by Linda Turner
Knowing that, Eliza felt she had to try to talk some sense into Lorenzo one more time. "This isn't going to work, Your Grace. If you'd just listen to me..."
For an answer, he stepped forward and knocked loudly on the door. Not surprisingly, no one answered.
"Obviously, he's not home," he said, scowling.
"Oh, he's here," she said, and nodded to a metal loop on the door where it could be padlocked from the outside. "When he's not here, he padlocks the door."
"But there's no vehicle."
"Not that you can see," she replied. "He drives an old army jeep that he hides in the woods."
She didn't say another word, but she didn't have to. She'd made her point. Willy was home, and she knew him better than Lorenzo did. If he wasn't answering his door, it was because he was feeling threatened.
Glaring at the closed door, Lorenzo swore softly and shot Eliza a hard look. "I screwed up, didn't I? Don't answer that," he said quickly. "I know you told me he didn't trust outsiders. I just thought I could get him to talk to me."
"Why? Because royal blood flows through your veins? Trust me, Willy couldn't care less about that. In his eyes, you're a stranger. You could be the president of the United States, and he still wouldn't open his door to you."
"But he will for you."
She shrugged. "If conditions are right and he wants to."
Frustrated, Lorenzo knew he had no one but himself to blame for this little setback—she'd warned him that he needed her if he expected Willy to cooperate, but he hadn't believed her. As head of Royal Intelligence, he didn't have to go through someone else to get the information he needed. And he didn't like it, dammit, but what choice did he have?
His pride stung, he said stiffly, "Would you call him, then, and see what you can arrange? We can't even hope to find the prince without knowing where Willy found the scarf."
For an answer, Eliza pulled out her cell phone and punched in Willy's number. When she got a scratchy answering machine, she wasn't surprised. Willy always retreated when he was upset. Hopefully, he'd surface soon.
"Willy, this is Eliza," she said quietly when the machine began to record. "I apologize for intruding. Duke Lorenzo and I are leaving now, but it's very important that I speak to you. Please meet me tomorrow morning at nine at the waterfall. The duke will be with me, but I'm the only one you have to speak to, okay? Please don't let me down, Willy. We need your help."
She hung up and found herself face-to-face with a very irritated duke. "What the hell did you do that for?" he demanded. "I don't want to meet him tomorrow. What's wrong with today? It's not even eleven-thirty in the morning. We've got the whole damn day ahead of us."
"Willy needs time."
"We don't have time! Don't you get it? Thanks to your boss, the word is out that the prince is alive. And that means he's in danger. Do you know how many con artists, opportunists and outright thugs read the headlines this morning and saw this as their lucky day? They figured out— like we did—that the prince had to be in some kind of distress or he would have contacted his family by now. And they're going to go after him."
The thought sickened Eliza, but there was nothing she could do about it. "I'm doing the best I can, Your Grace," she replied. "If I could hold Willy's feet to the fire and make him talk, I would. But all we can do now is wait. Trust me. He won't talk until tomorrow."
If they were lucky. She didn't say the words, but she knew he heard them, nonetheless. His green eyes dark with fury, he struggled with his own impatience, and she knew exactly how he felt. She hated Willy's phobias, hated the way he called her with a press-stopping story he'd somehow stumbled across, only to retreat like a scared turtle when she needed more information. Sometimes, his tips paid off. Many times they didn't. She could handle that because she knew whenever she followed up a tip from anyone, there was always a chance it would fizzle into nothing. What drove her crazy, though, was the number of times Willy had left her cooling her heels. Patience wasn't her strong suit, and she could well understand Lorenzo's frustration.
To his credit, though, he knew when he was beat. Sighing in disgust, he said, "All right. It looks like we're going to play this Willy's way. We might as well go back to the hotel."
