by Holly Jacobs
The time had come. She faced the inevitable and said, “Michael, we have to talk.”
She had to tell him and now was as good a time as any.
“I’ve been saying we have to talk for almost a week while you played your little seek and hide.”
“Hide-and-seek,” she corrected.
He just glared. “Played your games. Is it mine?”
“What?” She was sure she’d heard wrong. Michael couldn’t be asking what she thought he was asking. But he was staring at her stomach as if she had some big belly-button ring poking out.
“You’re pregnant,” he said flatly. “Is it mine?”
“I—” Her first impulse was to deny she was pregnant, even though she’d been just about to tell him.
She didn’t.
Instead she asked, “What on earth would make you say such a thing?”
“Three months,” he said with certainty. “I can do the math. You’re three months along. When were you going to tell me? Or were you going to tell me?”
“Why would I tell you? I’ve been dating a man named…” She paused a moment and then blurted out the first male name she could latch onto, “Stuart.”
She’d been reading E. B. White’s Stuart Little to the kids at Titles’ story time before she’d left Erie. Stuart was a good name.
“Ha.”
Michael wasn’t buying it. That much was clear.
Cara felt a bit insulted. After all, was it so hard to believe that another man might have found her attractive enough to date? “You don’t think someone else would be interested in me?” She didn’t have to fake the annoyance in her voice.
How dare the conceited prince feel as if once a woman had known him she was ruined for all other men.
Okay, so it might be true—was true—but still, if he thought so, it just made his swollen head seem almost too swollen for him to get his crown on.
Not that she’d ever seen him in a crown.
Still she was sure he had one and at the rate his ego was growing…
“There is no Stuart.” Michael didn’t look quite as sure of himself.
“Well, I call him Stu for short. He’s a nice man. A normal, home-by-five-every-night sort of man.”
“What does this Stuart do for a living?”
“He’s a…” Again she scrambled for an answer. “A professor at Gannon. That’s how we met.”
She was warming up to the fictional Stuart. He had no royal baggage, no hang-ups at all. He was perfect for her. “He came into Monarch’s and Titles for coffee and a book. We started talking, and before long we were dating. We’re still dating.”
“You’re doing more than dating if this baby’s his. How far along are you?”
“Thr—” She almost blurted out three months, but caught herself.
“Just barely,” she said instead.
“Why won’t you just admit the truth? I know there’s no Professor Stu.”
She should have thought of this before. Stuart was the perfect out. Her idea of Michael being the baby’s benevolent godfather would still work. He wouldn’t have to deal with the scandal of having an illegitimate baby.
“Put yourself in my place,” she said gently. “You’re a prince. Royalty. Something I’m not. Think about what it would be like if this were your baby, not that I’m admitting that,” she added hastily. “You have to think this through. If this baby were yours—and I’m not saying it is—but if the baby were yours, it wouldn’t just affect you and me, it would affect your people. You have obligations that have to take precedence. I may not be royal, but I’m pretty sure a prince can’t have an illegitimate baby.”
“Which is why we’ll get married.”
Cara didn’t mean to, but she snorted a ha that was even more emphatic than the one he’d used about her fictional Stuart.
“I don’t think so,” she assured him. “Again, you’re a prince, I own a bookstore. You can’t marry me. Think of the country.”
“There are any number of things I’ll do for my country, for my people. Who I marry is something I won’t let them dictate.”
“What about your parents? What would they say?”
She could only imagine their disappointment and disapproval. She didn’t want to cause them either—she genuinely liked Michael and Parker’s parents.
“They already love you.”
“Then what about me? Don’t you think I deserve something more than being the woman you had to marry?”
“I was looking for you—”
She cut him off. “Michael, you have to think about this. Think long and hard. Weigh all the options. Whatever happens next will affect more people than just us.”
“What did Parker say?” he asked.
“About the baby?” She shook her head. “I haven’t told her. Haven’t told anyone but my doctors.”
“You didn’t tell Parker?” He sounded surprised.
“At first I didn’t say anything to her and Shey because I didn’t want to take any of the attention from their weddings. I planned to tell them after their honeymoons.”
“And when were you going to tell me?”
“Not you, Stuart.”
Gently, so gently it was almost her undoing, he brushed a finger down her cheek. “Cara mia, I understand your fears and concerns. We’ll work through them. But I know in my heart that this is our baby, that there is no Stuart. This baby was conceived on the most magical night of my life.”
“When we kissed, the baby moved,” she found herself blurting out.
She wasn’t admitting there was no Stuart, or that the baby was Michael’s, at least not until he gave the situation some thought. But she longed—no, needed—to share it with him.
“It’s kicking now?” he asked.
“No kicking,” she said. “Just moving. Small flutters. You can’t feel it outside yet, but inside, I can feel it.”
“Our baby.” He reached his hand toward her, and for a moment she thought he was going to caress her stomach, but the moment passed and his hand fell back.
