The Prince's Heir

“What do you want?”

Her sixteen-year-old sister stood and held out her arms. “Hey, Josh, why don’t you come with Aunt Stacy? We can go outside and play with Prince for a little while.”

Josh reached for his aunt, and Mandy reluctantly let him go.

Reynard arched a dark eyebrow. “Prince?”

“Our dog,” Mandy said smugly. “He’s the royalty around here.”

“I see.”

The screen door slammed behind Josh and Stacy.

“All right, what do you want?” Mandy repeated, more insistently this time.

“Mandy,” her mother said sternly. “Where are your manners? Mr. Reynard is our guest.”

“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Crawford,” the stranger said. “This isn’t a social call.”

“I didn’t think it was.”

“Perhaps we could go somewhere private to discuss this matter.”

Mandy folded her arms across her chest. “This is as private as it gets. In fact, we really ought to wait until my dad and my brother, Darryl, and his wife, Lynda, get here, sort of a meeting of the entire royal assembly. Here in America the family is the ruling class, in case you haven’t heard.”

“Mandy,” Rita Crawford said, moving over to wrap one arm around her daughter’s shoulders, “why don’t you take Mr. Reynard into the living room? It’s much cooler in there.”

Mandy shook her head. “No. This affects all of us. Doesn’t it, Mr. Reynard?”

He inclined his head slightly and indicated an unoccupied seat across the table from him. “Very well. Then perhaps you’d care to take your seat in the ‘royal assembly.’”

Mandy lifted an eyebrow. “Mother, why don’t you go ahead and sit down. I’ll remain standing. Isn’t that appropriate in the presence of royalty?”

Reynard crossed his arms in imitation of her, but she doubted that she had that same haughty air that enhanced his gesture and made it something more than a brave front. One corner of his mouth quirked upward in a movement that could have been the beginning of a smile on a face less stoic, and for the first time Mandy had a glimmering of understanding of the strong, inexplicable attraction Alena, her friend from childhood, must have felt for Lawrence. There was something compelling and dynamic about this man in spite of the circumstances.

“Only a moment ago you held the heir to the throne in your arms,” he said. “I think we’ve gotten past formalities.”

The heir to the throne. She’d known what was coming from the moment her mother announced this man’s name, but hearing it put into words caused her stomach to clench into a hard, cold knot and her heartbeat to skip erratically.

It’s all right, she tried to reassure herself. Everything about the adoption was legal, every i dotted, every t crossed.

But Lawrence had warned her that the island of Castile lived by the rules of its country, not by anyone else’s, like the stupid decree that would make an illegitimate son heir to the throne if no legitimate heir existed.

But that wouldn’t apply here.

“Lawrence did his duty. He went back home after Alena’s death and married that Lady Barbara. They’ll produce a legitimate heir. Give them a little time and leave Josh alone.”

“You haven’t heard about Lawrence’s death?”

Lawrence’s death? Mandy felt the blood drain from her face.

“Ms. Crawford? Are you all right?” The voice seemed to come from far away, part of the whirlwind of fear and confusion that spun through Mandy’s head. If Lawrence was dead without leaving a legitimate son, that meant—

Stephan silently cursed his lack of tact as he hastily crossed the space separating him from Mandy and reached to catch her before she fainted.

As he grasped her slim shoulders, however, the color shot back into her pale cheeks. She took a deep breath, straightened and glared at him from eyes that were the same deep, glistening shade of green as the trees and grass they’d flown over on the last leg of the flight to Dallas.

He dropped his hands. “Are you all right?” he repeated, and was shocked to realize that he half wished she would say no, would give him an excuse to touch her, to support her and hold her willowy body in his arms, to lift that wild tangle of copper hair off her neck, run his fingers through the curls and see if they were truly composed of fire. The combination of jet lag and Texas heat was having a most peculiar effect on him.

“I’m fine.” She moved away from him, over to the table to sit in the chair he’d indicated.

