Lani wasn’t surprised. “Thanks so much for trying.”
Max followed her to the door.
They lingered there, whispering together.
“You sure you won’t let me call you a car?”
“Don’t be silly,” she told him. “It’s a quick walk.”
“I want to kiss you,” he said, leaning close, but not actually touching her. “But after what happened with Nick, I’m trying to control myself.”
“Self-control is important.”
“Self-control is overrated,” he grumbled. “I’m holding on to it only by a thread.”
“I admire your determination to behave.”
“No, you don’t. You’re laughing at me.”
She bit her lower lip to keep it from twitching. “Only on the inside—and you have to let me go now.”
“But I don’t want to let you go now.”
She went on tiptoe and brushed a quick kiss across his beautiful mouth. “Good night, Max.”
Reluctantly, he opened the door for her. She slipped out fast, before he could convince her to change her mind and stay even later.
There was a different guard on duty at the door she’d used that morning. He checked her ID and nodded her out into the cool evening. She took a path she knew through the gardens and she was down Cap Royale and hurrying to the old villa on her little cobbled street in no time.
A stranger in a gray coat stood under the streetlight in front of the building. As she passed him and started up the steps, he called, “Yolanda, hey!”
Startled that he knew her name, she paused in midstep and glanced back at him.
He lifted something to his face. She didn’t realize it was a camera until the flash went off and the shutter started clicking. And then she just stood there, gaping at him as he took several pictures.
“Thanks a million, sweetheart,” he said when he lowered the camera. And then he turned and ran off down the street.
She knew what he was. Paparazzo.
Her legs felt like rubber bands, all wobbly and boneless. But she managed to put one foot in front of the other, to let herself in the building, to climb the stairs to her apartment.
Once inside, she locked up, tossed the plastic-covered skirt and blouse on the sofa and then stood in the middle of the room trying to assess the meaning of what had just happened downstairs.
It shouldn’t have shocked her so. She’d known this would happen if she went out with Max. But after Friday night, when no one bothered them, and then today, in Max’s apartment with the children, everything so normal and ordinary, she’d let herself forget.
She tossed her purse on top of her skirt and blouse and booted up her laptop. It took only a simple search of her name and Max’s and there she was, at his side in her little black dress getting out of the limo, sitting across from him in the restaurant, driving off in the limo again.
The articles that went with the pictures were short ones without a lot of detail, at least when it came to her. She was called a “black-haired beauty,” and a “mystery date.”
“Mystery date,” she whispered aloud to herself. Was that like a blind date? A date who made you solve a puzzle? Someone you went out with and didn’t even know their name?
There was more about Max, all the old stories, of his perfect marriage, the tragic loss of his forever-love. Of how true he was to Sophia’s memory, how he’d never been linked to any woman in the four years since her death.
Until now. Until the black-haired beauty, the mystery date.
Lani shut down the laptop and told herself it wasn’t a big deal, that she’d known this would happen. That she needed to get used to it.
But the stuff about Sophia kind of stuck with her.
Sometimes Lani felt so close to him.
But right now she was thinking that she really didn’t understand him at all. She needed him to talk to her about Sophia. And because it seemed to her such an important, sensitive subject, she’d been waiting for him to do that in his own time. He never had.
Now she had to decide how much longer to wait, how much more time he needed before he might be ready. Not to mention, how much longer she could hold out before she just went ahead and asked him.
* * *
Monday morning Her Sovereign Highness Adrienne met with her ministers in the Chambers of State. As his mother’s heir, Max sat on her right-hand side.
Adrienne often conferred with him during the meeting. Sometimes she would call him into her private office beforehand or afterward, to discuss any measures or upcoming decisions on which she needed input or more information. Max had a talent for research and she would often ask him to gather more data on a particular subject. Sometimes she simply wanted his opinion on an issue she needed to settle. So when she asked him to join her in her office after the meeting, he assumed she needed to consult with him on some matter of state.
He followed her through the gilded doors to her inner sanctum. She led him to the sitting area, where she took one of the sofas and he claimed a Louis Quinze wing chair.
Adrienne smoothed her trim Chanel skirt and folded her delicate long-fingered hands in her lap. “We missed you at Sunday breakfast. How is Connie?”
He wasn’t surprised she already knew that Connie had been ill. Old Dr. Montaigne was under orders to inform her if one of the children needed his care. “She’s doing well. It was some kind of stomach upset. Something she ate, we think. But she recovered quickly. Gerta’s keeping her home today, just in case.”
“I’ll try to get by and see her.”
“She would love that.” He waited for her to tell him what she needed from him.
And then she did. “I understand you’ve been seeing Trevor and Ellie’s former nanny.”
