Taming the Prince (15 page)

Shane shook his head, smiling even more. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. If it’ll make you happy.”

“Actually, Amira is the one who’ll make me happy,” Marcus said, beaming. “But I’d still appreciate it if you’d wear a tux when you’re my best man.”

“For you, Marcus, anything.”

And he damned well expected his brother to do likewise for him when it came time for Shane’s wedding.

Whoa. Hold up there. Rewind.

Shane’s wedding?
Now there were two words he’d never expected to find used in the same zip code. By anyone, least of all himself. Yet here he’d just thought the phrase in his own head as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to think about, too—and without any sort of provocation or threat being used. Amazing. What was even more amazing was that where just a week ago he would have been terrified by the merest suggestion of such a thing, now, suddenly, it didn’t seem scary at all. In fact, it seemed kind of—

Oh, man. Oh, man, oh, man, oh, man.

“Shane?”

His brother’s voice halted whatever further thoughts he might have had on the subject of weddings, his own or anyone else’s, because he realized Marcus must have been speaking at length, and he’d heard not one word of what the other man had said.

“What?” Shane asked. “Did you say something?”

Marcus laughed, but there was something anxious in the sound. “Guess being kidnapped does sort of make a person a little distracted for a while. I told you you might want to change clothes before you meet Queen Marissa. Put on the suit I bought you, and save the blue jeans for later. There are certain rules to be followed in this country, and you don’t wear jeans to meet the queen.”

Rules, Shane thought. He wondered if maybe that was why Sara had balked at the idea of the two of them being together. Her grace and refinement suggested she had grown up among the wealthy class, and when he considered the way she’d dressed—his bandages had been pure silk, and designer to boot, he reminded himself—there was every reason to believe she was still thriving in those upper echelons of society. And Shane had made no bones about his own very working-class existence. Still, she didn’t seem
like the kind of woman who would let superficialities like that stand in the way. Then again, Shane had given her no reason to think there was a “way” to stand in front of.

Too much to think about right now, and not enough time to do it, that was his problem. He pushed all thoughts of Sara aside, promising he’d mull it all over later when he was alone, and talk it all out later with Marcus. To his brother, he said, “Yeah, I’m ready to meet the queen. Just give me a few minutes to clean up.”

The queen’s receiving room was in keeping with the rest of the palace—lush, lavish, opulent, sumptuous, extravagant and every other word you might find in a thesaurus if you looked up the word
luxurious.
The queen, however, struck Shane as being very no-nonsense. She appeared to be in her early fifties, was of medium height and slender build. She was a striking woman with her dark hair carefully arranged in some kind of bun, and penetrating blue eyes that seemed to see straight inside a person. Her attire, too, was no-nonsense—a plain navy blue dress with a discreet gold pin affixed to its collar, matching gold earrings in her ears and flat navy shoes on her feet.

It was almost, Shane thought, as if she were doing her best not to stir up controversy with her personal appearance. And succeeding very well, as far as he was concerned.

She stood near an ornate desk tucked into the corner of the room, flanked by a group of people whose functions Shane could only guess at. Various heads of state and secret-police types, he thought, only half-joking. Certainly they all looked to be of a serious bent.

“Mr. Cordello, we meet at last,” Queen Marissa said, smiling warmly, but formally, as she approached him.

Shane stood where he was, but bowed as she drew nearer, because that was what Marcus had told him he was supposed to do. He also waited to see if she would extend her hand, because Marcus had told him to do that, too—to
not offer to shake hands unless she did so first. She did, and Shane took her hand in his. Instead of shaking, though, she only gave his fingers a brief, subtle squeeze before dropping his hand. Then she gestured toward a long, oxblood leather sofa near the fireplace, where a small fire provided more ambience than warmth.

“Please do sit down,” she told him. “You and your brother both.” At this, Marcus joined Shane on the sofa, seating himself on the other side from the queen. “I am anxious to hear about your experiences with the Black Knights,” she continued, “but I know that the RII insist on speaking to you about that first.”

