How to Love a Princess (3 page)

“He’ll examine his results
and tell us nothing new,” she blurted angrily. “They find and cure diseases
every other day. Why and where in hell did my mother contract the single
ailment on earth that cannot be understood or cured?”

“That’s not quite true,
Catherine. Many things are not yet understood—”

“This is my mother. Our
queen. She will not die.” Her voice grew smaller as the fury ebbed. “I will not
permit it.”

“Give them time.”

“She doesn’t have time,”
Catherine argued softly, once more in control. “You must go to him, Gascon.
Offer him anything he wants.”

“His reputation is
phenomenal. His research grants are overwhelming, awarded from the American
government as well as half the European governments, not to mention the private
Pharmaceutical Industries.”

Catherine knew. She’d
followed Nicolas Vecca’s astounding success on the satellite news broadcasts,
the international newspapers imported from around the word and the Internet.
Ophella might be a minute European Kingdom stuck away behind the mountains, but
the universe wasn’t large enough to hide Nicolas Vecca from her. And she
had
tried to hide him. At least for a while. “Our mines are rich enough to
offer him the world.”

“Are you so sure he
doesn’t already own it?” Gascon muttered as he took his leave.

Catherine stood at the
bottom of the stairwell, clutching the oak railing with fingers that had
developed a sudden tremor. If he came…he had
to come.

He would
come and
he would hate her.

He would hate her with
every fibre of his being.

He would hate her with
every cell in his body.

He would hate with every
beat of his heart.

All that hate and she
deserved every bit of it. She grit her teeth and lifted her chin.

Or maybe he would be
totally indifferent. Was that better or worse?

Her heart had broken four
years ago and never healed. What more could happen that hadn’t already? And if
there were a few pieces that could still be shattered into smaller fragments,
so be it. Her mother was all the family she had left and Catherine was
determined not to lose her.

Footsteps sounded on the
lush carpet behind her and she turned to look up at Dr. Arrogalis coming down
the stairs. He was a short man, yet carried himself with the stature earned
from his three decades of being nominated the best in his field of leukaemia
research. But her mother’s case had stumped him. Whatever her blood disorder,
it wasn’t leukaemia, he’d assured Catherine.

A cold shiver crawled down
her spine as he set that professional smile on her. So compassionate, so warm,
so apologetic. And so, so empty, promising nothing at all.

“I gave Queen Helene
something to help her sleep. There should be someone at her side—”

“I know, Dr. Arrogalis.
I’ll go up to her now.”

He nodded as he came to a
halt on the step above her, putting his eyes level with hers. “We’re doing
everything that we can.”

It’s not good enough, she
wanted to scream. Instead, she offered him her own form of professional smile,
the royal slant of lips just tipped up at the edges and a regal nod. “Thank
you. I know you are, and we appreciate it.”

She made her way up the
stairs and into her mother’s room, drawing a chair close to the bed so she
could sit and hold the thin, frail hand. “He will come, mother, and he will
work his magic. I refuse to let you go.”

Nicolas gazed down from
the rounded cabin window as the Cessna circled wide to land on a narrow private
strip, captivated by the fairytale castle reaching up to him from the verdant
green valley. It had everything one might expect from a Hans Christian Andersen
tale, the five turrets at the points of the crenulated walls that formed a
hexagon shape, the expanse of mansion in the same creamy stone that reached
from the west wall to the east, the square lawn with a long, winding driveway
up to massive front doors, even a stream flowing at the base and disappearing
into dense woodland.

Ophella. He’d come across
mention of the Kingdom once before, years ago, at a time he still remembered
too avidly, with too much difficulty.

When the police had given
up, or at least stopped telling him what they knew, his own search had touched
on this strange, tragic-ridden family, but the connection had been too fanciful
to warrant further investigation. Besides, it had come at a time when he’d
admitted to clutching at bent straws, had known he must give up looking for
Catherine’s family or lose himself completely in the abyss of grief. It was as
if she’d come from the sea and disappeared back into it. Why push himself to
find a family that would only open up raw wounds? He’d rather grieve on his
own.

He shook his head grimly
now, wondering at the turn of the axis that had brought him to this hidden part
of the world.

As they touched down, a
limousine came down the landing strip at high speed, chased closely by three
Land Rovers, all with tinted windows, reminding him that he was about to meet
royalty. They tried to bustle him into the limousine, but Nicolas insisted on
supervising the unloading of his equipment and boxes of medical supplies. His
personal luggage, he was happy to leave to the men who’d swarmed him in their
black suits and dark sunglasses.

Here we go again, he
thought when he was finally settled into the back of the limousine, uncertain
that he’d live up to all that was expected of him from this desperate family,
but willing to do his damn best. All his research was worth nothing, after all,
if it could not be used to save lives.

That is what pushed him,
what kept him awake through the night, what drove him from one seeming miracle
to the next. A search to save the one life he never could. Even a hundred years
from now, he knew that medical science would never evolve to the point of
sewing limbs and organs back together from scattered debris and resuscitating
life.

When the limousine pulled
up in the circular driveway, resplendent with stone fountain spouting
gargoyles, he jumped out before yet another black-suited man coming forward,
this one considerably older and more frail than his airport escort, could reach
him and open his door.

Nicolas noted the look his
jeans and jumper got and he grinned in response.

“Welcome to Ophella, Dr.
Vecca,” the man greeted.

“Nicolas,” he corrected
the elderly retainer, deciding he’d had enough of pomp and ceremony. “Call me
Nicolas. I suspect I’m going to be around for a while.”

“Very well, Dr. Vecca,”
the man replied dourly, as if he weren’t resolutely ignoring Nicolas’s request
for informality. “I am Serge, the head butler. You may come to me with all your
requirements.”

