Royal Affair Page 7

  “Why don’t you call tomorrow? It’s time for her to get ready for bed,” Max told her sister.

  “Are you staying the night?”

  “Of course. She might be ill again.”

  “Ill?”

  “Nauseated. She might need me to hold her head again.”

  “Oh. Of course.”

  Ivy reclaimed the phone. “Stop laughing,” she demanded of her sister, unable to disguise the prickly tone.

  “I’m not,” Katie protested. “I’m only smiling.”

  “And he is not spending the night,” Ivy added.

  Max indicated he was. “There are too many things to settle between us. Besides, I don’t trust you not to take off during the night for parts unknown.”

  “You are not spending the night,” Ivy told him.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I think I’ll let you two argue that out,” Katie said. “Call me in the morning, Ivy. You hear?”

  “Yes, I hear. Thanks for calling,” she said. She hit the off button and placed the phone on the table.

  “I am staying.” Max crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Fine. Stay. See if I care what my neighbors think about some foreigner crashing in my apartment.”

  “You have plenty of space. There’s a guest bedroom. Unless you want me to sleep with you.”

  She glared at him, aghast that he could even mention such a thing when everything was a mess. Men.

  His thick eyebrows rose slightly. “I didn’t think so.” He gathered up their glasses and the damp napkins under them, then herded her into the house. “Although it’s a bit late to be concerned about that.”

  She whirled on him. “If you hadn’t…and then you… Anyway, it’s all your fault.”

  Tears pressed close. She would rather die than cry like some spineless wimp in front of him. She fled down the hall and into her room. There she slammed the door and fell across the bed, her hot face pressed desperately into the pillow as she fought for control.

  All was quiet in the rest of the house.

  After a while—ten minutes or an hour, she had no idea of time—she crept off the bed and into the bathroom. After changing to a nightgown and preparing for bed, she returned and crawled under the sheet.

  Fatigue hit her like a sack of rocks, but she couldn’t make herself go to sleep. Too many unconnected thoughts drifted in and out of her mind, drawn through the sieve of uncertainty that haunted her.

  He’d admitted he’d followed her. But not until almost two months later. He’d waited until she’d known for sure she was expecting. Was it only the baby he was interested in? He hadn’t even tried to kiss her good-night or persuade her to share the bed….

  With a moan she pulled the pillow over her head.

  Chuck was eating on the dining patio of the hotel when Max found him the next morning. “Good. You’re here.”

  His friend smiled over the rim of the coffee cup. “I’ve been at the hotel all night. Unlike some people.”

  “Checking on me again?” Max asked, his tone even.

  The security advisor shook his head. “Using my deductive skills, I noticed your bed wasn’t used last night.” Chuck shrugged, then continued. “How’s the rose this morning?”

  Before Max could answer, the waiter came over with a menu and a glass of water. Max waved the menu aside and ordered coffee. “Black. Strong.”

  “You need an aspirin?” Chuck asked.

  “No. Why?”

  “You might when you read this.” He held out a couple of sheets of paper. “This came by fax this morning.”

  Max read over the report from the assistant chief of security. The information recapped an article in a not-too-savory newspaper that covered the northern Mediterranean region. With fair accuracy it detailed his day with Ivy in Lantanya, ending with the sojourn at the resort suite reserved for the royal family. The reporter even knew about the cherries jubilee.

  The article then covered the attempted coup and the trial, then Max’s departure for Portland to “find the woman who was carrying the future heir to the kingdom.”

  “How the hell could anyone know this when I didn’t until yesterday?” he demanded, tossing the report on the table in disgust.

  “A bribe here and there. Interviews with hotel and museum staff. A quick check with an insider at the airlines and a list of foreigners recently entering the country.” Chuck studied him for a minute, then added, “The rest is speculation, of course, but it probably didn’t take a genius to figure out.”

  Max heaved an expressive sigh. “My mother was American. She sometimes ranted—in private, naturally—about the lack of privacy royals have. Each time she was pregnant, the press knew it before she did.”