“I need to think about this,” he stated.
“Yes, you do. In the end, you’ll realize that there’s your duty to your country and to your family, that has to be your priority. I promise you that this baby will never know a moment of want, of need. This baby is already loved.”
“Cara,” he started but then just shook his head and walked away.
Yeah. That went well.
Cara felt tears well up again.
Damned allergies.
Five
Michael smiled and waved at the crowd, but even as he went through the motions of opening the new hospital wing, his mind swirled around what he’d learned.
A father.
He was going to be a father.
Michael rolled the idea over and over in his mind but couldn’t quite get beyond the shock.
“We’d like to welcome our prince…” the hospital director droned.
Michael knew that, despite what Cara claimed, this was his baby—their baby—just as he’d known the moment he met her that Cara was his destiny.
Now she’d come back to him and they were going to be parents.
Marstel elbowed him and he realized it was his turn to talk. He tried to concentrate on remembering his speech. “I’d like to thank you all for coming out today. But more than that, I’d like to thank you all for your support and donations….”
He fell into the rhythm of the speech. He’d made public appearances all his life. He’d given his first speech at the age of fifteen. This was a role he was at home with.
But, father?
He was going to be someone’s father.
So many emotions jangled through his head. Fear. Wondering if he could do it, if he could juggle a very public life with the very private role of father.
Anticipation. He couldn’t wait to meet his son or daughter.
Love.
Overriding all his other emotions there was love.
His ch
ild.
There was nothing he wouldn’t do for it.
Him.
Her.
His baby.
And it moved when he kissed Cara. As if it knew he was its father.
He hated calling the baby it.
Weren’t there tests to discover what the baby’s gender was? Maybe Cara knew. Maybe he should go find her and see.
But no. She was still claiming there was a Stuart in the picture. Michael didn’t believe it for a minute, but he could understand why she’d created her decoy-dad.
Marrying into a royal family wouldn’t be a piece of cake.
He finished his speech, then took a ceremonial pair of oversize scissors from the hospital director and cut the ribbon, officially opening the new cardiac unit.
He nodded and shook hands as he made his way through the crowd. Another ceremonial duty attended to. It was just another facet of his life.
But not everyone was cut out for this life.
Look at Parker—she’d been born into it and wanted nothing to do with being scrutinized by the media, having each action, each decision weighed and judged. But somehow he knew Cara would realize it was worth it in the end.
That he was worth it.
He was positive she’d figure it out.
Well, almost positive.
Actually, the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach just might be something less than positive.
It might be something akin to fear.
What if Cara didn’t figure out that what they had was worth any difficulties that came along with being royalty?
What would the paparazzi make of her? She was pregnant and unwed. He was a prince, destined to be king.
They would have a field day.
What if she wouldn’t weather that sort of media frenzy and left?
How could he be a father to the baby if she went back to Erie?
This baby would need a father, and he knew there was no Professor Stu waiting in the wings. This was his baby.
Again, he wished he knew if it was a boy or girl, and decided that for now he’d just think of it as the baby.
His baby.
“Michael,” Marstel said loudly, with more than a tinge of impatience.
Michael realized they’d cleared the crowd and were headed toward the exit.
“Sorry. I was just thinking.”
“I could see the smoke as those wheels ground together. What’s wrong?”
“I—” He wanted to shout out to his friend, to the whole world, that he was going to be a father. But he knew he had to wait and settle things with Cara first.
Most especially they had to resolve the whole Stuart question.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said.
They climbed into the limo and the security got into a sedan behind them.
Marstel did a nice grimace and head-shake of disbelief as the limo started back to the castle. “I didn’t need to ask what was wrong. I know exactly what it is…. It’s her. You’ve been wrapped tight since she arrived. Face it, the woman doesn’t want to renew your relationship.”
“That’s what I thought, but now I’m not so sure. We’ve kissed twice.”
Marstel looked surprised. “I thought you couldn’t find her, what with the way she’s been hiding from you?”
“How dare you doubt your prince,” Michael teased. “I did find her and we did kiss. And it’s still there. That spark we had three months ago. The only difference is it’s grown larger.”
Cara was going to grow larger.
Michael imagined her stomach rounding, his baby growing inside and something in him spoke to him. “As a matter of fact, I’d like you to do something for me.”
“What?”
Michael laid out his plan and Marstel nodded. “Wine or champagne?”
“Neither,” Michael said. “Cara doesn’t drink. Sparkling grape juice will be fine.”
He knew pregnant women couldn’t drink, but what other accommodations did they need to make? What else did they need to be careful of?
All of a sudden he realized how much he didn’t know about pregnancy.
“All right. I’ll have it all ready by seven,” Marstel assured him. “Where do you want it? Your rooms?”
Michael doubted Cara would come talk in his private wing of the castle, and tried to think of a private, more neutral place. “On the roof.”
