Читать книгу Romancing The Crown: Lorenzo and Anna: The Man Who Would Be King / The Princess And The Mercenary - Marilyn Pappano, Linda Turner, Marilyn Pappano - Страница 4

Chapter 1

“Eliza? Willy called three times while you were out. He wants you to call him back. He said it was important.” All decked out in designer labels and looking every bit the socialite she was, Deborah Jones couldn’t wait to relay the message to Eliza the second she returned from lunch.

Witch, Eliza fumed, hating her smirk. If snooty little Debbie had been anyone else but the daughter of the owner of the Denver Sentinel, the newspaper Eliza sweated blood, sweat and tears for, she’d have told her to eat woolly worms and die. But that would have been playing right into her hands, and Eliza wasn’t that stupid. She’d spent nine years working her way up from copygirl to reporter to columnist, and she was protecting what was hers. From the moment Deborah had walked into the office a month ago as a new reporter for the society page, she’d made it clear to Eliza that she was not only after her job, but just looking for a reason to run crying to her daddy so she could get Eliza fired. Eliza didn’t intend to give her that reason.

But, damn, it wasn’t easy. Eliza wasn’t one of those meek, mild-mannered women who let people walk all over her. She stood up for herself, and was proud of it. So biting her tongue and forcing a smile took some effort. “Thanks,” she said as she took the pink message slip Deborah held out to her. “I’ll call him later.”

“Better you than me,” the younger girl retorted, her smirk more pronounced than ever. “That man still thinks Elvis is alive. Why do you waste your time on him? He’s a fruitloop.”

Eliza couldn’t argue with that. There was no doubt about it—Willy Cranshaw was a few cards shy of a deck. He was a hermit who lived in the mountains north of Boulder, and he was constantly calling the police with one outlandish tale after another. He had no credibility whatsoever with the authorities, and for the life of her, Eliza didn’t know why she continued to accept his calls. Over the years, he had given her a few good tips, but those times were rare and not always worth the effort of dealing with Willy. He was, to say the least, high maintenance. Still, she felt sorry for him. He seemed so lonely, and she knew what that was like. She and Robert had broken up two months ago, and she’d never been lonelier in her life.

“He just needs someone to talk to sometimes,” she replied, and wasn’t surprised when Deborah sniffed in disdain. Her daddy’s money and position guaranteed her a place in the world and someone to talk to, even if it was only a therapist. She’d never understand what life was like for a man like Willy.

“If that’s how you want to spend your time working, go ahead,” the younger girl said with a toss of her head. “I’d rather talk to someone who can give me a real story.”

When she turned and walked away with a superior smile and her pert, plastic surgery-perfect nose in the air, Eliza was half-tempted to throw her Rolodex watch at her. Her phone rang then, however, thankfully distracting her. Giving Deborah’s retreating back one last glare, she snatched up the phone. “Eliza Windmere.”

“Eliza! Thank God! I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. Didn’t you get my messages?”

“Hi, Willy,” she said with a wry grimace. Speak of the devil. “I just got your message. Deborah said you had something important for me.”

“I don’t like that girl,” he retorted, immediately distracted. “She treats me like I’m some kind of moron.”

Eliza had to laugh at that. “Yeah, I know the feeling. She does the same to me. But that’s not why you called, Willy,” she reminded him, bringing the conversation back to the matter at hand. “What’s going on? You didn’t call three times because you don’t like Deborah.”

Just that easily, he was back on track. “It’s the prince!” he said excitedly. “He’s alive!”

Eliza didn’t have to ask him which prince he meant. There was only one that was missing, and that was Prince Lucas Sebastiani, the firstborn of King Marcus and Queen Gwendolyn of Montebello and heir to the throne of the small island country in the eastern Mediterranean.