The skin pulled tight on the back of his neck. He felt ambushed. But then he ordered his neck muscles to relax. He’d taken Lani out. That was major news in Montedoro. Of course, his mother would have heard about it. And he’d been planning to tell her about Lani anyway, and putting it off, waiting for the right moment. This, apparently, was it. “Her name is Yolanda Vasquez, but she goes by Lani.”
“Of course I know what her name is, darling. And she’s a lovely young woman.”
“Yes, she is.”
“A budding novelist, I hear, who just made her first big sale.”
“From whom did you hear that, exactly?”
She answered easily. “More than one source. Sydney mentioned the sale quite proudly over a week ago. And Oliver, in the library, seems very impressed with her success.”
He felt slightly ashamed of his own defensiveness. Of course, his mother would have heard about Lani’s big sale—and remembered it. Adrienne had a photographic memory and could recall the most obscure personal details shared by people she’d met only briefly, in passing. He explained, “She has a three-book contract with a major New York publisher. The books are historical novels set in Montedoro. She’s also self-published three other novels that take place in present-day Texas.”
“Wonderful. You must introduce me so that I may congratulate her properly.” There was a definite chiding quality to her tone.
He couldn’t resist chiding her right back. “Introduce you? She worked at the palace for nearly two years. You’ve never spoken to her?”
“Please, Maximilian. It’s one thing to ask the nanny if Trevor is eating all his vegetables. It’s another to have a conversation about publishing with someone my son and heir is seeing romantically.”
He confessed, “I was bringing her to breakfast yesterday.”
“Without mentioning it to me or your father beforehand.”
“You’ve always said we’re welcome to bring someone special—but you’re right. I probably should have said something. Lani asked me to tell you that she was com
ing. I didn’t get around to it.” His mother wore a skeptical look. He admitted, “All right. I wanted you to meet her, wanted you to see us together without my making a big thing of it beforehand...but then Connie grew ill and we stayed in.” In the interest of full disclosure, he added, “Lani stayed with us until after dinner. We played a board game with the children. Lani and I talked about the situation with France. She has an excellent understanding of politics and history. The day went by much too fast.”
“And on Friday night, you took her out to dinner.”
“And to the villa on the Avenue d’Vancour afterward.” He shifted in the chair, though he knew he shouldn’t, that to move at all showed weakness.
“It is serious, then?”
“Yes.”
A soft smile curved her lips. “I didn’t really have to ask if it was serious, did I? You don’t have casual relationships.”
“No, Mother. I don’t.” Actually, there had been a few physically satisfying arrangements with discreet partners after Sophia’s death. But those were more in the nature of transactions than relationships.
“There could be...issues with the French ministers,” Adrienne said thoughtfully. By the terms of the treaty of 1918, two of the ruling prince’s five ministers were French nationals. And while the ruling family was officially in charge of succession, the French government had to formally approve the next prince to take the throne. When his mother had married his father, the French had been outraged. As the heir apparent to the throne, they’d expected her to marry a man with money and influence, preferably a prince or a king, though a duke or a marquess would have done well enough. His father, a moderately successful Hollywood actor, had not fit the mold.
On the other hand, when Max had married Sophia, the French ministers were all smiles. They’d considered her the perfect bride for the Montedoran heir. She was not only the virgin daughter of a Spanish grandee, but she brought a large dowry, as well.
Not that any of that really mattered anyway. He and Lani were on the same page about marriage.
Max said, “The French ministers will get over themselves. They always do.”
“I am a bit hurt, I must confess, that you didn’t come to me and tell me about this sooner.”
“I’m sorry, Mother,” he said automatically.
She studied him, her head tipped to the side. “No, you’re not. And wasn’t there some talk about the two of you last year?”
“I’m sure there was,” he said resignedly, “because I danced with her.” In the four years since Sophia’s death, Max had made it a point to dance only with his mother and his sisters. He intended never to marry again, and dancing only with family members was one of the ways he made his intentions—or rather, the lack of them—clear to everyone.
But in September, at the palace gala celebrating his sister Rhiannon’s marriage to Commandant Marcus Desmarais, Max had danced with Lani for the first time. He’d done it again at the Harvest Ball and yet again at the Prince’s Thanksgiving Ball. And then, finally, he’d claimed those five dances on New Year’s Eve, when everything started to change between them at last.
His mother waited for him to say more.
He gave in and explained himself a little. “I knew what I wanted over a year ago. It’s taken her longer. Whatever people whispered when I danced with her, there was nothing to say to you, nothing you needed to know, until last Thursday night when Lani and I finally came to a mutual understanding that we were more than friends.”
Adrienne rested her elbow on the sofa arm and gave him a slow, thoughtful dip of her dark head. “All right, then. She’s important to you and you intend to continue seeing her.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m glad for you,” his mother said, and he knew she meant it sincerely. “Glad that you’ve found someone, glad that you’re finally willing to try again.” She extended her hand across the low table.
