Scandal With a Prince (8 page)

Another round of applause echoed up from the street as the man played the last few notes of his song.
 
The baker propped open the door to his shop using a triangle-shaped wedge, allowing the scent of fresh-baked bread to drift over the gathering.
 
A father from the crowd handed his son two bills, one of which the child carefully placed into the guitar player’s case before he skipped into the bakery.
 
Others followed suit, dropping coins and bills into the case before either moving along or visiting the bakery.
 
The guitarist smiled his thanks to each of them as he picked out chords to begin his next song.

Megan propped her chin in her hand as she viewed the scene.
 
She’d planned to look for her next job in the United States, thinking that Anna might like the experience of attending an American high school, but perhaps staying in Europe wasn’t such a bad idea.
 
Anna could still spend a chunk of each summer in Minnesota with Megan’s parents, but the cultural education that went hand-in-hand with living abroad was one which couldn’t be duplicated.

Of course, it all depended on Stefano now.
 
Would her life with Anna change now that the prince knew the truth?
 
Or would things progress just as before?

“Megan.”

Her attention whipped back to the restaurant at the sound of Stefano’s voice.
 
He stood less than three feet from the table, towering over her.
 
He sported a crisp white shirt, open at the throat, well-cut charcoal slacks that emphasized both his height and muscular frame, and a pair of understated yet undoubtedly expensive black loafers.
 
He was everything a modern royal should be, a man who exuded power and charisma, yet who dressed and moved with such a casual air he seemed relatable.
 
Even his hair, wavy and lightly mussed, hit the sweet spot between contained and wild that stylists aspired to create for fashion shoots.

Before she could stand and greet him—wasn’t that the etiquette when approached by a royal?—Stefano gestured for her to remain in her seat and pulled out the chair opposite hers at the small table.
 
A waiter approached to fill their coffee cups and juice glasses and present them each with menus.
 
While the young man wished them a good day and nervously described the restaurant’s morning specials, Megan’s heart beat double-time.
 
How had Stefano approached without her sensing his presence?
 
And how in the world, when his expression gave her no indication of what he felt for her, did he stir her emotions by doing nothing more than stating her name aloud?

Once the waiter left, Stefano made a pointed survey of the restaurant.
 
An elderly couple who’d paid their bill set their napkins on the table and stood, the man circling the table to hold his wife’s elbow as they prepared to depart.
 
On the far side of the room, a suited businessman in his mid-thirties nursed a large cup of coffee while engrossed in paperwork, oblivious to Megan and Stefano’s presence.
 
A woman wearing a backpack and clutching a brochure for the city’s open-top bus tour stood at the podium near the entrance, waiting as the host scanned the book for available dinner reservations.
 
Otherwise, the room was empty.

Stefano’s attention locked on Megan’s face and one of his eyebrows hitched up, as if a conspiracy were being hatched.
 
“It would seem no one is within earshot.
 
Is that by design?”

“I imagine most guests are still sleeping or are ordering room service.”
 
She paused, trying to gauge his demeanor before adding, “Thank you for coming.”

“I apologize for the delay.
 
I was distracted last night and forgot to set my alarm.”

Though the words could be interpreted as a dig, his tone didn’t give that impression.
 
“Please, I’m the one who should apologize.
 
I’m so sorry about…well, I’m sorry about everything.”
 

“I don’t need an apology, Megan.
 
Not at this point.”

“All right.”
 
She scrunched her napkin in her lap, hoping he couldn’t see her discomfort.
 
But now what?
 
She’d been so certain he wouldn’t come to breakfast that she hadn’t thought about what she’d say.
 

He’d said he needed twenty-four hours to think.
 
Perhaps he expected her to honor his wish and stick to business this morning.
 
Megan leaned to the side of the table and pulled the folio containing the Grandspire’s group event options from her bag.
 
She set it to one side of the table so Stefano could flip it open without hitting the glassware.
 
“After you order, I’d be happy to go over the information for your father, if that’s what—”
 

“No.”
 
He reached across the table and took the folio.
 
“I’m going to open this and I’m going to appear to be reading it.
 
I will ask you questions, which anyone observing us will assume are about the hotel.
 
However, I have all the information I need for King Carlo and his staff.
 
You and I will use this time to discuss our daughter.
 
I don’t want you to apologize.
 
I don’t want excuses.
 
I want facts.”

Chapter Six

There was a hardness in Stefano’s green eyes Megan had never seen before, which spurred her to a defensive answer.
 
“Ask what you like. I have never lied to you and never will.”

He leveled a doubtful look at her as he opened the folder and pulled out a map of the hotel’s conference rooms.
 
“You said you discovered you were pregnant about a month after returning home?”

“More like six weeks.
 
But yes, when I was back at school.”

“Why didn’t you contact me?”

“I tried.”

“Not hard enough.”
 
He ran his index finger over the map, then tapped it as if he’d asked about the setup of a particular room.
 
“I didn’t hear so much as a whisper from you.”

No thanks to your staff.

She bit back the response and chose her words deliberately.
 
“If you remember, we left things on a casual note.
 
While you knew how to contact me if you wanted, I had no way to reach you directly.
 
Only a number that connected me to a secretary named Dagmar.”
 