Athletic and handsome, he had a wild streak in him that had, no doubt, given his father more than a few gray hairs over the years, but Prince Lucas had always been great fodder for the nationally syndicated column Eliza wrote that chronicled the lives and loves of the royals. And she’d loved him for that. He had a great personality and was well loved throughout the world. When his plane crashed in the Colorado Rockies last winter and he was declared missing, Eliza had grieved just like everyone else…and followed up on every lead. But there had been no new information for well over six months, and she, like everyone else, had no choice but to believe he was dead.

“It’s been a year, Willy,” she said gently. “There’s no way he could be alive after all this time.”

“But he has to be,” he insisted. “I have proof.”

“Really? And what might that be?”

“Just something I found in the woods,” he said craftily. “If you want the rest of the story, you have to come here and talk to me.”

Eliza told herself he was blackmailing her and she’d be a fool to fall for it. She’d dealt with Willy too many times in the past to believe every wild story he told. This was the same man who’d claimed he’d seen Elvis, the Pope and an alien or two in the remote mountains where he lived. Before she jumped in her car and went racing up to Boulder, she had to make sure he wasn’t pulling a fast one on her.

Deliberately sitting back in her chair, she said, “Let me get this straight. You found something in the woods that proves the prince is alive, and you called me instead of the police. That looks more than a little suspicious, Willy, and you know it.”

He didn’t deny it. “I couldn’t call the cops,” he said simply. “They said if I called them again, they’d put me in jail for harassment.”

Eliza didn’t doubt that. She knew from personal experience that he was like a dog with a bone when he came up with one of his stories. He’d been known to call her as many as eight or nine times in a day. In spite of that, though, he really was a harmless old coot. He just wanted some attention, some acknowledgment that he mattered, just like everyone else.

Knowing that, she should have just pacified him and hung up, but she couldn’t, not if there was even the remotest chance that he was telling the truth. “You’d better not be lying to me about this, Willy,” she warned. “If I drive all the way to Boulder and this turns out to be just another Elvis sighting, I swear I’ll never take one of your calls again.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you. I know how you feel about the royals. I wouldn’t make this up.”

Deborah would have told her she was a fool to even consider believing him, but there was something in the old man’s tone that she couldn’t ignore. If he was telling the truth and the prince really was alive, this would be the biggest story of her career.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she promised. “Okay?”

Across the phone line, he sighed in relief. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

Even though Eliza had been to Willy’s cabin several times before, she was amazed every time she managed to find the place. Located high up in a deserted canyon that was far off the beaten path, the cabin was all but lost in the thick stand of snow-covered trees that surrounded it on all sides. Anyone who hadn’t known where it was could have driven right past it without even seeing it.

Pulling up before it in her red Jeep, she knew better than to knock at the front door. She didn’t know what had happened to him in Vietnam—he shut down at the very mention of war—but he’d been living in seclusion for the past thirty years. He only allowed a select few people into his life, and even then, it was on his terms. He never talked to anyone who knocked on his front door.

She could feel his eyes on her, and wasn’t surprised that he was watching for her. He might have withdrawn from the world, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know everything that was going on around him. If anyone invaded his space, he knew it.

Striding through the snow around the side of the house to the back door, she knocked twice, waited a beat, then knocked again. She knew from past experience that even though he was expecting her and was well aware of the fact that she had arrived, he wouldn’t answer the door if she didn’t knock correctly…because she might be an imposter sent by the government to arrest him.

And this was the man she trusted to give her the story of a lifetime.

Amused at the thought, she watched the door slowly open and wasn’t surprised when he glanced past her to the forest of trees behind her to make sure no one had followed her. “It’s all clear,” she assured him. “There’s no one here but you, me and the squirrels.”

Not taking her word for it, he checked behind her and was apparently satisfied. Opening the door further, he motioned her inside. “I thought you’d never get here. Look at this.” And before she could thank him for inviting her in out of the cold, he shoved something soft into her hands.