He took it. Her grip was strong. They shared a smile before letting go. “Until I met Lani, there didn’t seem to be any reason to try again.”
Adrienne regarded him steadily. “As I recall, Yolanda worked for Sydney for several years....”
“Seven in total, yes—and she prefers to be called Lani.”
“Lani. Of course. I understand that Lani has been an excellent nanny.”
“That’s right.”
“And as to her family in America...?”
“Her father’s a college professor and her mother’s a pediatrician. They’re still married to each other, and happily so from what Lani’s told me. She has a married brother who’s a businessman.” Max knew where this was going and he just wanted it over with. “What are you getting at, Mother?”
“Darling, it’s all very well to dismiss the French ministers. But is there anything in Lani’s past, anything about her that might require damage control if the tabloids get hold of it?”
There it was. The question he’d been dreading. He proceeded with care. “Lani has her secrets, yes. Her regrets. As do we all. I don’t know how much an enterprising journo might dig up. And frankly, I don’t really care. We will get through it, whatever happens. I have no doubts on that score.”
His mother’s beautiful face appeared serene. But he knew her sharp mind was working away behind the smooth facade, exploring possibilities, considering options. “She must have passed our usual background check, or Rule would never have made her part of his household. So then what, exactly, is there to dig up?”
“I can’t tell you that, Mother. Lani told me in confidence.”
“Will she tell me—or let you tell me?”
“My guess would be no.”
“I could...order a discreet inquiry.”
“Please don’t. Leave it.”
Adrienne looked tired, suddenly. She asked wistfully, “You couldn’t have chosen someone sweet and uncomplicated?”
“Someone eighteen and raised in a convent?” Adrienne actually chuckled at that, though it wasn’t an especially happy sound. He went on, “Lani is sweet.”
“I only want you to be absolutely certain of your choice before you tie a knot that cannot be undone.”
Bitterness moved in him. He tasted dust and ashes in his mouth. His mother knew too much. She was far too observant, and so infuriatingly wise. “There won’t be any knot, so that won’t be a problem.”
Adrienne didn’t move, but the sovereign of Montedoro vanished. She became only his mother, worried for him, wanting his happiness above all. “So you’re still determined never to—?”
“Yes.” There was no need to go into all this again. “Let it be. I stayed true to my vows and the throne is secure and I’m free to make other choices now.”
“But how does Lani feel about that?”
“We’ve discussed it. She understands how it will be. In fact, she has no desire ever to marry.”
“How long ago did you discuss it?”
He didn’t like the direction this was going. Not in the least. “It was a while ago.”
“Before you became lovers?”
“You know, this really isn’t a subject I want to talk over with my mother.”
An amused smile ghosted across her mouth. “Think of me as your sovereign, then. Did you discuss your feelings about marriage with Lani before you two became lovers?”
He gave in and answered her. “Yes.” It had been more than a year ago, as a matter of fact. “But so what? Lani knows my position and she feels the same. And what exactly are you getting at?”
“You should tell her again. It’s one thing to explain to a friend how you feel about marriage, another entirely to tell a woman who loves you that you’ll never share your life with her.”
“That’s not the way it is. I intend to share my life with her.”
“But on your own terms, with
no commitment.”
“That’s not so. I am committed to her, fully. In all the ways that really matter.”
Adrienne only looked at him with sadness and a hint of reproach.
And the past was there, rising up between them, reproaching him all the more. She had tried to warn him, to get him to slow down, to see other people, to grow up a little before he rushed into marriage. And she had been right. He should have listened to her then, but he hadn’t. And he’d paid the price. “I’m a grown man now, Mother. I know the right woman for me. This isn’t about contracts and promises. This is about someone I want to be with who wants to be with me. Everything is different this time.”
“Is it? Oh, darling, I do hope so.”
Chapter Eight
Monday, Lani’s plan was to write at least eight pages by two in the afternoon, and then to put in another couple of hours researching websites and web designers.
But she woke up groggy from spending most of the night wide awake thinking about Max—about how wild she was for him, about how she felt she knew him to his soul. And, at the same time, that she didn’t know him at all. She worried about next Sunday and the family breakfast. She obsessed over the incident with the paparazzo, over the pictures online of her and Max together, over when her mother or father would call her and say they’d seen the pictures and...well, she had no idea what they would say after that.
She sat down to her laptop at nine.
At eleven, when she had barely written half a page, Max called. The first thing he asked was how the work was going.
She grumbled, “I’ve gotten stuck on a certain sentence. I think I’ve rewritten it twenty times.”
“Leave it. Go on to the next sentence. Sometimes you have to keep moving forward.”
“Good advice. Now to try to make myself take it.”
He laughed, the sound warm and deep, reaching out to her through the phone, wrapping around her heart, making her so glad he’d called. “Is that whining?” he teased. “There’s no whining in writing.”
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