The woman she’d come to think of as Stefano’s personal firewall, programmed to eliminate potential threats before they could infiltrate the palace network and gain access to the royal family.

What irked her is that she shouldn’t have been seen as a threat.

He shrugged as if nothing Megan said surprised him.
 
“Dagmar’s retired now, but she used to be my personal secretary, which is why I gave you that number.
 
She did everything—booked my travel, arranged my calendar, handled my correspondence—and yes, she fielded my calls.”

“Even personal calls?”
 

“Yes.
 
I’m forced to change cell phones frequently in order to keep the number confidential.
 
I discovered long ago that it’s easier to route calls through a secretary than it is to constantly update my phone number with acquaintances.
 
Only my secretary and immediate family have it.”
 

“Maybe easier for you.
 
Not for me.”

Frown lines puckered
 
his brow.
 
“Dagmar was discreet and efficient.
 
If you called and gave her your name, it would have been routed directly to me.
 
It’s standard procedure for all my personal calls.”

“Mine weren’t.”

He opened his mouth as if to argue, then looked past Megan and smiled as the waiter approached to take their orders and refill their coffee.
 
Stefano asked for a spinach, tomato, and feta omelet with rye toast while Megan simply told the waiter to bring her usual order.

Once the waiter was out of hearing range, Stefano asked, “You eat here often?”

“I live in the hotel, so they know me well.”

“Ah.
 
I wondered, given your position here.”
 
He squinted at her, appearing to digest the information.
 
His expression left her unsettled.
 
“And what’s the usual?”

“You won’t believe me.”

He circled his hand, encouraging her to tell him anyway.
 

“Spinach, tomato, and feta omelet.
 
Rye toast.”

That earned her another frown, but instead of commenting, he went back to the original topic.
 
“Are you certain you spoke to Dagmar herself?
 
Not someone who referred you to Dagmar?”

“At least four times, which is why I remember her name.
 
She said, ‘Thank you for your call.
 
I have noted your information and Prince Stefano will contact you at his convenience.’
 
Those were her exact words each time I phoned.
 
It was as if I were talking to a recording.”

“Dagmar was nothing if not consistent.”
 
He turned to a new page in the folio, keeping up the pretense of a business meeting.
 
“And you gave her your full name?”

For Anna’s sake, she fought to remain patient.
 
“Of course I did.
 
I told her that we’d been assigned to the same project group in Venezuela, thinking she could use that information to verify my identity if necessary.
 
I told her it was important that you contact me and left her two different phone numbers and my e-mail address.”

“Did you…I assume you didn’t tell her what the call was about?”
 

How stupid did he think she was?
 
“Only my parents know that you’re Anna’s father and they haven’t breathed a word to a soul.”
 
Megan leaned forward, studying him across the table.
 
“You’re telling me that you never got my messages?”

“Never.”
 

“I see.”
 
How could she phrase this without sounding jealous or catty?
 
“I hate to point out the obvious, but you had another woman in your life by that time.
 
Not only were you planning a wedding and dealing with intense press coverage, you were in the midst of your military training.
 
Would you honestly have paid attention if you received a message from me during that period?
 
Plus, it was ten years ago.
 
Remembering a phone message from way back then would be—”

“Megan, I would have paid attention.
 
I would have remembered.”
 
His gaze bored into hers.
 
“I would have called.”
 

She wanted to doubt him.
 
Wanted to believe that her life would have been exactly the same had he actually been told of her attempts to contact him—after all, she and Anna were happy and healthy, and she’d landed a dream job in a dream city—but the steadfast look in Stefano’s eyes told her he thought otherwise.
 
If he’d received her messages, he believed everything would have been different.
 
Everything.
 

Then his gaze dropped to her mouth.
 
A shiver ran through her at the flash of desire that crossed his face before he stifled it.
 

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “You gave up trying.”

She took a quick sip of her orange juice to gather her thoughts, then nodded.
 
“When you didn’t return my calls, I went online to see if there might be another way to contact you.
 
That’s how I learned of your engagement to Ariana Bassi.
 
I was so busy with classes and morning sickness I hadn’t even realized you’d gotten engaged.
 
Once I read the news, I assumed that was the reason you hadn’t returned my calls.
 
I thought it best at that point not to upset your life.”
 

Or her own.
 
While Stefano’s engagement hadn’t been news in the United States, it was the talk of Europe.
 
Photos splashed over the Internet showed Stefano racing across the palace courtyard, barefoot and bare-chested, to see Ariana the day after he’d returned from Venezuela.
 
They’d become engaged soon afterward.
 
Royal-watchers were mad for Stefano and his aristocratic bride-to-be, a Sarcaccian dressage rider with Olympic ambitions.
 
The media speculated on everything from how long they’d been seeing each other to the most minute details of the planned wedding at Sarcaccia’s grand cathedral, a ceremony scheduled to take place two months after Megan’s due date.
 

If the media caught even a whisper of the fact that the royal groom had a secret two-month-old child, it would derail four lives:
 
Megan’s, Stefano’s, Ariana’s, and Anna’s.
 
Paparazzi would’ve been camped outside Megan’s small, off-campus apartment in Minnesota within hours, hoping to cash in on the scandal.
 
Once she’d shut down her computer and absorbed what she’d seen, she knew she wouldn’t call again.