Surprised, she frowned down at what appeared to be a dirty rag. Then her eyes focused on the embroidered patch that was sewn onto it. A lily with crossed swords. The Sebastiani family crest. It was grimy and weathered, but she still would have recognized it anywhere.

Her heart slamming against her ribs, she glanced up sharply at Willy. “Where did you get this?”

“In the woods about five miles from the crash site. It’s the prince’s, isn’t it?”

Without a word, Eliza spread out the cloth and saw it was a scarf. A light blue cashmere scarf that she had seen around the prince’s neck in a picture of him taken just days before his plane crashed last year. According to published reports, his mother, Queen Gwendolyn, had had it specially made for him and there wasn’t another one like it in the world.

It was then that it hit her. Willy hadn’t lied. There was no way a scarf belonging to the prince would have ended up five miles from the crash site unless it had been around his neck. Dear God, he really was alive!

Light-headed with excitement, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Prince Lucas was alive. And thanks to Willy, she had the story, she thought, stunned. Who would have thought it?

Given the chance, she would have given him a bear hug, but she had a feeling that probably would have sent him into apoplexy. So she smiled at him instead and said, “It certainly appears to be. Let’s sit down, Willy, and you can start from the beginning. When did you find this? Did you find anything else that belonged to the prince? Who else have you told?”

“Stop the presses! Prince Lucas is alive.”

Striding into Simon Maxwell’s office, Eliza wasn’t surprised when her boss responded to her announcement with a snort of disbelief. Gruff and cynical, with a personality that was as caustic as sandpaper, Simon didn’t believe anything until the facts were laid out before him in black and white. “Yeah, right. And I’m the queen of England. I thought you were working on a real story, Red. You don’t get paid to write fairy tales.”

At any other time, Eliza would have snapped at the hated nickname he invariably used to tease her, but not today. Not when she was walking on air and feeling so darn good about herself and her job. Thanks to Willy, her position at the paper had never been so secure. She had a story to kill for and Ms. Nepotism was nowhere in sight. Life didn’t get any better than that.

Beaming with triumph, she reached into her oversize purse, pulled out the scarf, and dropped it on his desk. “The way I see it, LaGree, there’s nothing better than a happy ending. Take a gander at that if you don’t believe me.”

Simon hated his nickname as much as she did hers, but he hardly noticed. His eyes on the scarf and its golden crest, which he was as familiar with as she was. Motioning to the lone chair in front of his very messy desk, he growled, “Sit down. It looks like you’ve got something to tell me.”

That was all the encouragement she needed. Plopping down into the chair, she immediately launched into the story, leaving nothing out. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the happy ending—yet. “I know he’s alive, Simon. He’s got to be! This is proof he walked away from the crash site.”

“Not necessarily,” he argued, playing devil’s advocate. “An animal could have dragged it away.”

“And built a campfire?” she tossed back. “Willy said he found the scarf near the remains of a campfire five miles from the crash.”

Put that way, Simon couldn’t argue with her. “Who else knows about this?”

Not surprised that he’d asked the same question she had, she grinned broadly. “Just you and me and Willy. The king and queen don’t even know yet. Willy was afraid to tell the authorities.”

She didn’t have to tell him why. Willy’s reputation with the cops was well known by every reporter in Denver. A slow smile sliding across his chipmunk cheeks, Simon leaned forward just to be sure he’d heard her correctly. “Are you telling me that the king and queen don’t know there’s new evidence that their son is alive?”

Her blue eyes sparkling, she nodded. “You got it in one, LaGree.”

“Then you’ve got to go to Montebello and tell them!”

Whatever Eliza was expecting, it wasn’t that. “What?! But don’t you think we should tell the police?”

“And let them leak the story to every Tom, Dick and Harry who writes a gossip rag? Hell, no! Go home and pack your bags. I’ll make the airline reservations and get you some spending money. You’ve got to move fast. I want a play-by-play of everything that happens. Everything!” he stressed. “The king and queen are going to wig out when they find out the Prince is alive—”

Throwing instructions at her like darts, he never noticed that Deborah Jones had stepped into the open doorway until she demanded, “What prince? Who are you talking about? My God, is this about Prince Lucas? Are you saying you’ve found him?!”

