Royal Scandals: Scandal With A Prince Part 5

Stefano shoved off the hotel sofa, nabbing his phone from the corner table and punching in the number that would connect him directly to his father. Once his father's booming voice came on the line, Stefano let him know he was extending his stay in Barcelona another day to wrap up work and visit with friends, then quickly cut to news of Mahmoud. "He wishes you well," Stefano said. "His initial reports about the facilities at the Grandspire were accurate. I spent the morning with the director of business development getting the particulars, but I feel it would work well for any events you wish to host outside Sarcaccia."

His father followed up with questions about the hotel's exact location and airport accessibility while Stefano strolled through his suite, stopping near the windows. Now that Stefano had a chance to study the view in daylight, he was amazed by the early-season crowds on the beach enjoying the suns.h.i.+ne. It was a beautiful weekend day with high, fluffy clouds and a clear sky. He moved a step closer to watch a young family making their way along the planked walk that connected the hotel and the beach, but found himself distracted by the brilliant blue of the hotel pool, which occupied a rooftop deck that extended out from the side of the building several floors below his suite.

A woman in a bright red bikini swam the length of the pool underwater, popping up at the end nearest the diving board. After a few breaths, she stretched her arms overhead to grab the side of the board and hang from it, then walked her hands along the diving board's edge until she dangled from the very end. Her hair swept across her back like a wet curtain and one strap of her bikini appeared askew, but she didn't seem to care. The sight amused him. How many adults would do such a thing? Perhaps because the woman had the entire pool deck to herself, she felt free to horse around. Whoever she was, she was athletic enough to lift herself out of the water. From this vantage point he could see the outline of lean muscle in her back and arms. She looked as if she could hang from the board all afternoon.

As his father asked after Ilsa and Stefano told him a little about Ilsa's duties at the contemporary art museum, Stefano realized that the woman in the red bikini wasn't alone after all. A dark-haired young girl was also at the pool. She must've been standing close enough to the building that Stefano hadn't noticed her from his angle. She ran along the tiled edge, then abruptly slowed to a walk when she neared the diving board as if she'd been warned about running poolside. Moving with exaggerated slowness, the girl stepped onto the board and walked to the end, then leaned down cautiously, hands on her knees, to speak with the woman hanging from the end.

Using her body weight, the woman gave the board a bounce, making the girl laugh and feign falling into the water. A moment later, the girl executed a perfect dive over the bikini-clad woman and swam toward the opposite end of the pool. The woman turned, letting go of the board and following the girl with long, determined strokes, but not before Stefano caught sight of her face.

Megan. Meaning the girl in the striped yellow swimsuit now kicking water at Megan must be Anna. His mouth went bone dry.

"Will you attend dinner with us tomorrow night?" King Carlo asked, referring to the country's custom of inviting foreign dignitaries to the palace for Sunday dinner. "Your mother hopes the whole family will be there. The premier of Queensland is expected."

"I'm not sure if I can make it this week," Stefano replied, watching the pair pull themselves out of the pool. Though they seemed to have the same smile, Anna's skin and hair were darker than Megan's. He wished he could see the girl's face more clearly. "I have a lunch meeting tomorrow, so it depends on how that goes. I'll do my best."

"Your secretary didn't have anything on your calendar for tomorrow, so I couldn't tell when you'd planned to arrive," the king said. "Nothing until an appointment with the barber at the palace on Monday morning, then your transportation meeting."

"That's correct." He'd defer the haircut and possibly the transportation meeting, but the mention of his secretary reminded him of a more pressing issue. "By the way, I meant to ask you something. I know it was many years ago, but during the media circus surrounding my engagement, was Dagmar instructed to filter my personal calls more than usual?"

"What do you mean?"

The nonchalance in his father's voice seemed forced, but maybe that was Stefano's imagination. "She always kept me informed when I received calls from people who weren't my personal friends. You know, people I might meet in pa.s.sing then who'd want a favor or who hoped to be invited to events at the palace. She would hand me a list of names and have me indicate which she should put through in the future and which she should gently attempt to dissuade. When everything happened with Ariana and there was so much attention on the family, was Dagmar told to be more aggressive about policing my calls than usual? Or not to bother me with the usual list?"