Chapter 5
They stayed at the same hotel they had before, this time in a suite with two connecting bedrooms, and Eliza spent the day working on the opening of her feature. It should have been easy, but she felt as if her entire career was on the line, and with good cause. Not only was Deborah waiting in the wings to take over her column, but no one else in the world had this story. She had to do it right. So she struggled with words and couldn't seem to find a place to start the story.. .until she shifted her focus to her meeting with the king and queen of Montebello. As she described the palace and the reaction of the prince's parents to the news that there was a good chance their son was still alive, she knew her readers would be more than satisfied with the story.
"I want to read that."
Lost in the quiet world she always retreated to in order to write, it was several long minutes before Lorenzo's words registered. When they did, she glanced up, startled, to find him scowling at her from the overstuffed chair from which he'd apparently been watching her for some time. Looking over the top of her glasses, she said, "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me," he said flatly. "I want to read that. If there's anything that might be harmful to the prince, you'll have to take it out."
Her eyes narrowed fractionally. "Really? I don't remember anything in my agreement with King Marcus that gives you the right to censorship."
"That's because there isn't one."
"You're damn straight, there isn't one! I never would have agreed to it if there had been. This is the United States, Your Grace. We're real big on freedom of speech, not to mention freedom of the press, around here."
The citizens of Montebello were, too, but he only said, "It's my duty to protect the prince. If I say there's something in your writing that could be harmful to him, it's coming out. End of discussion."
She would have never deliberately placed anyone in danger with her writing, but what went into her column was for her and Simon to decide, not a fairy-tale duke who would be king. And it was high time he realized that.
"You think so, do you?" she taunted, arching a brow. "Well, take that!" And with a single key stroke, she sent the beginning of the feature in an e-mail to Simon.
Later, she realized it was her red hair that got her into trouble. The spark of temper that went along with that hair had been her cross to bear all her life. It had just flared like a match. She knew they were both under a great deal of strain, knowing the prince was out there somewhere, in possible danger, and they couldn't discover where because her informant wasn't in the mood to cooperate yet. She felt guilty and frustrated...and resentful that Lorenzo thought so little of her just because she was a reporter.
Stunned, Lorenzo couldn't believe her defiance. No one had ever challenged him so openly before! Outraged, he stormed over to her, so frustrated that he stupidly thought there had to be a way he could retrieve the e-mail. "Give me that!"
"No! What are you doing? Let go!"
Jumping to her feet, she grabbed her computer and clutched it to her chest even as he reached for it, and for a second, they acted like two children fighting over a favorite toy. Then his fingers accidentally brushed against her breast and everything changed. In a heartbeat, awareness flashed between them like heat lightning.
Drawing in a sharp breath, Lorenzo froze. He was, he liked to think, a man who knew women. But in that instant, he felt like a sixteen-year-old who'd experienced the kick of sexual attraction for the first time in his life and didn't have a clue what to do about it. With a will of their own, his eyes dropped to her lips, which had parted in a soft gasp, and his mind blurred. All he could think about was kissing her.
And it was all her fault. That soft, fresh scent of hers was driving him crazy. He'd dreamed of her last night,
replayed in his sleep that moment in the used-clothing store when he'd helped her into the sheepskin coat and turned her in front of the mirror so she could see how pretty she was. He should have kissed her then. He'd wanted to, but the store clerk had watched them with an eagle eye, and the time hadn't been appropriate.
But now they were alone and he could already taste her....
Need clawing at him, he reached for her.. .and saw his own need reflected in her eyes. And just that quickly, the fog of desire misting his brain cleared. What was he doing? he wondered wildly, stiffening. They didn't even like each other! The only reason they were working together was because they were being forced to. And she was a reporter, for heaven's sake! How had he allowed himself to forget that? God only knew what would end up in her column if he was stupid enough to drop his guard with her.
That brought him back to his senses as nothing else could, and with a softly muttered curse, he abruptly stepped back. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking of rushing you like that. I'm just going crazy sitting around here twiddling my thumbs, and then when you sent that e-mail, all I could think of was getting it back. If anything happened to the prince because of something you wrote—"
"It won't," she said hoarsely, her heart pounding crazily. He'd almost kissed her, she thought, dazed, then told herself she had to be mistaken. She had a real talent for pushing his buttons. He was furious with her—why would he want to kiss her? Her imagination was just playing with her mind and her lonely heart, and if she wasn't careful, she was going to make a complete fool of herself.
