Читать книгу The Improperly Pregnant Princess - Jacqueline Diamond - Страница 13

Shane had his cell phone clamped to one ear as the cab halted in front of his Madison Avenue office building. O’Connell Industries occupied an entire floor of the sleek high-rise.

“We’ll see you Thursday morning,” he confirmed to the Chinese trade representative. They had already agreed to eat at a French restaurant near Central Park, convenient to CeCe’s apartment. “The princess looks forward to meeting you.”

The cab driver turned and gave him a hurry-up look. On the sidewalk, a man tugged at the door and called, “You getting out or what?”

Mindful of the Chinese sensitivity to protocol, Shane said a polite goodbye into the phone while paying the driver. After hanging up, he pocketed the phone, collected his laptop and hurried across the sidewalk into the lobby.

Other people jostled him as Shane bolted for the elevator and wedged himself inside. The first thing he would do when he owned his own building was to designate a private elevator, he vowed.

On the thirty-first floor, Shane stepped into the East Coast headquarters of O’Connell Industries. He always relished passing through the vast outer office filled with desks and ringing phones. What a contrast to the shabby hole-in-the-wall where he’d begun his career!

“Mr. O’Connell? Ferguson is here,” said Tawny Magruder, Shane’s secretary, when he reached his office suite. A tall, dark-skinned woman who took no guff from anyone, she nodded toward the man sitting outside Shane’s office.

His personal assistant and valet, Ed Ferguson, rarely came to the headquarters. His domain included Shane’s apartments on both coasts, his vacation cottage, his yacht and his corporate jet.

Today, Ferguson’s purpose was evident from the tuxedo, encased in a plastic cleaner’s bag, draped over his arm. “I thought you might not get home in time to change for tonight,” he said.

“What would I do without you?” Shane asked. Ed, a former foster child with whom he’d shared a group home, had been first a friend, then his devoted employee. Slight of build and modest of manner, the man might appear colorless to others, but Shane valued his steadfastness and honesty.

“You sure do need him. Don’t anybody ask me to fetch their dry cleaning,” said Tawny.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Shane said.

His secretary smiled. Like him and Ed, Tawny had had a difficult past, including a stint as a welfare mother. She’d turned out to be a real tiger, quick to defend her boss and untiring in her work.

Her loyalty, like Ferguson’s, was intense. Shane’s willingness to hire people with troubled backgrounds—as long as they adhered to his high standards—was, he believed, one of his company’s strengths.

“You’re expected at the Foster Children’s College Fund dinner at six-thirty,” Ferguson reminded him.

“He knows that,” Tawny said. “I entered it into his organizer.”

“A busy man has other things to do than look up lists,” the personal assistant retorted stiffly.

“I never leave the office without making sure Mr. O’Connell knows his plans for the evening,” snapped the secretary.

Shane grinned at them both. “I appreciate your concern, you two.”

“If you need help dressing, I can return,” Ferguson said.

“Look, if the man needs…” Tawny stopped in mid-sentence. “Okay, if he wants somebody to zip his pants, I’ll let you do it.”

“I can zip my own pants, thank you very much,” Shane said. “Ed, I appreciate your bringing the tux.”

“Also, there were a couple of messages.” The aide handed him an answering-machine tape. “Of a personal nature.”

“Thanks.”

“You could have left that with me,” Tawny said. “Mr. O’Connell, I told him earlier there was no need to wait.”

“It was my pleasure to wait,” Ferguson said. “Good day, Mr. O’Connell, Miss Magruder.” His back straight, the aide withdrew.

“I’m going to start calling him Jeeves,” muttered Tawny, and returned her attention to her computer.

Inside his private office, Shane dealt with his e-mail and returned business calls. As he talked, he propped his feet on the broad desk.

He loved this office, and the one at his West Coast headquarters in Long Beach, California. CeCe Carradigne might take her surroundings for granted, but Shane never did.

