The Surprise Princess (3 page)

“It shows up in the general population,” she said.

“April Gareaux has the trait, doesn’t she?” Carolyn asked.

“Yes. It runs in her family. Did Bob or Anna Davis have the trait?” Hunter didn’t wait for Katie to answer. “No. Neither of them.”

“It’s a recessive gene.” She had done a school research project, curious about the peculiarity of her left little finger being as long as her ring finger.

“We would go back another generation or two to check if the gene runs in the Davis family—” The way he said Davis spread unease over her. “—but we can’t because there is barely any record of your parents until they arrived in Ashton with you as a child.”

“That’s not right. There are records from Portland. Before that, they immigrated. Though there was a lot of confusion in the country they came from because there’d been—” She broke off abruptly.

“A failed rebellion?” Hunter supplied.

“They never talked about it. Where they came from or the past. They said I was an American and that’s what counted. I agree.”

“They never told you where they came from?” C.J. asked.

“No.” She tried to sound matter-of-fact, but she heard defensiveness in her voice.

“You must have wondered.”

Her parents had not encouraged wondering. “There clearly were very bad memories for them. I didn’t want to make them unhappy.”

Hunter Pierce cleared his throat. “There are no records in Portland until two years before they moved here. Not of Bob Davis or of Anna Davis. No family, no records of immigration to the United States. There are discrepancies in other records, such as the Social Security numbers they used.”

“Maybe they were in witness protection. You know, they’d been in the mob but turned state’s evidence.”

“C.J., this is not funny.” Carolyn spoke to him but was looking at her.

“It’s a little funny to think of our on-the-straight-and-narrow Katie being born into the mob.”

“It makes as much sense as me being a princess,” Katie said.

“There are questions that need to be answered, Ms. Davis.” Hunter Pierce looked at her steadily.

“Okay, you have discrepancies in records that
might
indicate Katie’s parents were not Mr. and Mrs. Davis from Portland, but what do you have – beside a trait you acknowledge pops up in the general population – that makes you think Katie might be this princess?”

“Good question, Carolyn,” C.J. said.

Hunter inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her point. “Mostly circumstantial indications.”

“For instance?”

“For instance, the Davises showing up in the United States not long after the rebellion collapsed. For instance, a cell of Bariavakian rebels had safe houses and support in Portland. For instance, medical records show the blood types reported for Mr. and Mrs. Davis could not have produced a child with Katie’s blood type – a blood type that is the same as Princess Josephine-Augusta’s.”

“Did you know that? About your parents’ blood types and yours?” Carolyn asked her.

She could only shake her head. “How do you know their blood types?” she demanded of Hunter.

“Took some digging. Apparently neither believed in doctors. But we finally found them on employment records. That was also where we finally found photographs of Bob and Anna Davis, who apparently also didn’t believe in photographers.”

He said it with a hint of wryness, but it was true.

One Christmas she had begged for a camera. After she’d gone to bed, she had heard them arguing about it in their odd language. She could tell from their tones that her mother was pleading that she be allowed a camera. Her father had refused. It ended with the sound of a blow. The next morning the side of her mother’s face was swollen and bruised. Katie never again mentioned a camera to them.

She became aware of the others watching her. She cleared her throat. “They didn’t care for photographs. Or doctors. But that’s no reason to—”

“There’s more. In Bariavak there was a man named Davogner Bordanic and his girlfriend, Annika. The names are interesting – Davogner Bordanic becomes Bob Davis. Annika becomes Anna Davis. No, you’re right, Ms. Davis,” he said before she could even produce words, so he must have read her objection from her expression, “that’s not proof, either. But the coincidences are beginning to add up.”

He drew another paper from his pocket, unfolded it, then put it face down on the table.

She couldn’t look away.