Now that Stefano thought about it, there should have been more calls than ever during that period, yet in hindsight, the volume of calls and mail hadn't seemed out of the ordinary. The only increase was for matters directly related to the wedding-tailors, caterers, security specialists-rather than from friends, acquaintances, or even the press.

"I certainly gave her no such instruction," King Carlo replied, though his decisive response made Stefano wonder if his father knew of such an order, whether or not he gave it. "Dagmar was quite capable. She knew how to separate the wheat from the chaff in order to protect you, especially during those times our family was under particularly intense scrutiny. When that happens, there can be thousands of phone calls a day to the palace lines."

He'd have guessed dozens, maybe hundreds, but thousands?

"That's the point of employing a good staff, Stefano. It keeps you from having to deal with non-vital tasks. If you recall, when you became engaged, you were starting your military training. That's where your focus needed to be." The king sighed. "I like your new secretary, but must say that I do miss Dagmar. She was a joy. Have you spoken with her recently? How is her health? Are her grandchildren doing well?"

Stefano allowed the change in subject, giving his father an innocuous answer about seeing Dagmar at a recent garden party where she'd been in high spirits, then finished the call with a promise to let his mother know about Sunday dinner once his travel plans became firm.

After setting the phone on the coffee table, he walked to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. Though his body screamed for a nap after being awake most of the previous night, he wanted to be back on schedule so he'd be alert tomorrow. He punched the b.u.t.tons on the coffeemaker, considering the phone call. His father's answer about Dagmar had been quick. Too quick. The king made it a habit to speak in measured words. Responding to questions about long-ago events warranted careful consideration. He'd also expected his father to ask what prompted Stefano's question since it wasn't typical to ask about decade-old phone calls, but he'd made no such inquiry.

The automatic brewer sizzled to life, sending an aromatic stream of French roast into a mug. Perhaps there had been far more calls to the palace than Stefano ever imagined. In keeping him from being distracted during those crazy, busy days-including being distracted by calls from Megan-his family and staff probably thought they were helping him. Keeping him from non-vital tasks, as his father put it.

He wondered what his father would think if he knew the true havoc that "help" wrought upon Stefano's life in this particular instance.

He sighed as he walked to the window cradling a cup of coffee he didn't particularly want. He hadn't lied when he'd told Megan he'd have returned her call. However, if he was honest with himself, he would've told Dagmar to winnow the calls had he known the volume was so overwhelming, and he likely wouldn't have thought to give her specific instructions regarding Megan.

Much as he'd like to attribute the botched messages to something sinister, an outside force that would excuse him from playing a part in what happened, he couldn't. It happened because of who he was. If he hadn't been born a Barrali, he'd have gotten the messages. h.e.l.l, he'd have gotten the call directly. He couldn't blame Megan for keeping Anna a secret, either. Again, if he hadn't been born a Barrali, there wouldn't have been a need.

He took a sip of the coffee, then set the cup on a nearby table. Megan and Anna had wrapped themselves in oversized white towels and were seated side by side on a lounge chair near the pool, chatting. They seemed happy, just as Megan claimed. He had to admit that the hotel wasn't such a bad place for them to live. Megan had no commute, meaning she could spend more time with her daughter. They had the world outside their door and the hotel pool offered them a safe, convenient place to relax and enjoy themselves.

He leaned against the gla.s.s to get a better look. Seeing Megan interact with Anna convinced him she'd done a good job raising her daughter. He didn't know the girl's personality-for all he knew, Anna could be rude and spoiled-but they gave the appearance of having a tight, comfortable bond.

