Royal Affair (3 page)

Max crushed the rose in his fist, jolted out of the lovely remembrance by the knowledge that his life
had
depended on her at that exact moment. Their passion had literally saved him from the assassins. Would he ever get a chance to tell her?

“I must leave tomorrow,” she'd said when they had
consummated the union and lay entwined in blissful contentment after he'd taken care of her with a warm washcloth and a towel tucked under her hips.

He smiled now, recalling the blushes and her embarrassed protests, which he'd ignored.

“No,” he'd said, the command of a king if she'd but known it.

“I have to. I have a job to do.” She'd sighed plaintively.

He'd tightened his arms around her. “I will follow you to the ends of the earth,” he'd vowed.

Releasing the crushed rose, he dropped it into the wastebasket. The conspiracy had taken all his time and attention during the next six weeks. His presence as king, in deed if not yet in name, had been required. Now that the trial and sentencing were finished, he could think of other things, like finding his rose.

Quickly dressing in jeans and a T-shirt, he grabbed the phone and punched in his security advisor's private number.

Chuck answered on the first ring.

“Can you come to my quarters?” Max asked.

“Be right there.”

No sooner had he hung up, than a knock sounded on his door. “Come in.”

Bartlett entered with a serving cart. On it were a coffee urn, two cups, two plates and a platter of muffins, plus another with a variety of fruit. He didn't know how the man knew exactly when to arrive, but
it had been this way since Max's earliest memories in the palace.

“Thanks, Bartlett. I'll be going out for a hike in about an hour.”

“Very good, sir.” The man left as quietly as he'd entered, leaving the door ajar and speaking to someone in the hall.

Chuck Curland came inside and closed the door, then pulled the pocket doors from their hiding place and closed them, too. Two sets of doors had been built into all the king's rooms when the palace was constructed to ensure privacy in conversation. Max, upon his father's advice, used them.

“Coffee?” Max asked.

“Please.” The American glanced around the room the way he did each time he entered.

Once, Max had teased him about expecting a spy behind every curtain. Lately the idea didn't seem funny.

Chuck's eyes were light blue and seemed to see everything that might be the slightest suspicious. His hair was brown with blond streaks from their hours of jogging on the beach. His frame matched Max's inch for inch, pound for pound. In college they'd shared a room the first semester, then, finding they got along superbly, an apartment after that until they graduated.

Chuck was five years older than Max and had been an Army Ranger before going to school on the G.I. bill. That the two had met at all was a demon
stration of American democracy in action when they'd been randomly assigned to share a room.

Max's father, the late king, had suggested Chuck come to Lantanya and advise them on security matters. Perhaps the king had known at that early stage of their friendship that Max would need a friend in the palace. Chuck, with his all-seeing gaze, had detected the conspiracy and warned Max, thus bringing him home early.

Max poured the coffee and filled a plate, then sat in his favorite chair. Chuck did the same.

“This reminds me of days with my father,” Max told his friend. “Except, the king sat where I am, in a big black leather chair, and I sat in this chair, which was located where you are.”

“What happened to the king's chair?” Chuck asked, taking a muffin and several spoons of fruit.

“I had it placed in the royal museum along with his suit of armor and ceremonial outfits.”

Chuck smiled. “Are you going to have armor made for yourself?”

“No. The bulletproof vest you insisted I buy is more than enough for my tastes.”

“It's more effective when it's worn,” Chuck said dryly.

Max cocked one eyebrow. “I'm not going to sleep in it, and that's final.”

They smiled at each other with the ease of companions who'd seen each other puking their guts out
after their first—and last—overindulgence in beer, moaning over the fickleness of college girls who threw them over for the captain of the football team and cursing their professors for tests that were impossible to pass.

“Speaking of sleeping. Or not sleeping, as the case may be…” Chuck said, the words trailing off as he studied Max with his omniscient gaze.

Max tossed him a questioning glance as he bit into a muffin. It seemed odd, in light of the morning activities, to realize he was hungry. Life had a way of going on, he reasoned.

Chuck lifted a muffin. “You gotta get married,” he said, and took a bite.

Max nearly choked. “What the hell brought that on?”

His friend chewed and swallowed, then took a sip of coffee. “Last year, before he died, your father made me promise to see that you found a bride by the end of the mourning period. You must produce an heir.”