Head
butler? Nicolas lifted a brow as he
followed the elderly man up the ornate front steps that led to the huge door
he’d seen from the sky.
How many butlers were there?
He wasn’t exactly
living on the breadline, but neither was excessive opulence his style. Then
again, he wasn’t royalty and he didn’t live in a castle.

The entrance hall was
majestic, at least triple volume, the walls lined with formal portraits and the
floor covered with thick, woolly carpets. The furniture was solid oak and
bulky, inlaid with leather and navy velvets, and ranged from a reception table
near the door to a comfortable arrangement of sofas around a fireplace with
various pieces strewn in between. The place had a masculine, homely feel,
dispelling some of his earlier discomfort.

At the far end of the
hall, he observed a woman descending the left branch of the grand stairway that
split from a wide landing. She wore a neat businesslike suit of dove grey that
nevertheless hugged her form seductively, her hair pulled back sharply from a
face that appeared proportional with typical classic beauty, her movement
graceful, reminding him of the swans on the Serpentine back in London. At the
bottom, she hesitated, her chin tilted up, her face turned directly at him. He
returned the stare, waiting for his vision to adjust to the indoor dimness,
contemplating her hesitation.

Then she was moving,
closer and closer, her face playing a trick more cruel and horrific with each
step she took. The brilliant blue eyes that had once prompted him to choose
sapphires over diamonds. The high curve of cheekbone, the elegant nose, the bow
of rose-pink lips, that stubborn chin.

He fought for air, unable
to draw his gaze from the vision, the spectre tormenting his sanity. Too many
nights of working straight through, too few decent meals, too many haunted
dreams…the explanations failed abysmally as she stopped before him.

“Nicolas.”

That was all she said. And
how well he remembered the way his name fell from her lips. He stepped back,
shaking his head, gasping for each and every breath.

“Nicolas, please…”

“No.” He shook his head,
taking unsteady steps back and back, until he was pressed against the door.

This wasn’t real.

None of this was happening.

The turreted fairy castle,
the primitive kingdom that didn’t even own a commercial airport, the swarm of
body guards, Catherine… Catherine
de’Ariggo.

No!

It wasn’t possible.

He spun about, turned the
giant iron ring on the door and fled outside into the brisk winter air. His
knees threatened to collapse. He put his back to the wall, cradling his bowed
head in his hands and felt himself being carried by a wave of panic.

But he wasn’t going
anywhere. And neither was his ghost.

“Nicolas? What are you doing?”

He raised his head to look
at her in the sharp daylight. She seemed so solid, so real, he reached out to
touch her cheek and instantly dropped his hand at the contact of warm skin.
“Who are you?” he asked hoarsely.

Catherine’s brows crossed
as she stared at him uncertainly. She’d rehearsed for many reactions, but this
one hadn’t been on her list. But no, of course he recognised her. He simply
hadn’t expected to see her here. “Are you feeling all right? You look a little
pale.”

With shaky fingers, she grabbed
his arm, trying to lead him to the steps so he could sit. In the last few
minutes, from seeing him as she descended the stairway until now, her heart had
pounded fast enough to use up its lifetime of beats and suddenly she needed to
sit as well. After a moment’s resistance, he allowed her to tug him along and
he sank down beside her on the top step.

No sooner had he sat, than
he swung his head her way. “Catherine?”

She nodded thoughtfully.
Could he truly be so shocked? Had he not known whom she was when he’d promised
Gascon that he’d come? The pallor of his skin was her answer. She was so
accustomed to being attuned to every mention of his name, living in her
memories whenever duty allowed, she’d assumed he would have automatically made
the connection on the de’Ariggo name alone. But why should he? He’d moved on
with his life. He had no reason to spare her a second thought.

“I’m sorry, Nicolas.” She
reached for his arm again, but he shrank from her. That might be
understandable. His deathly pale face was not. Her concern grew. “Are you sure
you’re feeling all right?”

“I—” Nicolas blinked hard
a couple of times, but every time he opened his eyes, Catherine was still
there, sitting beside him on the steps. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Perhaps some water?”

His jaw went slack. The
woman locked inside his heart for four years had risen from the dead to offer
him water? He rubbed at the pain in his temple, shaking his head again. “You’re
not here. I know you’re dead.”

“Dead?” Catherine’s brows
shot up. She could well imagine that he’d long since considered her dead to his
heart and emotions, maybe even wished it on her, but from the way he was
acting, one would almost think he thought her really dead. “That’s not even
remotely funny, Nicolas,” she said.

“I saw you climb onto that
yacht.” His voice was scratchy and his words had a dull echo to them. “I saw it
explode about me. I watched them pick out pieces of you and that other man from
the Thames.”

“Oh, dear Lord.” Her head
spun at all the implications of what he was saying. “You saw the explosion? You
were there?”

She felt the blood drain
from her face at his silence, knew she was fast approaching the same state he
was in. She couldn’t fall apart. Not now. But, dear Lord, hadn’t fate jeered at
her enough? Had she not suffered enough for both of them?

She’d tried to save
Nicolas and instead she’d haunted him.

“I was called back home.
My brothers had just been—” She stopped herself. That wasn’t important now, not
to
him
. “I didn’t know, Nicolas. I swear I didn’t know. I would never
have left you thinking I was dead for all this time.”

“Thinking?” He sounded
stronger, his tone underscored by accusation and contempt. His eyes were closer
to black than brown. “I know what I saw. It wasn’t some hypothetical
conclusion. It wasn’t some random thought to be confirmed. I saw you die. I was
there.”