“Here’s another coincidence. Davogner and Annika disappeared. They were definitely not among the rebels arrested or imprisoned. They were not among those who died in the rebellion. They were last heard of in Bariavak five months before Bob and Anna Davis first appear in any record of any kind in Portland. That last sighting in Bariavak was immediately before the kidnapping. Only after the rebels’ defeat did anyone know of Bordanic’s involvement with them. That’s significant for two reasons. It turns out he was fairly high up in their hierarchy yet he could have slipped across the border, unlike the known leaders. It also turns out that his girlfriend Annika worked in the royal palace. When King Jozef’s daughter Sofia gave birth to Princess Josephine-Augusta, Annika was assigned to the nursery staff.”

Carolyn made a small sound beside her.

“Which brings us to another coincidence of names. Princess Josephine-Augusta’s full name is Josephine-Augusta Katrina Mariana Sofia. Katrina Mariana. Katherine Mary. It was customary for the nursery staff to call her Katrina.”

Katie’s chest burned. But still she could not take her eyes from that paper.

“Then there is this.” He flipped it over. “This is one of only two photographs of Davogner Bordanic we have.” He tapped the photo on the left, pointing out the grainy face of one man in a crowd. “Eight years later, this is a photograph of Bob Davis from the files of his employer here in Ashton.”

C.J. whistled softly.

She insisted, “You can’t determine anything from old photos like those. You can barely see the face.”

“They’re certainly suggestive,” Hunter said calmly. “Granted, the best way to determine the truth is with a DNA test. Unfortunately, we don’t have certifiable DNA from Princess Josephine-Augusta. Nor of Princess Sofia, or even her mother. Testing a maternal grandfather isn’t ideal, but—”

“No.”

“It’s not an invasive test—”

She pushed back her chair.

“Katie—”

Carolyn reached for her, but the chair blocked her. C.J.’s knee slowed him. Hunter was on the far side of the table. She was out of the door before anyone could stop her.

Brad was there, just outside. She tried to sidestep him, but he stepped the same way and she bumped into him. His arms came around her. Those wonderful, strong arms. For a moment, she let herself sink into him, let herself take in his scent, his warmth.

“Katie.” His hand smoothed her hair. The way she’d seen him do with C.J. and Carolyn’s kids after they skinned a knee.

The way he’d soothe a child.

She pushed away, using the momentum to get past. “Tell C.J. I’m taking the rest of the day off.”

The walk to her front door seemed longer than usual.

Probably because she’d spent hours wandering.

Walking the campus had been her refuge since childhood. First, tentative forays from her neighborhood to the edges of Ashton University, then deeper and deeper. She’d found her way to the Meadow, the campus’ heart. Its soul was Lake Ashton. Where the Meadow met Lake Ashton was her favorite refuge.

Today, though, the spot hadn’t brought its usual peace. She’d been blindsided, thinking danger came only from the items in the attic.

Planning how to handle this, she’d walked and walked and walked, even when snow began to fall.

Maybe tired legs explained why she didn’t dodge fast enough when she heard wind stir the huge Norway spruces that marched alongside the front walk, protecting the small frame house from view from the street. Snow that had dusted the trees into Christmas card scenes showered icy pellets on her head.

That was fitting.

A noise jolted Katie’s heartbeat.

It took only an instant to recognize it as her phone, but she’d already jerked in reaction, knocking the suitcase lid closed.

It rang again. Slightly muffled. She looked around, but saw only the attic’s detritus. Automatically, she patted at her hips. In her pocket.

The display announced Brad as the caller. She drew in a breath and let it out slowly before answering.

“Hello.”

“Katie. Are you okay? Did I wake you?”

“No – I mean, yes, I’m okay. No, you didn’t wake me.”

There was a pause. “You’re at home? I rang the bell. There was no answer. With your car here, I thought maybe something … but of course you could be out with someone.”

Could be, but so rarely was. “You’re
here
? At my house?”

“Yes. At your front door. And it’s damned cold out here.”

“I’ll be right down.”

Swinging the front door wide, she asked, “Is anything wrong?”

Without waiting for an invitation, Brad stepped in, carrying a large bag. “That’s my line. Here’s dinner. I know you didn’t cook.”

“Dinner? How could you know I didn’t cook? Why would it be your line?” She knew she’d jumbled the responses but that fit her scrambled brain.