Max muttered a curse, then another. Neither helped calm the swirl of emotion in his breast.

Chuck observed him with an odd little smile playing about the corners of his mouth. “An heiress will do,” he continued. “Either English or European would be acceptable to your people. Or American.”

Max glared when a full smile broke over his friend's face. There was knowledge in those blue eyes that said Chuck knew more than he was saying.

“Spit it out,” he invited, knowing there was more.

“Your tryst at the resort probably saved your life, or at least prevented a nasty injury. I like to tell myself that the guards, whom I trained, would have interceded before great bodily harm was done.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

“So?”

“So?” Max echoed, not sure what the question was.

“Is it the American?”

Like the petals of a flower suddenly clamping shut, Max withdrew, not wanting to share that night with anyone, not even his best friend. He shook his head slightly, not in denial of the possibility, but of sharing it.

“She might be pregnant,” Chuck said and calmly put the rest of the muffin in his mouth.

Max sprang to his feet as if an electric current had suddenly run through his chair. He paced to the window. The vase of roses blew gentle kisses of sweet scent at him. He paused and touched one.

“What makes you think that?” he finally asked.

“I'm your security chief, Your Highness. I'm paid to know what goes on around you.”

Chuck always reverted to formalities when he gained insights into Max's life that might transgress friendship. Max appreciated the gesture. That left it up to him to decide the level of the discussion.

“She was a virgin,” Max said softly.

“Yes, sir.”

“It was a night like none other,” he continued. “When I ran out of condoms, I took a chance with her. How did you know that?”

“There was, uh, evidence on the sheets. I took the liberty of confiscating them…in case there were future questions about the child's conception, if there should happen to be a child.”

“In case I got whacked,” Max said sardonically, catching on to his advisor's line of reasoning.

However, his demise wasn't uppermost in his mind at the moment. He recalled pulling the petals from a dozen roses and sprinkling them over the bed and her. His friend would have seen those, too, and known what a sentimental fool Max had made of himself. He groaned internally.

Chuck studied him for a long minute, then smiled in understanding. “Are you in love with the American beauty?” he asked, one friend to another.

“Love? I'm not sure what that means at the present. I loved my uncle and trusted him with a child's belief in those close to him. That nearly got me killed.”

“Does she know who you are, or did you go by Max Hughes?”

“Isn't there anything you don't know?” Max spoke in irritation. His alias, like that night, was his alone to enjoy, his little secret from the demanding public of his world. Secret? Ha!

“It's my job—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Max interrupted impatiently. “Due to the circumstances, the treason and all, I'm cutting you some slack here, but you're on dangerous ground.”

Chuck raised his eyebrows and showed no signs of quaking in his boots. “Crosby Systems is headquartered in Portland, Oregon. If you leave on the nine-twenty flight tonight, you can be there tomorrow morning.”

“Why would I do that?”

“To woo the American beauty. It wouldn't be a bad match. She's smart, well-educated and used to moving among the elite of her society.”

“In other words, she wouldn't be an embarrassment as my queen,” Max cut in dryly.

“She's also compassionate and does more than take part in charity auctions. She volunteers at a clinic called Children's Connection. It's an adoption agency, mostly funded by another family in the area, the Logans.” Chuck paused. “The Logans and the Crosby family are enemies, I think. Twenty-eight years ago, two of the sons were best friends, then six-year-old Robbie Logan was kidnapped while playing at Danny Crosby's house. His mother was supposed to have been watching them.”

“The year before Ivy was born,” Max said, combining what she'd told him with Chuck's information.

“Yes. The families are also rivals in the high-tech-systems business world.”

“You have been busy,” Max murmured.

“Once the conspirators were behind bars, I had time to check out…other things.”

“Like my wild, passionate night with the rose.” Max gave his friend a sardonic glance. “Have you booked my reservation on the nine-twenty flight?”

“Well, I did take the liberty of reserving a seat for you. And alerting Ned to pack a bag.”

Max exhaled heavily. “Are you coming, too?”

“If you like. Someone has to, but it can be another security agent, if you prefer.”

Max laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. “You'll do. Who, besides Ned, knows me better?”

“Are we going as prince and bodyguard?”

