King Carlo closed his eyes. Stefano suspected the man was counting backward from ten before speaking. When he did, his words were well-tempered. "Why do you believe this child is yours?"

"I know. If you saw her, you'd know, too." No DNA test would be necessary, even for his father, who was as cynical as they came.

"Truly?" The barely whispered question came from his mother.

"Truly."

"But...I can't believe this. A child?"

"Yes."

"I wish you'd told us as soon as you found out. How old is she?" A tentative smile tugged at the corner of his mother's lips as she asked the question, even as her eyes brimmed with unshed tears at the realization that she was, at long last, a grandmother. "You did say it's a girl?"

"Her name is Anna. She just turned ten and she's wonderful." He shot his father a quick look. "And before you ask, yes, I had an intimate relationship with the girl's mother then."

His mother angled her head, thinking back. The hint of joy he'd seen in her expression at learning she had a granddaughter faltered. "But that's when you and Ariana-"

She stopped abruptly when King Carlo patted her knee and stood. He moved to the rear of the sofa, then bracketed his wife's slender shoulders with his hands, giving her a light squeeze. Though the king's lips remained pressed in a tight line, Stefano would swear that if he could see into his father's skull, there would be wheels spinning so fast as to blur.

"May we ask the woman's name?" his father asked. "It wasn't in the newspaper piece your mother and I read."

Stefano flexed his fingers against the fabric of the chair. It pained him to tell his parents, knowing they'd want to speak with Megan. No doubt their minds would leap ahead to how they'd react in public if a reporter went digging and the story broke open. They'd want to craft a press release and coach Megan on how to handle herself.

But would they act in Megan and Anna's best interests? Or their own? He wanted to believe they'd consider those interests one and the same, but wasn't certain enough to take the chance.

"Again, between us" -he looked for each of his parents' nods of agreement- "her name is Megan Hallberg. She's an American I met in Venezuela. She now works at the Grandspire, which is how I ran in to her again. That's when I found out about Anna."

"You must have been caught completely off-guard," his father replied. His hands remained at the queen's shoulders, but the color had slowly leached from Queen Fabrizia's face. "Wait, if this was during the grand reopening....what did Mahmoud say? Does he know?"

"He doesn't know. No one knows." He fixed his father with a pointed look. "That's why I asked you about Dagmar and whether she'd ever been told to hold my calls or cull the list of messages. Megan was trying to reach me to let me know about the pregnancy."

"I see." His father absorbed that. "But she did not persist? Or send a message some other way?"

"She did, actually. She went on the Internet to try to find a way to contact me other than through Dagmar, since she suspected I wasn't getting her messages. That's when she learned of my engagement. At that point, she a.s.sumed I was intentionally disregarding the calls and thought it best to keep the news to herself."

His mother hissed in a breath. Stefano stared at her until she raised her eyes to his. What he saw there left him sick inside. "What is it, Mother? You look as though you're ready to pa.s.s out."

"Oh. Nothing. I'm simply...simply trying to imagine how you must've felt."

He didn't buy it. "You know the name Megan Hallberg" -his mother shook her head even as the words left his mouth- "...you knew...didn't you? And you kept it from me?"

"No! I had no idea!" His mother's jaw shook harder now.

"Then what did you know?" He hated the edge in his voice, but he'd never seen his mother like this. Even when she'd heard of her own mother's death in a car accident via the news, rather than from the police working the scene, she hadn't shown such raw emotion.

She reached to up to thread her fingers through King Carlo's. He looked as disturbed as Stefano. Whatever the queen knew, she hadn't shared any details with her husband.

"There was a Megan-back then, you have to understand that you had so many phone calls-and she was one of the callers I asked Dagmar to defer when we were trying to deal with wedding plans. I hadn't thought about it since, but once you said Hallberg...now I remember. But I didn't realize, Stefano. I would never do that-"

"Then why? You didn't even know her. You couldn't possibly know what she wanted."

"Everything was going so well for you. You and Ariana were engaged, which was my dream-and yes, I eventually realized that it was my dream, not yours-and you were about to start your military training." A single, flat tear slipped from the corner of her eye, but she didn't notice. Her entire being seemed devoted to telling her side of the story. "Then, the night before the press conference to announce the engagement, you had dinner with your father and me in our private apartment. Do you remember?"