She lifted a hand with two fingers slightly extended, and immediately, she was surrounded by a quartet of men dressed in a variety of business suits and military uniforms. They hovered around the opposite arm of the sofa, none standing more than a foot away from Her Majesty, as if they were intent on guarding her with their lives, even in her own private domain. Queen Marissa seemed not to notice their arrival, didn’t even turn around to see if they were there, as if she took for granted the fact that they would be. And, of course, they were.

“In fact, I’d like to introduce you to some of the higher-ranking members of the Royal Elite Team,” the queen went on, “who will want to be present during your interview with the RII. Admiral Monteque, Colonel Prescott, Sir Selwyn Estabon and His Grace Carson Logan.”

Each of the men nodded in acknowledgment as the queen spoke his name, and Shane immediately forgot who was who and which was which, so profound was his nervousness about this entire meeting. So he greeted them as a group when he said, “Hello.”

That single word was evidently the only encouragement the men needed, because they immediately launched into questions Shane had thought would come later, during his more formal interview with the RII.

“Mr. Cordello, can you give us a physical description of
the two Black Knights who hijacked Her Majesty’s jet and are still at large?”

“Could you possibly find the house again, Mr. Cordello, where you and Miss Wallington were held captive, if given the opportunity to do so? It could provide some useful clues.”

“Did you hear any of the Black Knights say anything suspicious, Mr. Cordello, anything at all?”

“Did any of them perhaps mention diamonds, by any chance, Mr. Cordello? Or a diamond-smuggling operation? That’s how they’re financing their treasonous activities, you know.”

“Gentlemen!” the queen interjected in a voice that brooked absolutely no argument. Immediately the questions ceased, and the men relaxed their aggressive postures. “There will be time later for you to speak with Mr. Cordello,” she told them. “Right now, I wish to speak with him myself.”

But instead of speaking, she studied him intently in silence for a moment, gazing first at his eyes, then his nose, then his mouth and then back again. She seemed to be looking for something specific in his countenance, and Shane had no idea what to do except sit still and let her do it. Then she turned her attention to Marcus and inspected his face with the same scrutiny. And then, for several moments, her gaze flew between Shane and Marcus, as if she were trying very hard to discern something very important.

“It is clear,” she finally said, “that the two of you are indeed brothers. Your resemblance to each other is remarkable. However, I see no hint of Penwyck heritage in either of you.” She sighed mildly, her features softening. “But perhaps that is only because I don’t wish to see a hint of Penwyck heritage. The thought that you might be my sons, and that this is the first time I’ve met you…” Her voice trailed off. “Well, I just can’t accept that it might be true. My sons…” She halted again, then shook her head, as if she had imparted much too personal an observation. “We
shall perform the DNA tests as soon as possible,” she said. “And we shall let that be the deciding factor.”

“If it’s any help, Your Majesty,” Shane said quietly, “I don’t think we’re your sons, either. It just doesn’t…” Now it was his voice that trailed off. “It just doesn’t feel right,” he finally said. “No offense, ma’am.”

She smiled. “None taken, I assure you.”

He had opened his mouth to say something else, though, honestly, Shane wasn’t sure what he could say that might make the situation less awkward, when, without warning, the door to the queen’s receiving room crashed open, framing a woman who was very attractive, and looked to be in her twenties. She also very much resembled the queen with dark hair that was pulled back from her face, and in the shape of her eyes—though they were green instead of Her Majesty’s blue. The woman was also clearly pregnant, and dressed in a simple maternity dress of forest-green that was as no-nonsense as the queen’s attire.

Her demeanor, however, was in no way no-nonsense. No, the woman was clearly agitated about something, and judging by the way her gaze darted anxiously from one person to another, obviously distressed to find so many people gathered in her mother’s quarters.

“Princess Megan,” Marcus whispered from his place beside Shane.

For a moment, Princess Megan only stood at the door, gripping it fiercely with one hand and looking panicky. Then, “Mother!” she shouted as she darted across the room toward the queen. “You must come quickly! Father has regained consciousness! He’s coming out of his coma! He’s going to be all right!”