CeCe Carradigne. He pictured her tall, slim figure striding across her office to greet him this afternoon. Her blond bangs and slightly angular bone structure emphasized the size of those green eyes, and he relished the fullness of her lips.

Today, he’d watched for any sign of the warmth they’d shared that night they spent together. Surely at some point, he’d believed, she would relax and joke with him. Touch his cheek. Move suggestively closer…

It hadn’t happened. She must be made of ice, as people said. Or else that night simply hadn’t meant anything to her.

Shane wished he didn’t find the woman so fascinating. He had relished discovering the feminine side underneath her tough exterior. And he loved the quick way her mind worked.

They were too much alike, though. If he ever did settle down with a woman, she wouldn’t be someone who worked as hard as he did and fought every battle to the bitter end.

Besides, Shane had gradually come to accept, as one relationship after another failed, that he wasn’t suited to long-term intimacy. Maybe it was because his private life always came second to business. Or because, as an orphan, he’d learned that emotional safety lay in depending exclusively on himself.

That didn’t mean he’d lost interest in women, only that he was realistic about the terms of endearment. Reminded of the tape Ferguson had left, he inserted it into the answering machine.

“Shane! Darling!” It was Amy, a recently divorced stockbroker who’d flirted with him at a cocktail party. “I’ve just been handed tickets to the most fabulous musical for Saturday night, and of course I immediately thought of you.”

The next message came from Janet, an attorney he’d met at a charity event. She had sharp, lively features, he recalled, and had recently separated from her husband.

“I’m throwing a little dinner party for a few friends on Saturday,” she said. “I’d be so pleased if you could attend.”

Their interest flattered Shane. Both were attractive, successful women.

He didn’t want to start anything, however. Especially when, pointless as it seemed, he couldn’t get CeCe out of his mind.

Why had she gotten so miffed today because he’d refused to hawk the joys of fatherhood? It must have been pique because he’d spoiled her brilliant public relations idea. Well, she’d picked the wrong guy for the assignment.

Shane had no interest in children. And he certainly wouldn’t consider having one himself. It was too painful. When he happened to look into one of those little faces, he saw himself as he’d once been, vulnerable and helpless.

At eight, his father had died in an industrial accident. His mother, Annie, had had to work two jobs, in day care and as a waitress, so most days Shane had come home alone from school, fixed his own dinner and put himself to bed.

When he was twelve, Annie stumbled into a gang fight outside the restaurant where she worked. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, the police had said.

Desperately missing his mother, Shane had hated both of his foster homes. He’d run away repeatedly, until he was placed in a group home.

There he saw the other boys picking on shy Ed and sprang to his defense. From then on, Shane stuck around to protect his friend.

Why was he dragging up memories that he’d sworn to leave untouched? he wondered. It must have been CeCe’s mention of children.

Still, he was sorry to have left their conversation unfinished. After making his excuses to Amy and Janet, Shane turned to his computer.

His office and DeLacey Shipping had recently installed equipment to allow videoconferencing. It was time to put it to good use.

KING EASTON DOZED DURING the nine-hour flight from Korosol to New York. He was grateful for the comforts of a private jet, although there was a lot to say for the old days when luxury liners were the transatlantic transport of choice.

He and his bride, Cassandra, had traveled to America by ship a few years after the death of Easton’s father, King Cyrus. They’d combined business of state with their honeymoon.

Although Cassandra claimed to feel awkward in public, she became a darling of the press with her fashionable figure and ready wit. Easton had enjoyed his meeting with President Truman and had retained a fondness for the United States ever since.

He missed Cassandra terribly. Wise and well educated, she’d been his closest friend and adviser. Had she been born a generation later, she would surely have pursued a career of her own.

Her death six years ago had devastated the king, although in a way it came as a blessing after a series of strokes. If he could have spared her any suffering by taking it on himself, he would have.

