Scandal With a Prince (7 page)

How could she?
 

He jammed his room key into the door of his suite, noting as he entered that the digital clock on the thermostat indicated it was well after two a.m.
 
He let out a sarcastic laugh as the door slammed shut behind him.
 
He’d hoped to be wrapped up in Megan right now, her legs anchored around his waist, his hands exploring every inch of her alluring body, making the kind of passionate love he’d not made to a woman since, well, since Megan.
 
Sex with complete and utter abandon.
 
He’d expected to be drunk on it.
 

Instead, he was alone in his suite, trying to comprehend the fact that he had a child.
 
One old enough to hold a conversation with him, to voice opinions, to tell him of her hopes and dreams.
 
Perhaps old enough to talk back to him, as he’d started to talk back to his own parents at that age.
 
Or maybe not.
 
He had no way of knowing her personality, did he?
 
For all he knew, she’d be the type who’d cuddle against him every night, begging for a bedtime story long after she was old enough to read on her own, simply because she liked his company.

The mental image of a child in bed brought him to a sick realization.
 
Dear Lord, what if the girl had been injured or ill at some point?
 
He’d visited enough children in enough hospitals over the years to know how badly those kids needed all the love and support they could get.
 
Yet if his own daughter had been hospitalized and in desperate need, he wouldn’t have known a thing.
 
He could’ve been sitting on a yacht entertaining his father’s business or political associates, laughing over glasses of Sarcaccian wine, completely oblivious to her pain.
 

He smacked a fist into the palm of this hand, galled all over again that Megan kept such a secret.
 

It wasn’t simply that she’d denied her child.
 
She’d denied
him
.
 
How different might his life had been had he known?
 
Would the fiasco of his engagement to Ariana even have occurred?
 

He ground his knuckles against his temple in frustration.
 
He couldn’t allow his mind to go down the path of what-ifs, especially where Ariana was concerned.
 
He could only move forward.
 
And as angry as he was at Megan, guilt gnawed at him for walking out on the very woman who’d borne his child, leaving her to find her way home alone in the middle of the night.
 
He hoped she’d had the good sense to call a taxi or ask the hotel’s car service to take her home so she’d be safe.
 
It was too late for him to go back and rectify his mistake now.
 

He paced the suite’s sitting area until his breathing steadied and his mind cleared, then paused near the floor-to-ceiling windows, finally taking a moment to look around the room Mahmoud reserved for him.
 
As expected, it contained every luxury.
 
A compact kitchen outfitted with the latest appliances and sleek granite countertops fronted the main room, which contained a glass-topped dining table, several designer chairs, and a chocolate-colored sofa crafted with clean, modern lines.
 
A flat-screen television sat atop a gleaming art deco bureau.
 
Beyond that, an en suite master bedroom boasted grass cloth wallpaper, fine art, and high-end linens, all of which appeared carefully chosen to create a serene escape from the hustle and bustle of the city.

He raked a hand through his hair as he turned to take in the view from the windows, studying the strip of distinctly Catalan shops, restaurants, nightclubs, and high-rise condominiums lining the beachfront.
 
Judging from what he could see of the lighted interiors, the neighboring condos were designed to the same modern standards as the Grandspire.
 

He wondered if Megan lived in one of them.
 
She must live very close to the hotel, he rationalized, given her job.
 
Someone with her position needed to be on call at all hours.
 
She might even live in the Grandspire itself; Mahmoud mentioned that the manager lived on site, perhaps the director of business development did, as well.

Facing the room again, he studied the space with new eyes.
 
The Grandspire’s suites were everything Mahmoud promised when he’d asked Stefano to take a look at the revitalized property.
 
Its access to public transportation made it the perfect base for either a family or couple’s vacation, while at the same time it provided the ideal setup for a traveling businessman craving both work-friendly amenities and options for evening relaxation.
 
It was exactly the type of location Stefano’s father, King Carlo, preferred for his functions.
 
The entire city waited at the hotel doorstep, pulsing with life even at this late hour.

It was no place to raise a child.
 

He strode to the kitchen, intent on grabbing a cold bottle of water for his nightstand.
 
On the way, he slammed a hand on the dining table with enough force to cause the centerpiece of fresh fruit to shudder, sending an orange rolling out of the bowl and across the table.
 
As he replaced it, the fragrance of citrus reminded him that he’d promised to meet Megan for breakfast.
 
A business breakfast.

Well, they certainly had business now.

Chapter Five

Given the late hour at which the festivities ended, few diners occupied the Grandspire’s Jardín Alba restaurant at ten minutes past nine the next morning.
 
Members of the waitstaff gathered in one corner, carafes of freshly-squeezed orange juice and hot coffee at hand, and conversed in low tones as they waited for more breakfast guests to arrive.
 
The napkins had been laundered and folded, the silver polished, and even the exotic white flowers and greenery spilling from the central planter that served at the restaurant’s focal point had been misted.

One guest in particular hadn’t made an appearance.
 
When Ramon Beltran stopped Megan outside the restaurant’s entrance en route to his own meeting, he noted that it wouldn’t be surprising for Prince Stefano to arrive a few minutes late and assured Megan that the breakfast would go well.
 
Her sales folio contained a wealth of information on the hotel’s special events options, she’d prepared for every possible question one might have about the Grandspire, and the manager had received nothing but positive feedback from guests on the new conference facilities.
 
Mahmoud Said had been especially impressed, he said, which should work to Megan’s advantage with the prince.
 