  “Americans are big on invasion-of-privacy issues,” his friend remarked, his manner introspective. “Your mother had three miscarriages before you were born.”

  “And?”

  “The same could happen to the rose. First pregnancies often terminate early. It’s as if the body has to get used to the idea first.”

  Max smiled without humor. “So, should I wait until she comes to term, then bring in the minister after the babe utters its first cry?”

  “It’s your call, Your Highness.”

  “I love the way you get out of tight spots by reverting to formality,” he said dryly.

  Chuck grinned, then became serious again. “How do you feel about Ivy Crosby? Are you willing to spend the rest of your life with her? Your parents were sticklers for honoring their word, including their marriage vows. What if your rose demands the same from you?”

  Memories rushed over Max. The brush of a hand over his chest. The sigh of a breath across his lips. The soft touch of those lips against his. The uncertainty, then the hunger. The need. The fulfillment.

  “I don’t think it would be a hardship.”

  “Maybe not right now when the blood is hot, but what about later? Marriage lasts a long time, especially with people living to be a hundred nowadays.”

  “Let’s get through the rest of this year before we worry about the next sixty or seventy,” Max suggested.

  Chuck nodded. “She’s smart and dedicated to her work. She’s into educational technology systems. She apparently loves children and is concerned for them. That could be a powerful bond, bringing total literacy to Lantanya.”

  “The educational king and queen.” Max smiled. “I like that. She already knows this is part of my plan for the kingdom.”

  His friend gave him a level look. “But I think you must win her heart as well as her mind for the marriage to be all that’s possible.”

  “I must think of the country first.”

  “Think of her and a lasting love. Perhaps the rest will follow,” Chuck advised solemnly.

  Max chuckled. “My security advisor is now my advisor on matters of the heart.” He indicated the report lying on the table. “What else is happening in the kingdom by the sea?”

  They discussed the functions of the tiny country, including the seized assets of the conspirators. Max was further disappointed upon learning his trusted half uncle had been stealing from the public funds.

  When the reports were finished, he sat in silence, his mind going to Ivy and their brief time together. She had come to him so sweetly innocent, trust in her eyes as she’d given herself completely into his hands.

  He’d needed that, he realized. Her purity as well as her passion. She was his, by Heaven, and she must come to terms with that. It would soon be time to return home.

  “I can give her until the end of the month,” he said aloud. “Today is the seventh. By the end of September, we must be wed and on our way home.”

  “Then you’d better work fast,” Chuck told him.

  What, Max wondered, would it take to convince Ivy that their futures were as bound together as the roots of the climbing roses that grew so profusely at his island home?

  The doorbell rang just as Ivy checked the roasting chicken in the oven. It w
as golden brown and smelled great. She was also pleased to note that it didn’t send her scurrying for the bathroom, hand over mouth.

  Glancing at the person outlined against the noon sun, she refused to recognize the disappointment that the silhouette didn’t belong to Max.

  “Mother, how nice to see you,” she said, holding the door wide and leaving it open to the pleasant breeze.

  She really was glad to see her mother. There were a hundred things she wanted to ask about babies and such. After all, Sheila had had four children and so should know everything Ivy needed to find out.

  “I was at Henri’s yesterday and heard several rumors, all of them about you,” her mother said, tossing her purse on the entrance hall table, no smile on her face. Due to cosmetic injections, there was no frown, either.

  The questions evaporated from Ivy’s mind. She assumed a pleasant expression and offered coffee or tea. “Or lunch if you prefer,” she said. “It’ll be ready soon.”

  Sheila sniffed delicately. “Roast chicken. It smells quite delicious. You’re becoming very domestic, Ivy. Is it because you’re pregnant?”

  Ivy wasn’t surprised at her mother’s blunt manner. The older woman had little time to spend on her off-spring. “Your hair is lovely,” she said instead of answering the question. “That’s a new style, isn’t it?”

