by Abby Green
He held out his arms.
With a cry, she threw herself into them, wrapped her arms around his lean bare waist and held on tight. She buried her face against his beautiful hard chest. “It’s time,” she said into that wonderful trail of hair that started between his perfect pectoral muscles and went on down, all the way to heaven. “I can’t look.”
“Sydney …” He said her name in that special way that only he could, so tenderly, so reassuringly. He stroked her back and then he took her chin and tipped it up. His dark eyes were waiting. “We both know what the test will say.” He brushed a kiss across her lips.
Her mouth trembled. Sheesh. She was a trembling fool. She bit her lower lip to make it stop and then she said, “I know we both know. But what if we’re wrong?”
He drew in a slow breath and dared to suggest, “Only one way to find out.”
She shoved her face into his chest again, feeling like Trevor, the day before, clinging to his precious Roo upon meeting his new grandparents. “You look. I can’t do it.”
He chuckled. Oh, wasn’t that just like a man? To chuckle at a time like this. He chuckled, and then he kissed the top of her head and then he gently took hold of her arms. “You will have to release me if you want me to be the one to look.”
Reluctantly, with another soft cry, she let go of him and stepped out of his way. “Do it. Now.”
He indicated the wand on the edge of the marble sink counter and slanted her a questioning glance.
She nodded.
He went to it, picked it up, frowned at it.
What? Suddenly, he couldn’t read? She said, “The little window, it either says ‘pregnant’ or ‘not pregnant.’“
He made a big show of squinting at the wand. “Well, now, let’s see here …”
“I am going to grab that thing and hit you on the head with it. Just see if I don’t.”
He waved his free hand in a shushing kind of gesture. “All right, all right. It says … Well, what do you know? It says …”
“Rule. Stop it. I mean it. You stop it right now.”
And then he dropped the wand in the sink, turned and grabbed her, lifting her high, spinning her around. She squealed and then she laughed. And then he was letting her down, slowly, the short silk nightie she wore catching, riding up, leaving her bare from the waist down. Her feet touched the floor toes-first.
Finally, he leaned close and whispered in her ear, “Pregnant.”
Pregnant. The magic word.
She threw her arms around him. “Oh, I can’t believe it. It’s true. It’s really true. We’re having a baby. We really, really are. How amazing is that?”
“Extremely amazing,” he agreed.
And then he scooped her high in his arms and carried her back to the bed where they celebrated the positive test result in their favorite way.
Later, Sydney asked Rule if he would mind keeping the news about the baby to themselves for a while. She was only a few weeks along, after all. No one else needed to know for another month or so, did they? She wanted a little time to have it be just between the two of them.
He kissed her. “However you want it.”
“You’re so easy.”
“For you, anything,” he told her. And he meant it.
He was feeling so good—about their life together, about the new baby, about everything—that he almost succeeded in forgetting his dread of the eventual moment of truth concerning Trevor.
And as that day went by and the one after that and his mother failed to invite him to a private audience, his dread diminished even further. For whatever reason, it appeared that his mother was not going to call him to task on the subject of his look-alike “stepson.” Perhaps she’d decided that the similarity was merely a coincidence. Or perhaps she simply didn’t wish to interfere.
Or possibly, she had come to the conclusion that when Rule was ready to talk about it with her, he would. Whatever her rationale on the subject, she was staying out of it.
Rule was grateful. And relieved.
That first Tuesday, they got through the press conference where they formally announced their marriage to the press, though by then, their marriage was old news in the fast-moving world of the scandal sheets. Wednesday, they visited with the archbishop of Montedoro to request a wedding in the church. The archbishop was only too happy to help speed up the process. They took their expedited marriage classes on Thursday and Friday and then, quickly and quietly, on the Saturday after Rule moved his new family to Montedoro, he and Sydney were married in the church.
Rule had three days of meetings in Paris that next week. Sydney, Lani and Trevor stayed in Montedoro, where Sydney and his mother spent some time alone, getting to know each other a little. In bed the night of his return from France, Sydney said that his mother had asked her about Trevor’s father.
Rule kept his voice light and easy. “And what did you tell her?”
“The truth, of course. That I wanted a family and I didn’t have a man and so I went to a sperm bank. She took it well, I think. She smiled and said what a determined woman I am.”
“And you are.” He kissed her. She kissed him back. Nature took its course from there.
The next day, Liliana returned to Montedoro for a brief visit at HSH Adrienne’s invitation. Sydney got to meet her. The two hit it off—the delicate Alagonian princess and Rule’s tall, brilliant and determined American bride. Rule wasn’t really all that surprised that they got along. They were both good women with tender hearts.
It was the same with his sisters. Sydney liked them all and the sentiment was mutual.
Rule and Sydney began to talk of a more private life. Sydney said she would prefer to live in their own house by the time the new baby came. So they engaged an architect to renovate Rule’s nearby villa, modernizing and enlarging it to make it more comfortable for their growing family.
