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‘I can see you are,’ he said. He paused. ‘You’re a marine biologist?’
‘Yes.’ She faltered and tried for a recovery. ‘Very part-time until Zoe goes to school.’
‘Zoe doesn’t go to school?’
‘I home-school her here at the moment.’
‘So meanwhile you’re living off Christos’s life insurance.’
She’d opened the refrigerator and was lifting out salad ingredients. She froze.
She didn’t turn around. She couldn’t. If she had he might have got lettuce square in the middle of his face. What was he suggesting?
‘That’s right,’ she said stiffly. ‘I’m ripping Zoe off for every cent I can get.’
‘I didn’t mean…’
‘I’m very sure you did mean.’ Finally she turned, carefully placing the lettuce out of throwing range. ‘What is it you want of us, Mr Whoever-The-Hell-You-Are, because there’s no way I’m calling you Prince. I don’t know why you’re here but don’t you dare imply I’m acting dishonestly. Don’t you dare.’
‘I already did,’ he said, holding his hands up as if in surrender. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘So am I.’
The door swung open. Zoe appeared, looking wary. The little girl was in clean T-shirt and shorts. Her hair was a tangle of dark, wet curls. She was far too thin, Elsa thought, trying to see her dispassionately through Stefanos’s eyes.
She was so scarred. The burns had been to almost fifty per cent of her body, and twenty per cent of those had been full thickness. She’d had graft after graft. Thankfully her face was almost untouched but her skinny little legs looked almost like patchwork. Her left arm still needed work—her left hand was missing its little finger—and there was deep scarring under her chin.
She’d protect this child with her life, she thought, but protection could only go so far. This man was part of Zoe’s real family. She had to back off a little.
‘Okay, it’s my turn for the shower, poppet,’ she said, trying to make her voice normal.
‘You sounded angry,’ she said, doubtful.
‘I’m crabby ‘cos I’m hungry.’ She tugged Zoe to her in a swift hug. ‘I’ll have a shower in world record time. Can you set the table and talk to…Stefanos. He’s your papa’s cousin. He knows all about Khryseis. Maybe he could show you exactly where he lives on the Internet. We have pictures of Khryseis bookmarked.’
And, with a final warning glance at Stefanos, she whisked herself away. She didn’t want to leave at all. She wanted to bring Zoe into the bathroom with her. She wanted to defend her with everything she had.
Zoe, Crown Princess?
Zoe had far too much to deal with already. If Stefanos wanted to take on part of Zoe’s life, then he had to contend with her. Zoe’s life was her life. She’d sworn that to Zoe’s mother, and she wasn’t backing down on it now.
She couldn’t. She was so afraid…
CHAPTER THREE
ZOE set the table while he watched her. The little girl was watching him out of the corner of her eye, not meeting his gaze directly. Table done, she turned to a corner desk holding a computer. The machine looked like something out of the Dark Ages, big, cumbersome and ugly. She checked the Internet, waiting until the Khryseis information downloaded—seemingly by slowboat from China.
But finally the websites in Khryseis were on the screen. By the look of the bookmarks, she and Elsa spent a lot of time browsing them.
He tentatively showed her where he lived on the island—or where he’d lived as a child. She reacted with silent politeness.
He checked the other bookmarks for the island. They were marine sites, he saw. Research articles about the island.
Worth noting.
‘So you and Elsa spend a lot of time studying…fish?’ he ventured and got a scornful look for his pains.
‘Echinoderms.’
Right. Good. What the hell were echinoderms?
And then Elsa was back. Same uniform as before—shorts and faded shirt. She was tugging her curls back into a ponytail. Still she wore no make-up, and without the suncream her freckles were more pronounced. Her nose was peeling and her feet were still bare.
She walked with a slight limp, he noted, but it was very slight. A twisted ankle, maybe? But that was a side issue. He wasn’t about to focus on an ankle when he was looking at the whole package.
She was so different from the women in the circles he moved in that her appearance left him stunned. Awed, even.
He’d implied she was dishonest. There was nothing in this place, in her dress, in anything in this house, that said she was taking advantage of Zoe. His investigator had shown him Christos’s financial affairs. If they were both living totally on Christos’s life insurance…
‘How much outside work do you do?’ he said, carefully neutral, and Elsa pulled up short.
‘You mean how much of my obviously fabulous riches are derived from honest toil and how much by stealing from orphans?’
He had to smile. And, to his relief, she returned a wry smile herself, as if she was ordering herself to relax.
‘I’m not accusing you in any sense of the word,’ he assured her. ‘What’s in front of my eyes is Zoe, in need of your care, and you, providing that care. Christos’s life insurance wouldn’t come close to paying for your combined expenses.’
‘You don’t know the half of it.’
‘So tell me.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, but Christos never spoke of you, as a cousin or as a friend. As far as I know, neither Christos nor his mother ever wanted to have anything to do with anyone from Khryseis. How can my finances have anything to do with you?’
‘I do want to help.’
‘Is that right?’ she said neutrally. She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. Look, can we eat? I can’t think while I’m hungry and after a morning on the beach I could eat a horse.’
She almost did. There was cold meat and salad, and freshly baked bread which she tipped from an ancient bread-maker. She cut doorstop slices of bread and made sandwiches. She poured tumblers of home-made lemonade, sat herself down, checked Zoe had what she needed—the sandwich she’d made for Zoe was much smaller, almost delicate in comparison to the ones she’d made for herself and for him—and then proceeded to eat.
