Scandal With a Prince (33 page)

A few months ago, he never would’ve rankled at spending a Saturday working.
 
But while he’d made the transit system his passion the last few years, seeing his hard work come to fruition didn’t give him the satisfaction he expected.
 
He wanted to be in Barcelona, sitting at Megan’s table, sharing the plans with her.
 
Responding to her questions, listening to her ideas, seeing the glint in her eye as she noticed the timing of city bus routes during rush hour or the ease of connections from the airport to Sarcaccia’s new conference center.
 
Because she’d notice every detail.

Stefano shoved his fingers through his hair, elbows wide, then shook his head and adjusted his position at the desk.
 
Once the transit plans were approved and construction on the system was underway, perhaps he’d find the joy again.
 
He’d see firsthand the ways the Sarcaccians could benefit from the new system through construction employment, ease of city congestion, and quicker commutes from the suburbs into the city.
 
People would have more housing options, rather than being stuck close to their jobs.
 
Tourism would increase.
 
The economy would thrive.
 
As much as he craved Megan’s approval, it was the citizens of Sarcaccia whom he was obliged to consider—first, last, and always—just as he always had.

The fly thunked against the window again.
 
After two more failed tries, it spiraled down to rest on the wide sill as if recuperating for another attempt.
 

A knock sounded at the door, followed by his mother’s gentle voice.
 
“Are you busy, Stefano?
 
Mind if we come in for a moment?”

He looked over his shoulder to see both of his parents enter the library—not waiting for his answer—and close the door behind them.
 
Whatever they wanted, it was serious.
 

He gestured toward the sofa.
 
“Have you eaten yet?
 
I’m afraid I only have a pitcher of water—”
 

“We’re fine, thank you,” his father responded.
 
King Carlo allowed his wife to sit first, then joined her on the sofa.
 
They were an impressive pair, Stefano thought, perhaps more now that they were in their early sixties than when they were young.
 
Queen Fabrizia jogged, biked, and attended yoga classes to stay fit, and it showed.
 
Though she’d allowed wisps of gray to appear in her hair, she maintained a sleek, modern cut, one that suited her heart-shaped face.
 
She easily looked a dozen years younger than her actual age, as did her husband.
 
Despite a number of health scares over the years, King Carlo’s ramrod-straight posture, firm jaw, and lean build combined to convince the world of his vitality.
 
They each wore suits—hers an off-white, his a slim pinstriped gray—and carried themselves with a refined, self-possessed manner that left no doubt they were in charge of the expansive palace and all that surrounded it.
 

They didn’t intimidate him as they once did, but he respected them and all they’d accomplished in their years ruling the country.

Stefano pushed away from the desk and crossed the room to the wall of windows overlooking the palace gardens.
 
The early summer flowers were in full bloom, the trees verdant, the fountains shooting plumes of water skyward.
 
It appeared a veritable paradise.
 
“Since both of you are here, I assume you have something important to discuss?”

At their silence, he glanced behind him in time to see a look pass between them.
 
His mother’s lips thinned in consternation and she shook her head at her husband.
 

“What is it, Mother?”

She started to say something, stopped, then started again.
 
“We don’t wish to intrude, but we’ve noticed you haven’t spent your weekends at home in quite some time.
 
You’ve taken the plane, but haven’t left a flight plan or word of your whereabouts with the staff.
 
Then, when you arrive for Sunday dinner, you’re barely attentive and hardly speak to our guests.”

“I’m home now.
 
And I was home last weekend, as well.”

“Yet you lock yourself in the library or your apartment and speak to no one, not even the staff, until you appear for Sunday dinner, and you’re no more sociable than you were before.”
 
She folded her hands in her lap.
 
“Again, we don’t want to intrude on your personal life, but is something amiss?”

“Are you seeing someone?
 
Has it been causing problems?”
 
King Carlo’s tone held none of the queen’s tentativeness.
 
“If so, we should be informed.
 
We realize you want your privacy, but you need to trust us for your own safety.
 
The paparazzi can be aggressive, particularly when you’re abroad.
 
Your reputation—”

“Damn the reputation, Father.”
 
He shook his head and turned back toward the window.
 
Funny, how his dad trumpeted safety, trust, and privacy.
 
In a calmer voice, he said, “I apologize.
 
I didn’t mean that.
 
In answer to your question, no, I’m not seeing anyone.
 
Not at the moment.
 
You have no call to worry.”

Outside, a gardener pushed a wheelbarrow full of tree trimmings.
 
Stefano couldn’t imagine what the man found to shear.
 
Every tree, every bush appeared immaculate.
 
Not a leaf out of place.
 
Stefano had spent hours upon hours running through the gardens as a child, often sneaking off to the far end of the property, where the trees and grass had been allowed to remain in their natural state.
 
How had he not noticed the sterile nature of the garden as a whole before?
 
Its lack of wildness the closer one moved to the palace itself?

Or was he merely chafing at the restrictions imposed on him now that his fortune of birth meant he couldn’t have Megan?
 

“Your mother is concerned,” the king continued.
 
“As am I.
 
You should extend us the courtesy of letting us know when you’re traveling, even if you keep the details to yourself.”

“Any further travel will be logged with my administrative assistant.”

“Stefano.”
 
His mother’s voice was soft, edging toward a plea.
 

