by Linda Turner
Now as the guests mingled about and talked among themselves in hushed voices, their eyes lifted time and time again to the clock on the wall. And with good reason. King Marcus was late to his own meeting. Speculation rippled around the room like heat lightning on a summer day. Where was the king? Had he decided not to make a decision today, after all? What was going on?
"Maybe you should go see if something is wrong," Prince Rashid told his wife, Julia. "This can't be an easy decision for your father. He doesn't want to admit Lucas is dead."
Julia could well understand that. Her brother had always been so full of life. She couldn't imagine him dead at thirty-six. But it had been a year since his plane had crashed, and even though his body had never been found, what choice did she and the rest of the family have but to accept the fact that he must have died during the winter storms that blanketed the Colorado Rockies after the crash? If he had survived both the crash and the storms, surely he would have found a way to return to them by now.
It was the not knowing that was killing her parents. She'd watched them struggle with hope and despair and, finally, resignation, and her heart ached for them. Now that she and Rashid had their own baby boy, Omar, she didn't even want to think about what it would be like to lose him. How did a parent handle the death of a child?
"Father just needs some time," she said huskily, blinking back tears. "He'll be here in a moment."
Standing nearby, Rashid's father, Sheik Ahmed, and Rashid's brother, Hassan, surveyed the crowd with the sheik's advisor, Butrus Dabir. There had been a time in the not too distant past when the Kamals wouldn't have been caught dead anywhere near the Sebastianis or Montebello. A broken betrothal between the two families in the late 1800s had caused a century-long feud that might have gone on indefinitely if Princess Julia and Prince Rashid had not fallen in love. With their wedding and the birth of their baby, everything had, thankfully, changed, but no one had forgotten the past.
"I was hoping the king would name Princess Julia and Rashid as heirs to the throne, but the word on the street is that he's leaning toward Duke Lorenzo Sebastiani," Butrus said quietly.
"That's understandable," Sheik Ahmed replied. "The Sebastianis have ruled Montebello since the 1880s. King Marcus will protect that heritage by guaranteeing that the monarchy remains in Sebastiani hands. Julia is now a Kamal .. .as is her son," he added proudly. It went without saying that Omar was the apple of his eye. "I have no issue with his choice of Lorenzo, if that is, in fact, Marcus's choice."
"Lorenzo is King Marcus's nephew and top aide," Hassan added. "He's a military hero and well respected by Montebellans. He's the natural choice to succeed the king since he has no other sons now that Prince Lucas is dead. And Lorenzo is a good man, one who will follow in Marcus's footsteps and maintain our newly formed ties with Montebello."
"True," Butrus said. "But as the king's heir, Lorenzo will eventually have to forfeit his position as head of Royal Intelligence. That won't be easy for him to do."
Across the room, Lorenzo's thoughts ran along the same lines. He loved his uncle, and for the sake of the country, he would do what was asked of him. But privately, deep in his heart, he hoped Marcus would not choose him. He had little desire to be king.
His illegitimate half brother, Desmond, however, had a very different take on the whole situation. Waiting for Marcus to put in an appearance, Desmond almost rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "This is the day you will be named king," Desmond told Lorenzo proudly. "No one deserves it more."
Lorenzo had to laugh at that. "Aren't you rushing things a bit? The king has kept his own counsel about this. We don't know who he's going to pick."
"Of course we do," his brother replied confidently. "You're perfect for the job, and the king knows it. Trust me. Today's going to turn out to be the most important day of your life."
Lorenzo wasn't surprised that he had Desmond's total support. He always had. From the time Desmond had come into his life when Lorenzo was thirteen, he'd been there for him in a way Lorenzo's older brother Max never had. Oh, Lorenzo knew Max loved him, too, but Max had joined the Montebellan army at eighteen, then eventually moved to the United States. Since then, he only came home occasionally for visits. Desmond, on the other hand, was the one Lorenzo could count on in spite of the fact that they'd had different mothers and had not been raised together from birth.
"I don't know about that," Lorenzo replied wryly, "but if the king does choose me, I hope you'll be one of my advisors. I'm not much of a diplomat. I'm going to need all the help I can get."
"Of course I'll help you," Desmond replied smoothly, delighted with his brother's words. He kept his glee, however, carefully hidden behind an easy smile. "Haven't I helped King Marcus all these months since poor Lucas was lost? I'll do the same for you. More, in fact. You're my brother. I can't imagine being anywhere else but at your side."
He spoke with a sincerity that was well practiced, and he wasn't surprised when Lorenzo swallowed it whole. His brother was nobody's fool, but Desmond had come into his life when Lorenzo was young and vulnerable and feeling lost, and it hadn't taken much effort on Desmond's part to win his trust. At the time, Desmond had to use his brother to get close to the king. That, it turned out, had been a stroke of genius on his part. Because now it was his brother who would be king. As his trusted advisor and closest family member, Desmond intended to take full advantage of his new position. After all, Desmond was the son of a duke, just like Lorenzo—a bastard son, but a son nonetheless. It was about time he came into his royal due.
