The Royal Bastard

by Nicole Burnham

  In Rocco, she finally found a man who valued a woman with a strong sense of self. A woman who pursued her Olympic and World Cup goals with as much passion as he pursued his scientific ones, who understood his desire to make his mark on the world. A woman with whom he shared off-the-charts sexual chemistry. A woman who found his design work interesting rather than dull, and who didn’t ask a lot of questions about his family.

  Of course, that was the point upon which their relationship eventually splintered.

  They married in Aspen between World Cup events a few short months after that first meeting. Only Justine’s parents, Rocco’s mother, and Rocco’s siblings Enzo and Lina had attended. The Cornaros flew home after the simple mountainside ceremony. Justine’s parents gifted the newlyweds a bottle of expensive champagne and the key to a ritzy hotel suite, then left with an abundance of happy tears and hugs.

  Rocco and Justine proceeded to get plowed, laugh their heads off over the fact their wedding was the least-planned event in either of their highly-scheduled lives, and make slow, passionate love for the next two days, until Justine had to leave for an event in Grenoble and Rocco flew to Boston for a meeting with a venture capital group interested in funding his work.

  Over the next three years, they spent enough time apart to miss each other madly—Justine training and competing on the World Cup circuit, Rocco busy in various research labs or traveling to medical conferences—and enough time together in hotels around the world to fall more deeply in love without having to adjust to each other’s inevitable faults.

  It wasn’t until she and Rocco decided to establish a home base in Croatia, where his mother had settled after Jack Cornaro retired and Rocco had recently purchased a villa and rented lab space, that the faults became apparent.

  Teresa Cornaro had an inexplicable hold over her eldest child. And Rocco could not—or would not—explain why. At first, Justine attributed Teresa’s odd, possessive behavior toward Rocco to the fact she’d lost her husband shortly before Rocco and Justine married. But then there were the hushed conversations when mother and son were together. The suspicious manner in which Teresa studied Justine when she thought Justine wasn’t looking. Teresa’s insistence that Rocco skip the most high profile of Justine’s races, stating that it would keep the limelight on Justine’s skiing rather than her personal life.

  Justine could’ve understood the sentiment if it’d come from Rocco. Coming from Teresa, the edict pushed Justine’s weirdness buttons.

  Then there was Teresa’s pointed suggestion that Justine keep her condo in Tahoe when Justine had offhandedly mentioned putting it on the market. Only after Justine explained that there was no point now that she and Rocco were married did Teresa explain with overplayed sincerity that she thought it’d be a smart long-term investment.

  When Teresa’s liver disease became evident to Rocco, he moved his mother into the villa without telling Justine in a case of take-action-first, apologize later. Though Justine felt a deep sense of betrayal—after all, she’d left the tour only two weeks earlier to convalesce from her skiing injury—she let Rocco’s actions slide, knowing the situation would be temporary. Teresa was dying; there was no denying it, only delaying it, and it made Rocco feel as if he had a sliver of control over the situation. And at that point, Justine had convinced herself that she’d be skiing again in no time, doctors and prognosis be damned.

  But one late spring afternoon—the first following her accident where she felt healed enough to venture out alone on foot— she walked into the villa with an armload of groceries and paused on the way to the kitchen when she spotted Teresa and Rocco standing in front of an Italian entertainment news broadcast. A photo of Sarcaccia’s Prince Stefano flashed on the screen. Whatever the announcer was saying, both Rocco and Teresa appeared riveted. In a good mood from her excursion and curious about the show, given that neither Rocco nor Teresa cared a whit for celebrity gossip, Justine entered the room behind them. Justine had barely translated the wording at the bottom of the screen—secret love child—only to have Teresa snap off the television. Neither Teresa nor Rocco would answer Justine’s question about what they’d been watching.

  It should’ve been a little thing—an offhanded thing—but the intensity of their expressions told a different story. Justine changed the subject by asking about Teresa’s visit to the doctor the next day. Later that night, when she privately asked Rocco what had been on television and he gruffly told her to drop it, her patience ran out. She demanded that he tell her what they’d been watching. Why a freaking gossip show about foreign royalty was secret. Why everything about his mother was such a big secret.

  He refused. She left.