  Sheila fluffed the ends of her hair. “Henri said it took ten years off. I think he’s right. A person shouldn’t get in a rut, I suppose.” She eyed Ivy’s short curls. “You look like a six-year-old.”

  It wasn’t a compliment. Ivy held back the hot words that rushed to her tongue. Arguing with her mother did little good. Sheila heard only what she wanted.

  Now she returned to her original line of thinking. “Are you expecting?”

  “It would seem so,” Ivy said lightly. She went into the kitchen and prepared two glasses of iced tea, both with lemon, hers with a spoon of sugar, her mother’s without. “Shall we sit on the patio?”

  Without waiting, she went out the side door and sat at the glass-topped table. When her mother joined her, after making sure the sun wouldn’t touch her skin, Ivy slumped into her chair and waited for the lecture.

  It occurred to her that instead of enjoying her patio and the new furniture she’d gotten that spring, she mostly sat out there and argued with people, or listened to them tell her what she ought to do. She sipped the tea and waited for the diatribe to begin.

  “Whatever were you thinking?” Sheila demanded, taking a seat after making sure the cushions were clean and wouldn’t leave marks on her beige silk suit.

  “Perhaps I wasn’t.”

  “Don’t get smart,” her mother warned. “Get rid of it.”

  Anger, so fierce it was all Ivy could do to control it, rolled over her. “I don’t think so. I want the baby.”

  Sheila studied her for a minute, her eyes narrowed. Ivy could almost hear the wheels turning in her mother’s head.

  “Whose is it?” Sheila asked.

  “No one you know.”

  “Do you know?” the other woman asked maliciously.

  The question lanced into Ivy’s heart. That magical night she’d thought she did, but the man she’d so foolishly fallen for hadn’t existed. Max Hughes had been part of the dream, not reality.

  “Well?” Sheila said.

  “Yes, I know.”

  At that moment, a car stopped at the end of her sidewalk. Ivy recognized Chuck Curland and returned his wave. Max got out and strode up the walk. He spotted her on the patio, waved, then gave her mother a glance, his keen gaze moving from mother to daughter, obviously interested.

  Before Ivy could rise, he came in the front entrance and out onto the patio. “Don’t get up,” he murmured, touching her lightly on the shoulder, leaving a trail of fire along her skin. He smiled at her mother. “I’m Max Hughes. You are Ivy’s sister?”

  “This is my mother, Sheila Crosby,” Ivy said as her mother preened the way she did whenever a handsome man paid her compliments.

  He again looked from one to the other. “There is a resemblance. It is easy to see where Ivy got her beauty.”

  Her mother looked a little startled, as if she’d never considered her daughter’s looks a match for her own. She covered it well with a flirty little laugh. “Where did you meet this rogue?” she demanded of Ivy but never took her eyes off Max.

  Max sat in the chair beside Ivy, his knee brushing her thigh as he did. “Ivy and I were business acquaintances first, then we became friends.”

  Although his tone of voice didn’t change, Ivy felt a sensual caress in the last word as if he’d stroked her while he spoke. Chill bumps rose on her upper arms.

  “Shall I get you a wrap?” he inquired. He rubbed her left arm gently while his eyes delved into hers.

  “No. Thanks.” Unable to hold that steady gaze, she stared at a slow-moving bee working over a bed of mums along the patio edge.

  “The bee hasn’t long to store up food for the winter,” Max observed. “Nor have we much time.”

  “Time for what?” Sheila demanded, obviously irritated at being left out of some secret conversation.

  Ivy sent Max a pleading glance before watching the bee once more.

  “She will have to know,” he said, his manner so gentle it brought the sting of tears to her eyes.

  “Is he the father?” Sheila blurted out.

  Max brought his head up sharply and gave her mother a look that shut her up on the spot. Ivy was amazed. He leaned close, his hair brushing her temple. “We will have to tell her sooner or later.”

  “I already know about the baby,” Sheila informed him waspishly. “So does everyone in town.”