Caught off guard, they both looked up and swore. From the look on Deborah’s face, it was obvious that she’d heard more than either one of them wanted her to.

Shooting her a hard look, Simon growled, “You’re barging in on a private conversation, Missy. Your daddy may own this place, but that doesn’t give you the right to just waltz in here without so much as a by-your-leave.”

He might as well have saved his breath. Ignoring his lecture on etiquette, she retorted, “If you have proof that Prince Lucas is alive, then I should be the one who goes to Montebello. I’ve traveled all over the world with my father. I have connections that will not only get me in the front door of the palace, but an audience with the king and queen. She doesn’t.”

Furious with the younger girl for trying to steal her thunder, Eliza felt her heart sink. She couldn’t summon a single word in her own defense. Deborah was right—she’d never been to Europe and didn’t have a clue how she would get in to see the king and queen. All she had were her wits and the Prince’s scarf. That might or might not get her anywhere, and what was important here was that Prince Lucas’s grieving parents be told that there was a very good possibility that he was alive. If Deborah could do that and get the story, Eliza couldn’t blame Simon if he sent her. He was caught between a rock and a hard place. Not only did he have to do everything he could to put out a good paper, he had to keep the owner happy. That meant keeping Deborah happy.

But this was her story, dammit! Hers! And she didn’t want to give it up…especially to a little blond-headed twit who used her father’s money and influence to get whatever she wanted. Glancing at Simon, she braced for disappointment. “It’s your call. Who gets to go?”

He didn’t even blink. “You do. It’s your story.”

For a moment, Eliza couldn’t believe she’d heard him correctly. But then Deborah started to sputter in protest, and she knew she’d won. Thrilled, she jumped to her feet and impulsively launched herself at Simon. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she sang, giving him a bear hug. “You won’t regret this. Wait’ll you see the finished story. It’s going to be great!”

Patting her shoulder, he tried and failed to hide a crooked grin. “Don’t get sappy on me,” he said gruffly. “Go on and get out of here. You’ve got a plane to catch.”

“But I want to go!” Deborah cried. “This isn’t fair!”

“I’ve got a more important assignment for you,” Simon said as Eliza hurried out the door. “I need someone to go to Hollywood and interview Brad Pitt. You’re just the girl for the job.”

The throne room at the royal palace of Montebello was seldom used for official business anymore. Years ago, the coronation ceremonies for King Marcus and Queen Gwendolyn had been held there, but most palace guests who visited the room were usually interested in viewing the mosaics on the walls that depicted the country’s history. Not today. King Marcus had called his family together, as well as Kyle and Tyler Ramsey, two American allies assigned to protect his interests, and the ruling family of Montebello’s neighboring country, Tamir. Both royal families had long-awaited King Marcus’s decision, especially now that the two long-feuding countries had been united by the marriage of King Marcus’s eldest daughter, Princess Julia, to Sheik Ahmed Kamal’s son, Rashid, the crown prince of Tamir. Recently, Julia and Rashid had given King Marcus and Sheik Ahmed their first grandchild and as a result, the ruling family of Tamir was concerned about who would take over the Montebellan throne and how this might affect future relations between the two countries.

Now as the guests mingled about and talked among themselves in hushed voices, their eyes lifted time and time again to the clock on the wall. And with good reason. King Marcus was late to his own meeting. Speculation rippled around the room like heat lightning on a summer day. Where was the king? Had he decided not to make a decision today, after all? What was going on?

“Maybe you should go see if something is wrong,” Prince Rashid told his wife, Julia. “This can’t be an easy decision for your father. He doesn’t want to admit Lucas is dead.”

