Rocco paused, studying the Impressionist rendering of a gra.s.sy field at sunrise. A horse stood near a fence to one side of the painting, its head raised in antic.i.p.ation as if a beloved owner stood just out of the picture. "It looks like a Degas, but it's lighter and cheerier than what he usually paints."

"You have a good eye. Degas is known for his depictions of ballerinas and dance schools, but he also painted several scenes in Paris cafes and of racehorses. This one was done for my great-grandfather after he visited France and saw one of the Impressionist exhibitions. He was taken with Degas's style and asked Degas if he'd consider memorializing a favorite horse."

"That's...stunning." Rocco couldn't imagine what an original Degas would fetch, especially one as beautiful and unique as this. There was a quality to the way the painting captured the light, making the field appear to sparkle with morning dew. It was the type of painting that invited one to linger and appreciate its nuances.

"What's stunning is that Degas said no, then presented my great-grandfather with this painting as a gift six months later. It was a complete surprise. Years later, when Degas started to lose his eyesight, my great-grandfather offered the services of his personal physician. Degas refused. Said the king had become too reform-minded and that it wouldn't be appropriate to accept help from such a person."

Rocco looked at the painting in awe. It amazed him that Carlo's great-grandfather-actually, his own great-great-grandfather-had known Edgar Degas and tried to help him in his later years.

Carlo ran his hand down the edge of the gilt frame. "Of course, it wasn't a political or moral issue at all. Degas intentionally isolated himself from his friends as he grew older, using whatever excuse he could. Now it would likely be diagnosed as depression, but in those days it was chalked up to the vagaries of an aging artistic temperament."

The king stepped back from the painting and smiled. "It was because of this painting I pa.s.sed my art history course in college. My great-grandfather's stories about Degas turning into a stubborn grouch who refused to accept kindnesses helped me remember which paintings he completed near the end of his life." Carlo c.o.c.ked his head. "I was a terrible art history student, but my parents insisted I take the cla.s.s, given the nature of our family's collection."

"You seem to appreciate it now."

"I appreciate the stories more than the art. My wife appreciates the works themselves." He gestured for Rocco to continue walking with him. "I didn't ask you to stay to discuss art, though even for me, art is an easier topic than anything of a personal nature."

"The press conference."

"The press conference." The king nodded to a guard, who bowed before she pushed open a heavy wooden door for the king and Rocco to pa.s.s through. They emerged onto a set of stone steps. At the bottom, a gravel path wended its way through the palace gardens.

"How are Lina and Enzo?"

"They left their homes yesterday to avoid the coverage. I did the same, then told them I was considering coming here."

The king folded his hands behind his back as he walked. "What did they think?"

"They didn't say and I didn't ask." He wasn't going to tell Carlo that mending fences with the twins would be an uphill battle. Not that Rocco had completely mended fences with the king himself. However, the fact that the king could've used the press conference to cast Teresa as a villain and protect his own reputation, yet chose not to do so, was a point in the monarch's favor.

"The coverage will be brutal. I doubt they'll escape it."

"They can handle it."

"Commentators will soon note that I've committed a crime." When Rocco opened his mouth to argue that the crime was his mother's, the king held up a hand to stay him. "I failed to report a felony and took steps to cover its existence for decades. Despite being the so-called victim, I'm also a head of state and held to a that standard. There will be calls by the usual malcontents to censure me for hiding what happened. I have no doubt of it."

He slowed as they approached a bed of hot pink roses, most of which were still in bud. "The press may ask you, Lina, and Enzo whether you believe I should be prosecuted. Or they may interrogate you about your mother and what you knew about her relationship with me. I'll do whatever I can to draw the attention from the three of you, but I can't stop it entirely. For that, I apologize. None of you should be put in a position where you must defend your mother. Or me."

Rocco glanced down at the label identifying the roses as a variety called the Princess Sophia. "You've thought about this a great deal."

"I've had many years to do so. Years with a loving wife by my side with whom I could discuss the issue."

"You say that in a rather parental tone. I a.s.sume it's because you're making a point?"

Carlo bent to smell one of the newly-opened blooms, then turned his head to smile at Rocco. "You think I didn't notice the look on your face when Ma.s.simo mentioned Justine? It spoke volumes."

"I wasn't aware of any look."

"Nor was Ma.s.simo, but your response to him confirmed my suspicion. You didn't say, 'I'll be sure to tell her' or give any other indication that you plan to see Justine in the near future."

Rocco's spine stiffened at the king's insight, but he managed to sound casual. "Was I supposed to?"

"If a prince told me my wife was amazing, yes, I'd say thank you and tell him that I'd pa.s.s the message along. So would you if you and Justine were together." He released the rose and continued on the path. Rocco joined him. "I take it you're not?"

He saw no point in denial. "It's for the best."