S
hane sat in his room at the palace, feeling as morose as he’d ever felt in his life and wondering what the hell was going to happen now. And not where King Morgan was concerned, either, though, granted, he’d been as caught up as anyone in the commotion that had broken loose in the queen’s quarters earlier that day. When Princess Megan had crashed the gathering with her news that the king was coming out of his coma, everybody in the room had jumped up and started clamoring incoherently, to the point where Shane hadn’t known what any of them were saying.

Which hadn’t seemed to matter, because after that, no one had seemed to be overly concerned with his presence anymore anyway. Queen Marissa had graciously excused herself and told Shane they’d talk later, then she and the members of the RET to whom he had been introduced had fled behind the princess. He and Marcus had been left alone, and retreated to the guest room assigned to Shane to catch up on all that had happened. In the interim, they’d
received a report from Princess Megan that the king was fully conscious, but still a bit disoriented. The royal physician, however, was predicting that His Majesty would make a full recovery, though it would be a long process. And, unfortunately, the princess had added sadly, King Morgan wasn’t going to be in a fit state to rule his kingdom, and would have to quickly make a decision about his predecessor. With that in mind, she had told the brothers that the DNA testing had been scheduled for the following day.

Surprisingly, however, their possible future as kings of Penwyck hadn’t been what Shane and Marcus had spent the afternoon talking about. No, they’d been far more concerned with far more important matters: namely, the women in their lives.

“You have to tell her,” Marcus said now from where he stood beside the window. “You have to tell Sara how you feel.”

He was dressed in the suit he’d worn earlier, as was Shane. But where Marcus’s was still faultless and businesslike, Shane’s had pretty much decomposed. His tie hung unfettered from his collar, and the top two buttons of his shirt were unfastened. His jacket and trousers looked crumpled and unkempt, and he marveled at how Marcus was able to maintain the unsullied comportment that totally eluded Shane. In spite of what the queen had said earlier about their resemblance to each other, few people would ever have taken them to be brothers, let alone twins. But then, that was one of the great things about their relationship—they loved each other in spite of their many differences.

“But tell her what?” Shane asked. “I don’t know how I feel.”

Marcus smiled. “The hell you don’t.”

“I don’t,” he insisted.

Marcus sighed. “Four letters. One syllable. Rhymes with shove. Which is what I’m going to do to you if you don’t admit how you feel.”

Shane swallowed with some difficulty. “But how do I know I…love her? I mean, maybe it was just the circumstances, you know? Maybe it was one of those things where two people are thrown together in an extreme situation, and they just naturally sort of turn to each other because there’s no one else. How can I know for sure if it’s love?”

Marcus’s smile grew broader. But all he offered in response was “Oh, you know.”

Shane opened his mouth to object, then closed it again. Because in that moment, deep down, he did know. He knew that Sara was unlike any woman he’d ever met in his life, and he also knew that the way he’d responded to her was completely different from the way he’d ever responded to a woman in his life. And he’d started to respond that way long before the hijacking had occurred. Long before they’d been taken hostage and thrown into dire straits. He’d responded the minute he met her. And that response had only grown with every word they’d exchanged and every moment they’d shared. Maybe it had happened more quickly because of their circumstances, but even if everything had gone the way it was supposed to, he’d still feel this way about Sara. He
knew
that. He knew it. He’d still want to be with her now, more than he wanted to be anywhere else.

So why wasn’t he with her?

“I can ask Amira for her address,” Marcus said, seemingly reading his mind. “She’ll know where to find Sara.”

Shane glanced down at his watch. It wasn’t even dinnertime yet. Maybe if he left now, he and Sara could go out somewhere and talk. Or better yet, stay in and talk. He didn’t care. As long as they could talk. As long as they were together. As long as they could stay that way for the rest of their lives.

He nodded to Marcus. “Yeah. I’d like to see her. Talk to her. Thanks, bro,” he said. “I owe you.”

Marcus shook his head. “You owe Amira. And she’ll only ask that you don’t make an obnoxious toast to the bride and groom at our wedding.”

Shane laughed. “It’s a deal. But only if you return the favor at my wedding.”