She ate two doorstop sandwiches and drank three tumblers of lemonade, while Zoe ate half a sandwich and Elsa prodded her to eat more.
‘Those legs are never going to get strong if they’re hollow,’ she teased, and Zoe gave her a shy smile, threw Stefanos a scared glance and nibbled a bit more.
She was trying to eat. He could see that. Was his presence scaring her?
The idea of frightening this child was appalling. The whole situation was appalling. He was starting to have serious qualms about whether his idea of Zoe’s future was possible.
Except it must be. He had to get this child back to Khryseis. Oh, but her little body…
It didn’t take his medical qualifications to realise how badly this child was damaged. The report he’d read had told him that four years ago Christos, his wife and their four-year-old daughter had been involved in a major car accident. Christos had died instantly. Amy, his wife, had died almost two weeks later and Zoe, their child, had been orphaned. No details.
There was a story behind every story, he thought, and suddenly he had a flash of what must have happened. A camper van crashing. A fire. A death, a woman so badly burned she died two weeks later, and a child. A child burned like her mother.
He knew enough about burns to understand you didn’t get these type of scars without months—years—of medical treatment. Without considerable pain.
He’d arrived here thinking he had an orphaned eight-year-old on his hands. On his hands. She’d seemed like one more responsibility to add to his list. Her nanny was listed as one Mrs Elsa Murdoch. He’d had visions of a matronly employee, taking care of a school-aged child in return for cash.
His preconceptions had been so far from the mark that he felt dizzy.
Despite the man-sized sandwich on his plate, he wasn’t eating. The official reception had been midmorning, there’d been canapés, and he’d been watched to see which ones he ate, which chef he’d offend. So he’d eaten far more than he wanted. Elsa’s doorstop sandwich was good, but he felt free to leave the second half uneaten. He had a feeling Elsa wasn’t a woman who was precious about her cooking.
Actually…was this cooking? He stared down at his sandwich and thought of the delicacies he’d been offered since he’d taken over the throne—and he grinned.
‘So what’s funny?’ Elsa demanded, and he looked up and found she was watching him. Once more she was wearing her assessing expression. He found it penetrating…and disturbing. He didn’t like to be read, but he had a feeling that in Elsa Murdoch he’d found someone who could do just that.
‘I’ve had an overload of royal food,’ he told her. ‘This is great.’
‘So you wouldn’t be eating…why?’
‘I’m full of canapés.’
‘I can see that about you,’ she said. ‘A canapé snacker. Can I have your sandwich, then?’
He handed it over and watched in astonishment as she ate. Where was she putting it? There wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on her. She looked…just about perfect.
Where had that description come from? He thought of the glamorous women he’d had in his life, how appalled they’d be if they could hear the perfect adjective applied to this woman, and once more he couldn’t help smiling.
‘Yep, we’re a world away from your world,’ she said brusquely.
What the…? ‘Will you stop that?’
‘What?’ she asked, all innocence.
‘Mind reading.’
‘Not if it works. It’s fun.’ She rose and started clearing dishes. He noted the limp again but, almost as he noted it, it ceased. Zoe was visibly wilting. ‘Zoe, poppet, you go take a nap. Unless…’ She paused. ‘Unless Stefanos wants us to drive him into town now.’
‘I need to talk to you,’ he said.
‘There you go,’ she said equably. ‘I mind read that too. So, Zoe, pop into bed and we’ll take Stefanos home when you wake up.’
‘You won’t get angry again?’ Zoe asked her, casting an anxious look across at him.
And he got that too. This child’s mental state was fragile. She did not need angry voices. She did not need anyone arguing about her future.
This place was perfect for an injured child to heal, he thought. A tropical paradise.
He had another paradise for her, though. He watched with concern as Elsa kissed her soundly, promised her no anger and sent her off to bed.
There was no choice. He just had to make this…nanny…accept it.
She washed.
He wiped.
She protested, but he was on the back foot already—the idea of watching while she worked would make the chasm deeper.
They didn’t speak. Maybe the idea of having a prince doing her wiping was intimidating, he thought wryly, and here it was again. Her response before he could voice his thought.
‘An apron beats tassels for this job any day. I need a camera,’ she said, handing him a sudsy breadboard to wipe. ‘No one will believe this.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to rinse off the suds?’
‘You’re criticising my washing? I’m more than happy to let you do both.’
‘I’m more than happy to do both.’
She paused. She set down her dishcloth and turned to face him, wiping her sudsy hands on the sides of her shorts.
She looked anxious again. And territorial.
And really, really cute.
‘Why the limp?’ he asked and she glanced at him as if he was intruding where he wasn’t wanted.
‘It’s hardly a limp. I’m fine. Next question?’
‘Where’s Mr Murdoch?’ he asked, and her face grew another emotion.
‘What?’ she said dangerously.
Uh-oh. But he couldn’t take the question back. It hung between them, waiting for an answer.
‘My researchers said Zoe’s nanny was a Mrs Elsa Murdoch.’
‘Ms,’ she said and glared.
‘So never a Mrs?’
‘What’s that to do with the price of eggs?’
‘It’s merely a polite question.’
‘Polite. Okay.’ She even managed a…polite…smile. ‘So where’s your Princess?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m Mrs so there has to be a Mr. I believe I’m simply reversing your question. Is there a matching Princess?’
