The Lost Princes: Darius, Cassius and Monte

“In Texas? And he thinks he knows who I know?” He shook his head, turning away and beginning to pace the floor in frustration. “This is absurd. How did he even know my name?”

“He told me you socialize in the same circles as Cici’s dad. He said, ‘Don’t worry. He’ll know how to find him.’”

“Oh, he did, did he?” For some reason this entire conversation was stoking a rage that was smoldering inside him. He stopped and confronted her. “So this person who’s supposed to be Cici’s father—this person I’m supposed to know where to find—what’s his name?”

She half twisted away. This had all seemed so easy when she’d planned it out as she made her way to the airport in Dallas. She would dash off to London, find Cici’s father, hand over the baby and head back home. She hadn’t realized she would have to try to explain it all to someone in between. When you got right down to it, the bones of the story weren’t making a lot of sense. And she realized now that one element would sound really goofy to this man. She was hoping to keep that one under wraps for as long as possible.

She turned back with a heart-wrenching sigh and said dramatically, “Well…you see, that’s the problem. I’m not sure what his actual name is.”

He stared at her. The absurdity of the situation was becoming clear. She was looking for a man who had fathered her baby. She didn’t know where he was. She didn’t know his name. But she’d come here for help. And he was supposed to ride to the rescue? Why, exactly?

It was true that he had a reputation for knowing everyone who counted within a certain social strata. He’d made it his business to know them, for his own purposes. But he had to have something to go on. He couldn’t just throw out possibilities.

“What are you going to do when you find him? Are you planning to marry the guy?”

“What?” She looked shocked, as though this very mundane idea was too exotic to contemplate. “No. Of course not.”

“I see,” he said, though he didn’t.

She bit her lip and groaned silently. She was so tired. She couldn’t think straight. She just wanted to go back to sleep. Maybe things would look clearer in the morning.

“How am I supposed to find someone if I don’t know his name?”

She turned and gave him an exasperated look. “If this were easy, I could have done it on my own.”

“I see. I’m your last resort, am I?”

She thought for a second, then nodded. “Pretty much.” She gazed at him earnestly, feeling weepy. “Do you think you can help me?”

He gazed at her, at her pretty face with those darkly smudged, sleepy eyes, at the mop of blond hair that settled wildly around her head as though it had been styled by gypsies, at her slightly trembling lower lip.

He had a small fantasy. In it, he told her flat out, “Hell, no. I’m not helping you. You give me nothing and ask for miracles. I’ve got better things to do with my time than to run all over London looking for someone I’m never going to find. This is insane.”

As the fantasy began to fade, he saw himself reaching into his pocket and handing her money to go to a hotel. What a happy little dream it was.

But looking at her, he knew it wasn’t going to happen. Right now, her eyes were filling with tears, as though she could read his mind and knew he wanted to get rid of her and her problems.

“Okay,” he told her gruffly, clenching his fists to keep from following his instinct to reach out to comfort her. And then he added a touch of cynicism to his tone, just for good measure. “If all this is a little too overwhelming for you in your current state of hysteria…”

“I am not hysterical!” she cried indignantly.

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s a matter of judgment and not even very relevant. Why don’t we do this in a logical, methodical fashion? Then maybe we can get somewhere.”

She moaned. “Like back to bed?” she suggested hopefully.

“Not yet.” He was pacing again. “You need to fill in some of the blanks. Let’s start with this. What exactly is your tie to Ambria? Give me the full story.”

He’d given up wondering if she was here to harm him. The complete innocence she displayed wasn’t very likely to be a put-on. And anyway, what sort of an incompetent murder master would send a young woman with a baby to do the dirty deed? It just didn’t make sense.

“My parents were Ambrian,” she began. “I was actually born there but that was just before the rebellion. My birth parents died in the fighting. I don’t remember them at all. I was taken out with a lot of other refugee children and rushed to the States. I was adopted right away. I was only about eighteen months old, so as far as I’m concerned, my adoptive parents are my parents.” She shrugged. “End of story.”

“Are you kidding? We’ve barely begun.” He stopped and looked down at her, arms folded over his chest. “Who told you about your Ambrian background?”

“Oh, the Sommerses had Ambrian roots, too. Second generation American, though. So they told me things, and there were some books around the house.” She shook her head. “But it wasn’t like I was immersed in the culture or anything like that.”

“But you do know about the rebellion? You know about the Granvilli family and how they led an illegal coup that killed a lot of people and left them in charge of an ancient monarchy that should have been left alone?”

She blinked. “Uh…I guess.”

“But you don’t know much about it?”

She shook her head.

He gazed at her, speculation glowing in his silver-blue eyes. “So you don’t have family still in Ambria?”

“Family?” She stared at him blankly. “Not that I know of.”

“I guess they were all killed by the rebels?”

She blinked and shook her head. “I don’t know if the rebels killed them.”

He raised a cynical eyebrow. “Who do you think killed them?”

She ran her tongue nervously over her lower lip. “Well, to tell you the truth, I really don’t know what side they were on.”

That stunned him. The idea that someone decent might support the rebels who had killed his parents and taken over his country didn’t really work for him. He dismissed it out of hand. But if she were around long enough, and he had a chance, he would find out who her parents were and what role they played. It seemed like something she ought to know.

“Now that we’ve established who you are, let’s get to the real topic. Why are you really here?”

She sighed. “I told you.”

But he was already shaking his head. “You told me a lot of nonsense. Do you really expect me to believe you had a baby and don’t know the father? It doesn’t add up, Ayme. How about giving me the real story?”

She felt like a bird caught in a trap. She hated lying. That was probably why she did it so badly. She had to tell him something. Something convincing. Had to be. She was beginning to see that she would really be in trouble if he refused to help her.

But before she could conjure up something good, a wail came from across the apartment. Ayme looked toward where the sound was coming from, uncertainty on her face. Why didn’t this baby seem to want to sleep for more than an hour at a time, day or night?

“I just fed her an hour ago,” she said, shaking her head and thinking of her dwindling stash of formula bottles. “Do you think she really wants to eat again?”

“Of course,” he told her. “They want to eat all the time. Surely you’ve noticed.”

She bit her lip and looked at him. “But the book says four hours…”

He groaned. She was still using a book?

“Babies don’t wear watches,” he noted, feeling some sympathy for this new mother, but a lot of impatience, as well.

“True.” She gave him a wry look as she turned to go. “But you’d think they could look at a clock now and then.”