“This isn't an official visit, else I'd have to contact the White House, then the press would be all over us. Let's go as Max Hughes and Chuck Curland. We're consultants on the educational system Crosby is planning for the country.”

“Fine by me.”

Another worry came to Max. “I've never investigated a woman with an eye toward her being my queen. You have any suggestions?”

Chuck stared at him for a full fifteen seconds, then burst into guffaws.

“If you weren't my friend and security advisor, I'd have you thrown in irons for that,” Max told him, becoming somewhat irritated at the joke he didn't get.

Chuck laughed harder. Finally he clamped an arm around Max's shoulders and said in a conspiratorial
whisper, “Try flowers. That usually works when courting a woman.”

“This is not a courtship,” Max informed the American coolly. “This is business.”

F
riday night Ivy stood near the door of the recreation room located in Children's Connection annex. The combination adoption agency/fertility clinic was holding a bazaar to raise money for new equipment.

“Hey, Ivy,” a masculine voice called.

She turned and smiled warmly at the handsome widower who caused no flutters in her heart whatsoever. His hair was blond and sun-streaked, but his eyes were brown, like those of another man who
had
made her heart flutter.

“Hunter, hello,” she said. “I was wondering when my cohost for the big event was going to show up.”

“Sorry to be late. You know the life of a rancher. If
it isn't one thing, it's another.” His complaining words were belied by the humor in his eyes. His face became somber. “Actually, Johnny wasn't feeling well. I was a little worried about leaving him with a sitter.”

“A late-summer cold?” she asked.

“I don't think so. He seems…tired. Not the usual bundle of energy four-year-olds normally are.”

Ivy frowned. “We haven't had any cases of West Nile virus around here, have we?”

“Not that I know of,” Hunter replied.

“Nor me,” Morgan Davis, director of the adoption agency, said, stopping beside Ivy. His new wife was at his side, looking radiantly happy. There was a contented aura surrounding Morgan, too.

“Oh, hi, you two.” Ivy hugged the other couple. Emma, a children's counselor, had been her best friend since college days. Ivy was so glad the other woman had found happiness after her first husband had run out on her.

Emma had been pretty down on life for a while. She'd had two miscarriages during her marriage, then she'd gone through the divorce, then she'd lost her job. Thank God Morgan had offered her a position helping him with the summer camp for older kids who hadn't been adopted. It had given them a chance to get to know each other…and to fall in love.

The two men, who had met when the rancher had adopted his little boy through the agency, shook hands. Emma and Hunter exchanged greetings.

“Em, are you coming to help with the babies tomorrow morning?” Ivy asked after the foursome had chatted awhile.

“Uh, I'm not sure,” she said, and cast her husband a worried glance.

Morgan dropped an arm around his wife's shoulders. “I'm trying to get her to slow down,” he said with a quiet smile. “Given her history, we think it would be better if she curtailed her activities for a few months.”

Ivy knew the couple was trying to start a family. “I understand.”

She had news of her own, but she refrained from saying anything since they were in company and might be overheard. She needed to ask Em's advice on what she should do. More and more, that night with Max seemed unreal, the product of a fevered brain.

“We only have three new babies this week,” she told Emma when her friend apologized for not helping.

“Are you talking about the adoptive babies here at the agency?” Hunter asked.

“No, at the hospital nursery. We're rocking them.” Ivy shook her head sadly. “We have two more crack babies going through drug withdrawal. If we rock and cuddle them almost continuously during the early months, they stand a much better chance of being normal kids.”

Nancy Allen, an E.R. nurse from Portland General, stopped near them. “The more rocking, the better,” she said, nodding in agreement to Ivy's observation.

Ivy introduced the nurse. “Nancy also volunteers at the nursery. Once we took turns rocking a crying baby for twenty hours straight. All of us, including the baby, got about two hours' sleep during the whole ordeal.”

“Now that child is a healthy one-year-old and already walking,” Nancy reported. “By the way, I assume everyone knows Everett Baker.”

She took the hand of the man who stood a couple of steps behind her and urged him into the group circle. Ivy recognized him as the accountant of Children's Connection, a shy man with dark hair and eyes, about five-ten, same age as Hunter and Morgan, in his midthirties.

