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“Is everything set, Your Majesty?” asked his adviser.
“The royal jet can leave first thing in the morning, as we discussed,” Easton said. “My daughter-in-law was most receptive to my plans, although I suppose she’d have been happier with more than a day’s notice.”
“You are springing quite a surprise on her,” Sir Harrison said.
“She doesn’t know the half of it yet.” Easton smiled, picturing stylish Charlotte DeLacey Carradigne. He hadn’t seen her in—how many years? Twenty? Amazing.
The last time they’d met had been after his youngest son, Drake, died in a plane crash, leaving a wife and three daughters in New York. Busy running her family’s DeLacey Shipping Co., Charlotte hadn’t traveled to Korosol since the funeral, and, Easton had to admit, he’d sorely neglected his granddaughters.
Time passed so quickly. Much too quickly, he could see now.
“You didn’t mention your purpose?” Sir Harrison asked. Like his monarch, he chose to speak in English in preparation for their trip. In addition to French, the nation’s first language, almost all Korosolans spoke fluent English and Spanish.
“I did not.” Easton hoped he was doing the right thing by keeping his illness and his plans secret. “I want to see my granddaughters as they really are. The less preparation they have, the better. Especially Cecelia.”
“You haven’t reconsidered Prince James?” Only Sir Harrison would dare to ask such a question. It was, indeed, his duty to make sure the king weighed all aspects of this crucial decision.
“Out of the question,” Easton said sadly. “I wish it were otherwise, believe me.”
His middle son had turned out wild. Thrice divorced and a heavy drinker, James worked as something called a “wildcatter” in Wyoming. Easton believed his job had something to do with oil wells, although he wouldn’t put it past his renegade son to hunt mountain lions for a living, either.
James had a variety of children by an assortment of unsuitable wives. It seemed unlikely any of them would be prepared to assume the mantle of monarchy.
No, Charlotte’s daughters were his best bet, the king mused. Their mother, a debutante from a well-connected family, met Easton’s high standards, and her daughters were the toast of New York society.
Her eldest daughter, Cecelia, had earned an MBA and served as executive vice president of DeLacey Shipping. At twenty-nine, she appeared well qualified to run a country.
There were two younger daughters as well. While he assumed they had also been raised with a sense of propriety, Easton knew little about them.
The only other younger member of the royal family was the king’s nephew, Christopher, a married father of two, who lived in California. Unfortunately, Christopher was the illegitimate son of Easton’s deceased sister, Magdalene, and therefore not really considered part of the royal family.
“As you requested, we’re taking only a small staff,” Sir Harrison said. “I believe we can keep our presence out of the press.”
“I certainly hope so. The people of Korosol should learn of their new ruler from me, not from some scandal sheet,” the king said. “Ellie’s agreed to go, has she?” Eleanor Standish, a young woman of good family who had been his wife’s goddaughter, served as his personal secretary.
“Certainly. She’s devoted to you.”
“Glad to hear it.” Lively Ellie lifted the king’s spirits and saw to his comfort whenever they were away from the palace.
“We’ll take six bodyguards, two per eight-hour shift,” the adviser continued. “The captain of the Royal Guard will accompany us, of course.”
Sir Harrison made no reference to the fact that Captain Devon Montcalm was his son. The young man, a fine military officer who had been knighted two years ago, was not close to his father.
“The Duke of Raleigh is coming also, is he not?” Easton demanded. “It was my personal request that he be assigned to the embassy in New York.”
“Of course,” said Sir Harrison. “He understands the delicate nature of his assignment.”
The duke, Cadence St. John, was to serve as acting ambassador. In reality, as a commander in the Korosol Special Operatives, Cade was under orders to watch for any threat to the three New York princesses.
If Markus had indeed arranged the deaths of his parents to promote his own succession to the throne, he wouldn’t stop at frightening or even killing one of his cousins. The king wanted Cade St. John to keep an ear to the ground.
“Since we’re leaving in the morning,” the adviser said, “perhaps Your Majesty should get some rest.”
“I’m not decrepit yet.” Easton’s doctors had assured him that he could make this trip safely if he didn’t overexert himself.
“I was implying no such thing.”
“You’re my adviser, not my nursemaid,” the king added for emphasis. He didn’t want his staff members fussing over him, however noble their motives. “In any case, with luck, it will be a short trip. I will inform Lady Charlotte’s family of my intentions and spend a few days observing Princess Cecelia. Then we can all fly back here.”
“I hope the princess is everything you expect,” said Sir Harrison.
“She will be.” Easton stifled a yawn. After his protestation, he didn’t want his adviser to see how sleepy he suddenly felt. “The girl has royal blood and a proper upbringing. What could possibly go wrong?”
“Nothing, Your Majesty,” said the general.