Julia could well understand that. Her brother had always been so full of life. She couldn’t imagine him dead at thirty-six. But it had been a year since his plane had crashed, and even though his body had never been found, what choice did she and the rest of the family have but to accept the fact that he must have died during the winter storms that blanketed the Colorado Rockies after the crash? If he had survived both the crash and the storms, surely he would have found a way to return to them by now.

It was the not knowing that was killing her parents. She’d watched them struggle with hope and despair and, finally, resignation, and her heart ached for them. Now that she and Rashid had their own baby boy, Omar, she didn’t even want to think about what it would be like to lose him. How did a parent handle the death of a child?

“Father just needs some time,” she said huskily, blinking back tears. “He’ll be here in a moment.”

Standing nearby, Rashid’s father, Sheik Ahmed, and Rashid’s brother, Hassan, surveyed the crowd with the sheik’s advisor, Butrus Dabir. There had been a time in the not too distant past when the Kamals wouldn’t have been caught dead anywhere near the Sebastianis or Montebello. A broken betrothal between the two families in the late 1800s had caused a century-long feud that might have gone on indefinitely if Princess Julia and Prince Rashid had not fallen in love. With their wedding and the birth of their baby, everything had, thankfully, changed, but no one had forgotten the past.

“I was hoping the king would name Princess Julia and Rashid as heirs to the throne, but the word on the street is that he’s leaning toward Duke Lorenzo Sebastiani,” Butrus said quietly.

“That’s understandable,” Sheik Ahmed replied. “The Sebastianis have ruled Montebello since the 1880s. King Marcus will protect that heritage by guaranteeing that the monarchy remains in Sebastiani hands. Julia is now a Kamal …as is her son,” he added proudly. It went without saying that Omar was the apple of his eye. “I have no issue with his choice of Lorenzo, if that is, in fact, Marcus’s choice.”

“Lorenzo is King Marcus’s nephew and top aide,” Hassan added. “He’s a military hero and well respected by Montebellans. He’s the natural choice to succeed the king since he has no other sons now that Prince Lucas is dead. And Lorenzo is a good man, one who will follow in Marcus’s footsteps and maintain our newly formed ties with Montebello.”

“True,” Butrus said. “But as the king’s heir, Lorenzo will eventually have to forfeit his position as head of Royal Intelligence. That won’t be easy for him to do.”

Across the room, Lorenzo’s thoughts ran along the same lines. He loved his uncle, and for the sake of the country, he would do what was asked of him. But privately, deep in his heart, he hoped Marcus would not choose him. He had little desire to be king.

His illegitimate half brother, Desmond, however, had a very different take on the whole situation. Waiting for Marcus to put in an appearance, Desmond almost rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “This is the day you will be named king,” Desmond told Lorenzo proudly. “No one deserves it more.”

Lorenzo had to laugh at that. “Aren’t you rushing things a bit? The king has kept his own counsel about this. We don’t know who he’s going to pick.”

“Of course we do,” his brother replied confidently. “You’re perfect for the job, and the king knows it. Trust me. Today’s going to turn out to be the most important day of your life.”

Lorenzo wasn’t surprised that he had Desmond’s total support. He always had. From the time Desmond had come into his life when Lorenzo was thirteen, he’d been there for him in a way Lorenzo’s older brother Max never had. Oh, Lorenzo knew Max loved him, too, but Max had joined the Montebellan army at eighteen, then eventually moved to the United States. Since then, he only came home occasionally for visits. Desmond, on the other hand, was the one Lorenzo could count on in spite of the fact that they’d had different mothers and had not been raised together from birth.

“I don’t know about that,” Lorenzo replied wryly, “but if the king does choose me, I hope you’ll be one of my advisors. I’m not much of a diplomat. I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

“Of course I’ll help you,” Desmond replied smoothly, delighted with his brother’s words. He kept his glee, however, carefully hidden behind an easy smile. “Haven’t I helped King Marcus all these months since poor Lucas was lost? I’ll do the same for you. More, in fact. You’re my brother. I can’t imagine being anywhere else but at your side.”

