Royal Scandals: Scandal With A Prince Part 3

"I have no wish to sit and talk." Not when he couldn't keep his words civil. How could she determine what was best for the child when she'd never even informed the father of the child's existence?

"But-"

"I learned long ago never to have a conversation when I'm...enraged." That was the most gentle word he could conjure for the emotional avalanche she'd triggered within him. "Give me twenty-four hours. Then we'll talk and resolve this situation."

"Resolve it? How does one resolve-?" Frown lines crisscrossed her brow. "Wait, aren't you scheduled to fly back to Sarcaccia tomorrow afternoon?"

"The flight goes when I say it goes. At least that I can control." He ground his teeth, then said, "For now, I'm going to bed. Alone."

"Stefano, wait-"

"Tomorrow!"

He spun on his heel and strode the length of the hallway, then slammed through the fire door to the stairwell and pounded down the stairs. He'd never walked away from a woman before, but it beat yelling at one.

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 anch.o.r.ed around his waist, his hands exploring every inch of her alluring body, making the kind of pa.s.sionate love he'd not made to a woman since, well, since Megan. s.e.x 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 a.s.sociates, laughing over gla.s.ses 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 gla.s.s-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 gra.s.s 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 s.p.a.ce 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 Jardin 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 a.s.sured 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 pa.s.sion sells the hotel like nothing else."

Megan refrained from informing him that selling the hotel was the least of her worries, let alone that "pa.s.sion" was precisely what caused the etched lines between her brows this morning.

She took a sip from her water goblet before glancing at her wrist.w.a.tch. 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 pa.s.sion, 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, pa.s.sionate s.e.x 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 circ.u.mstances.

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 m.u.f.fled 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.

Another round of applause echoed up from the street as the man played the last few notes of his song. The baker propped open the door to his shop using a triangle-shaped wedge, allowing the scent of fresh-baked bread to drift over the gathering. A father from the crowd handed his son two bills, one of which the child carefully placed into the guitar player's case before he skipped into the bakery. Others followed suit, dropping coins and bills into the case before either moving along or visiting the bakery. The guitarist smiled his thanks to each of them as he picked out chords to begin his next song.

Megan propped her chin in her hand as she viewed the scene. She'd planned to look for her next job in the United States, thinking that Anna might like the experience of attending an American high school, but perhaps staying in Europe wasn't such a bad idea. Anna could still spend a chunk of each summer in Minnesota with Megan's parents, but the cultural education that went hand-in-hand with living abroad was one which couldn't be duplicated.

Of course, it all depended on Stefano now. Would her life with Anna change now that the prince knew the truth? Or would things progress just as before?

"Megan."

Her attention whipped back to the restaurant at the sound of Stefano's voice. He stood less than three feet from the table, towering over her. He sported a crisp white s.h.i.+rt, open at the throat, well-cut charcoal slacks that emphasized both his height and muscular frame, and a pair of understated yet undoubtedly expensive black loafers. He was everything a modern royal should be, a man who exuded power and charisma, yet who dressed and moved with such a casual air he seemed relatable. Even his hair, wavy and lightly mussed, hit the sweet spot between contained and wild that stylists aspired to create for fas.h.i.+on shoots.

Before she could stand and greet him-wasn't that the etiquette when approached by a royal?-Stefano gestured for her to remain in her seat and pulled out the chair opposite hers at the small table. A waiter approached to fill their coffee cups and juice gla.s.ses and present them each with menus. While the young man wished them a good day and nervously described the restaurant's morning specials, Megan's heart beat double-time. How had Stefano approached without her sensing his presence? And how in the world, when his expression gave her no indication of what he felt for her, did he stir her emotions by doing nothing more than stating her name aloud?

Once the waiter left, Stefano made a pointed survey of the restaurant. An elderly couple who'd paid their bill set their napkins on the table and stood, the man circling the table to hold his wife's elbow as they prepared to depart. On the far side of the room, a suited businessman in his mid-thirties nursed a large cup of coffee while engrossed in paperwork, oblivious to Megan and Stefano's presence. A woman wearing a backpack and clutching a brochure for the city's open-top bus tour stood at the podium near the entrance, waiting as the host scanned the book for available dinner reservations. Otherwise, the room was empty.

Stefano's attention locked on Megan's face and one of his eyebrows. .h.i.tched up, as if a conspiracy were being hatched. "It would seem no one is within earshot. Is that by design?"

"I imagine most guests are still sleeping or are ordering room service." She paused, trying to gauge his demeanor before adding, "Thank you for coming."

"I apologize for the delay. I was distracted last night and forgot to set my alarm."

Though the words could be interpreted as a dig, his tone didn't give that impression. "Please, I'm the one who should apologize. I'm so sorry about...well, I'm sorry about everything."

"I don't need an apology, Megan. Not at this point."

"All right." She scrunched her napkin in her lap, hoping he couldn't see her discomfort. But now what? She'd been so certain he wouldn't come to breakfast that she hadn't thought about what she'd say.