That was perfect. Fresh air. He might not know as much as he wanted to know about pregnancy, but he was pretty sure pregnant women should have plenty of fresh air.
Marstel smiled. “It’s good to see you’re done moping and are going after what you want.”
“I’m not just going after her, I’m going to win her.” He was going to take care of her and take care of their baby starting here and now.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some reading I need to get done.”
When they arrived at the castle, he hurried toward his office. He doubted they had any baby books lying around, but he was sure there would be information on the Internet.
Cara finished the menu discussion with the queen and Marta, the cook Tommy had mentioned. The woman was actually a five-star chef. A sweet woman who’d blushed when Cara mentioned Tommy had spoken of her.
Maybe Marta really did have a crush on the doctor.
She was smiling at the notion as they called it a day.
“We’ll pick this up in the morning then?” the queen said.
“I’ll meet you in your office about eight,” Cara assured her.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right on your own for dinner tonight?” the queen asked with motherly concern.
“I’ll be fine. A quiet night is just what I need.”
“Then I’ll say good-night now, and see you in the morning.” She gave Cara a brief kiss on the forehead and left.
As Cara made her way into the hall where her room was located, Michael’s assistant was waiting. He handed Cara a note, then hastily made his escape.
When she opened it and read, Meet me on the roof, Michael, she knew why Marstel had been in such a hurry to leave.
Short. Terse. An order.
Cara tried to tamp down the burning in her stomach as she glanced at the small map that was guiding her to the proper staircase.
She went in her room and slammed the door.
Tamping wasn’t working. The burning flamed for the umpteenth time.
The arrogant, thinks-he-rules-the-world prince thought he could just order her and she’d do as she was told?
Just who did he think he was to boss her around?
Actually, the answer was pretty clear. Michael thought he was a prince because, truth be told, he was.
But still, the roof?
Cara didn’t know what to make of that.
It got even stranger when he’d added a postscript to his royal, bossy decree. Dress to the nines.
You dressed to the nines for dates, and she was definitely not dating Michael.
So the nines were out. She knew that the minute she read the command.
However, even though she wasn’t dating Michael, it didn’t mean she couldn’t be neat and tidy. The problem was deciding how dressed was dressed enough, but not quite what he asked for.
No, not asked, commanded.
After agonizing for a ridiculous amount of time in front of her closet’s contents, she finally decided a seven was neat and tidy, but definitely wasn’t a nine.
And she had decided her plain black sheath dress was simply neat, tidy and seven-ish. Definitely not nine-ish.
And the pearls?
Well, her grandmother had left them to her and they weren’t so much to spice the dress up, but simply a reminder that she was loved.
If the dress hadn’t suddenly become more snug than normal, it might have even made an eight. But sevens and eights weren’t nines, so Michael wouldn’t assume she’d dressed for a date.
Cara decided she was a well-dressed, prompt navigational goddess when she found herself walk
ing up the stairs at six fifty-nine.
She’d have to tell Michael the truth tonight. He’d have realized by now that he couldn’t claim the baby as his. They could keep Stu as a public cover.
She wasn’t sure why she’d made him up. Professor Stu.
Fear maybe?
Actually, no maybe about it.
She was scared. She’d had time to adjust to the idea of carrying a baby, of being a mother. Well, adjust as much as any pregnant woman could. She couldn’t wait for her baby to arrive.
But finding Michael, and finding out her baby’s father was a prince? It was going to take longer than just one short week to adjust to that.
Longer than the rest of her pregnancy, she was pretty sure.
Still, he deserved the truth. Together they’d work out what would be best for all of them.
“Hello?” she called as she opened the door. The roof was dark.
Maybe she’d gotten the directions wrong? Maybe there was another section of roof where she was supposed to be. Goodness knows this place was big enough to have any number of roof sections.
“Hello?” she called again.
Lights snapped on.
Tiny white lights, like the kind she used on her own Christmas tree, twinkled in the small trees and hedges that lined the perimeter of the large, flat roof.
A small flash of more light from the center of the roof caught her eye. There he was.
Michael was lighting candles that were gracing an elaborately set table.
He was dressed in a tux and wasn’t merely a nine. He was a ten. An eleven even.
“Michael?” she said.
He smiled at her and simply said, “I’ve been waiting for you, Cara. Come in.”
“Said the spider to the fly,” she muttered as she moved toward the table.
She knew she should leave, that she needed a clear head to figure out what to do about Michael and that whatever he had planned was bound to do anything but clear things up.
Yes, this looked like a muddy-the-waters sort of evening if ever she’d seen one.
“Have a seat,” he said, pulling the chair out with old-world chivalry.
“What on earth is this, Michael? I was hoping you’d come to your senses and simply wanted to talk.”
“We can talk as we eat, right?” Michael smiled again, the picture of innocence.
“Don’t dinner me, Your Highness,” Cara said. “You’re up to something.”