He and Sydney were so happy. He never wanted to do anything to hurt her, or to damage what they had together. In fact, sometimes he found himself wondering why, realistically, she even needed to know that he was actually Trevor’s father.
Why should she know? What good could the truth possibly do her—or anyone—now? He had found her and his son and he had made things right for all of them. To tell her now would only upset her and drive a wedge between the two of them. It would threaten, and might even destroy, what they had as a family.
Rule’s father would keep his secret, especially if his mother wasn’t pushing to know more. And sometimes the wisest course was to do nothing, to leave a perfectly wonderful situation alone. He decided he would do just that.
And then he would realize how despicable that was. He should have told her at the first. It was information she had every right to know.
He should tell her now. Today.
But then, somehow, the moment was never right. Another day would go by.
Soon, he would promise himself.
He would tell her soon.
But he didn’t tell her. And every day he said nothing, it only got harder to imagine being truthful. Every moment that went by in which he kept his silence, he was more and more deeply mired in the lie, more and more convinced that his silence was the best thing for everyone.
And then, on the last Wednesday in May, the truth finally caught up with him.
Chapter Twelve
It happened in the morning two weeks and five days after Rule brought his new family to Montedoro.
Caroline was waiting for him when he entered his office at the palace. She held a tabloid newspaper in her hand.
“Sir,” said his secretary, her expression carefully neutral, “a particularly annoying article has appeared in The International Sun.” The Sun was a London-based paper. A weekly, it claimed to deliver news. And it did. News on such burning issues of the day as which celebrity was heading for rehab again and which film star was having a torrid affair with His Grace, the very married Duke of So-and-So. “I thought I should bring it to your attention right a
way.” It was one of Caroline’s duties to keep up with both the legitimate news of the day and the scandal sheets. She made certain Rule knew of any and all information that appeared in print about him, his country, his business dealings and/or the people who mattered to him.
Usually, she simply left the various publications on the credenza, having red-flagged articles that she thought required particular attention. Her choosing to hand this one to him personally did not bode well.
“Thank you, Caroline.”
With a nod and a murmured, “Sir,” she left him, quietly closing the door behind her.
Circling around behind his desk, he dropped into his chair. Aware of a terrible, crushing sensation of dread, he spread the paper on the leather desk pad before him. For a time, he stared furiously down at it, as if by glaring at it long enough, he could somehow make the words and the pictures rearrange themselves into something else, something that had nothing to do with him or his family.
But no matter how long and hard he stared, what was printed on the front page didn’t change.
The headline read, Stepchild—Or Love Child?
There were several pictures of him—by himself and holding Trevor, pictures of him holding Trevor with Sydney beside him, pictures of him at the same age as Trevor. Since the resemblance between Rule and Trevor really was so strong, the pictures themselves told a very clear story. Anyone glancing at them would say that Rule must be Trevor’s biological father—or at the very least, a close relation.
The article itself was a total fabrication. It proposed that he and Sydney had earlier enjoyed a “torrid secret affair.” When it ended, she was pregnant with his child. And he had walked out on her, left her to “have his baby alone,” because he felt duty bound to marry in “the aristocracy of Europe.”
But then, “as fate would have it,” he’d been unable to forget the one woman who “held his heart.” After more than two years had gone by, the “handsome prince” had at last realized that his child and his true love “mattered more than royal blood.” He’d returned to claim the woman he’d “always loved” and the child he’d “left behind.”
There was even a long explanation of how Sydney had “put it out” that her child was the result of artificial insemination. But The International Sun wasn’t fooled and neither should its readership be.
“A picture is worth a thousand words.” And the pictures showed clearly that the child in question was Prince Rule’s. At least the prince had “done the right thing” in the end and married the mother of his child. Since “all was well that ended well,” The Sun wished the prince and his newfound family a lifetime of happiness.
It was ugly, stupid, insulting and riddled with clichés. Not to mention mostly fiction. However, within the general ridiculousness lurked the all-important twin kernels of truth: that Trevor was in fact Rule’s child. And that Sydney really had used a sperm bank.
And that was why deciding what to do in response to this absurd flight of pseudo-literary fantasy was of the utmost importance. Really, anything he did—from making no statement, to issuing an outraged denial, to suing the paper for slander—could make things worse. And no matter what he did next, some ambitious and resourceful reporter might decide to dig deeper. It was possible that someone, somehow, could unearth the fact that he’d been a donor at Secure Choice. If that happened, and he still hadn’t told Sydney his secret …
No. He couldn’t allow even the possibility that it might go that far.
He was going to have to tell her. Now. Today. And when he did, she was going to be angry with him. More than angry. She might never forgive him. But if she found out in the tabloids, the likelihood was exponentially greater that he would lose her forever.
Rule shoved the tabloid aside, braced his elbows on the desk pad and put his head in his hands. He should have told her by now, should have told her weeks ago. Should have told her at the first….
Should have told her …
How many times had he reminded himself of that? A hundred? Five hundred?
And any one of those times, he could have told her.
Yes, it would have been bad.
