The Prince's Secret Baby

Now his eyes had a teasing light in them. “And yet, you’re an attorney.”

Sydney laughed. “So they have lawyer jokes even in Montedoro?”

“I’m afraid so—and a corporate attorney at that.”

“I’m not responding to that comment on the grounds that it might tend to incriminate me.” She said it lightly.

But he saw right through her. “Have I hit a nerve?”

She totally shocked herself by answering frankly. “My job is high-powered. And high-paying. And it’s been … important to me, to know that I’m on top of a very tough game, that I’ll never have to worry about where the next paycheck is coming from, that I can definitely take care of my own and do it well.”

“And yet?”

She revealed even more. “And yet lately, I often find myself thinking how much more fulfilling it might be to spend my workdays helping people who really need me, rather than protecting the overflowing coffers of multibillion-dollar companies.”

He started to speak. But then her BlackBerry, which she’d set on the table to the right of her water goblet the way she always did at restaurants, vibrated. She checked the display: Magda, her assistant. Probably wondering why she wasn’t back at the office yet.

She glanced at Rule again. He had picked up his knife and fork and was concentrating on his meal, giving her the chance to deal with the call if she needed to.

Well, she didn’t need to.

Sydney scooped up the phone and dropped it in her bag where she wouldn’t even notice if it vibrated again.

With the smooth ease of a born diplomat, Rule continued their conversation as though it had never been interrupted. “You speak of your grandmother in the past tense….”

“She died five years ago. I miss her very much.”

“So much loss.” He shook his head. “Life can be cruel.”

“Yes.” She ate a bite of her steak, taking her time about it, savoring the taste and tenderness of the meat, unaccountably happy that he hadn’t remarked on her vibrating BlackBerry, that he hadn’t said he was “sorry,” the way people always did when she told them she’d grown up without her parents, when she confessed how much she missed her grandmother.

He watched her some more, his dark head tipped to the side in way that had her thinking again how he reminded her of someone. “Have you ever been married?”

“No. I’m Catholic—somewhat lapsed, yes, but nonetheless, I do believe that marriage is forever. I’ve never found the man I want forever with. But I’ve had a couple of serious relationships. They … didn’t work out.” Understatement of the year. But he didn’t need to hear it and she didn’t need to say it. She’d done enough over-sharing for now, thank you very much. She added, “And I’m thirty-three. Does that seem … dire to you?”

“Absolutely.” He put on a stern expression. On him, sternness was sexy. But then, on him, everything was sexy. “You should be married immediately. And then have nine children. At the very least. You should marry a wealthy man, Sydney. One who adores you.”

“Hmm. A rich man who adores me. I wouldn’t mind that. But the nine children? More than I planned on. Significantly more.”

“You don’t want children?” He looked honestly surprised.

She almost told him about Trevor right then. But no. This was a fantasy lunch with a fantasy man. Trevor was her real life. The most beautiful, perfect, meaningful, joyful part of her real life. “I didn’t say I didn’t want children. I do. But I’m not sure I’m ready for nine of them. Nine seems like a lot.”

“Well. Perhaps we would have to settle for fewer than nine. I can be reasonable.”

“We?”

“A man and a woman have to work together. Decisions should be jointly made.”

“Rule.” She put a hand to her breast, widened her eyes and asked him dramatically, “Could this be … oh, I can’t believe it. Is it possible that you’re proposing to me?”

He answered matter-of-factly, “As it happens, I’m wealthy. And it would be very easy for me to adore you.” His dark eyes shone.

What was this feeling? Magical, this feeling. Magical and foolish. And that was the beauty of it. It was one of those things that happen when you least expect it. Something to remind her that life could still be surprising. That it wasn’t all about winning and staying on top—and coming home too late to tuck her own sweet boy into bed.

Sometimes even the most driven woman might just take a long lunch. A long lunch with a stranger who made her feel not only brilliant and clever, but beautiful and desired, as well.

She put on a tragic face. “I’m sorry. It could never work.”

He played it stricken. “But why not?”

“You live in Montedoro.” Grave. Melancholy. “My career—my whole life—is here.”

“You might change careers. You might even decide to try a different kind of life.”

Hah. Exactly what men always said. She wasn’t letting him get away with it. “Or you might move to Texas.”

“For you, Sydney, I might do anything.”

“Perfect answer.”

A moment ensued. Golden. Fine. A moment with only the two of them in it. A moment of complete accord.

Sydney let herself enjoy that moment. She refused to be guarded or dubious. It was only lunch, after all. Lunch with an attractive man. She was giving herself full permission to enjoy every minute of it.

Chapter Two

The meeting on the Binnelab case was half over when Sydney slipped in at two-fifteen.

“Excuse me,” she said as she eased through the conference room doors and they all turned to stare at her. “So sorry. I had … something of an emergency.”

Her colleagues made sympathetic noises and went back to arguing strategy. No one was the least angry that she was late.

Because she was never late—which meant that of course there had to be a good reason for her tardiness. She was Sydney O’Shea, who graduated college at twenty, passed the bar at twenty-four and had been made partner at thirty—exactly one year before her son was born. Sydney O’Shea, who knew how to make demands and how to return a favor, who had a talent for forging strong professional relationships and who never slacked. She racked up the billable hours with the best of them.

If she’d told them all that she’d been sidetracked in Macy’s housewares by a handsome orange salesman from Montedoro and allowed him to talk her into blowing off half of the Binnelab meeting, they’d have had zero doubt that she was joking.

She knew the case backward and forward. She only had to listen to the discussion for a few minutes to get up to speed on the direction her colleagues were taking.

By the end of the meeting, she’d nudged them in a slightly different direction and everyone seemed pleased with the result. She returned to her corner office to find her so-capable assistant, the usually unflappable Magda, standing in the middle of the room holding an orchid in a gorgeous purple pot. Magda stared in dismay at the credenza along the side wall where no less than twelve spectacular flower arrangements sprouted from a variety of crystal vases.

The credenza was not the only surface in the room overflowing with flowers. There were two vases on the coffee table and one each on the end tables in the sitting area.

Her desk had six of them. And the windowsill was likewise overrun with exotic blooms. Each arrangement had a small white card attached. The room smelled like a greenhouse.

Rule. She knew instantly. Who else could it be? And a quick glance at one of the cards confirmed it.

Please share dinner with me tonight. The Mansion at Turtle Creek. Eight o’clock. Yours, Rule