He’d have given his life to save either of his dead sons, as well. Twenty years ago, he’d shared his grief with Cassandra when Drake died in the crash of a private plane. It had also killed Drake’s father-in-law and seriously injured his nephew Markus, who’d been in America on holiday.

Easton remembered how Byrum and Sarah had posted a vigil by their son’s hospital bed, and how joyfully they’d brought the fifteen-year-old home to Korosol. It was almost beyond belief that their beloved son had had a hand in their deaths, yet Easton couldn’t discount the rumors.

Troubled, he gave up trying to sleep and called for a meal. A short time later, the flight arrived in New York.

While Harrison Montcalm and Cadence St. John went directly to the embassy, two helicopters fetched Easton, his bodyguards and his secretary to the roof of an apartment building overlooking Central Park. He was impressed all over again by the vast stretch of greenery marking the heart of the metropolis.

“All cities should have a refuge like this,” Cassandra had declared. Easton wished, achingly, that she was with him now.

“We’re so high up!” Ellie Standish said as the helicopter’s motor fell silent.

“Do you think we should build skyscrapers in Korosol la Vella?” teased the king. His country’s capital city had its share of modern buildings, but none this tall.

“Absolutely not!” Ellie pushed her glasses up on her nose and smoothed out her skirt. “I wouldn’t change a single thing about my home.”

At twenty-six, the young woman had all the makings of a knockout, with her bright blue eyes and long, curly brown hair, but she hid beneath frumpy clothes. That suited Easton fine. Otherwise, some young fellow was likely to fall in love with his secretary and snatch her away.

“Please stay here, Your Majesty, while we secure the area,” said Devon Montcalm, the captain of the Royal Guard.

“Certainly,” Easton said.

Since his daughter-in-law’s two-story penthouse apartment was already guarded, it took only a few minutes for Devon to make contact with her security chief and reassure himself as to the arrangements. Then he and the other guards escorted the king across the roof and down a private elevator.

Easton declined Devon’s offer of his arm for support. The king had no intention of appearing as an invalid.

He found his heart beating faster as the elevator halted. It was exciting to meet the granddaughters he hadn’t seen since they were children. Especially the one who, he hoped, held the future of his kingdom in her hands.

The doors opened on a marbled foyer. What an elegant place, Easton thought, noting the two-story-high ceiling and the curving staircase to his right.

“Your Majesty!” He would have recognized Charlotte DeLacey Carradigne anywhere. The tall, slim woman in the designer suit had hardly aged in twenty years.

She curtseyed gracefully. Easton caught her hand and pulled her up. “My dear, you look splendid,” he said. “I wish I hadn’t waited so long to pay you this visit.”

“You’re as handsome as ever. So much like Drake.” She flashed him a smile tinged with sadness. After so many years, he could see that she still mourned her husband. “You look a little pale. Was it a long flight?”

“Long enough,” he said. “And a colder winter than usual in Korosol. Charlotte, let me introduce my secretary, Eleanor Standish. She’s not staying here, but she’ll make sure my room’s settled the way I like it.”

“Of course.”

The housekeeper appeared as if by magic and whisked Ellie away. “Have the guards bring the suitcases to suite A,” he heard her say, and then he was alone with his daughter-in-law.

“Where are the girls?” Easton asked.

“Waiting in the Grand Room, right across the gallery.” Charlotte clasped her hands together. “That is, Amelia and Lucia are here, and CeCe’s on her way.”

The king felt a twinge of irritation at this tardiness. “Cecelia isn’t waiting for me?”

“She’s monitoring a severe storm in the Pacific that could impact a couple of our ships,” Charlotte explained. “Your granddaughter takes her duties very seriously.”

“That’s a good sign,” Easton said, his annoyance soothed, as they crossed a long corridor hung with paintings and large photographs.

“A good sign?” asked his daughter-in-law.

“We’ll get to that,” the king said.

COMMUNICATIONS FROM DeLacey’s ships in the storm area had been disrupted. Despite all their satellites, international weather sources couldn’t pinpoint the storm’s latest activity.