He spoke with a sincerity that was well practiced, and he wasn’t surprised when Lorenzo swallowed it whole. His brother was nobody’s fool, but Desmond had come into his life when Lorenzo was young and vulnerable and feeling lost, and it hadn’t taken much effort on Desmond’s part to win his trust. At the time, Desmond had to use his brother to get close to the king. That, it turned out, had been a stroke of genius on his part. Because now it was his brother who would be king. As his trusted advisor and closest family member, Desmond intended to take full advantage of his new position. After all, Desmond was the son of a duke, just like Lorenzo—a bastard son, but a son nonetheless. It was about time he came into his royal due.

What a shame that Prince Lucas had foolishly crashed his plane into the side of a mountain, Desmond thought snidely. Maybe one day, he’d summon up the strength to shed a tear for him…after he celebrated his own good fortune.

First, however, the king had to name Lorenzo his successor, something he should have done ten minutes ago. Troubled by the delay, Desmond frowned at the closed door where the king was expected to make his entrance. “I don’t understand the king’s tardiness. Maybe you should see if there’s some kind of problem,” he suggested. “Something isn’t right.”

Knowing how his uncle grieved for his son, Lorenzo wasn’t surprised that Marcus wasn’t his usual punctual self. With the announcement of a new heir to the throne, he was publicly admitting that he was accepting the fact that his son was dead. That would be difficult for any parent.

Wondering how he would find the strength to deal with such a situation himself, Lorenzo said quietly, “He probably just needs a little more time to come to terms with everything. I’ll go check on him.”

Whatever Eliza was expecting when she caught a cab at the Montebellan airport and went directly to the royal palace, it wasn’t the mob of reporters that crammed the front gates, trying to gain admittance. Surprised, she asked the cab driver, “What’s going on? Nothing’s happened to the king, has it?”

“Oh, no, miss,” he assured her as he took the fare and tip she held out to him. “He’s fine. Or at least he’s as fine as any father can be when he announces his son is dead.”

“What?!”

“It’s true,” he said sadly. “It’s been a year since Prince Lucas’s plane crashed and he went missing. No one wants to believe he’s dead, but there hasn’t been much hope for a long time now. I guess that’s why the king decided to name a successor. Like it or not, the living have to keep on living.”

Horrified, she hurriedly collected her Notebook computer and pushed open her door. “Oh, my God! I have to stop him. He can’t do this!”

Puzzled by her reaction, the cabby laughed. “Sure he can, lady. He can do anything he likes. He’s the king!”

Struggling with her things as she rushed toward the crowd at the gate, Eliza didn’t hear him. This couldn’t be happening! She should have tried to contact the palace the second Willy showed her the scarf. But she’d known she wouldn’t be allowed to speak to the king and queen, and the news she had wasn’t the kind that should be relayed over the phone. Besides, would anyone believe her without seeing the evidence?

She should have called anyway, she thought as she fought her way through the mass of reporters. She could have convinced someone to listen to her, and the king would have been spared the agony of picking someone to succeed his only son. Now, she had to convince the guard at the gate that she needed an immediate audience with the king and what she had to say to him was more important than the hundreds of other reporters who wanted the same thing.

“Hey, watch it!”

“What do you think you’re doing, lady? Get at the back of the line. We were here first.”

“Too bad,” she snapped. “I’m in a hurry and you guys are in my way. Move it, will you? I’ve got to talk to the king.”

The minute the words were out of her mouth, she knew it was the wrong thing to say, but it was too late. All around her, her fellow reporters mimicked, “Move it, I’ve got to talk to the king.”

“You can wait, just like the rest of us, mademoiselle,” a skinny Frenchman told her, looking down his nose at her. “And you can forget about talking to the king. His press secretary will tell us whatever he wants us to know.”