But not as bad as it was going to be now.
He’d made his choice—the wrong choice—a hundred, five hundred, a thousand times. He’d wagered their happiness on that choice. He should have known better than that. Wagers were not a good idea—not when it came to the things that mattered most.
Half an hour later, Rule and his father met in Evan’s private office. Also in the meeting were Donahue Villiers, a family advocate, or legal advisor, and Leticia Sprague, Palace Press Secretary. Leticia had been a trusted member of the palace staff for over twenty years.
They discussed what their next move should be and decided that Donahue would be in contact with the paper’s legal department to discuss the lawsuit the family intended to file. He would also demand that the paper print a full retraction which, he would assure them, would go a long way toward mollifying Prince Rule once a settlement for damages was under discussion. Leticia suggested that Rule release a statement wherein he refuted the story and made his outrage at such ridiculous allegations crystal clear.
Rule’s father said, “Before we proceed with any of this, there must be a family conference. Her Sovereign Highness must be brought up to speed and given the opportunity to make her wishes in the matter known. So, of course, must Sydney.”
And that was it. The meeting ended. Leticia and Donahue left Rule and his father alone.
Rule and Evan exchanged a long, bleak glance.
And then Evan said, “It’s not the end of the world, son.”
Rule started to speak.
Evan put up a hand. “You will get through this—with your family intact. And you could look on the bright side.”
Rule made a scoffing sound. “So unfortunate that there isn’t one.”
“Of course there is. The article is absurd. The International Sun is going to end up looking very bad.”
“It’s a tabloid. It’s not as though they care if they look bad.”
His father regarded him solemnly for a moment. “What you did, becoming a donor, you did in a good cause. With an honest heart.”
“I was an idiot. It was an act of rebellion against everything I am, everything we stand for as Bravo-Calabrettis.”
Patiently, his father continued, “You would never have found the wife you wanted if not for your ‘act of rebellion.’ There would be no Trevor. And that you finally arranged to meet Sydney, that you pursued her and convinced her to make a family with you, that you became a real father to your son … I find that not only admirable, but truly honorable.”
Rule wanted to grab the crystal paperweight from the corner of his father’s desk and smash it against the far wall. “You don’t understand. Sydney still doesn’t know. I still haven’t told her.”
“Then you will tell her. Right away.”
“I could lose her over this.”
“I don’t think you will. She loves you. She will stick by you.”
Rule said nothing to that. What was there to say? Evan had been for honesty with Sydney from the first. His father wouldn’t rub it in. That wasn’t Evan’s way. But the knowledge that his father had been right all along made this unpleasant discussion doubly difficult.
Evan said, “I think it’s time that you told your mother the truth.”
Rule gave him a scowl. “Wonderful.”
His father said gently, “You can’t put it off any longer. One look at that child and your mother was certain he had to be yours. She asked me what I knew. I told her that you had taken me into your confidence and gotten my agreement that I would keep your secret. I said that if she demanded it, I would tell her everything, I would break my word to you.”
Rule affected an American accent. “Gee, thanks, Dad.”
His father’s chuckle had little humor in it. “Once she saw Trevor, I couldn’t have kept her in the dark if she needed to know. She rules my
heart as she rules this land. Maybe that’s beyond your understanding.”
Rule thought of Sydney. “No. I understand. I do.”
“As it turned out, I didn’t have to break my word to you. Your mother said that I should keep your secret for you, that she preferred to respect your wishes in the matter.”
“So she only knows that Trevor is mine.”
“As I said, I never told her the truth outright. She has drawn her own conclusions and kept them to herself. It’s time that you were honest with her.”
“I have to tell Sydney first.”
“Of course you do.”
Sydney wasn’t in their apartment when Rule entered a few minutes later, the offending tabloid rolled in his hand. Lani told him that she’d gone to the palace library and would return by eleven.
It was ten forty-five.
Trevor tugged on his trouser leg. “Roo. Come. Play …”
His heart like a large ball of lead in his chest, he got down on the floor with his son, set the rolled paper to the side and helped him build a fanciful machine with a set of connectable plastic wheels and gears.
Trevor glanced up, a plastic propeller in his hand. “See, Roo. ‘Peller.” He stuck the propeller on a bright-colored stick and blew on it. Then he chortled in delight as it spun. Rule tried to laugh with him, but didn’t succeed. Trevor bent to fiddle with the wheels and cogs some more, leaving Rule to stare down longingly at his dark head. Rule wanted to grab him and hold him close and never, ever let him go, as if by clutching his son tight, he might somehow escape the impending moment of truth.
But there was no escape. He was done with this lie.
It wasn’t long before he heard brisk footsteps approaching from the foyer. And then Sydney was there, laughing, asking Lani how many pages she’d written.
“Three paragraphs,” Lani grumbled, pushing her glasses higher on her nose. “It’s just not coming together.”
“It will,” Sydney reassured her friend. “It always does.”
“Yeah, well. I hope you’re right.”
“Persistence is the key.”