He faced her, leaning to rest his hips on the wide windowsill.
 
They
were
butting in where they didn’t belong, but he appreciated that their curiosity about his personal life seemed mixed with genuine worry.
 
They weren’t perfect parents—far from it—but then again, who was?

Megan
.
 
A vision of her cradling Anna’s head in her lap at the Magic Fountain flashed in his mind before he squelched it.

“I apologize if I’ve been rude.
 
I’ve had a rough week.
 
That’s all.”

 
Behind him, the fly resumed its pounding against the glass.
 
His parents looked past him to track the insect’s movements.

“That is huge,” his mother breathed.
 
“When we’re done here, I’ll call one of the staff to remove it.”

“No need.”
 
Stefano spun and flipped the heavy metal locks at the base of the window.
 
Time for the fly to get the sunshine it craved.

“Stefano, that must weigh fifty or sixty pounds.
 
It hasn’t been opened in years!
 
Decades, more likely,” his mother argued.
 
“I’ll call someone.”
 

“It’s only a fly, Fabrizia,” the king said.
 
“It’ll die in a day or two and we can sweep it away.”

Stefano ignored his father and pushed against the sides of the frame, driven by a sudden need to conquer the ancient mechanism.
 
With a groan, the window gave bit by bit, chips of paint falling to the sill as it loosened in its chamber.
 
He bent his knees, grabbed the handles mounted to the window’s lowest edge, and lifted.
 
It took nearly all his back and leg strength, but he managed to raise it to the height of his forehead.
 
Outside, the gardener stopped pushing the wheelbarrow and scanned the building to search out the source of the sound.
 
Within seconds, the fly looped down and out into the fresh air, heading past the gardener to freedom.

Stefano let the window slide back into place, then twisted the stiff metal locks to their usual position.
 

“If you were so desperate to be rid of it you could’ve swatted it.
 
Would’ve been easier,” his father said as Stefano faced them again.
 
The twin vertical creases above the bridge of King Carlo’s nose deepened.
 
“I wish you’d tell us what’s wrong.
 
You’re not yourself.
 
Is it the transportation minister?
 
Has he been—”

 
“It’s not the transportation minister.”
 
He held up his hand to stop his father from making another guess.
 
The gesture only irritated his father more, as King Carlo was unaccustomed to having his statements cut off.
 

Stefano strode from the windows to the room’s center, taking the seat opposite his parents.
 
They wanted to know?
 
Fine.
 

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong.
 
But” —he held up his index finger, daring to threaten the King and Queen of Sarcaccia— “what I’m about to say does not leave this room.
 
Under any circumstances.
 
If it does, suffice it to say it will have a negative impact on our Sunday dinner tradition.”

His mother eased forward on the sofa but said nothing, her eyes fixed on his face, while the king crossed his arms over his chest in barely-contained annoyance and clamped his lips together.
 
His eyes flashed fire.

“I’ve been taking the jet to Barcelona,” he said.
 
“Other than this week and last, I’ve gone every weekend since attending the reopening of the Grandspire with Mahmoud Said.”

His mother’s green eyes, so much like Anna’s, widened.
 
For the first time, he realized how much Anna resembled his mother.
 
They had the same cheekbones, the same eyes, the same smile.
 
He wondered if, in her youth, his mother had the same zest for life.
 
He rather imagined she had…in some ways, she still did.
 
His mother would fall apart when she met Anna.
 
If
she met Anna.

“Is the report true, then?
 
The one about the woman who has a child?” his mother asked.
 
“I saw it in the paper a few weeks ago, but there’s been nothing since.
 
Your father and I didn’t want to pry.
 
We’d hoped you would come to us if there was anything to the story.”

That was a point in their favor, at least.
 

“Yes and no,” he told her.
 
“Yes, the report was true.
 
But no, I’m no longer seeing her.”

“Ah.”
 
His father’s shoulders dropped and the furrows in his brow eased.
 
He folded his hands in his lap and exhaled.
 
“You do not sound happy, and I am sorry for that.
 
I’m sure you had a great fondness for this woman if you were willing to see her despite the fact she’s already a parent.
 
But in the long run, I think you’ll see that it’s for the best.
 
Such a relationship would be extremely difficult for someone in your position.”

Rage simmered in Stefano’s gut, but it wasn’t the ignorance of his father’s words that incensed him.
 
It was the man’s obvious relief.
 
“You’re right about the difficulties, Father, but it is
not
for the best.
 
Not at all.”
 

“You just need some time, son.”
 
His father’s tone was dismissive.
 
“There are plenty of women who are capable of making you happy.
 
It is only a matter of time.”

“No.
 
There’s only one woman.”
 
He knew his next sentence would change his life, and possibly Megan and Anna’s, but it had to be said.
 
“And that woman’s child is my child, too.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Oh, Stefano.”
 
Crinkles appeared at the corners of his mother’s eyes.
 
She leaned toward him, placing her elbows on her knees and steepling her fingertips in front of her as she regarded him.
 
He could feel her instinct to reach across the space between them and touch him, to offer comfort, but she resisted.
 
“You’re such a good man.
 
From the time you were young, you’ve always felt such compassion for others, especially for children.
 
I adore that about you.
 
But feeling that this woman’s child is somehow your responsibility—”