“That’s right. Nothing!” said the king. “Don’t you need to go to bed?”
“Me?” said Sir Harrison.
“You look tired,” he said. “Go on with you.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The royal adviser bowed and withdrew.
King Easton waited a couple of minutes to make sure the man had cleared the corridor, then took himself off to his chamber. He was already dreaming, before his head hit the pillow, of what a perfect choice his granddaughter would turn out to be.
Chapter One
“Congratulations,” the doctor said. “You’re pregnant.”
“I’m what?” Sitting on the edge of the examining table, CeCe Carradigne wished that, by some miracle, she would suddenly see that another woman had slipped in to the examining room and was now hearing the happy news.
A married woman. A woman who wanted children.
There was, however, no one else in the well-appointed examining room. Just unmarried CeCe, who didn’t have a maternal instinct in her body, and Dr. Elizabeth Loesser, known to her patients as Dr. Beth.
“I take it this pregnancy wasn’t planned,” the doctor said.
“That’s an understatement.” CeCe struggled to maintain her composure. It was no use. “How did this happen?” she wailed. “Wait. Don’t answer that.”
Dr. Beth smiled. “I’m sure you know the facts of life, Miss Carradigne…or should I call you Princess?”
“I wish people would forget about that royalty business,” CeCe said. “I haven’t felt like a princess since my father died.”
“A pregnancy is something to be welcomed, especially when the mother is in good health, as you are,” her physician continued. “Of course, if you want to consider adoption, I’d be happy to make a referral.”
A Carradigne, give up a baby for adoption? The tabloids would splash the story across every newsstand in America. Royal Baby to Be Given Away.
The paparazzi were the bane of CeCe’s life. Even without an adoption to ignite their interest, she shuddered to think what they would do if they learned of her out-of-wedlock condition. “Princess Pregnant, But Where’s the Prince?” they’d trumpet.
Not to mention the snide remarks that would pass among the executives who reported to her at DeLacey Shipping. They’d already nicknamed her “the barracuda” after she reorganized their departments to increase efficiency.
“I’m afraid adoption is unacceptable,” she said. “Just give me the vitamins and the prenatal pamphlets.”
“I’ll send in the nurse with some information,” said the doctor. “You don’t have to go through this alone, you know. I’m sure the father will take responsibility.”
“The father?” CeCe repeated. Oh, heavens. She’d been so stunned by the news that until this moment she hadn’t given any thought to Shane O’Connell. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s out of the picture.”
“Oh, dear.” Judging by Dr. Beth’s expression, she assumed the man was married.
“‘Oh, dear’ is right.” CeCe decided there was no need to fill in the blanks.
Blast Shane O’Connell! How like that ruffian to try to stamp a claim on her.
Well, she had nothing in common with the other women he dated, judging by their descriptions in Krissy Katwell’s Manhattan Chronicle gossip column. CeCe Carradigne didn’t hang on anyone’s arm or gaze adoringly into any man’s eyes.
No, all she’d done was to jump impulsively into bed with that dark-haired, dark-eyed stallion, she thought sarcastically.
It had been an amazing experience, though. The memory of Shane’s lean hips and probing mouth stirred flames deep within CeCe.
Annoyed at herself, she finished the conversation with the doctor, only half paying attention. All she could think was, What am I going to do?
After meeting with the nurse and scheduling her next appointment, CeCe called to summon her driver from a nearby parking garage. Her briefcase stuffed with vitamins and pamphlets, she marched out through the waiting room with the sense of running a gauntlet.
Heads turned as the waiting patients followed her progress, and she could hear the buzz of conversation even before the door closed. “Isn’t that Cecelia Carradigne?” “She really does look like a princess, doesn’t she?” “It isn’t fair to be so rich and so…”
It wasn’t fair, all right. It wasn’t fair that CeCe Carradigne, who never quite lived up to her mother’s expectations, should find herself in this mess.
Pregnant! And by Shane O’Connell, of all men!
It had been CeCe’s idea to forge an alliance between his package delivery service and DeLacey Shipping, to better compete for international shipping contracts. Although their business interests dovetailed, the negotiations had proved tempestuous.
Both of them were hard-driving, no-holds-barred people, she supposed. Whenever they found themselves in the same room, they clashed. Except for one night.
She and Shane had agreed to meet at his apartment, which was more private than the two-story penthouse unit she shared with her mother, one of her sisters and assorted staff. CeCe hadn’t even considered the implications of spending an evening alone with a man at his place, because she didn’t think of Shane O’Connell as a man. He was more of an unavoidable irritant.
They’d talked business, quarreling as usual while sharing a few drinks. Suddenly, they were all over each other. What on earth had happened?
They’d both been hideously embarrassed afterward. At least, she had. She’d fled with the briefest of goodbyes.
