by Rachel Hauck
King Leopold V, Stephen’s father, had succumbed to leukemia two years ago. And Stephen never missed him more.
“Blimey, you’re a piece of work.”
“Nathaniel, I don’t need your judgment. Even now, I still believe I did what was best. Besides all of the legal ramifications, which didn’t change until you wanted to marry Susanna, I needed to forget everything about Afghanistan and move on. And that included Corina. How could I look at her and not remember?”
“I can’t believe she gave in without an argument.”
“She didn’t until I told her I’d have to renounce the throne. She embraced the end of things then.”
“But you never told her you were with Carlos when he died?”
“No.” The pain on her face when he told her he wanted out of the marriage nearly did him in. It was forever etched on his heart. He refused to add the image of her tears when he told her Carlos died needlessly. That he died because of him.
So Stephen blotted out the day he ended their marriage. Yet this conversation with Nathaniel dragged through the depths and crevasses of his mind, raising bits and pieces of that horrid day to the surface.
She’d been weeping so bitterly, reminding him of their love, how she needed him in the wake of Carlos’s death. Stephen had nearly relented and scooped her in his arms, telling her everything would be all right.
But then he heard the phantom explosion, the echoing screams. He saw the blood on his hands. And it was all he could do not to run from her presence.
Stephen closed the blinds on those memories, fingers pressed to his forehead.
“Tell me this—how did Archbishop Caldwell not challenge you?” Nathaniel said.
“He protested at first, but then his wife brewed him a spot of tea and he seemed rather cordial afterwards. I think he was persuaded we were in love and knew what we were doing.” Stephen caught Nathaniel by the arm. “I did love her. Truly. But Torkham changed everything.”
“You realize you need to fix this.” Nathaniel shoved the envelope toward him.
“There’s nothing to fix. She thinks it’s over. It is over. Toss it in the trash.”
Nathaniel reached inside his pocket, producing a folded piece of paper. “I told you. We can’t do that. Archbishop Burkhardt sent this note along with the certificate. Shall I read it?”
“Be my guest.” Sarcasm. He was at the end of his patience.
“He writes, ‘I’m unsure of the meaning of this certificate. Prince Stephen does not presently have a wife to my knowledge, but I pray that whatever has become of their relationship, the prince will handle it with honor before God and men. While I suspect he married her in secret, he cannot put her away in the same fashion. A proper annulment must be filed with the Church.’ ”
“I didn’t put her away in secret. She knows. I told her to her face.”
“You’re going to have to file an annulment. Let’s pray she’s not moved on and remarried already. There hasn’t been much in the media about her lately, nor her family, which, I suppose, if Corina Del Rey married, it would be quite the society affair.”
“W–what?” Stephen scoffed. She’d not have married again. Would she? A whip of jealousy stung his heart.
“She’s a beautiful, intelligent woman. Surely you’ve considered that another man might want her. That she’d want to move on, have a family.” Nathaniel glanced at his watch. “Sorry to cut this off, but I’ve a meeting. Ring Jonathan in the morning. He’ll help you locate her. Then you can fly Royal Air One to meet with her.”
“Pardon? Nathaniel, I’m not going to ‘meet with her.’ We can courier the proper papers to her.”
“Stephen, she’s your wife, deserving of your respect and honor. Especially since she’s been lied to for the past five or so years, thinking she’s a freed woman when she is not. Not to mention, she married the royal Prince of Brighton. I’d say she is deserving of a princess honor.” Nathaniel made his way through the kitchen doors. “If you argue any more about it, I’ll haul out the big guns.”
Mum! “You wouldn’t.”
“Don’t test me.”
He felt twelve again. Under his father’s disapproving scrutiny when he brought his mates into the throne room and set up a bowling lane. “I meant to handle it, Nathaniel.” Stephen walked with his brother to the front door. “But I ended up playing in the summer internationals. Then I realized I didn’t have the marriage certificate, so I just let it go.”