Focus on what's important here, a voice in her head said sternly. If you want hearts and flowers, pick up a romance novel!
The story, she reminded herself, drawing in a calming breath. This was the biggest story of her life. Nothing else mattered but that. If the nights were long and she ached to feel a man's arms around her again, holding her close, that was something she would just have to deal with.
"It was just the opening of the feature on the prince," she said stiffly. "It was harmless."
"Then why didn't you let me read it?"
"Because I don't have to." It was as simple as that. "If we're going to work together with any degree of success, you're going to have to trust me. I know you don't like reporters, and we both know how badly I want this story, but not at the expense of anyone's life, especially the prince's. That's not who I am, Your Grace. If something happens to him before you find him, it won't be because of me."
For a long moment, he just stared at her with those probing, all-seeing eyes of his, and she was afraid that he would somehow see how much she regretted that he hadn't kissed her. But she didn't flinch, and something he saw in her steady gaze must have finally gotten through to him. The stiff set of his shoulders relaxed, and in his sigh, she finally heard acceptance.
"You're right," he said gruffly. "I've been acting paranoid just because you're a reporter and that's not fair to you. You've done nothing but be upfront and honest, and I owe you an apology." Holding out his hand, he said, "I'd like to start over, this time as partners instead of adversaries. What do you say? Do we have a deal?"
She'd never been one to hold a grudge, especially when an apology was so sincerely delivered. Relieved, she smiled and shook his hand and tried not to notice how nice his fingers felt when they closed around hers. "Deal."
* * *
The next morning when they left to meet with Willy, there was no question that Eliza would do the talking. Lorenzo no longer had a problem with that. He'd set his ego aside and made peace, and as he drove over the rough terrain to their meeting place, he thanked God that he had Eliza along. They'd taken so many turns and twists on dirt roads that were little more than faint deer paths that he was completely turned around. That wasn't to say he couldn't find his way back to town if he had to—he had a compass and a damn good memory. But it would take him a while.
"This is it," Eliza said when the terrain turned to almost pure rock. "We stop here and walk the rest of the way."
Glancing around, Lorenzo frowned. There was no sign of another vehicle. "We're early. Willy doesn't appear to be here yet. Do you think he's coming?"
"If he is, he's here already. He would never take a chance of walking into something he's not sure of. If he decided to meet with us, he got here hours ago so he could check the place out. C'mon, I've got something special to show you."
Puzzled, Lorenzo stepped out of the truck, only to glance around in surprise as she joined him. "What's that noise?"
"The waterfall," she said with a grin. "Willy likes to meet here so he doesn't have to worry about anyone overhearing us."
In his travels, Lorenzo had seen everything from Niagara to Angel Falls in Venezuela, but when he followed Eliza through the trees to the foot of a waterfall that appeared out of nowhere, nothing had ever touched him quite like the falls that cascaded over the canyon wall six hundred feet above them. He didn't even know the name of the river that crashed to the rocks below to kick up a haze of icy mist, but it had a rugged, untouched beauty that left him awestruck. They were miles from anywhere, in the middle of a mountain wilderness that appeared untouched by man. Who else had seen this besides himself, God, Willy and Eliza?
"Like it?" Eliza asked, grinning.
"It's magnificent." And just the place for a meeting, he realized. The roar of the falls did, indeed, drown out all sound that was more than a foot or two away. No wonder Willy insisted on telling Eliza his secrets there. It was as safe as a soundproof room.
The thought had hardly registered when he glanced past Eliza and saw a middle-aged man of medium height cautiously approaching them. Stoop-shouldered and scruffy, his beard, mustache and shoulder-length hair gray with age, he looked right past Lorenzo and focused on Eliza. This was, Lorenzo knew without a doubt, the infamous Willy Cranshaw. Dressed in camouflage, from his boots to his waterproof jacket and skull cap, he would have blended into the terrain if Lorenzo hadn't been watching for him.