When she realized they’d forgotten to use contraception, CeCe had persuaded herself that nothing would result from a single encounter. Half of New York was pursuing infertility treatments, it seemed. Why should she be any different?
When her period failed to arrive on time, she’d rationalized. Hard work and excuses had kept her fears at bay for a few weeks. Then she’d made this doctor’s appointment.
There was no more room for doubt. She was carrying Shane O’Connell’s child.
CeCe descended in the elevator, uncomfortably aware that people were staring at her here, too. The problem with standing five foot eight and having blond hair and green eyes was that people immediately noticed you, and it didn’t take long for them to connect you to the photographs that ran far too often in the newspapers.
CeCe wished she were an anonymous shipping executive whose problems concerned no one but herself. She also wished, more than anything, that she hadn’t spent that night at Shane’s apartment.
Outside, traffic jammed the street and pedestrians scurried by, bundled against the February chill. Cold nipped at CeCe’s legs through the front opening in her long coat.
She would have preferred to wear pantsuits in winter, but her mother insisted that skirts were more ladylike. And what Charlotte wanted, Charlotte got.
From a nearby vendor’s stand, CeCe caught the scent of hot dogs roasting. She was starved. Absolutely ravenous.
She didn’t understand why, because normally she kept so focused on work that she often forgot to eat. It must be the hormones.
Were hot dogs bad for babies? She didn’t have time to read the pamphlets before making a decision about lunch, so CeCe bought one. As she finished paying, the Mercedes stopped at the curb. She had to rush and fold herself inside, briefcase, wiener and all.
“Where to, Miss Carradigne?” asked Paulo, the family’s chauffeur.
“The office, please.” CeCe checked her watch. It was after one o’clock, and she had a one-thirty meeting with Shane. “I’m afraid I’m running late.”
Paulo zipped through tiny openings in traffic with a race-car driver’s skill. If anyone could get her to work on time, it would be him.
Shane had no patience for being kept waiting. The last thing CeCe wanted was to arrive late and find herself already at a disadvantage.
They’d concluded arrangements for their alliance a week after that indiscreet evening. Since then, the pair of them had maintained contact by fax and e-mail. However, now that they planned to seek a joint shipping contract with a Chinese toy company, they were meeting to discuss strategy.
Should she tell him about the pregnancy? CeCe supposed Shane had a right to know. Yet she couldn’t see herself blurting out the bald fact of impending parenthood to the intense, self-made millionaire.
Shane’s meteoric rise had put him on Top Ten lists at Forbes, Fortune and Newsweek. His rough-hewn good looks and reputation for dating around had put him on some very different Top Ten lists at Cosmopolitan and Redbook.
Darn it, CeCe was not going to let the man intimidate her. As far as she was concerned, this was her baby, not his.
After finishing the hot dog, she started to stuff the wrappings into a rubbish container, then realized her mother would notice them later. She stuck them in her briefcase instead, even though she knew her papers would smell like wiener for days. That was preferable to a lecture from Charlotte about nutrition.
The thought of lectures from Charlotte inspired a question: Was there one for unplanned pregnancies? If so, CeCe wondered how long it lasted and whether she could arrange to have her secretary page her with an urgent call in the middle of it.
At 1:29 p.m., they reached the nineteen-story DeLacey Shipping building on Broad Street, near the East River and, of course, the DeLacey Shipping terminal. CeCe scurried out of the car, thanked Paulo and raced for the lobby.
Employees scattered from her path. A couple of clerical workers, whose medical benefits and holiday bonuses CeCe had increased last year, offered smiles and greetings. Several executives, having been threatened with demotions after she audited their departments, glowered.
On the nineteenth floor, CeCe burst through double glass doors labeled Executive Vice President. Her secretary, Linzy Lamar, jumped up from the computer. A pleasant-looking divorcee´e in her thirties, she blended seamlessly into her role.
“Mr. O’Connell is waiting in your office,” she said. “Also, your mother stopped by.”
That was hardly big news, since Charlotte’s even larger office suite lay at the opposite end of the corridor. “Did she say why?”
“No, Miss Carradigne.” The secretary, although a reserved woman, talked fast because she’d learned that otherwise she’d never get to finish her spiel. “She said she’ll drop by again when she has time. I put the new traffic study on your desk.” That was a compilation of data by DeLacey executives regarding potential problem areas, including trade routes and competitors.
“Thank you,” CeCe said as she breezed past.
She flung open the broad, polished-wood door into her office. Even in February, light flooded the expansive room overlooking the harbor.
A large silhouette blocked one window. “I’ll get back to you,” Shane said into his cell phone, and clicked off. Frowning, he turned to face CeCe.
Time stopped. Even the adrenaline rushing through her arteries slammed to a halt as their gazes met.