“Did you forget your way to the good archbishop’s office?” Nathaniel opened the door and the scent of an evening rain swept into the apartment. “Make this right, Stephen.”
Blimey. He’d not truly encountered brother-king Nathaniel before. But he was right. Stephen had to see her. Tell Corina face-to-face. With a giant, weight-bearing exhale, he sank into the nearest chair and stared out the window.
Rain splashed down, bouncing off the warm summer sidewalk, and in the distance he heard the first choreographed chimes of the city’s six o’clock bells.
One . . .
Two . . .
Three . . .
THREE
It was late. She was tired and ready to go home, but since Mark Johnson had arrived Monday afternoon, walking the bull pen with political candidate gravitas, shaking hands, pledging hope and change, Corina’s workload doubled.
She’d been assigned to bring him up to speed on the writers and the way of the bull pen. She spent her days introducing him to the Melbourne, Florida, staff as well as the writers scattered across the country and around the world via the wonder of the Internet.
In the evenings, after everyone left, she stayed to answer e-mails from stringers, edit articles, check on the bloggers, and make sure deadlines were being met.
She tried to show Mark their online assignment board so he could take some of the load, but he remained in campaign mode, schmoozing with Gigi and the staff, distracted, taking calls from his old job as well as his wife, his Realtor, and some dude designing a custom surfboard.
Yeah, Gigi, Mark’s just perfect for this job.
With a sigh, Corina slumped in her chair and stared at the Indian Harbor Beach lights reflecting in the river.
Tonight Gigi was throwing a “Welcome Mark” party for the entire staff at River Rock. On a Thursday too. Half the staff would call in tomorrow, claiming to be “working from home.” She should go, be a part of the team, but she couldn’t motivate herself to move away from her desk.
Adjusting her lamp, Corina pushed back a bit of the bull pen’s darkness and stared at her computer screen. Nine o’clock. Really, she should head home. Pull on her comfy clothes and watch a Mary Tyler Moore DVD.
Or if she could stay awake, she’d sit in the peace of her condo and wait on God. If there was a silver lining to the last five and a half years, it was the discovery of truth. Despite her pain and grief, she found comfort in a God of love and peace, who was everything he claimed to be.
But the off-site staff needed attention, awaiting assignments and answers. They didn’t know or care about Mark tying one on at his welcome party.
Truth? She struggled with the idea of Mark being her boss. The guy who partied his way through his first stint at good ole Beaumont Post.
“Darling, are you still here?”
Corina glanced through the low light to see Gigi making her way down the aisle, her svelte figure wrapped in a pale blue designer dress. What was she doing here? Corina thought she’d left with the last of the bull pen.
“Aren’t you going to Mark’s party?”
“I’ve spent enough time with Mark this week.” Corina closed e-mail and turned off her computer as Gigi perched on the side of her desk, laughing softly. She’d made up her mind. Time to go home.
“Come now, be a team player.”
“I’m the epitome of a team player. Save this speech for Mark. It’s not too late to change your mind,” Corina said. “He’s only been here a week. You can send him packing.”
“I see. Is
this how you’re going to play it? I thought more of you, darling.” Gigi took a tube of lipstick and a mirror from her orange Hermes Birkin and traced her lips with a dark red. Then she clicked off Corina’s desk lamp. “Work is done for the day. Let’s join the others, shall we?”
“Give them my love.” Corina took her handbag, a Prada she’d had for years and still loved, and walked with Gigi toward the door. “I’m heading home. My sweet condo is calling me.”
She’d never really lived on her own. Not even from the womb, which she shared with Carlos. After high school she went to college and roomed with her best friend, Daisy, all four years. She did a year in Melbourne with Gigi right after college. Lived with her friend Tammy. And Daisy came down at least once a month for girls’ weekends.
Then Carlos joined the Marines and was selected for a joint international task force in Brighton. She tagged along to be with him, did freelance work for Gigi, and studied creative writing at Knoxton University.