"Is that what she told you?"

Irritation flared at the king's directness. "I realize that you're a monarch and used to having your queries answered by those in your orbit, but I'm not-"

"That's all right. You need only listen." The king waved a hand, cutting off Rocco's argument. To Rocco's surprise, Carlo didn't seem the least bit bothered. "Being in love necessarily means letting go of one's pride. No one wishes to admit that when it comes to certain people, they'll always allow their heart to rule their head. But that's what love is, and I believe you and Justine love each other."

The king angled a look at Rocco. "How much of your separation is because you wish to protect her-because I suspect that's what your head tells you is right-and how much is a matter of pride?"

Pride? "I don't follow."

"What do you love about Justine? If it is her strength, you must let go of your own pride and trust that strength rather than your own." They rounded a corner, taking them on a path parallel to an iron fence. A dense evergreen hedge rose ten feet high on the opposite side. "I'm keenly aware of my faults and the harm they've caused to those I love, especially Fabrizia. She loves me despite my faults, and I love her despite her personality quirks."

He smiled at Rocco. "With her, they are never faults."

"Of course not."

Carlo paused beside a narrow break in the hedge. A gate, one so well-designed it was nearly impossible to differentiate from the rest of the fence, opened to Carlo's touch. The king stepped off the gravel path and onto the gra.s.s, leading Rocco through the tight opening before closing the gate behind them.

The scene spread out before Rocco's eyes drew a low whistle. "This is impressive."

"Our own secret garden."

"It's nothing like the rest."

The garden wasn't large, maybe eighty feet by twenty feet. The evergreen hedge surrounding the s.p.a.ce was trimmed low enough to allow the sun to reach the center, yet shielded all within from view. The innermost section of the garden sported a riot of colorful blooms in the style of a wild English garden, while the outer edges, where the hedge cast its shadow, was filled with a variety of shade-loving plants in tones of green, pink, and burgundy. No formal paths appeared to exist. Instead, narrow belts of gra.s.s and moss gave visitors just enough room to meander.

"The rest of the palace gardens were professionally designed centuries ago to be used for state events. They're meant as a showplace, especially during the day. Perfect for postcards. This is only for the family. Few on the staff even know it exists."

He led Rocco toward the heart of the garden along a well-trod strip of gra.s.s. "I brought Fabrizia here a few weeks before we wed. I told her about Teresa and about you. I gave her the chance to back out of the wedding gracefully...offered to take the blame myself with the media and with our parents. She asked if I still wished to go through with the wedding. I told her that I did. However, I was still in love with Teresa, or at least thought I was. It wasn't long after my wedding to Fabrizia that I realized how wrong I was. True love was never possible between me and your mother. She had a hold over me, but it wasn't love."

The king approached a pair of stone benches nestled in the very center, where a small fountain shaped like a vase bubbled away. He waited until Rocco was seated opposite him before he spoke again. "I brought the queen here again when I found out Teresa was pregnant with Enzo and Lina. It was-bar none-the worst moment of my life. I knew how deeply it would hurt Fabrizia. I told her I wanted to end the marriage. She refused. She looked me in the eye, just as I am looking at you now, and asked if I loved Teresa. I told her I didn't, but that I had felt a sense of obligation to her after you were born. I was wracked with guilt over leaving Teresa in a small one-bedroom apartment to raise a child alone while I had such a luxurious life here in the palace. Then the queen asked if I loved her. I couldn't lie. I was deeply in love with her, but I knew that to continue the marriage would only bring her harm."

The king closed his eyes for a moment. Rocco was sure Carlo could picture the conversation as if it had happened yesterday. "I told Fabrizia that if the news of my infidelity ever broke, let alone the fact that I'd been involved with Teresa while Teresa was my tutor, it would be terrible for all of us, but that she would be the one harmed the most, despite the fact that Teresa and I were the ones to blame. I told her that it would be easier if the marriage ended before it all came to light. That she'd be better able to protect herself and the twins she carried."

When Carlo opened his eyes once more, his gaze turned steely. "She leaned toward me, held my jaw in her hand so I couldn't look away, and uttered three words that forever changed my life. She said, 'respect my strength.'"

Chapter Twenty-Five.

Rocco regarded the king. He appeared so powerful, so in control. It was difficult to imagine the man who wore the crown and led a population of hundreds of thousands being so vulnerable.

"That's why you said I need to trust in Justine's strength."

"I understand the instinct to protect those you love from your failings. It's a virtuous one. But your situation is different than mine. First," -the king held up his thumb- "the failings in this case are not yours, but mine and your mother's. And second," -he extended his index finger- "in cutting Justine out of your decision, you failed to show respect for her strength."

"I never said I cut Justine out of the decision." Though he had. He'd flat-out told Justine that he needed to let her go, then refused to say another word until she was out of the car.