Sara was just coming down the stairs into the main entry of her mother’s house when she heard a car pull up out front. Goodness, Devon and his parents were already here, and her mother wasn’t dressed yet—she’d have to greet them herself. Drat early birds, she thought. And drat this dress, she thought further, halting in front of the mirror at the foot of the sweeping circular staircase to haul up the bodice that kept threatening to fall dangerously low. And drat the designer, too. Obviously he’d been thinking wishfully about the average woman’s bust line when he’d conceived it.

And while she was at it, drat all dinner parties, Sara further complained to herself. She’d forgotten all about her mother’s having arranged this impromptu one with friends for Sara’s brief, and unexpected, trip home. She’d tried to get her mother to cancel it—considering everything Sara had been through over the last couple of days, entertaining guests was the last thing she wanted to do—but her mother had been adamant. It would only be five other people, her mother had reminded her. Unfortunately, that five included one Devon Trent, an old schoolmate of Sara’s whom her mother still insisted would make a suitable husband for her daughter.

It was more important now than ever that they have the little soiree, her mother had insisted, because now they could celebrate her safe return from those dastardly kidnappers, as well. It would bolster Sara’s spirits after her unfortunate experiences.

Unfortunate experiences, she thought again as she struggled with the strapless, pale blue silk gown. She only wished those experiences all
had
been unfortunate. But no matter how badly she might recall some of the events of the past few days, Sara could never truly think of them as unfortunate. Because they’d given her her time with Shane,
however brief it had been. And also because they’d offered her an opportunity to grow and change, for the better. She’d learned a lot about herself over the past several days. And she’d known, for the first time in her life, what it was like to be in love.

Because no matter how much she had tried to deny it since waking that morning beside Shane, Sara knew without question that she had fallen in love with him. She wasn’t sure when or how it had happened, only that it had. Pragmatic, sensible Sara Wallington had fallen head over heels in love at first sight.

No, not first sight, she quickly corrected herself. Oh, she’d been very much attracted to Shane from the start, but it had only been when she’d witnessed his outgoing personality and his wry sense of humor, even in the face of danger, and noted his tenderness and sweetness that she had started to have feelings for him. And those feelings had come to fruition last night—though, truly, it felt like ages ago now—when the two of them made love.

She was in love with Shane Cordello. Even though she knew he wasn’t the kind of man who would stay around for long.

But don’t cry, Sara,
she told herself.
Oh, certainly you’ll think back on this time with wistfulness and yearning. But life goes on. So much to do. You’ll have your career. Probably. Once Admiral Monteque forgives you for botching the first assignment you ever received and bumps you up from the RII mail room, where you’re bound to start your career—if you start at all. Why, in fifty years or so, you might even make it up to the steno pool.

She sighed heavily and surveyed her image in the mirror one last time. She’d dressed formally, as her mother always dictated for such affairs. Above the costly blue silk gown, a diamond choker encircled her neck, and coupled with it were diamond earrings and a matching bracelet around her white-gloved wrist. Her pale red hair was wound up into a
sleek French twist, and she’d done her best with her cosmetics to hide the shadows beneath her eyes.

The doorbell rang again, so she turned and hurried to answer it.

“Devon, you impatient boy,” she said as she pulled the door open…only to find Shane Cordello standing on the other side.

He looked tired and rumpled, and utterly incongruous in a dark suit and tie. Well, perhaps not
too
incongruous, she decided upon further inspection. The tie, after all, was knotted inexpertly, and the shirt was misbuttoned and the entire ensemble appeared to have been slept in. He looked wholly uncomfortable in the formal clothing where he’d been so at ease in his ragged jeans. She couldn’t help smiling at the picture he presented now, as if he were wearing his big brother’s clothes and not quite pulling off the image he wanted. Could it be that he was trying to impress her? she wondered. Why had he come here tonight?

“Who the hell is Devon?” he asked by way of a greeting. “And why the hell would he be impatient?”