And that’s how she met him. Her prince on campus.
Corina sighed.
“What’s this?” Gigi, always paying attention. Always watching. Listening. “Such a sigh.”
“Nothing.” But it was something. Recalling Stephen reminded Corina of the vast emptiness in her heart.
Gigi pushed the elevator button. “Never you fear, we’re going to find you a hot, hot story. You know, I don’t have a solid stringer in London. Nor Cathedral City, come to think of it. They all left me to have babies. The nerve of some women.”
“Yeah, what’s up with that? Women wanting to have babies, raise a family?” The elevator door pinged open and Corina stepped in to the melody of Gigi’s chortling.
“What am I going to do with you, Corina Del Rey?”
“Love me, I guess.” She laughed and pressed her hand on Gigi’s arm. “I’m not sure I ever said it, but thank you. Your call with a job offer saved me.”
Gigi squeezed her hand as the doors slid closed, and they rode in silence down to the glass-and-tile lobby with the high, exposed, steel beam arches.
They waved good night to the night security guard, Jones Parker. “Night, Ms. Beaumont. You too, Miss Del Rey. Take care out there. They say a tropical storm is heading our way.”
“And only the tenth of June,” Gigi said. “Well, it’s the price we pay for our Florida sunshine and glorious winters.”
“Yes, ma’am. They say she’s bringing lots of wind and rain. Calling this one Anna. She’s coming ashore on the weekend.”
Corina stepped outside, into the warm, dewy evening, into the stiff breeze channeling down U.S. 1 from the Indian River.
“Let’s be ready, Corina. We might want to close the office early tomorrow.”
Corina started across the parking lot toward her classic ’67 black GTO sitting under the amber-glowing lamp. “Be sure to tell your editorial director.”
Gigi laughed. “You’re keeping me honest.” Then she reached for Corina. “You know I want all the best for you. Your mother and I go way back, but I—”
“It’s okay, Gigi. I know, I know.”
“Good.” Gigi started off around the building for her car. “Then stop busting my chops.”
“Never. You’ll be telling me, ‘You were right,’ within six months.” If not before.
“Whatever, darling, whatever.”
At her car, Corina unlocked the door, tossed her bag across the red leather bench seat, and faced the wind. She loved storms. Natural ones, not emotional. She’d had enough of those for a lifetime.
A tropical storm would be new for her. Besides the security features of her penthouse, the builder guaranteed the construction could withstand a Category 4 hurricane.
Tipping back her head, Corina scanned the sky. So clear and beautiful, fresh and breezy, with no hint of a tropical storm among the glittering stars.
“Corina?”
She turned at the familiar voice, her heartbeat cresting. Stephen?
Sure enough, standing between the glow of the parking lot lights and the shadows of royal palms was Stephen Stratton, Prince of Brighton, hands in his jeans pockets, his dark hair twisting above his crystalline eyes with every gust of wind.
“Oh my gosh . . .” She caught her trembling breath as she collapsed against the car. “What are you doing here?”
“I tried your flat but your doorman said you’d not returned for the evening. So I came here.” He stepped closer. “How are you?”
“How am I? You flew four thousand miles to ask me how I am?”
“You look well.” The end of his comment dropped low, a husky resonance soaking his voice. “Beautiful as ever.”
“Five and a half years.” She gripped her hands into fists. “Not a peep out of you. No call, no letter, not even a text or an e-mail.” She caught a shift in the shadows, a broad, burly figure, inching his way toward them. “You have a protection officer?”
“Thomas.” Stephen motioned over his shoulder toward the man.
“What are you doing here?” She crossed her arms and squared off with the man she used to love. Wholeheartedly. Without reservation. With a passion she never knew she possessed.
“I’m here on a private, sensitive matter.”