Although she'd seen him around the agency during the past six months, she couldn't remember ever doing more than nod as they passed in the corridors.

The men shook hands while the women smiled and murmured in welcome to the newcomer.

“Are the crack babies hard to place?” Everett asked.

Morgan nodded. “The hardest,” he admitted. “We have to tell the adoptive parents of the problems they may face.”

The accountant looked interested. “Like what?”

Everett brushed his hair off his forehead as he spoke, a nervous gesture, Ivy thought, recalling she'd seen him do it at other times.

“Emotional instability, for one,” Morgan said.

“Sometimes mental retardation,” Nancy added with pity in her hazel eyes.

“Sometimes,” Morgan agreed, “but the biggest problem seems to be the attention-deficit syndrome. That gets them into trouble in school and adds to their disadvantages.”

“So, prospective parents, knowing about the drugs, don't want these babies?” Everett brushed the hair aside again.

Morgan nodded. “Sadly, yes.”

Hunter spoke up. “I can identify with that. It's hard enough being a parent without taking on more problems. But what happens to these kids if nobody takes them?”

Ivy felt sorry for Morgan, who as director had to make the hard decisions about these children. A fierce surge of maternal concern flooded her body, causing her to cross her arms over her waist in a protective gesture.

Morgan shrugged. “The usual. Foster homes under the overworked guidance of the city social services unit—out on the street and on their own when they turn eighteen, unless they're hopelessly retarded, in which case it's institutions or group homes.”

“That seems so heartless,” Ivy murmured.

Emma and the nurse both nodded.

“Sometimes people will take any child, no questions asked, just to get one,” Everett said. “Older couples. Desperate ones.”

“Not from this agency,” Morgan declared firmly. “Nasty surprises for unsuspecting adoptive parents
are not in the best interests of the children, not in the long run.”

For some reason, Ivy looked back at Everett to see how he would rebut this statement. When the accountant realized everyone was looking at him, he dropped his gaze to the floor and shrugged in an embarrassed manner.

A thought came to Ivy and she spoke without considering the words. “Were you adopted, Everett?”

He visibly jerked, then shook his head in vigorous denial. “No, not me. I was never adopted.”

She wondered if he wished he had been and thought his home life might have been difficult. Perhaps he'd had alcoholic parents. Or abusive ones. More likely they were accountants or librarians or something, considering how quiet and reserved he was.

She nodded and smiled, then glanced at Hunter. “I suppose, since we're the hosts, we should circulate and thank everyone for coming out and buying stuff they don't need so this event will be a success.”

“I have this theory about charity sales and such,” Morgan said in a cheerful manner, sweeping a hand out to include the tables piled high with brownies, cakes, aprons, pot holders and other goodies on sale. “It goes along with the fruitcake theory.”

Ivy played the straight man. “What's that?”

“There are at most only ten fruitcakes and they
get circulated around the country at Christmas,” he explained. “The donated stuff we have here gets sold again and again at different bazaars until it's circulated all over town, probably once every five or ten years.”

“Yeah,” Hunter said with great seriousness, but a twinkle in his eyes, “that sounds about right. A friend and I kept up with the ugliest urn we ever saw at a church fund-raiser one time. That was the second time it had been there that we personally knew of. Sure enough, it turned up again at the same church three years later, then six or seven years after that I saw it at another charity event. I felt so bad about the poor thing, I bought it for my grandmother. It's still at the ranch with roses growing all over it so nobody can see it.”

Ivy laughed with the others at this happy-ending tale, then she and Hunter roamed from table to table and thanked the donors and the buyers for taking part.

By the time they helped close the place down, it was almost midnight. Driving home through the pleasantly cool September night, she realized she was tired. It wasn't something she usually noticed. She tended to keep going until the job was finished.

Tomorrow she would sleep until eight, then head for the hospital to cuddle the two crack babies for three hours, then she was to meet her sister for lunch.

A shiver slid down her back. Should she tell Katie about the pregnancy? Yes. It would become self-
evident in a short time, so there was no need for secrecy, especially with her family.

Not that her father or mother would notice until she hit them over the head with it, so to speak. Jack and his second wife, Toni, once his assistant at the office, hung out with the retired golf-and-country-club set. Sheila, Ivy's mother, had her own crowd and spent part of the year in Palm Springs. She often returned to Portland with a new youthful look, thanks to spas and the skill of the plastic surgeons in southern California.