She noticed then that Shane wasn’t smiling, but looked sullen and irritated instead. And was that petulance she heard in his voice when he was asking her about another man? How very intriguing…

“Hello, Shane,” she said, amazed that she was able to keep her voice level. “It’s good to see you again, too.”

His dark brows arrowed downward. “I mean it, dammit. Who the hell is Devon?” He turned his attention to her attire then, and his features went slack. “Holy cow. You look gorgeous. You look like…”

“What?”

He smiled, but there was nothing happy in the gesture at all. “You look like a princess,” he said sadly, though why such a thing would make him unhappy, Sara couldn’t have said. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Yes,” she told him. “You’ve interrupted what was promising to be a very dull evening. Do come in, please.”

She could scarcely believe he was here. She really hadn’t expected to see him again, ever. She’d been told by the RII that his time in Penwyck had been scheduled down to the last minute, and that if the DNA tests on him and his brother came back positive, then his entire life would be scheduled down to the last minute, too. What had been left for Sara to deduce—which she had, smart woman that she was—was that those minutes would not include anyone outside the palace or the royal family. Certainly not the woman who had botched his delivery to Penwyck in the first place.

She had allowed herself to hope that he might telephone her when he had a chance, but she’d entertained no false dreams there. No matter what had passed between the two of them, Shane Cordello wasn’t the kind of man to run after a woman. Especially a woman he hadn’t known long. Especially a woman to whom he’d made no promises.

But he had run after her, she realized now. He was standing right there in her mother’s foyer, his gaze… Well. His gaze wasn’t exactly fixed on her anymore. No, it was wandering over the foyer, up the long circular stairway behind her and into the rooms that flanked the entry—the grand salon to the right, and the massive music room to the left. She couldn’t imagine what he must be thinking.

“Nice house,” he said.

Oh. That was what he’d been thinking.

“I mean,
really
nice house,” he reiterated. “Reminds me of the palace. Only…bigger.”

“Not really,” Sara said. “They’re roughly the same size.”

“Ah.”

“Well, originally, the palace in Marlestone was only meant to be the royal family’s summer home. This, of course, has been my family’s permanent home for three hundred years now.”

“Ah.”

And with that one quietly uttered sound, for some reason, he seemed to go from angry to thoroughly demoralized.

“Shane?” Sara asked. “Is there something wrong?”

He took in her attire again, his focus lingering on the necklace circling her throat. He lifted his hand to the diamonds, running the pad of his index finger lightly, slowly, over each of the sparkling gems. Sara closed her eyes, willing him to drop his hand lower, to touch the bare skin of her throat and neck and shoulders instead. But he drew his hand back again before doing so, leaving her feeling bereft and cheated and gloomy. When she opened her eyes, it was to see him trailing his gaze around the sumptuous furnishings of the house again. So she followed his gaze, trying to look at her surroundings with an outsider’s eye, only realizing then how very lush and ornate—and excessively overdone—the place was. Really, her mother should donate many of the pieces and artwork to the Royal Museum. They were only gathering dust—and appreciating to frightful amounts of value—here at home.

“Shane?” she said, turning her attention to him again.

“You, uh… You grew up here, I guess, huh?”

She nodded.

“You must like living this way.”

“I never really thought much about it, to be honest.”

“No, I suppose not,” he said. “I guess you’d take this for granted.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that, either.”

He was still standing framed in the doorway, had scarcely taken two steps inside the house, and was looking as if he intended to turn around and leave again. So Sara did the only thing she could think to do. She reached for him, gripping him by both lapels, pulled him inside, slammed the door behind him pushed him back against it, and…

And kissed him for all she was worth.

Normally, Sara would never have been so forward. But then, normally, she wasn’t in love with a man she had been
terrified she would never see again. So she figured her behavior could be excused this once.

It evidently didn’t bother Shane, though, because he responded by immediately roping his arms around her waist and pulling her hard against himself and fairly devouring her, too. For long moments, all they did was enjoy the embrace, neither of them speaking, only becoming reacquainted in the most fundamental way they knew how. Shane kissed her as if it had been months since he last saw her, and Sara reveled in his obvious desire for her, because it so mirrored hers for him.