Carlo's raised brow showed he knew it, too, and that Rocco's slip of the tongue was an admission that there had, in fact, been a decision.

"When you talked it through, you both agreed that ending your marriage was the best course of action?" Carlo didn't wait for Rocco's response before adding, "I thought not."

"I promised her I'd do anything to protect her. Her career is a big part of who she is in here." Rocco put a hand to his heart. "I can't take that from her by making her marriage the topic of conversation when she's on the slopes. It'll hurt her chances for endors.e.m.e.nts and sponsorships, let alone any future in broadcasting or other public roles."

She'd said as much herself when they were in Baltimore. The network was tired of hiring a.n.a.lysts only to discover they had scandals in their past.

"Shouldn't that be for Justine to decide?" the king pressed. "Haven't you ever had an argument where you promised that, in the future, you'd talk through your issues? Surely you've been married long enough to have had such a conversation."

"Once or twice." That very same night in Baltimore, on the heels of her job offer. They'd told each other that as long as they kept talking, their marriage would work. But he'd also promised to be by her side and support her in her career. He'd made the promise believing that the risk of doing so was in having his connection to Carlo exposed. Not in unmasking his mother as a criminal of the worst kind: an adult who abused her position of trust with a minor.

He couldn't both be by Justine's side and support her career. Not anymore.

"I can't have the world look at Justine and think of my mother and imagine the disgusting things she..." He flailed for the right way to finish, but there wasn't one. "I'm sorry, Your Highness. That was offensive, and you've been nothing but kind to me. I didn't mean-"

"It's perfectly all right. You're not saying anything I haven't thought about myself a thousand times over the years. Especially when I look at my wife and my children. All my children."

Carlo leaned forward and put a hand on Rocco's shoulder. "By the way, when we're out of the public eye, there's no need to address me as Your Highness. Carlo will do. Or whatever makes you comfortable."

Before Rocco could respond, the king stood and allowed his hand to fall away. "I have a meeting with the Minister of Education in an hour and I promised you a tour of the palace. There's much more to the place than this garden, though it's my favorite part."

"I thought the queen said that the kennel is your favorite."

He rolling laugh boomed from his chest. "Here, I'm not a king or a statesman. I'm only Carlo Barrali. I can think without the world intruding. Chew gum, blow bubbles, walk barefoot. Lie on my back and look at the stars. Even sing if the mood strikes. However, allowing my wife to believe the kennel is my favorite is far more masculine than admitting that it's this garden."

He couldn't imagine this man blowing bubbles. "Your secret is safe with me."

When they were back through the gap in the hedge, the king surveyed the gardens and cut to the far side of the palace, away from the wing containing the library. For the next forty-five minutes, they explored the kennel, where the king stopped to greet two trainers and a breeder by name, and cut back to the palace to stroll through several rooms filled with antiques and paintings, with Carlo sharing stories about several of the pieces as he had for the Degas painting they'd seen earlier. Finally, the king paused beside a thick wooden door that stood in the center of a high-ceilinged hallway that connected two wings of the palace.

"I'm afraid this is where I leave you," he said. "Umberto's office is through here. He'll ensure you're given proper access so you can join us for dinner tonight."

"You keep a very busy schedule."

"I'm in a position to help a lot of people. It makes the schedule very rewarding." A sparkle lit his eyes. "Given the nature of your own work, I'm sure you can relate."

He could. "Thank you for taking the time to give me a tour, Your Highness...Carlo."

The man had such gravitas, it seemed wrong to address him by his first name. Then again, he wasn't Mr. Barrali. Nor would Rocco call the king anything having to do with being his father. In Rocco's mind, that term was reserved for Jack Cornaro. Though as the king smiled in response to the self-correction, Rocco wondered if they'd find a middle ground someday.

More and more, he was coming to admire this man.

"I do want you to consider something." The king's voice was low. "I know you believe you are protecting Justine and her career, but put that aside for a moment to think about your own future. What do you have to lose if you don't trust her? If I hadn't trusted in Fabrizia's inner fort.i.tude all those years ago, I'd still be lost. It was Fabrizia who got me through the years without you, Enzo, and Lina. It was Fabrizia who helped me maintain as normal a relationship with Teresa as was possible. It was Fabrizia who showed me love and gave me children and now grandchildren. If I didn't have Anna and Dario now...I couldn't imagine."

The king's brow furrowed and his voice took on a note of urgency. "Everything I have in life-everything-I have because I allowed Fabrizia in. I was certain it would be to her detriment, but it wasn't. It took me a long time to believe it, but I know that she's as happy in the marriage as I am. It's made both of us who we are today. I'm a better head of state for her love and she's better at her projects because she has mine. Neither of us would forsake it, even knowing what we'll face in the press in the coming weeks and months. I'm telling you, you have no idea what you're throwing away...for you, for Justine, and for all the others who benefit when each of you live up to your potential."