What a shame that Prince Lucas had foolishly crashed his plane into the side of a mountain, Desmond thought snidely. Maybe one day, he'd summon up the strength to shed a tear for him.. .after he celebrated his own good fortune.
First, however, the king had to name Lorenzo his successor, something he should have done ten minutes ago. Troubled by the delay, Desmond frowned at the closed door where the king was expected to make his entrance. "I don't understand the king's tardiness. Maybe you should see if there's some kind of problem," he suggested. "Something isn't right."
Knowing how his uncle grieved for his son, Lorenzo wasn't surprised that Marcus wasn't his usual punctual self. With the announcement of a new heir to the throne, he was publicly admitting that he was accepting the fact that his son was dead. That would be difficult for any parent.
Wondering how he would find the strength to deal with such a situation himself, Lorenzo said quietly, "He probably just needs a little more time to come to terms with everything. I'll go check on him."
* * *
Whatever Eliza was expecting when she caught a cab at the Montebellan airport and went directly to the royal palace, it wasn't the mob of reporters that crammed the front gates, trying to gain admittance. Surprised, she asked the cab driver, "What's going on? Nothing's happened to the king, has it?"
"Oh, no, miss," he assured her as he took the fare and tip she held out to him. "He's fine. Or at least he's as fine as any father can be when he announces his son is dead."
"What?!"
"It's true," he said sadly. "It's been a year since Prince Lucas's plane crashed and he went missing. No one wants to believe he's dead, but there hasn't been much hope for a long time now. I guess that's why the king decided to name a successor. Like it or not, the living have to keep on living."
Horrified, she hurriedly collected her Notebook computer and pushed open her door. "Oh, my God! I have to stop him. He can't do this!"
Puzzled by her reaction, the cabby laughed. "Sure he can, lady. He can do anything he likes. He's the king!"
Struggling with her things as she rushed toward the crowd at the gate, Eliza didn't hear him. This couldn't be happening! She should have tried to contact the palace the second Willy showed her the scarf. But she'd known she wouldn't be allowed to speak to the king and queen, and the news she had wasn't the kind that should be relayed over the phone. Besides, would anyone believe her without seeing the evidence?
"Hey, watch it!"
"What do you think you're doing, lady? Get at the back of the line. We were here first."
"Too bad," she snapped. "I'm in a hurry and you guys are in my way. Move it, will you? I've got to talk to the king."
The minute the words were out of her mouth, she knew it was the wrong thing to say, but it was too late. All around her, her fellow reporters mimicked, "Move it, I've got to talk to the king."
"You can wait, just like the rest of us, mademoiselle," a skinny Frenchman told her, looking down his nose at her. "And you can forget about talking to the king. His press secretary will tell us whatever he wants us to know."
Eliza knew he was right, but his attitude irked her, and she didn't even bother to respond. Quickly stepping around him, she told the guard at the gate, "It's very important that I see the king. I have some information he needs..."
Surrounded by competing reporters, she didn't dare tell him what that information was, but he wasn't interested, anyway. "Nice try," he drawled, "but I've got my orders. No reporters allowed inside the palace. You'll have to wait, just like everyone else."
Frustrated, she swore softly. So much for trying to go through channels. She liked to play by the rules, but sometimes it just didn't pay. Now it was time to follow her gut and do what she should have done when she'd first seen the crowd of reporters fighting to get inside—find another way in.
"Fine," she retorted, pretending to pout as she let herself be pushed to the back of the crowd. "You can't blame a girl for trying."
The front door of the palace opened then, distracting the crowd at the gate, and that was just the opportunity Eliza was looking for to slip away. As the press secretary informed the crowd that the king's announcement would be released momentarily, she quietly hurried along the palace wall hoping to find some place to scramble over now that the guard was distracted. As luck would have it, she saw a delivery truck enter the service gate at the far end and before it could close automatically behind the vehicle, she slipped inside.
After getting over her initial shock at suddenly finding herself within mere yards of the royal palace, she quickly made her way around the corner of the stone and marble building, looking for a way in. But every door she came to was locked!
"I can't believe this!" she muttered, continuing around the building. An entire staff of people took care of the daily operation of the palace. Surely someone had mistakenly left a door open somewhere!
Frustrated, she was about to give up hope when she rushed around another corner and suddenly found herself at the rear of the palace, facing the sea. And there, right in front of her, were the royal gardens.. .and a veranda with a set of French doors that looked like they'd been placed there just for her.
"Yes!" she whispered triumphantly. Now, if they were just unlocked.
Her heart thundering wildly, she dashed up onto the veranda and turned the doorknob, half expecting an alarm to blare at any second. But the door opened effortlessly, silently, and just that easily, she found herself standing inside what appeared to be the ballroom of the royal palace of Montebello.