He hadn't relaxed like that with his own parents since he was a child. Other than during occasional trips to Sicily, where his father's cousin owned a house that afforded them a measure of solitude for family vacations, they'd never been able to kick back and enjoy each other's company. Cameras were omnipresent, and any entertainment spots the Barralis frequented-whether an amus.e.m.e.nt park, a petting zoo, or a horse farm-used the royal family's appearance to boost their bottom line. Stefano didn't mind helping those businesses make money, especially since it helped the country as a whole, but he did mind the lack of private family time. His relations.h.i.+p with his parents simply wasn't the same as what he witnessed out his window.

h.e.l.l, even his family's Sunday dinners were public.

His phone buzzed. A quick peek showed a text from one of his older brothers, Prince Alessandro, asking if Stefano would make it to Sunday night dinner. Fabulous.

He should convince his siblings to take another family trip to Sicily. The house was still available to them should they want it and there was plenty of s.p.a.ce. The property boasted a pool for afternoon swims, a fully outfitted kitchen for meals, and acres of land to keep any media at a distance. It might be just the thing his parents needed to know that their children still cared for them and wanted to spend time with them, despite the pressures and distractions that came with adulthood. How hard could it be to arrange a weekend's respite?

He smiled as Megan pulled Anna into her lap over the girl's protests. Anyone observing the pair would see that Anna was at the age where she enjoyed being close to her mother when they were alone, but demanded her independence if she thought anyone might be watching.

He wondered how Anna would handle their meeting tomorrow, a.s.suming Megan didn't balk between now and then. Would Anna be frightened? Indifferent? Curious? So much depended on Megan and how she presented the idea to Anna.

For all he knew, they could be discussing it this very minute. If so, he hoped it was an easier discussion than those he'd shared with his own parents.

Chapter Nine.

"You're sure you're okay with this?"

Megan studied Anna's face, trying to ensure her daughter was as nonplussed by meeting Stefano Barrali as she professed. True, Megan deliberately put Anna in a receptive mood with pool time, a fantastic lunch-allowing Anna the leftover cake from Santi despite the fact she wasn't quite done with her school project-and the promise she could go on a beach outing with her best friend late tomorrow afternoon. Still, shouldn't being told she'd be meeting her biological father, a man who happened to be a well-known prince, give Anna pause?

The whole idea certainly gave Megan pause.

"Mom." Anna allowed the fluffy pool towel to drop from her shoulders as she reached out to put her hands on Megan's pool-dampened cheeks. With exaggerated bossiness, she said, "He's a prince. Not a superhero or a G.o.d. Get it straight."

Megan leveled her with a look. "You're not as funny as you think you are."

"I get it from you."

"Don't try to kiss up," Megan said, rolling her eyes at the sarcasm in Anna's voice. "And please, let's keep the funny business tamped down during lunch."

"I know how to behave, Mom. Geez." Anna wrapped her towel around her shoulders once more.

"Good. Then I'll give him a call and tell him we're set."

Anna gazed across the pool deck while Megan retrieved her cell phone from under the magazine she'd brought outside. "Think he swims?"

"Definitely." The man looked s.e.xier cutting through the waves in Venezuela as a rough-around-the-edges college kid than any of the men she'd seen gracing Barcelona's beaches over the last few years. Even now she could imagine the water beading on his chest and across the corded muscle of his arms as he waded out of the water, slicking his hair out of his eyes as he smiled at her.

Anna was wrong. The man was a G.o.d, just not the type Anna imagined.

"But we're not bringing him to the pool," Megan clarified. "Too many windows overlooking the deck. I think it's best you meet him for the first time in a quieter spot."

"Gotcha."

The reception desk put Megan's call through to the prince's suite. As she waited for it to ring, she wondered if he could see them now, a.s.suming he was upstairs. She hadn't thought of it until this moment, but if he'd wanted to, he could've watched her and Anna the entire time they'd been swimming.

She pulled her towel tighter as his voice came over the line.

"It's me," she said simply. "I've made arrangements for lunch."

Without hesitation, he asked, "Where and when?"

"My suite at one, if that time works for you. I think that's where Anna would be most comfortable." Anna mouthed, What are we gonna eat? Can I make something? Pleeease? as Megan spoke, but Megan waved her away. Anna pulled a face, then dropped her towel to the deck and half-walked, half-skipped toward the diving board. "If you're seen knocking on my door, no one on the staff will question it. They'll a.s.sume it's business. And eating in my suite means we can speak freely."

