Her Royal Husband

Not now, she begged inwardly. This would be the worst possible timing for that stubborn streak to put in an appearance. “Whitney,” Jordan said, using her sternest mother voice, “we are leaving right now.” She held out her hand.

Whitney ignored it, studying the chess players with single-minded intensity.

“Don’t you dare laugh,” Jordan warned Ben. Owen. The prince. His Royal Highness. She had to get out of here.

“I’m not laughing,” he denied. “Whitney, please do as your mother asks.”

“I’m Princess Whitney,” the tyke decided.

“All right by me,” Owen said easily. “Princess Whitney, I think you should go with your mother.”

Jordan wondered uneasily if her daughter really was a princess since her father really appeared to be a prince.

She didn’t like how his gaze lingered on the child, and then a frown creased his forehead.

“Whitney—” she said.

A sudden light came on in his eyes, and with breathtaking swiftness he had crossed the distance between himself and Jordan. His fingers bit into her elbow and he looked straight into her eyes.

“My God, is she mine?” His tone was quiet, intense, loaded with that same princely authority that had made the young nanny quake.

Jordan felt both frightened and furious. “If you were that interested, you should have taken a miss on the melodrama with your middle-of-the-night departure all those years ago.”