Behind Rocco, a throat cleared. Carlo looked past Rocco to a uniformed man who stood at the far end of the hallway. "Thank you, Roderick. Please inform the minister that I am on my way."

The king met Rocco's gaze and once again, Rocco had the sensation he was looking at an older version of himself...and that the older version found the younger version lacking. It was simultaneously unsettling and irritating.

"Anything is possible if you get your d.a.m.ned pride out of the way," Carlo said. "I'll see you at dinner."

"You ready for this?"

Justine gave her new coach the thumbs-up signal. After seeing Rocco on television at King Carlo's press conference, Justine interviewed four coaches and ended up going with Marit Brekken, a former Olympian from Norway. She'd nearly hired Marit the last time she'd looked for a coach, and in the two hours they'd been working together on the slopes this morning, Justine knew she'd made the right choice. Marit was only ten years older than Justine and had competed with a go-for-broke, ski-from-the-gut style similar to Justine's. On the other hand, Marit was known for the rigorous training regimen she'd pursued during her compet.i.tive years. The days she wasn't racing, Marit had planned every workout and every training run in order to obtain the maximum payoff for the hours she invested. Better still, Marit had raced until she was nearly forty. She understood the vagaries of training at an age when most others had retired.

If Justine was to nab a spot on the podium at the end of this year's World Cup season, she'd need to train the way Marit had, which explained why they were standing on the side of a mountain high above the village of Hemsedal, Norway, facing Justine's first expert level run in over a year, and on the very first day she'd stepped into her ski boots.

Marit raised one of her poles and pointed downhill, indicating a fork on the lefthand side of the run. Orange signs indicated that the trail was closed for training. "We have it to ourselves for the next hour, so you won't have to worry about other skiers. We should be able to get in two full runs before they open it to the public. Take this first one easy. Get to know the feel of the course. Tomorrow you can open it up and see what you have."

"Got it." Justine tightened her right glove and adjusted her grip on the pole. Her first runs this morning had been on much easier terrain, allowing her to pick up only enough speed to crave more. She wanted to fly. To feel the wind on her face, hear the light sc.r.a.pe of her skis carving the snow, and thrill to the adrenaline rush that came whenever she got air on a jump.

"You're not going to listen to me and take it easy, are you?"

Justine laughed. "I'm going to try."

"Remember that your shin isn't used to the pressure you'll need to control the turns on this run. Stay in control and work up to full speed, even if that's not your natural tendency. Another injury would set you back weeks or months. Right now, you're going for efficiency...getting the most you can out of each run so you'll be able to compete when the season opens. The point of today's workout is to get your legs accustomed to your equipment. Not to break records." Marit grinned. "That'll come."

Justine pressed a hand to the base of her throat, rubbed the necklace she wore under her training jacket for luck, and nodded.

On a deep breath, she set off along the course with Marit close behind. Conditions were perfect. Early May sunshine filtered through the evergreens lining the slope, affording her good visibility, and the cold winter followed by a burst of late season snow provided a solid base under the fresh powder, creating unusually good skiing for the last two official weeks of the season in Hemsedal. As Justine picked up speed, a warm spring breeze lifted her braids so they flew behind her ski helmet.

It should've felt wonderful. She should be freaking ecstatic. She felt hollow.

It'll come.

Once she made it to the bottom of the slope, once she knew she could do it.

An image of Rocco filled her mind; how she wished he could see her take this first real run. Much as she wanted to deny it, it meant more to her than when he'd missed watching her in compet.i.tion. Or even the day of her accident.

Eventually he'd realize that he needed to track her down and he'd find her. He had to. Until then, she needed to keep her head up and stay focused on the task at hand.

Muscle memory took over and she leaned forward, grounding her shins to the front of her boots, allowing her weight and gravity to pull her down the mountain. She rounded a turn that changed the angle of the sun, putting it directly into her eyes. At the last second, she spotted the flash of gray against the white snow. A skier, one whose cautious stance showed he didn't belong on such a steep slope, shuffled down sideways. Behind Justine, Marit yelled to cut right at the same time instinct took Justine the same way.

The skier looked up, his surprise evident as his mouth dropped open before he used his poles to shove himself forward in an attempt to avoid the collision.

Justine missed him. Marit missed him. They stopped just in time to see the man lose his balance, tilt on one ski, then tip over sideways and slide headfirst down the steep slope, a mess of arms, legs and poles. One of his skis caught in the snow and released, then the other, then he lost a pole, leaving a trail of gear on the side of the mountain.

"He must've gotten lost," Marit said as they took off after the man. He began to slow about fifty yards downhill as his outstretched arms carried the loose powder in front of him like a snowplow.