Ramon even complimented Megan on her choice of dress, a soft yet professional cream-colored sheath in a style she knew flattered her figure.

“Don’t look so worried.
 
Enjoy yourself now that the grand reopening is behind us,” he’d advised before leaving to catch a taxi to his own meeting.
 
“Your passion sells the hotel like nothing else.”

Megan refrained from informing him that selling the hotel was the least of her worries, let alone that “passion” was precisely what caused the etched lines between her brows this morning.
   

She took a sip from her water goblet before glancing at her wristwatch.
 
It was convenient to believe that Stefano overslept or that he’d forgotten their appointment entirely, perhaps having only agreed to the meeting in order to pull her away from the manager the previous night.
 
However, it was far more likely he’d chosen not to come at all given the anger vibrating through his body as he’d stalked out on their conversation last night.
 
She couldn’t blame him.
 

After an evening of
cava
, flirting, and hot, stolen kisses in an empty hotel hallway, no doubt he’d expected to have her in his bed.
 
The way she reacted to his touch, it wasn’t an unreasonable expectation.
 
She’d
wanted
to be in his bed.
 
Every caress of his lips against her skin, every breath she inhaled of his scent made her crave him all the more.
 
No man set her very nerve endings to fire the way Stefano did, then or now.
 
Judging from both his words and the intense need in his gaze as he’d trapped her against the wall, he felt the same.

Instead of a night of unbridled passion, he’d been smacked between the eyes with news that he’d fathered a child.
 
But what else could she have done?
 
Waiting until after they’d had a night of wild, passionate sex to say, “oh, by the way, you should know I had your baby” would’ve been far worse, at least from a moral point of view.

She groaned inwardly.
 
Stupid morals.

Ten years ago, she’d tried every which way to contact him.
 
Last night, when she finally had the opportunity…well, she should have handled things differently.
 
She should’ve known that his manipulated tour of the conference site was a prelude to something more and told him about Anna the minute they’d been alone rather than trying to ignore his flirtation by discussing business.
 
At least then she could’ve told him about their daughter in a caring and straightforward manner, rather than letting things progress to full-on, up-against-the wall, heated foreplay.
 

She inhaled deeply, attempting to block out the memory.
 
As magical as those moments in his arms felt, and as physically right as they felt, the timing was completely wrong.

She blinked as she watched the restaurant door for a man who wouldn’t come.
 
Still, she couldn’t leave, not for a while longer.
 
She had to act as if she were here to do her job, as if she were waiting to start a meeting and the other party were experiencing nothing more serious than a traffic delay.
 

Give me twenty-four hours.
 
Then we’ll talk and resolve this situation.

What had he meant?
 
Would he fight for visitation?
 
Custody?
 

Her throat knotted.
 
Visitation she could handle, so long as she had time to prepare Anna and the press knew nothing of it.
 
As she’d explained to her concerned parents early this morning while they packed their bags, it might be good for Anna to know Stefano if that’s what the prince wanted.
 
Megan herself learned a lot about dealing with people from all walks of life by observing the way Stefano interacted with villagers, charity organizers, and government officials while they’d worked together in Venezuela.
 
No matter what their background, rich or poor, young or old, people felt at ease within moments of meeting Stefano.
 
Anna could benefit a great deal from spending time with him under the right circumstances.
 

But custody?
 
Megan fiddled with her fork.
 
No, demanding custody didn’t make sense.
 
Not only would a custody fight become public—and she would fight it with every fiber of her being—she’d be devastated by any such attempt and so would Anna.
 
Stefano, for all his power, would never willfully separate a mother and child.
 
Megan might not have seen him in a decade, but certain components of a man’s personality didn’t change.
 
He’d always put the needs of a child, any child, before his own desires.

Still, he’d been deliberate in using the word
resolve
, which made her think he wanted more than simple visitation.
 
Megan flipped the fork over and over between her fingers, trying to view the situation from Stefano’s perspective, considering and discarding ideas before her breath stilled.

Could he have meant marriage?
 

As outlandish as the idea might be, it wasn’t be out of the realm of possibility.
 
Sarcaccia’s royal family was known for clinging to its old country traditions.
 
Stefano’s siblings were unmarried and had no children, making Anna the only grandchild of the family’s patriarch, King Carlo.
 
Stefano might feel obligated to legitimize Anna both to adhere to tradition and to ensure his family’s claim to the throne remained intact.

“No,” Megan whispered to herself.
 
She’d convince him it wasn’t the best thing for any of them, for reasons that outweighed King Carlo’s.

She quit fidgeting and returned her hands to her lap.
 
As stressful as it might be, she had no choice but to wait for Stefano’s explanation.
 
It wouldn’t help to have the waitstaff speculate on her odd behavior or to second-guess herself in the meantime.
 
It had been the right decision to tell Stefano about Anna, even if the news hadn’t been delivered at the time, manner, or place she’d intended.

At the muffled sound of applause rising from the cobblestoned street below, Megan turned toward the window.
 
A guitar player performed outside a nearby bakery.
 
His light, romantic tune drew a sizable crowd, happy to spend a few moments of their morning savoring the taste of fresh pastry while they listened.
 
Megan couldn’t help but smile at the scene.
 
Since moving to Europe, she and Anna marveled at the skill of street performers.
 
Some juggled, danced, or balanced on stilts while others wore heavy makeup and pretended to be statues.
 
Her favorite were the balladeers who sang of love, family, and the richness of life.