"Of course." He'd finally apologized to his father for the argument they'd had the morning he'd stormed across the street to Ariana's hotel. He'd hoped never again to have such a stressful discussion with his parents.

"After we talked through the press conference, I asked about your time in Venezuela. What types of work you did, where you traveled, what kind of people you met. If you thought the experience was a valuable one. You mentioned a woman named Megan. You never said she was a girlfriend or that there was anything between you, but your expression told me she was special, and she was the only person you mentioned by name. When I saw that same name on Dagmar's list of calls soon afterward, I...well, that's when I suspected you might have had an affair with her. I didn't want you second-guessing your relationship with Ariana. We had such a tight window while you were home to start the wedding planning. I didn't want you distracted by phone calls from someone I believed was inconsequential. And I didn't want anyone else to discover you'd had a fling so close to becoming engaged."

Stefano grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached. Fling. The word Megan herself had used when turning down his proposal.

As angry as he wanted to be with his mother, if Megan herself had argued that what they'd had was nothing more than a fling, how could he have expected his mother to believe otherwise?

"I am so sorry, Stefano. I had no idea." Remorse filled her voice. "I truly believed that deflecting the phone calls was harmless. That I was protecting both you and Ariana."

She shouldn't have interfered. She shouldn't have put Dagmar in such a terrible position. And, judging from King Carlo's guarded expression, she shouldn't be taking the fall for an action with which he agreed. That was a.s.suming he hadn't taken the same action himself. Stefano wouldn't put it beyond his father to have approached Dagmar separately with a similar directive, asking that no calls from young women be put through unless they were strictly for business purposes.

It did no good to let his anger fester over something that happened a decade ago. He let out a long, purging breath, then reached across the s.p.a.ce between them and gave his mother's hand a quick squeeze. "I forgive you."

It occurred to him then that, had he been more open with his parents, they'd have known he didn't need "protecting" from Megan. Not that he'd ever have told them about his romantic life, but the irony of the situation wasn't lost on him.

Finally, his father spoke. "I know it was a long time ago and it changes nothing, but did your...your encounter in Venezuela contribute to the end of your engagement?"

"No. Ariana had no idea. Frankly, she wouldn't have cared if she did."

His father tilted his head slightly, as if to ask, then why did it end?

Stefano forgot that they had no clue. He'd been so angry at himself for being manipulated and for-as Megan put it-taking rash actions in order to control the situation, that when he and Ariana made the decision to call off the wedding, he'd refused to tell his parents anything more than what was in the press release.

To this day, he could recite it word for word: Prince Stefano and Ariana Ba.s.si have mutually agreed to end their engagement. They have the deepest respect and admiration for each other and remain close friends. Therefore, they humbly request that the media honor their privacy and that of their families. No further statements will be forthcoming.

He looked at his father and shrugged. "We didn't love each other. As much as I wanted to give you grandchildren and ensure the throne for the family, I couldn't marry a woman I didn't love. I wanted better for myself. I wanted better for Ariana. I was truly happy for her when she married."

"And what about you?" Though there was hope in his mother's voice, doubt lingered in her eyes as she asked the question. "What is going to make you happy?"

He stood, clarity coming to the jumbled, restless thoughts he'd had since leaving Megan. He could be happy-well, perhaps not happy so much as satisfied-if he could ensure Anna was happy. It's what Megan would want.

"Doing what's best for my child." And doing what he should've done for himself a long time ago.

"Will you bring her here?" King Carlo asked. "We would need to make arrangements for her security first, but it would allow her to receive the best education possible and access to all the-"

"No." He smiled to himself, resolved at last, while at the same time finding it humorous that his father suggested exactly the same course of action he'd initially proposed to Megan. How ludicrous it must have sounded to her then. "No, she already has the best of everything. In fact, I'll no longer be here, either."

His mother pushed off the sofa and approached him. "I know you're angry, even if you say we're forgiven. But you can't leave Sarcaccia."