Take notes! a voice in her head ordered sharply. But there was no time. The room was deserted, and she took advantage of that to quickly stow her computer and overnight bag behind the drapes at the window. Hopefully, they would still be there when she got back. If she got back, she silently amended. She'd just broken into a king's palace. In some countries, they threw you into the dungeon for that if you got caught.
"So don't get caught," she told herself. "Act like you have a right to be here and no one will even spare you a second glance."
It was a simple plan, one that had worked well for her in the past. Over the years, her job—and curiosity—had led her into any number of places where she had no business being, and she'd discovered that she could go practically anywhere if she acted like she knew what she was doing. So she smoothed her hair, slung her purse over her shoulder, and strode out of the ballroom like she owned the place.
Just as she'd hoped, it worked. Stepping into a wide, impressive corridor lined with a collection of paintings the likes of which she'd only seen in a museum, she passed several members of the staff, and they didn't even blink at the sight of her. Relieved, she would have laughed, but she didn't dare. The less attention she drew to herself, the better.
Unfortunately, she didn't have a clue where she was going. She knew nothing about the layout of the palace or where the king planned to meet with the guests he'd invited to witness the naming of his new successor. Logic told her that the announcement would be made in one of the palace's public rooms, but that was strictly a guess on her part. For all she knew, they could be meeting in the family quarters, which could be anywhere.
Frowning, she reached an intersection of hallways and hesitated, not sure which way to turn. And just that easily, she made her first mistake. Suddenly, a door on her left opened, and before she could summon the look of confidence that had gotten her that far, she was caught.
"Who the devil are you?"
Swearing softly under her breath, she silently told herself to bluff her way out of this. But then she turned to face her captor and whatever she was going to say next flew right out of her head as she gasped in recognition. His Grace, Duke Lorenzo Sebastiani, the man everyone had been speculating for months might one day be named king!
They'd never met, of course, but she would have known him anywhere. Over the years, she'd lost track of the number of stories she'd written about him—first as a military hero who was rewarded with the title of duke by the king, then as head of the Montebello Royal Intelligence—and she'd enjoyed writing every one of them. There was just something about the man that had always struck her fancy. He was tough and smart and loyal, and his pictures hadn't begun to do him justice. Lean and well-muscled, his sandy-brown hair streaked with golden highlights, and his green eyes dark with a mixture of emotions she couldn't begin to understand, it was easy to see why he, like the rest of the Sebastiani men, was one of the heartthrobs of Europe.
"Your Grace! Thank God! I need you to get a message to the king—"
"You're an American," he cut in, frowning in puzzlement. "How did you get in? There are no tours today."
"No, sir, I'm sure there aren't. I'm not a tourist. My name is Eliza Windmere. I'm with the Denver Sentinel—"
That was as far as she got. "A reporter," he said with a grimace of distaste. "I should have known. The palace is crawling with them. C'mon. You're out of here." And before she could begin to guess his intentions, he grabbed her arm and started tugging her toward the nearest exit.
"Wait! You don't understand. I have information about Prince Lucas."
His jaw set, he didn't so much as spare her a glance. "Yeah, right. Let me see if I can guess. You found him waiting tables in L.A., and for the right price, you'll tell King Marcus where he is. Save your breath, sweetheart. I've heard it all before. The king gets a hundred letters a week from people just like you. I don't know how you all live with yourself. Don't you have any conscience?"
"Of course I do," she retorted, stung. But heat burned her cheeks and deep inside, she had to wonder if he was right. The king and queen had lost a son, and though she had come to give them news they longed to hear, she also wanted an exclusive when they learned he was alive. So how was she any different from the con men trying to cash in on the Sebastianis' grief?
Uncomfortable with the question, she reminded herself that she wasn't trying to extort money from the king or keep his son's whereabouts from him. Of course she wanted the story, but sh
e had that already. At this point, she was just doing the right thing and bringing the king news of his son. "Look, I know how this must look, but I'm serious. I have vital information—"
"And I'm the tooth fairy," he retorted. "Put that in your paper and smoke it. It's probably one of those scandal rags, anyway."
That was the wrong thing to say. Stopping abruptly, she jerked free of his grasp and drew herself up to her full five foot seven inches and gave him a narrow-eyed look that should have reduced him to the size of an ant. "For your information, I wouldn't be caught dead writing that kind of trash, so I'd appreciate it if you'd keep a civil tongue in your mouth."
She'd caught him off guard, and for a moment, he had the grace to look embarrassed. But then he obviously realized that he'd just been brought to task by a reporter, of all things. "That was good," he told her dryly. "For a moment there, I actually forgot that you broke in here."
"I didn't break in. The door was unlocked—"
"So you thought you'd just walk right in," he finished for her. "I wonder how you'd feel if I did the same at your house."
"Dammit, I just need to talk to the king!"
"Not a chance," he growled, and grabbed her arm again.
Indignant, she tried to jerk free, but this time, the duke had a firmer grip, and there was no escaping him. Still, she had to try. Struggling, uncaring that she'd probably have bruises on her arms tomorrow, she cried, "You're the most irritating man. I don't know why I ever thought you were charming."