“What good is all this technology, anyway?” CeCe moaned, leaning back in her chair. Since she was alone in her office, no one answered.

The morning had been filled with one frustration after another. Her mother had called twice to urge her to get home before the king arrived. And, in truth, there was little CeCe could do to help her valiant captains, other than validate any decisions they made.

Still, she felt obligated to stick it out. At least this way, if a decision was made that derailed scheduling and angered a client, CeCe would take the blame on herself. It seemed only fair.

A beep from the computer startled her. For a moment, she couldn’t remember what that meant.

Puzzled, she minimized the maritime weather page so it disappeared from the screen. Instantly, it was replaced by the grinning face of Shane O’Connell.

“You can see me, but I can’t see you,” he said. “Turn your video on!”

CeCe had made so little use of the videoconferencing program that she’d almost forgotten it was installed. Annoyed and intrigued at the same time, she straightened in her chair and finger-combed her bangs. Then she clicked on Send Video.

Shane’s grin broadened. “Hey, you look pretty darn good for a digital image.”

“What’s going on?” There must be a new development in the Wuhan negotiations. “I thought everything was set.”

“For the ad campaign?” Shane’s dark eyes narrowed. “Whoa, lady.”

“I meant for brunch tomorrow,” CeCe said. “Forget the ad campaign.”

“You seemed pretty keen on it yesterday.” His expression shifted into confusion, or maybe that was the effect of the pixels. They sometimes rearranged themselves jerkily, giving the impression that she was watching stop-action animation instead of a real person.

Except that Shane was very, very real. His voice had a fierce vibrancy even through the computer speakers, and CeCe got the shivery sense that he was right here in the room with her.

Close enough to touch, yet out of reach. Just like in life.

“I’ve got a lot on my mind.” She couldn’t tell him about her grandfather’s visit, so she explained, “We’re having some bad weather at sea. What’s this call about, Shane?”

“Us,” he said.

Her heart nearly stopped. Surely she’d misheard him. “I beg your pardon?”

“When your mother came in, we were on the verge of talking about what happened that night at my apartment,” he said. “It’s time to finish the conversation.”

Not now! CeCe thought. Not with her mother’s silent nagging pulling at her mind, and worry about the storm making her feel guilty about taking even a moment for herself. “Forget that night. It doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t matter?” Shane repeated. “Does that mean I can expect you to drop by my place again, say, tonight?”

CeCe stared at him, trying to make sense of his comment. “What are you talking about?”

“You say that what happened doesn’t matter. So it won’t matter if we get together again, will it?” he replied, his eyes daring her to argue. Or maybe that was once again, the effect of digital imperfections. “We’re both consenting adults and whether you want to admit it or not, we enjoyed ourselves.”

“Life isn’t about having fun,” CeCe snapped, although it was difficult not to be amused by Shane’s outrageous remarks. Something about the man appealed to her even when he infuriated her.

“Lighten up,” he said. “Let me bring out the best in you. Or the worst. Whatever. Shall we say, seven o’clock, my place?”

“I have plans,” she said.

“So do I,” he admitted. “I didn’t figure you’d agree.”

“You louse!” CeCe couldn’t help laughing. “You have a lot of nerve!”

“So are we past it?” he asked.

“Past what?”

“That circling-each-other-and-snarling business,” Shane said. “What happened, happened. We’re both consenting adults and we both enjoyed it. No harm done.”

“Well…” CeCe swallowed. It seemed awfully abrupt to break the news about her pregnancy over the Internet. Besides, the connection might not be secure.

Then there was the matter of her grandfather’s visit. She couldn’t tell Shane yet, even if she wanted to.

A tap at her office door was followed by Linzy’s entrance. “Miss Carradigne? Did you see the latest weather bulletin?”

“No. What’s it say?” CeCe reached instinctively for her mouse.

“Don’t you dare minimize me!” Shane said.

Linzy frowned. “Is there someone on the speakerphone?”