Eliza knew he was right, but his attitude irked her, and she didn’t even bother to respond. Quickly stepping around him, she told the guard at the gate, “It’s very important that I see the king. I have some information he needs…”

Surrounded by competing reporters, she didn’t dare tell him what that information was, but he wasn’t interested, anyway. “Nice try,” he drawled, “but I’ve got my orders. No reporters allowed inside the palace. You’ll have to wait, just like everyone else.”

Frustrated, she swore softly. So much for trying to go through channels. She liked to play by the rules, but sometimes it just didn’t pay. Now it was time to follow her gut and do what she should have done when she’d first seen the crowd of reporters fighting to get inside—find another way in.

“Fine,” she retorted, pretending to pout as she let herself be pushed to the back of the crowd. “You can’t blame a girl for trying.”

The front door of the palace opened then, distracting the crowd at the gate, and that was just the opportunity Eliza was looking for to slip away. As the press secretary informed the crowd that the king’s announcement would be released momentarily, she quietly hurried along the palace wall hoping to find some place to scramble over now that the guard was distracted. As luck would have it, she saw a delivery truck enter the service gate at the far end and before it could close automatically behind the vehicle, she slipped inside.

After getting over her initial shock at suddenly finding herself within mere yards of the royal palace, she quickly made her way around the corner of the stone and marble building, looking for a way in. But every door she came to was locked!

“I can’t believe this!” she muttered, continuing around the building. An entire staff of people took care of the daily operation of the palace. Surely someone had mistakenly left a door open somewhere!

Frustrated, she was about to give up hope when she rushed around another corner and suddenly found herself at the rear of the palace, facing the sea. And there, right in front of her, were the royal gardens…and a veranda with a set of French doors that looked like they’d been placed there just for her.

“Yes!” she whispered triumphantly. Now, if they were just unlocked.

Her heart thundering wildly, she dashed up onto the veranda and turned the doorknob, half expecting an alarm to blare at any second. But the door opened effortlessly, silently, and just that easily, she found herself standing inside what appeared to be the ballroom of the royal palace of Montebello.

Take notes! a voice in her head ordered sharply. But there was no time. The room was deserted, and she took advantage of that to quickly stow her computer and overnight bag behind the drapes at the window. Hopefully, they would still be there when she got back. If she got back, she silently amended. She’d just broken into a king’s palace. In some countries, they threw you into the dungeon for that if you got caught.

“So don’t get caught,” she told herself. “Act like you have a right to be here and no one will even spare you a second glance.”

It was a simple plan, one that had worked well for her in the past. Over the years, her job—and curiosity—had led her into any number of places where she had no business being, and she’d discovered that she could go practically anywhere if she acted like she knew what she was doing. So she smoothed her hair, slung her purse over her shoulder, and strode out of the ballroom like she owned the place.

Just as she’d hoped, it worked. Stepping into a wide, impressive corridor lined with a collection of paintings the likes of which she’d only seen in a museum, she passed several members of the staff, and they didn’t even blink at the sight of her. Relieved, she would have laughed, but she didn’t dare. The less attention she drew to herself, the better.

Unfortunately, she didn’t have a clue where she was going. She knew nothing about the layout of the palace or where the king planned to meet with the guests he’d invited to witness the naming of his new successor. Logic told her that the announcement would be made in one of the palace’s public rooms, but that was strictly a guess on her part. For all she knew, they could be meeting in the family quarters, which could be anywhere.

Frowning, she reached an intersection of hallways and hesitated, not sure which way to turn. And just that easily, she made her first mistake. Suddenly, a door on her left opened, and before she could summon the look of confidence that had gotten her that far, she was caught.

“Who the devil are you?”

Swearing softly under her breath, she silently told herself to bluff her way out of this. But then she turned to face her captor and whatever she was going to say next flew right out of her head as she gasped in recognition. His Grace, Duke Lorenzo Sebastiani, the man everyone had been speculating for months might one day be named king!

