the best.”
“Is that what she told you?”
Irritation flared at the king’s directness. “I realize that you’re a monarch and used to having your queries answered by those in your orbit, but I’m not—”
“That’s all right. You need only listen.” The king waved a hand, cutting off Rocco’s argument. To Rocco’s surprise, Carlo didn’t seem the least bit bothered. “Being in love necessarily means letting go of one’s pride. No one wishes to admit that when it comes to certain people, they’ll always allow their heart to rule their head. But that’s what love is, and I believe you and Justine love each other.”
The king angled a look at Rocco. “How much of your separation is because you wish to protect her—because I suspect that’s what your head tells you is right—and how much is a matter of pride?”
The Royal Bastard Page 23