Just as well. He had more important things to do than lust after an attractive woman...especially a woman who was, without doubt, going to cause him all sorts of problems before this was over.

Mandy’s grandmother took Mandy’s smooth, slim hand in her wrinkled one and squeezed it in a comforting, protective gesture, and an unexpected, inexplicable spear of envy shot through Stephan’s chest.

Ridiculous. He was tired from the long trip, worn out already, though negotiations had barely begun. He was a member of the ruling family of Castile. They neither had nor could they afford to have pointless emotions.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I assumed you’d know about Lawrence’s death. That was presumptuous of me. What makes for big news in our country likely doesn’t merit a mention on the back page of the paper in your country.”

“How did he die?” Mandy asked, her voice suddenly much softer than when she’d squared off against him a few moments ago.

“In an automobile crash. It happened two months ago.”

“I’m sorry. He seemed to be a good person.”

“Yes, he was. He would have been a good king.”

“But now he’s gone and you’ve come to take his son.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe he told you about Josh. He went to so much trouble to be certain your family would never find out.”

Stephan returned to his chair and sat across the table from her. “Lawrence didn’t tell us. The Taggarts were traveling in Europe when they saw the story. They contacted me.”

“Alena’s parents? Why would they do that?” Her eyes hardened to green ice and her lips tightened. “Oh, never mind. I can guess. They saw his picture and realized who Lawrence is. Was. Discovering that the father of their daughter’s illegitimate child was a prince suddenly makes that child socially acceptable, even desirable.”

Stephan considered Mandy’s words. He’d always suspected the Taggarts might have had a hidden agenda in telling him...that it hadn’t been just a case of “doing their duty.” He hadn’t liked their smarmy attitudes and had hoped their story about Lawrence fathering a child would prove to be a fabrication, but it hadn’t.

Rita Crawford set a glass of iced tea in front of Mandy, then took her seat at one end of the table. She was shorter than her daughter, and her hair was smooth and blond instead of wild and red, her eyes a tranquil blue. Yet even at a glance it was obvious the two were related. They both held their heads at that same proud angle that stopped short of being arrogant. Rita’s eyes held the same fires as her daughter’s, though Rita’s were subdued, a lesson probably learned through experiences Mandy hadn’t yet been through.

Vera Crawford, Mandy’s grandmother, was a tiny woman with snow-white hair and a regal bearing that made her seem taller. Her eyes were a softer green than Mandy’s, and she had a quiet, dignified beauty that transcended her years.

When Lawrence had first come to America to attend graduate school in Dallas, he’d regaled Stephan with stories of how different American women were, how independent... especially Texas women. They were, he’d said, all fluff and beauty and fragility on the outside, smiling and friendly, but their spines were tempered steel No women in the world were prettier and none were tougher.

Now, flanked by three of them, Stephan truly understood his brother’s words for the first time.

Mandy’s grandmother. gave her hand a final pat. “Don’t worry, baby. Everything’s going to be all right.” She turned her attention to Stephan. “Now that Mandy’s home, let’s get on with things, Mr. Reynard, and discuss our options.”

There was only one option as far as he was concerned, but in the interest of diplomacy Stephan complied, anyway. He folded his hands on the smooth wood of the table, carefully avoiding the glass of cooled tea dripping condensation onto the table. When Rita Crawford had offered him tea, he’d expected it to be properly hot. Lawrence had failed to mention this peculiarity of Americans. Although, in this stifling heat, he could understand why they’d want their beverages cold.

“Shortly after Lawrence’s death, my father received a letter from Raymond and Jean Taggart. According to this letter, they’d been traveling abroad when they saw my brother’s picture in a newspaper and recognized him as their deceased daughter’s lover, the father of her child. Naturally my father assumed it was a hoax, but he sent an investigator to check out the story and discovered evidence that Lawrence had indeed been involved with their daughter.”