When Stefano agreed, Megan gave him her suite number.

"Anything I should know beforehand?" Megan thought she detected trepidation in his tone as he added, "I'd like this to go as smoothly as possible."

"It's just lunch. Casual, like you suggested. Take your cues from Anna and you'll be fine." She hesitated, then asked, "Why? Is there anything you think I should know? You're not going to drop a bomb on us, like news you have seventeen other kids in various countries or that you've secretly enrolled Anna in clown college?

Megan rubbed her temple. Why had she said that? As Anna had so bluntly stated, Megan wasn't funny.

Nerves. Chalk the idiotic attempt at comedy up to nerves.

"No, no bombs. Had enough of those this weekend." His laugh sounded genuine. "But you should know...you look smas.h.i.+ng in red. Especially that red."

Before she could absorb his words, he said, "Tomorrow. One p.m." And hung up.

She answered the door wearing black.

The simply cut, sheer lace top contrasted with Megan's light skin and flaxen hair, while at the same time making her eyes appear more brilliant than ever. White slacks hugged her in all the right places.

Secretly, however, Stefano had hoped she'd wear red.

He rarely had trouble speaking to people-he'd been trained from birth to say the most diplomatic thing possible in any situation-but watching Megan sitting poolside in her bikini, seeing her bright smile from above as she'd first spoken to him about lunch, then observing the way she rubbed her forehead when she'd made the awful crack about clown college...well, he'd been momentarily smitten. He wanted her to know he was watching her, admiring her.

When he'd ended the call, he could swear her face turned as red as that delicious swimsuit.

Nevertheless, he should've kept the thought to himself.

"Prince Stefano, it's good to see you again. Please, come in." Megan stepped back from the door, holding it open and waving him inside. As she'd said, it would appear to anyone watching from the hallway-not that anyone wandered the twentieth floor hallway at noon on a Sunday-as if they were meeting to discuss business.

He entered, pausing once inside the narrow entry hall to allow her to lead the way into the rest of the suite. That's when he noticed she was barefoot. Bright red toenails peeked out where the hem of her slacks brushed the tops of her feet. When she closed the door, a woven red silk bracelet punctuated by tiny gold beads peeked out from under the cuff of her s.h.i.+rt. He couldn't help but smile. The toenails she could've painted days ago, but the bracelet was a deliberate choice, especially given its contrast with her basic black top. Had she worn it because of his comment?

"Why are you grinning?" Her voice was quiet, but filled with suspicion. "You look like the cat who ate the canary."

He shrugged. "Whatever you're cooking smells amazing."

She eyed him for a moment, as if weighing his response, then said, "Anna asked if she could make pizza. She's become obsessed with cooking lately. Mostly it's desserts, since that's what she wants to eat, but my mother taught her to make pizza dough. She does a competent job of it, too."

"In that case, I look forward to it."

He followed Megan to the kitchen, checking out the decor along the way. There was no mistaking the place for anything other than the hotel suite it was, but there were personal touches, too. Photos of Megan hugging Anna, a niche containing pottery he recognized as being made by a co-op near where they'd worked in Venezuela, and a small painted plaque declaring You Have a Home in Minnesota made the s.p.a.ce unique.

When they reached the kitchen, all thoughts of the suite faded away. The girl he'd seen at the pool yesterday had her back to him and her hands fisted at her hips as she bent to peer in the window of an oven. Though dressed more casually than Megan, she'd clearly taken time with her appearance. Her denim shorts were topped by a white camisole, over which she wore a transparent sky blue top. Her thick, dark hair shone as if she'd spent a good deal of time going over it with a hairbrush. It hung off to one side, over her shoulder, as if she'd carefully arranged it there after looping it through a silver ponytail holder. Not a single strand was loose. When she bent further and splayed her hands across the top edge of the oven, he caught himself smiling at the sight of sparkly hot pink and robin's egg blue polish on alternating fingertips.

"Anna?"