Brad Spencer walking in her front door like he’d done it a million times. In fact, he’d done it precisely once. When he and a couple players had moved in furniture she’d bought at a university sale. That was not long after her mother died, so it must be eight years ago.

“Whoa, you’ve done a lot with the place.”

“You remember?” she asked stupidly. He must have or he wouldn’t have noticed changes.

“Sure. It looks great. I like the floors.”

She’d pulled up the old carpeting herself, finding hardwood floors. She’d saved up to have them refinished and now kept them gleaming beneath simple area rugs.

“Thanks, but—”

“Like the paint job, too. And the artwork.”

The walls were off-white, which brightened the small rooms. The artwork she bought from student shows.

“Thank you, but—”

“How about showing me the kitchen before this gets cold.” He hefted the bag. “You like Chinese?”

“Yes, but—”

“Glad to see you don’t wear that gray shroud here. Though those are some interesting accessories. I’ll serve. I don’t I want the extra fiber you might add to our dinner.”

She glanced down and saw dust and cobwebs festooned across her front. “Oh. I didn’t—”

“You go wash up. I’ll find plates and stuff. Kitchen’s through here, right?” He was already moving past her, unerringly heading for the kitchen.

She’d worked with him long enough to know that rousting a determined Brad Spencer was no easy task. Besides, she realized, she was hungry. Why not eat the food he’d brought.

She ducked into the bathroom, wiped at her clothes, removing evidence of her time in the attic, and washed her hands.

He’d found the plates and silverware, had glasses of water poured and was setting out the food when she returned.

“Made a lot of changes in here, too, huh?” he said.

That started conversation about what she’d done to the house since it became hers. He made it easy and she was proud of the work she’d done on a stingy budget, making the little house’s spare interior bright, open, comfortable.

“When are you going to start on the outside?”

“I’m not. I like the outside.”

He raised his eyebrows as he handed her a fortune cookie, but didn’t argue. “Okay. Then I’ll ask the other question — what are you going to do about this princess stuff?”

S
he dropped the cookie. “You eavesdropped! I can’t believe—”

“Nope. But apparently you
could
believe it or you wouldn’t have said it.”

“I won’t believe Carolyn or C.J. told—”

“They didn’t. Not your friend Hunter Pierce, either.”

“But …”

He picked up the fortune cookie and put it back in her hand. “If these things are accurate, it should say something about ‘Tall Man isn’t as stupid as you think.’ “

“I have never thought you were stupid. In fact, you don’t give yourself enough credit…”

She felt heat rising up from her chest over her throat, into her cheeks.

He made no attempt to disguise that he was watching what had to be an accompanying surge of color. “I don’t give myself enough credit for what?”

Defiantly, she unwrapped the cookie with the maximum amount of plastic crinkling. “For your ability as a coach. You should be a head coach somewhere.”

“Oh, God, not you, too. I hear enough of that from C.J. I’d far rather talk about this princess stuff.”

“Well, I wouldn’t.” She cracked the cookie in half and chomped down on one piece.

He reached across and pulled the fortune from the other side. “Before you add some paper fiber to your diet,” he said, letting it drift gently to her plate. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I guess you don’t want to know how I knew about the princess issue.”

Damn him.

But she’d never been one to bite off her nose to spite her face. “Fine. Yes, I want to know.”

“Steph.”

“What? Stephanie Draper? Carolyn and C.J.’s daughter?”

He nodded. “She said at New Year’s how much you look like the princess in Washington. So when the story was all over the news before and after the king’s surgery, I paid attention. Not to mention the interns in all the athletic offices were saying you’re a dead ringer for the woman everybody thought was the lost princess.”

“I’m not,” she said quickly.

He looked down to pick up his fortune cookie and started to open it. “That Hunter Pierce from the State Department seems to think—”

“How do you know he’s State—?”

“Katie, Katie. We already went through this. The news, the magazines. He wasn’t front and center, but he was in enough pictures not to miss him.”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” she said abruptly.

“Okay. You want to wash and I’ll dry?”

“No need. Dishwasher.” She stopped chewing on the edge of her thumbnail. “I’ll clean up. You don’t need to stay to do that.”