When she got home, Ivy poured a glass of low-fat milk and ate a banana before heading for bed. She figured she should start eating regularly instead of forgetting herself in work. Also, she should eat healthier foods and cut back on the jalapeño peppers she loved. Probably they were bad for the baby.

For a moment, she experienced a lowering of her spirits as she realized just how little she knew about babies and prenatal care.

A baby. Oh, heavens!

Max, where are you when I need you?

“Max Hughes,” she said aloud. “That's the man I mean, not the prince.”

But, she realized, that man—Max Hughes, the wonderful companion-friend-lover—had never existed.

No matter. She had her siblings, Katie and Trent, Danny, too, although their younger brother was mostly a recluse in Hawaii. She had friends such as
Emma and her new husband. All these would provide family and role models for her child.

Her spirits rebounded a bit.

 

“I just hate for babies to be hurt,” Nancy Allen said when Ivy entered the nursery the next morning promptly at nine. The E.R. nurse held two tiny, squalling tots, one on her shoulder and the other lying prone in her lap. Her short brown hair swung out around her face as she shook her head in disgust.

Ivy took the baby from the other woman's lap and, crooning softly, settled in a rocking chair and cuddled it close as she rocked and hummed to it. After fifteen minutes, the baby girl settled down. When she tried to get her fist to her mouth, Ivy helped her get it in place. The child sucked contentedly and dozed off.

Nancy got the baby she held to sleep, laid him in the rolling bassinet and lifted a ten-month-old baby who was staring fretfully at the ceiling. Like Ivy, she cuddled the infant and hummed, then played patty-cake and other games to engage the youngster's interest and get it to interact with people.

“I read that there seems to be a link between autism and allergies to wheat and/or dairy products,” Nancy said in a low tone when both babies were asleep.

Ivy nodded. “I saw the article, too. Also that some immunization shots might be a factor.”

“I know that some people are against any genetic
alterations, but if we could identify and correct these problems before the child spends a lifetime in misery, wouldn't that be better?”

“It would seem so,” Ivy said honestly. “It seems a shame not to help those we can. But what do you do with parents who want their child to be a genius or tall enough to be a basketball player?”

“That's where the problem comes in,” Nancy agreed. “Where do we draw the line?”

The door to the nursery opened and Everett Baker came in, looking a bit sheepish. “Uh, I thought I would see if I could, uh, help.” He brushed the stubborn lock off his forehead and looked as if he might bolt at a harsh word.

“Of course you can,” Nancy told him. “Sit right here. I'll get you a baby.” She went into the adjacent room.

Ivy smiled warmly as Everett took the rocking chair. He smiled back, then looked at the floor. Bashful. Poor guy.

“Here you are.” Nancy bustled in with a sleepy baby wrapped in pink. “Isn't she adorable?”

Ivy saw the nurse had given Everett one of the “good” babies, one who smiled and cooed at the slightest encouragement. In for some tests, she was due to go home with her parents on Monday.

“Yeah,” he said, staring at the child with an uncertain expression.

Nancy grinned at Ivy, then showed him how to
hold the baby on his lap so she could look into his face. “Smile at her,” she ordered.

Everett did. The baby gave a big, drooly smile back. He looked amusingly surprised at the response. His shoulders relaxed and his smile became real.

“See? She likes you,” Nancy said, beaming. She checked the schedule, then prepared bottles for Ivy's and Everett's two, then one for a third baby, whom she brought into the comforting room, as they called it.

Together the three rocked and fed the infants. The only sound was the whisper of the filtered air from the overhead vents and the sucking noises of three little rosebud mouths. Ivy sighed contentedly.

As soon as Everett's little girl was finished, he rose from the chair. “I've got to go.”

“Put the baby in her crib in the other room,” Nancy directed. “Thanks for coming by. That was a big help.”

He followed directions, then hastily left.

“What is it about teeny little babies that frightens grown men out of their wits?” she demanded.

The two women laughed. Ivy wondered how Max would be with children. Would he be at ease with them? Would he hold their child? Talk and play silly games to socialize him or her?