“You flew four thousand miles to talk to me about a sensitive matter? What happened to Brighton’s telephone service? Is the palace still denying you e-mail? The ability to text?”
“Brighton Telephone is in fine order. And all of Brighton royalty is current with the world’s technological standards. But the matter for which I stand here now was not one for a long distance call or a by-the-by e-mail.” Stephen glanced around and hobbled closer, his left foot bound up in a walking boot. “Is it possible to sit in your flat with a cup of tea?”
Corina motioned to the palms. “I think the parking lot can handle whatever you have to say. As I recall, the last time we talked it was outside the rugby stadium with you wearing a sweaty kit.”
He sighed, leaning to check his fingers in the light, and her bravado faded. Her knees weakened, and her heart smacked her head with a one-two, demanding a more cordial response.
He’s here.
In my parking lot.
For five and a half years she’d waited for him to call. Now here he stood, three feet from her. He was as handsome and confident as ever, and try as she might to boil up some righteous anger, she felt like putty in his presence. And all she wanted to do was throw her arms about him. Kiss him. Adore him with everything she’d stored up in her heart.
But he’d tossed her off. He was not worthy of her.
“Yes, I’m sure the parking lot and the surrounding trees and brush will be tender with our conversation, but I’m asking for mercy. We just arrived this evening and are a bit jet-lagged. If not for me, consider Thomas.” He motioned to his booted foot. “And my poor ankle could use a prop.”
Corina regarded him for a moment, drawing on the courageous Del Rey blood that flowed through her veins. “This is unbelievable. I don’t hear boo from you in years, but you have the gall to make demands. Once a prince, always a prince.”
“Once an American heiress, always an American heiress. I appeal to your mercy and charm, and your good southern graces.”
She wanted to laugh at his attempt to placate her. But he’d always been quick with his replies, cheeky and clever. Except when he was dark, sullen, and battle weary.
“How did you find me?”
“It wasn’t hard. You’re not exactly hiding.”
“Miss Del Rey?” Jones stepped into the night, calling from the lobby. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, Jones, thank you.”
“Are you sure?”
Corina surveyed the contours of Stephen’s face, highlighted by the glow of the streetlights. His chest and arms were thick and broad, more developed and taut than when she said yes to his proposal. She turned her attention to answer Jones.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
What she wouldn’t give to have Jones call th
e police. But what good would that do? Stephen had diplomatic immunity. And there was no law against talking to a friend, er, an ex-wife, in the parking lot.
Stephen glanced toward the Beaumont Media building as Jones stepped inside, then faced Corina for a long, quiet moment.
“So?” she said. “Why are you here?”
“I guess there’s no use bandying about.” He drew a long inhale, striking a buzz through her nerves. What bothered him so much? “Corina,” he said. “We are still married.”
Her arms fell limp at her side, her courage draining. “W–we’re what?”
“We’re married. The Grand Duchy of Hessenberg has a new archbishop, and he discovered our marriage certificate hidden away in his office when he was preparing for remodeling. I suppose Archbishop Caldwell stuck it there for safekeeping. In turn, the new archbishop sent the certificate to Nathaniel.”
“You said the one we signed was never filed with the Court, therefore invalid. We could just walk away.”
“I–I was mistaken. Apparently, since we were married in the Church by an archbishop, and I’m a royal, the Court was not needed. Our vows are legal and binding.”
Corina dropped against the car. Married? “I asked you, remember? How the marriage was legal for us to go on a honeymoon but not legal when you wanted the marriage to be over. You said, ‘It just is.’ You lied? So blatantly? To get your way? Why?”
“I didn’t lie. I thought we could walk away, as if it never happened.”
Never happened? His words twisted deeper today than they did five years ago. “But it did happen, Stephen.”
The scents and images of his romantic proposal possessed her. The windy ride on the ferry. Rattling the archbishop awake. Their honeymoon, stowing away in her flat, hiding from the world, even Carlos, knowing their days together before his deployment were coming to an end.