“I’m videoconferencing with Mr. O’Connell,” CeCe said. “What’s the news?”

“The storm’s veered. The worst of it is expected to miss the shipping lanes,” said her secretary.

“Thank heaven.” CeCe checked her watch. “Oh, my goodness.” At last report, her grandfather was expected to land right about now. Even if she hurried, she’d be late to greet him. “I’ve got to go.”

Linzy withdrew discreetly. “What’s so important?” Shane asked.

“Family business,” CeCe said.

“So when it comes to our little escapade, it’s forgive, if not forget?” he pressed.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, and clicked off.

She didn’t want to keep the king of Korosol waiting any longer than she had to. Especially not for the impudent Shane O’Connell.

THE GRAND ROOM LIVED UP to its name, the king saw as he entered. Large enough to serve as a ballroom, it soared a full two stories. Fabric wall paneling in shades of beige and light blue set off the antique furnishings, and the windows opened onto a covered lanai.

Two young women sprang to their feet as Easton entered and dipped in slightly shaky curtseys. They were lovely women, both tall and blond.

Amelia, who wore a tailored dress, gave him a conciliatory smile. “I’m sure CeCe will be here any minute.”

Lucia, a shade taller and slimmer, wore a swirly, bohemian dress and large, bright earrings. She was, the king recalled from one of Charlotte’s letters, a jewelry designer, so she’d probably made them herself. “I’m so glad to meet you,” she murmured. “I mean, to see you again.”

She’d been six, and her sister seven, the last time he met them. It seemed like another lifetime.

“Come give your grandfather a big hug, both of you,” Easton said.

They embraced him shyly. Close up, they smelled of springtime.

“They’re beautiful girls,” he told Charlotte. “You’ve done well.”

“I must apologize again for Cecelia,” she said. “She has a computer in her suite upstairs. I told her she ought to keep track from here until…”

Across the hall, the elevator doors opened and Easton heard high heels click across the marble floor. Such an impatient sound, and an oddly familiar one.

His chest tightened. His wife’s steps used to sound exactly like that when she was in a hurry.

“With all those weather satellites, you’d think we could get some accurate information sooner about…” A tall, loose-limbed young woman, hair straggling across her face, stumbled to a halt in the doorway. “Oh, he’s here! I mean, you’re here. Welcome to New York, Your Majesty.”

As she dipped in a curtsey, he distinctly heard her knees crack. Then she straightened and King Easton forgot everything as he got a good look at her face.

It was his Cassandra, come back to life in her eldest granddaughter.

CECE FIGURED SHE’D BLOWN IT this time. Everyone was staring at her, especially her grandfather.

He was tall and erect, although thinner than she’d expected, and looked in his early sixties rather than his late seventies. His gray hair might be thinning, but there was nothing faded about his green gaze.

She hoped he wasn’t going to scold her. The chauffeur had set a crosstown speed record getting her here, which had done nothing to ease her churning stomach.

And she wished she hadn’t been quite so abrupt in ending the call with Shane. When he wasn’t scowling and trying to drive a hard bargain, the man could be downright charming. Dangerously so, as she’d learned.

“Please accept my apology for the delay,” CeCe said. “I hope my mother told you about the storm.”

“She did indeed.” Never taking his eyes off her, King Easton crossed the room and caught CeCe’s hands in his strong ones. “Your devotion to duty does you credit.” He spoke with a charming French accent.

Charlotte, who had opened her mouth to intervene in what she obviously expected to be a difficult moment, clamped it shut again. Amelia looked relieved, and Lucia amused.

Nothing had prepared CeCe for her grandfather’s absorption in her. As he stood directly in front of her, his stare seemed to bore into her.

Until this moment, he had been a remote figure with little impact on her life. Now, suddenly, a connection sprang to life between them.

She knew she ought to make polite conversation, to ask about his journey or offer him some refreshment. CeCe couldn’t find the words.