"Oh, I'm not. But I am leaving the palace."

"No." The single word came from his father.

"Is that your desire? Or a command?" He met his father's iron gaze. Neither of them budged or spoke. Since the palace was constructed, royals lived within its walls until they married and had children. Often, they stayed until the eldest ascended the throne and their own offspring needed the s.p.a.ce. But to his knowledge, the tradition wasn't law.

Finally, Stefano looked to his mother. "I'll let you know where to contact me as soon as I'm settled."

He crossed the library to his desk and neatly stacked his doc.u.ments for later. A thought occurred to him, and he glanced up to take in his parents' horrified looks. "Have you considered taking a family vacation like the ones we took to Sicily when I was a child? We had so much freedom. There was time to relax, to enjoy each other's company, to be away from our round-the-clock public lives and have real family conversations. Not like our Sunday dinners, where we're surrounded by dignitaries."

"What?" His mother sounded confused. "You want to go to Sicily?"

"Not me, us. Maybe next year, in the spring, when the flowers are just beginning to bloom and we can go for walks or bicycle rides like we used to. I think it'd be very good for this family. Help us remember what's most important. Think about it."

With that, he strode out of the library, made a sharp left to jog down the palace's rear staircase, then pushed open the double doors to the gardens and the sunshine.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

The text appeared on Megan's phone at one a.m.

In New Delhi airport. Flight to London with stop at BCN late tomorrow afternoon.

Would a dinner invitation be considered railroading?

Though the number was blocked, she didn't need to ask who'd sent the text. She typed back a wish for a safe flight and asked Jack to call her at her Grandspire office when he landed in Barcelona so she could make a dinner reservation.

Megan then proceeded to toss and turn all night, her brain wrestling with her career dilemma even as her sheets became a tangle around her legs, but everything pointed to the same conclusion. She had to take the Grandspire job. No other offers would be forthcoming. It was her own d.a.m.ned fault. She'd been in such a funk during the last two weeks she'd hardly slept, let alone done the necessary follow-up for other possible positions.

Thank goodness Jack Gladwell took a last-minute trip to Nepal last Thursday, buying her another week until she was obligated to give him an answer. Not that it helped her in the least.

She rolled over and glanced at her bedside clock. Though it wasn't yet five in the morning, she tossed her sheets aside. May as well get up and face the day. When her feet hit the floor, she stifled a yawn.

After years of hard work at the Grandspire, she should be thrilled to be offered the position as manager. The pay and benefits were phenomenal, she and Anna loved Barcelona, and Anna would still be able to visit with Stefano. In fact, her life could continue much the way it had, but with a lot more financial and long-term job security. So why did it feel underwhelming?

Why had she put off accepting the job for nearly two weeks? Even with Jack Gladwell in Nepal, she could've left a message with his administrative a.s.sistant.

Because you fell in love with a prince, you idiot. Because saying yes to the Grandspire means saying no to a chance with Prince Charming and happily ever after.

She nabbed her toothbrush from its holder on the bathroom counter, squirted on the requisite amount of blue gel, then stared at herself in the mirror. Fatigue caused her own image to sway before her, spurring a flashback to her early days with Anna, when she'd walked her tiny apartment, exhausted, waiting for Stefano to call and tell her he wanted her. It'd been a pipe dream then, and it was a pipe dream now.

She ran a quick stream of water over her toothbrush before shoving it in her mouth.

Once the sun rose and she dropped off Anna for her first day of summer basketball camp, Megan would make the dinner call, then tell Jack Gladwell she'd waited to let him know she was accepting the position until she could speak to him personally.

Time to be a realist, Hallberg. Prince Charming only appears in fairy tales.

What man asked a woman to marry him, presented her with a pack of information on a potential job, then asked if she loved him without saying a word about whether he loved her? Worse, what man then turned around and said he knew she didn't want to marry him-all evidence to the contrary-and that it was best if they didn't marry, all because she'd wanted to discuss marriage before letting him know about a job offer she had no intention of accepting or a grainy tabloid photo that no one corroborated?

A man who doesn't know what he wants. A man who doesn't truly love you in the first place.

