Annie And The Prince

“I have to be. It’s my job.”

Annie clicked her tongue. “I know plenty of civil servants who don’t give a darn about anything but their paychecks.”

“Their work must not be very fulfilling then.”

“Is yours?” she asked, slicing right into the heart of the matter.

He considered her for a moment, then said, “I don’t think I know you well enough to answer that question.”

She looked a little bemused, but accepted his answer. “Okay. I don’t want to pry.” She didn’t leave it at that, though. He’d known her only an hour or so, but he already knew her well enough to know that it would have gone against her character to leave it at that. “But if I were to guess,” she went on, “I’d say it wasn’t.”

He looked at her. “Really.”

“I mean, if it was, you’d probably be glad to say so. People usually refuse to share their negative feelings but not their positive ones.”

He tried to remain impassive. “Interesting observation.”

She yawned again. “Not that I know you well enough to tell, of course.”

“No,” he said evenly. “You don’t.” Yet somehow he felt she did, or could very easily.

She splayed her arms. “Feel free to correct me on anything I get wrong here.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sound like a journalist.”

“Or maybe I’m psychic.” She smiled, joking. “Does that frighten you?”

He waited, then answered honestly though with a slight smile. “More than you can imagine.”

She must have dozed for just a minute without realizing it because Annie suddenly found herself leaning against the window with Hans reading a newspaper in front of her. How long had she been out?

Thank goodness he wasn’t looking at her, because as she came around she had lingering daydream images of herself and Hans in unspeakable—but unforgettable—entanglements together. Yet the lingering feeling she had from the dreams was not of sexual fulfillment, but of emotional fulfillment. For just those brief few minutes that she had dreamed, Hans had been the answer to every ache and pain of loneliness that she’d ever felt.

Which was just how illogical dreams were, really, because while the man in front of her was the stuff of sexual dreams, he didn’t seem to have a single impulse for fun. And though he’d been kind to offer to help her, he wasn’t exactly a warm man.

But something in her said that he could be. That he needed someone to cover him and warm him and show him how to enjoy life and not just be all business all the time.

“Then again, you probably have a wife for that, don’t you?” she said under her breath.

He lowered the newspaper and looked at her in a way that made her feel she’d made a terrible mistake.

She straightened in her seat and resisted the urge to clap a hand over her mouth. Had he really heard that? What was he, bionic?

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” he asked.

She stumbled over her response. “I—I—I was, um, saying that I suppose your wife,” she searched frantically for something to say, “takes care of the children while you’re away.” It was a terrible improvisation, but it was too late to stop. “You did say you have children?”

He gave her a long look, then shook his head. “I didn’t, no.”

“Oh, my mistake then.” The train began to slow as it entered the outskirts of Lassberg. She took the opportunity to begin gathering her things.

“I do, though.”

“Do…?”

“Have children. But my wife died a few years ago.”

She looked up, surprised. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

He gave a small, unreadable, shrug.

“How old are your children?” she asked, careful not to tread on potentially painful territory.

A small light came into his dark eyes, like a match lit in a large dark room. “Very young. Both are under ten.”

Like the de la Fuenza children she was going to care for. She loved elementary school age, an age when they began to be interested in books and in the outside world. “It must be difficult raising them on your own.”

He splayed his arms. “I have a staff to help with that.”

“A staff. My goodness, that sounds so—so large. Is that common in Kublenstein?”

He was thoughtful. “More so than in America, I think. Do you not have nannies and governesses in America?”

“It’s very rare.”

“Then who cares for the children when both parents work or are unavailable?”

“Well, there’s day care, school. People work it out, though it’s not always very easy. I think it’s something of a luxury to be able to stay home with them or have someone else stay home with them.”

“Mmm.” He nodded. “I’m very interested in the American way of raising children. Some aspects, anyway,” he amended. “For example, American children tend to be so confident. Bold. Those are good qualities.”

“Absolutely. After working in a school for so long, I’ve seen a pretty direct link between high self-esteem and lots of family involvement.”

He shifted in his seat. “Really? In what way do you mean that, family involvement?”

She stepped carefully, conscious not to insult him. “I just mean when parents spend as much time as they can with their children, the children benefit.” And Annie knew from her own experience the damage that could be done when there was no one around to take an interest in a child’s life.

“Often it’s not possible to spend a lot of time with the children.”

She shrugged. “So you make time.”

He looked out the window for a moment.

“Still, you’re a single father,” Annie went on. “That can’t be easy.”

“No,” he agreed. “There are times when it can be trying. They need a woman’s influence more than they need mine. They’ve had many caretakers yet at times they still seem so…needy. So emotional.”

“Well, there’s your problem right there,” Annie said, without stopping to think about whether she should or not.