  He grimaced at Ivy. “I’m sorry that you are being gossiped about. It was never my intent to embarrass you. Will you forgive me?”

  Ivy’s throat closed as he lifted her hand to his lips and planted a kiss on each knuckle, then simply held it against his thigh as he observed her.

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” she assured him with fatalistic calm coming over her. “People will gossip no matter what one does.”

  “True,” he agreed. He turned to Sheila. “Ivy and I are expecting a child. In April.”

  Sheila laid a hand to her chest, each perfectly manicured nail glowing pearl pink against the silk. “Are you also expecting to marry?”

  A dangerous glint came into Max’s eyes at the sarcastic tone. “Yes,” he said, gazing at Ivy.

  “No,” she corrected.

  He stroked her cheek in that endearing way he had that made her want to melt into his arms. “We must, my love.”

  My love. He’d used that term before. My love, he’d murmured to her. Ivy wished he would say it again and that it was true. If she thought he loved her…

  “The news of the child has leaked to my country,” he continued, now holding her hand pressed to his heart.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered.

  “But yes. My people will expect me to return with my bride and the mother of my child.”

  “What?” Sheila said.

  Max ignored her mother and looked deeply into Ivy’s eyes. “Our son will be heir to the throne,” he said softly.

  “What?” Sheila gasped, her voice shrill.

  “The child might be a girl,” Ivy told him.

  “It matters not. The firstborn, male or female, inherits the crown.”

  “Crown? What crown?” Sheila slapped her hand on the table to gain attention.

  Neither Ivy nor Max glanced her way. “An illegitimate child inherits nothing,” Ivy said.

  His hand tightened on hers. “Our child will not be a bastard,” he told her in a fierce murmur.

  “I think I’m going to faint,” her mother said.

  Six

  Max wanted to tell Sheila to take a hike, but he refrained. She was, after all, mother to Ivy, and would be grandmother to their children. “Please do not faint,” he said to her, putting on a teasing smile. “I have enough trouble dealing wi
th your stubborn daughter without taking on more fainting women.”

  “Well, really,” the mother huffed.

  “Really,” he agreed equably, his gaze never leaving Ivy’s set expression. “If you will excuse us, Mrs. Crosby, Ivy and I have matters to discuss and little time to do so.”

  Ivy looked at him, aghast.

  Apparently few people told her mother to get lost, Max realized. He also knew Ivy didn’t want to be alone with him. But he would persuade her otherwise. His blood warmed at the thought. He stood and with a gracious manner took Sheila’s arm and guided her inside and toward the front door.

  “I’m sure you understand,” he murmured for her ears alone. “Ivy is shy about her feelings and what happened between us.”

  “Do you really intend to marry her?” Mrs. Crosby asked, looking somewhat dazed at the idea. “Ivy has no idea of what it takes to be part of a royal family.”

  Max suppressed irritation. The mother evidently didn’t realize how lovely her daughter was or how attractive Ivy’s sweet innocence was next to the obvious charms of women such as her. It occurred to him that Sheila was similar in manner to most of the women he’d known all his life, those overconfident of their allure, jaded in their tastes and centered on their own pleasures.

  “She is a very special person,” he said solemnly. “I think she will make an excellent queen—thoughtful and kind as well as beautiful and intelligent. That is more important than protocol and ritual, which she will easily learn. My people will love her.”

  There. That should give Sheila something to chew on. He almost chuckled at her slack-jawed expression.

  “Well,” she said. “How interesting.”

  “I will call you as soon as things are settled between Ivy and me,” he promised. “I hope that soon I will have the honor of calling you Mother Crosby.”

  He held the door for her, then laughed softly to himself as Sheila obviously didn’t know whether to be pleased or furious at his words. She sailed down the sidewalk like a ship in full battle gear and running before the wind.

  When he turned, Ivy was standing inside the patio door. “That was a terrible thing to say,” she accused. “Now she’ll have to have another face-lift or something to get over your referring to her as ‘Mother.’”