Eliza turned then and spied him, too, and grinned. With nothing more than that, Willy's entire demeanor changed. He grinned back at her, and for a short while, at least, his blue eyes were free of suspicion and he seemed happy to see her. Then his gaze once again shifted to Lorenzo, and the wariness was back, transforming his entire body. There wasn't the slightest doubt in Lorenzo's mind that the older man would have scurried off into the woods like a scared rabbit if he'd so much as looked at him wrong.
"Hey, Willy," Eliza said, drawing his attention back to her. "I'm glad you could make it."
"I like your new clothes," he said shyly. "They look good on you. Are you going to buy a ranch?"
"Not unless I win a million bucks in the Publisher's Clearinghouse sweepstakes," she retorted with a chuckle. "But, thanks. I like them, too. Duke Lorenzo helped me pick them out. He thought it might be safer for the prince if we disguised ourselves a little."
"So you're undercover? Like the CIA?"
"Not quite," she replied, smiling, "but close enough. The duke doesn't want anyone else to find the prince before he does and possibly hurt him. That's why I need to ask you a few questions for him, if that's all right."
"I dunno," he mumbled, ignoring Lorenzo completely. "Depends on what you want to talk about. You don't think I hurt the prince, do you?"
"Oh, no!" she assured him. "Thanks to you, his family knows he's alive. No one is blaming you for anything. But we do need to know exactly where you found the scarf. There may be other clues at the campsite that tell us more about the prince and where he may have gone when he left there."
Hesitating, Willy cocked his head at her. "You're going to put this in your story, aren't you? All about your search for the prince? Are you going to mention me? Will my name be in the paper?"
Expecting the question—he asked her the same thing every time he gave her a tip—she shrugged. "That depends on you. I know how you value your privacy, and I wouldn't want to do anything to destroy that. I can either mention your name o
r just refer to you as an unnamed source. The choice is yours."
When he considered his options, Eliza couldn't help but feel sorry for him. There was a part of him that longed for fame and fortune, but the war in Vietnam had scarred him, and as much as he yearned for publicity, his fear of people— and the government, in particular—sadly ruled his life. Not surprisingly, he said, "I think I like the sound of an unnamed source."
"That's fine," she replied easily. "But in the meantime, where did you find the scarf, Willy? We can't do anything until we know that."
"I just want to make sure I'm not going to get in trouble," he hedged, shooting Lorenzo another wary look. "I don't like the law, and if they find out I was hunting without a license up on Walnut Ridge, they're going to send someone after me."
"No one will know except you and me and the duke," she promised. "And we're not telling anyone. You know you can trust me, Willy. And the duke has no reason to wish you harm. He's very appreciative of your help. Because of you, the king and queen now know there's a good possibility that their son is alive. You gave them hope. Now help us find the prince. Where's the campsite? Up on Walnut Ridge?"
Nodding, he said, "It's on the backside of the ridge, about a mile straight north from where the forest service road forks. You can't miss it. It's back in a stand of aspen not too far from Elk Creek."
"And where did you find the scarf at the campsite? Was it just laying on the ground by the deserted campfire or what?"
He shook his head. "It was hanging on a dead tree branch a few feet away from the campsite. I think it got caught there when the prince got scared for some reason and ran away."
Out of the corner of her eye, Eliza saw Lorenzo roll his eyes, but he thankfully didn't say anything. If he had, Willy would have shut up like a clam and scurried back into the woods. "Why do you think he was scared, Willy? Was there some sign that he might have been in some kind of distress when he abandoned the campsite?"
"Not that I could tell," he replied honestly. "But the creek's not that far from the campsite.. .or where the prince's plane went down. I figure he wandered alongside the creek after he crashed and eventually built himself a campsite on the ridge. Some of the people looking for him had to figure the same thing."