At Megan's voice, the girl straightened and turned. A hard lump formed in Stefano's throat. Megan was right. This child had his green eyes, his darkly slashed eyebrows, even his forehead. G.o.d help him, but there was no mistaking that this child was his. She might be wearing feminine clothing and nail polish, but Stefano could tell she had his att.i.tude without her having spoken a word.

G.o.d help Megan.

Anna a.s.sessed him with confidence. "h.e.l.lo, Prince Stefano. Welcome to our home."

Then she curtsied. All the way to the kitchen floor.

"Honey, that's not what we discussed-"

"You don't need to do that," Stefano said at the same time. He wasn't sure whether to be embarra.s.sed or to laugh.

Without a hint of sarcasm in her voice or expression, Anna asked, "Am I supposed to bow? Because I thought bowing was for boys."

"For a first meeting, I think a handshake will do." He reached across the granite countertop that separated the kitchen from the living s.p.a.ce and waited. After few painful heartbeats, Anna stepped forward and clasped his hand with her own. Her grip was surprisingly firm for someone so small. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Prince Stefano."

He kept his smile steady. He couldn't quite believe he was shaking hands with his own daughter. "Why don't you call me Stefano? 'Prince Stefano' feels too formal."

Anna glanced at Megan, then back to him. "I'm not supposed to call adults by their first names. My mom's says it's a respect thing. Is Mr. Barrali okay? Or is that wrong, since you're a rich and famous prince and everything?"

Megan propped her forearms on the countertop and flashed Anna a warning look for the choice of words. "This is a bit of an unusual circ.u.mstance. It's fine with me if you call him Stefano while we're here in our apartment. But if you ever address him in public, go with Prince Stefano. Not Stefano. And definitely not Mr. Barrali."

"Sounds like a good compromise," Stefano said, hoping to alleviate the awkwardness of the situation. He'd spent more hours of his youth than he cared to remember being drilled on the finer points of etiquette, but this particular scenario was never addressed. He doubted there was a protocol guru in the world who knew the proper way to handle parent-child introductions.

"So you're, like, my father? For real?"

"I am." Seeing Anna in the flesh left no doubt.

Beside him, Megan s.h.i.+fted and cleared her throat. He imagined she was trying to steer Anna in a different direction, but he kept his focus on Anna, who quirked one side of her mouth as she studied him. "Can I ask a stupid question? Since you're my father and you're a prince, does that make me a princess? Or not really?"

"It's not a stupid question at all. The way royal t.i.tles work is complicated. But technically, no, because your mom and I aren't married, you're not a princess under the laws of my country." Keeping a straight face at the unexpected question proved difficult. He wasn't about to explain Sarcaccian legitimacy. He wanted to tell her that it was fine not to be a princess, but wasn't sure how a girl her age would view such a statement.

"Huh." Much to his surprise, Anna didn't seem bothered by the information. Rather, she appeared to weigh it in her mind as if she'd been handed the solution to a complex math problem and now wished to work it backward to be certain she understood.

He nodded toward the oven. "When I came to the door, I told your mother that whatever you're cooking smells amazing. Is that pizza?"

The question earned him a guarded smile. "My grandma was here last week and she taught me. But after I made it I figured you probably don't eat pizza, so it's okay if you want to order lunch instead. My mom does it all the time. We have menus." She gestured toward one of the kitchen drawers. "My grandma says that you can freeze pizza after it cools and it's still good, so I can eat it later. It won't get wasted."

She might take after him physically, but she had Megan's practical streak. Always thinking of a Plan B. He told Anna, "I don't eat pizza because no one ever offers. People a.s.sume I prefer fancy dishes with colorful sauces and radishes or cuc.u.mbers cut to look like flowers. Truth is, I'd much rather have pizza."

"No way."

The combination of hesitancy and surprise in her voice reminded him of how he'd sounded as a child on those rare occasions his parents allowed him something he was positive wouldn't be permitted. "It's true. Pizza is a treat for me. What kind of topping did you put on it?"

"On them. I made two. Wanna see?"