They’d never met, of course, but she would have known him anywhere. Over the years, she’d lost track of the number of stories she’d written about him—first as a military hero who was rewarded with the title of duke by the king, then as head of the Montebello Royal Intelligence—and she’d enjoyed writing every one of them. There was just something about the man that had always struck her fancy. He was tough and smart and loyal, and his pictures hadn’t begun to do him justice. Lean and well-muscled, his sandy-brown hair streaked with golden highlights, and his green eyes dark with a mixture of emotions she couldn’t begin to understand, it was easy to see why he, like the rest of the Sebastiani men, was one of the heartthrobs of Europe.

“Your Grace! Thank God! I need you to get a message to the king—”

“You’re an American,” he cut in, frowning in puzzlement. “How did you get in? There are no tours today.”

“No, sir, I’m sure there aren’t. I’m not a tourist. My name is Eliza Windmere. I’m with the Denver Sentinel—”

That was as far as she got. “A reporter,” he said with a grimace of distaste. “I should have known. The palace is crawling with them. C’mon. You’re out of here.” And before she could begin to guess his intentions, he grabbed her arm and started tugging her toward the nearest exit.

“Wait! You don’t understand. I have information about Prince Lucas.”

His jaw set, he didn’t so much as spare her a glance. “Yeah, right. Let me see if I can guess. You found him waiting tables in L.A., and for the right price, you’ll tell King Marcus where he is. Save your breath, sweetheart. I’ve heard it all before. The king gets a hundred letters a week from people just like you. I don’t know how you all live with yourself. Don’t you have any conscience?”

“Of course I do,” she retorted, stung. But heat burned her cheeks and deep inside, she had to wonder if he was right. The king and queen had lost a son, and though she had come to give them news they longed to hear, she also wanted an exclusive when they learned he was alive. So how was she any different from the con men trying to cash in on the Sebastianis’ grief?

Uncomfortable with the question, she reminded herself that she wasn’t trying to extort money from the king or keep his son’s whereabouts from him. Of course she wanted the story, but she had that already. At this point, she was just doing the right thing and bringing the king news of his son. “Look, I know how this must look, but I’m serious. I have vital information—”

“And I’m the tooth fairy,” he retorted. “Put that in your paper and smoke it. It’s probably one of those scandal rags, anyway.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Stopping abruptly, she jerked free of his grasp and drew herself up to her full five foot seven inches and gave him a narrow-eyed look that should have reduced him to the size of an ant. “For your information, I wouldn’t be caught dead writing that kind of trash, so I’d appreciate it if you’d keep a civil tongue in your mouth.”

She’d caught him off guard, and for a moment, he had the grace to look embarrassed. But then he obviously realized that he’d just been brought to task by a reporter, of all things. “That was good,” he told her dryly. “For a moment there, I actually forgot that you broke in here.”

“I didn’t break in. The door was unlocked—”

“So you thought you’d just walk right in,” he finished for her. “I wonder how you’d feel if I did the same at your house.”

“Dammit, I just need to talk to the king!”

“Not a chance,” he growled, and grabbed her arm again.

Indignant, she tried to jerk free, but this time, the duke had a firmer grip, and there was no escaping him. Still, she had to try. Struggling, uncaring that she’d probably have bruises on her arms tomorrow, she cried, “You’re the most irritating man. I don’t know why I ever thought you were charming.”

Before she could say another word, they were interrupted by a servant, who hurried forward with a worried frown. “Is there a problem, Your Grace?”

“As a matter of fact, there is,” he said flatly. “Show this lady to the door, will you, Rudolpho? She’s a reporter. And make sure she doesn’t get back in.”

“Of course,” the older man replied, and took Eliza’s arm in a grip that was surprisingly firm.

“No! Wait! At least talk to the king for me,” she called after the duke, but it was too late. Without sparing her a glance, he turned and walked away.