She scrubbed her teeth harder than necessary, as if she could cleanse the thought from her mind.

Stefano had been right about one thing: No more photos or reports had appeared of the two of them. And with no palace confirmation of the prince's ident.i.ty in that first, hazy photo, the story had disappeared. Life had continued on just as it had before Stefano's visits. Even Santi said nothing more. Their conversations centered on the usual topics of upcoming banquets, his wife and children, and the streak of beautiful weather Barcelona currently enjoyed.

On autopilot, Megan went through her Monday morning ritual of showering, applying makeup, and selecting an outfit before making her way to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. As she poured freshly-ground coffee into the filter and breathed in the rich scent, she resolved to embrace her life as it was.

When she parted from Stefano the first time, she was alone and pregnant. She faced the prospect of juggling finals, a new baby, and job interviews, not to mention finding help with daycare during those first lean years. Now she had none of those concerns. She had everything she'd ever wanted in life, and Anna topped that list. They'd had a wonderful time selecting fresh strawberries at the market yesterday morning. She'd come home feeling happy and refreshed, despite the persistent feeling that Stefano should have been exploring the Sat.u.r.day market with them.

Maybe she could make waffles for Anna this morning and top them with the berries, a.s.suming the headache Anna developed last night was cured by a good night's sleep. Megan never prepared anything fancier than cereal on a weekday, so this would be a treat for them both. Cooking would occupy her mind until Anna was awake. Better that than thoughts of Stefano or Jack Gladwell.

As if on cue, a low groan came from Anna's room. Megan stilled, coffee pot in hand. "Anna?"

She heard nothing more, only the low hum of the suite's air conditioning.

"Anna? You awake? It's early, honey." Too early.

She set the coffee pot on its burner, flipped on the power switch to start the drip, then walked to Anna's door, which was cracked open about six inches. The light was off and the lump on the bed didn't move. She watched for a few seconds, but Anna didn't stir. Megan reached for the k.n.o.b to pull the door closed, but paused.

No, this didn't feel right.

Carefully, she tiptoed into Anna's room and approached the bed. Anna's hair hung over her face, as usual. Megan reached to gently swipe it back. Her hand was still a few inches away when she felt the heat rolling off Anna in waves.

"Anna?" Megan looped Anna's hair behind her ear and pressed a hand to Anna's forehead. "Oh, honey, you're on fire."

"I don't feel good. My neck hurts," Anna whispered without opening her eyes. "A lot."

Megan crouched beside the bed. Anna had been a little warm last night, but Megan chalked it up to the fact that, after returning from the market, Anna spent the entire afternoon on the beach with friends. But this wasn't a case of too many hours spent in the sun. Megan couldn't remember ever feeling Anna so hot. "Your neck or your throat?"

"Neck. It hurts to move, Mommy."

Mommy? She hadn't been Mommy for several years. "Okay. Stay put and I'll get a thermometer."

She returned a few seconds later and a quick check confirmed what she feared, a dangerously high fever.

"Anna, I'm taking you to the doctor, all right? Can you get up?"

When Anna merely blinked, Megan said, "Never mind. I'll carry you to the elevator and we'll go straight to the car."

Anxiety knotted her insides as she peeled back Anna's covers and hefted her into her arms. She made her way through the living area, taking a moment to turn off the coffee pot with her elbow and loop her shoulder bag onto her arm before stepping into her shoes and hustling toward the elevator.

The closer Megan got to the car, the more she worried. Even when Anna had a bad case of the flu in third grade, she'd insisted she could get out of bed and take care of herself, though she only made it as far as the sofa. Then there was the time in first grade that Anna lied to her teacher about throwing up her lunch because she hadn't wanted to miss school.

Now Anna didn't care that she was being carried. She didn't even seem to notice. Worse, Megan could feel the heat of Anna's body through the girl's pajamas and her own blouse. It was like standing under a heat lamp.

Gently, Megan set Anna down beside the car, clicked it open, then eased Anna into the backseat and buckled the belt.

Anna's head rolled back. She groaned without opening her eyes. "Mom, that hurts."

"We're on our way to the hospital. You'll feel better soon, sweetie."