“You look exactly like your grandmother,” he said.

“That’s quite an honor. We have a portrait of her, you know.” Several people had pointed out a resemblance that escaped CeCe.

Her coloring was lighter than Cassandra’s, and she was taller. Hester Vanderling, the family’s former nanny and current housekeeper, attributed the similarity to the independent set of their chins.

The king blinked as if emerging from a daze, and released her hands. “Sit down, everyone. We need to talk.”

“I’ll have one of the maids bring coffee,” Charlotte said.

“It’s a bit late in the day for caffeine,” the king reproved. “Herbal tea and biscuits—cookies, you call them, I believe.”

“Right away.” On the intercom, Charlotte summoned the kitchen staff. Soon an ornate silver tray was wheeled in, with a handcrafted teapot and cups on top and two levels of cookies and small cakes.

Charlotte reached for the teapot, then stopped. “CeCe, as the eldest daughter, you should pour.”

Not since she’d had to defend her master’s thesis in front of a faculty panel had CeCe experienced such a jolt of alarm. Her tea-pouring ability was only one level above abysmal.

“Of course,” she said, doing her best to hide her dismay. Princess Bluster, that’s what her college classmates had nicknamed CeCe after she brazenly answered a teacher’s questions about a textbook chapter she’d neglected to read, and got away with it. “It would be my pleasure.”

Her sisters regarded her with varying degrees of surprise and concern. When CeCe reached for the teapot, Amelia leaned forward as if trying to help with body language.

King Easton regarded her quizzically. “You’re left-handed?”

“I’m afraid so.” Living in a right-handed world contributed to CeCe’s clumsiness, although Charlotte had never considered that an excuse.

“So was your grandmother,” said the king. “She used to complain that servingware was designed for right-handed women. We had several teapots made especially for her.”

“I’m afraid I left mine at the office,” CeCe said.

“You left your what at the office?” asked Charlotte.

“My left-handed teapot,” she said.

There was a moment’s pause, and then King Easton burst out laughing. “My granddaughter is joking! How delightful.”

CeCe’s sisters released a few giggles. Charlotte smiled cautiously.

“Would you like me to pour?” asked Amelia.

“She’s very good at it,” said Lucia.

“And I’m not,” CeCe concluded.

The king beamed at them. “I appreciate your frankness, and I’m glad to see that your sisters have kind hearts. Lady Charlotte, they’re a tribute to their upbringing.”

Their mother basked in his praise. For once, CeCe was glad to see, the three of them had won her approval.

Amelia proceeded to serve the tea without spilling a drop. Charlotte herself couldn’t have done better.

When they were all settled, the king said, “I want to tell you why I’ve come.”

“You don’t need a reason,” said his daughter-in-law.

“That’s true. Yet there is one.”

Since her mother’s announcement the previous day, CeCe had turned the matter over in her mind. Now she figured she had a pretty good idea what to expect.

Three years ago, there’d been talk that King Easton would retire on his seventy-fifth birthday. However, after his eldest son decided he wanted a few more years of relative freedom, the retirement was postponed.

Now that a year of mourning for Byrum had ended, her grandfather must have decided to hand the reins of power to Markus. Her cousin had made no secret of his eagerness to assume the role.

She wasn’t sure why Easton wanted to announce the transition to his granddaughters in person. The most likely explanation was that he sought the family’s support for the new king, along with their attendance at the coronation.

Of course they would go. CeCe only hoped her pregnancy wouldn’t be too obvious by that point.

“I’ve decided to step down from the throne,” Easton said.

CeCe nodded. It was what she’d assumed.

“We’re sorry to hear it,” Charlotte said.

“Don’t be. As long as I can hand Korosol to a strong, benevolent monarch, we should all rejoice.”

“When is the coronation to take place?” CeCe asked.

“That depends on you.”

“On us?”

“On you personally.” Easton studied her closely. “You see, Princess Cecelia, I’ve decided that you are to be my successor.”