He'd said he needed twenty-four hours to think. Perhaps he expected her to honor his wish and stick to business this morning. Megan leaned to the side of the table and pulled the folio containing the Grandspire's group event options from her bag. She set it to one side of the table so Stefano could flip it open without hitting the gla.s.sware. "After you order, I'd be happy to go over the information for your father, if that's what-"

"No." He reached across the table and took the folio. "I'm going to open this and I'm going to appear to be reading it. I will ask you questions, which anyone observing us will a.s.sume are about the hotel. However, I have all the information I need for King Carlo and his staff. You and I will use this time to discuss our daughter. I don't want you to apologize. I don't want excuses. I want facts."

Chapter Six.

There was a hardness in Stefano's green eyes Megan had never seen before, which spurred her to a defensive answer. "Ask what you like. I have never lied to you and never will."

He leveled a doubtful look at her as he opened the folder and pulled out a map of the hotel's conference rooms. "You said you discovered you were pregnant about a month after returning home?"

"More like six weeks. But yes, when I was back at school."

"Why didn't you contact me?"

"I tried."

"Not hard enough." He ran his index finger over the map, then tapped it as if he'd asked about the setup of a particular room. "I didn't hear so much as a whisper from you."

No thanks to your staff.

She bit back the response and chose her words deliberately. "If you remember, we left things on a casual note. While you knew how to contact me if you wanted, I had no way to reach you directly. Only a number that connected me to a secretary named Dagmar." The woman she'd come to think of as Stefano's personal firewall, programmed to eliminate potential threats before they could infiltrate the palace network and gain access to the royal family.

What irked her is that she shouldn't have been seen as a threat.

He shrugged as if nothing Megan said surprised him. "Dagmar's retired now, but she used to be my personal secretary, which is why I gave you that number. She did everything-booked my travel, arranged my calendar, handled my correspondence-and yes, she fielded my calls."

"Even personal calls?"

"Yes. I'm forced to change cell phones frequently in order to keep the number confidential. I discovered long ago that it's easier to route calls through a secretary than it is to constantly update my phone number with acquaintances. Only my secretary and immediate family have it."

"Maybe easier for you. Not for me."

Frown lines puckered his brow. "Dagmar was discreet and efficient. If you called and gave her your name, it would have been routed directly to me. It's standard procedure for all my personal calls."

"Mine weren't."

He opened his mouth as if to argue, then looked past Megan and smiled as the waiter approached to take their orders and refill their coffee. Stefano asked for a spinach, tomato, and feta omelet with rye toast while Megan simply told the waiter to bring her usual order.

Once the waiter was out of hearing range, Stefano asked, "You eat here often?"

"I live in the hotel, so they know me well."

"Ah. I wondered, given your position here." He squinted at her, appearing to digest the information. His expression left her unsettled. "And what's the usual?"

"You won't believe me."

He circled his hand, encouraging her to tell him anyway.

"Spinach, tomato, and feta omelet. Rye toast."

That earned her another frown, but instead of commenting, he went back to the original topic. "Are you certain you spoke to Dagmar herself? Not someone who referred you to Dagmar?"

"At least four times, which is why I remember her name. She said, 'Thank you for your call. I have noted your information and Prince Stefano will contact you at his convenience.' Those were her exact words each time I phoned. It was as if I were talking to a recording."

"Dagmar was nothing if not consistent." He turned to a new page in the folio, keeping up the pretense of a business meeting. "And you gave her your full name?"

For Anna's sake, she fought to remain patient. "Of course I did. I told her that we'd been a.s.signed to the same project group in Venezuela, thinking she could use that information to verify my ident.i.ty if necessary. I told her it was important that you contact me and left her two different phone numbers and my e-mail address."

"Did you...I a.s.sume you didn't tell her what the call was about?"

How stupid did he think she was? "Only my parents know that you're Anna's father and they haven't breathed a word to a soul." Megan leaned forward, studying him across the table. "You're telling me that you never got my messages?"

"Never."

"I see." How could she phrase this without sounding jealous or catty? "I hate to point out the obvious, but you had another woman in your life by that time. Not only were you planning a wedding and dealing with intense press coverage, you were in the midst of your military training. Would you honestly have paid attention if you received a message from me during that period? Plus, it was ten years ago. Remembering a phone message from way back then would be-"

"Megan, I would have paid attention. I would have remembered." His gaze bored into hers. "I would have called."

She wanted to doubt him. Wanted to believe that her life would have been exactly the same had he actually been told of her attempts to contact him-after all, she and Anna were happy and healthy, and she'd landed a dream job in a dream city-but the steadfast look in Stefano's eyes told her he thought otherwise. If he'd received her messages, he believed everything would have been different. Everything.

Then his gaze dropped to her mouth. A s.h.i.+ver ran through her at the flash of desire that crossed his face before he stifled it.

He was quiet for a moment, then said, "You gave up trying."