  He asked her to return once, a few days later when he showed up at her hotel room with a bottle of wine and dinner. He told her he missed her. They made love. Romantic, passionate love. But he didn’t apologize. He said it was a private concern of his mother’s and that he wouldn’t betray her confidence.

  Justine told him she missed him, too. She meant it with her whole heart. But she wouldn’t move back to the villa. Not even when she was told during a follow-up appointment for her leg injury that her career was over. She’d wanted Rocco’s comfort desperately that night, but she refused to let Teresa see her laid low. She refused to allow Rocco to console her knowing he’d never ask the same of her.

  She found a short-term rental not far from the rehab center and moved in.

  They’d been at an impasse for nearly a year now, neither of them wanting to let the other go…but neither of them able to move forward. While Justine hadn’t hoped for Teresa’s death, deep down she’d known that she needed to wait for it before making any decisions about her marriage or returning to the States.

  Until a need to make a decision dropped into her lap in the form of a job interview. That’s when she realized—Teresa or no Teresa—she needed to move on. If Rocco couldn’t be honest with Justine about his mother—because as much as he swore it was his mother’s issue, Justine knew it was Rocco’s, too—what other secrets did he hold? Did he truly love her?

  A low groan near Justine’s ear woke her. She blinked, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. A firm body curved behind hers, generating heat under the covers. A light rocking motion indicating she was on a boat. Memories of the previous night clicked into place. Shots. A menacing man in her bedroom, his cold, flat eyes staring her down. Fleeing through the streets. The ache in her left leg. The suit she’d left behind in her apartment.

  She flipped back the coverlet and flailed for a clock, even though she knew it was too late. The sun shone too brightly against the shaded portholes of the boat’s lone room for her to have a chance of making the meeting.

  “It’s nine-thirty.” The grit of sleep laced Rocco’s voice. He’d dozed beside her in the boat’s narrow bed, his arm draped over her hip as he’d done when they’d slept under the same roof.

  She’d been too tired to object to the fact there was only one berth on board, having used the last of her energy to convince him to let her clean his head wound after they’d boarded. Her ministrations revealed a deep gouge where the driver caught Rocco with the metal band of his watch during their scuffle…at least, that was Rocco’s drowsy guess as to what happened. He also speculated that it could’ve occurred when he tackled the guy.

  He’d drifted off as she’d dabbed at the dried blood with a wet paper towel. She’d tucked the pillow under his head, studied the wound to be sure the bleeding stopped, and remembered nothing after that.

  She plucked the blood-tinged paper towel from the tiny night table. Apparently she’d fallen asleep before she could throw it away. Before she could find a clock and set an alarm.

  “Mind if I use your phone?”

  “Gotta plug it in first. It’s out of juice.” Using his elbows, he pushed to sit and watch her. Hair over his left ear was spiked sideways and pillow lines crisscrossed that side his face. The phone showed a minimal charge and only a weak signal. “You calling th
e police?”

  “I have an appointment this morning. I need to cancel.”

  “You can’t tell them why.”

  At her side-eyed glare, he corrected himself. “Please don’t tell them why. At least until I have a better handle on what happened last night.”

  “I wasn’t going to. I prefer to talk to the police before I tell anyone else.”

  Before Rocco could say more, Justine’s call went through. She left an apologetic message with the administrative assistant who’d arranged the job interview, explaining that she’d been unavoidably detained due to a family emergency. After she promised it was a short-term issue and expressed sincere regret, she ended the call.

  “That sounded important.” Rocco swiped a hand over his bearded chin and swung his legs over the side of the bed. To her surprise, Justine saw they were bare. He’d kicked off his shoes and discarded his bloodied dress shirt when they’d arrived on board, but had fallen asleep in his slacks. He must’ve awakened at some point during the night.

  Now that she thought about it, he must’ve covered her while he was at it. She didn’t remember burrowing under the coverlet.

  “I’ll reschedule.” If she could. Given that the team conducting the interview stopped in Croatia specifically to meet with her while on their way back to New York from an assignment in Greece, she’d have to arrange a trip to the States. Assuming they’d give her a second chance.

  Rumbles from Rocco’s stomach were audible as he rummaged through his backpack and withdrew a pair of jeans and a heather blue T-shirt for himself, then handed her an airline toiletry kit. She flashed back to the noise she’d heard from his stomach while they’d been hiding in the garden. “You didn’t eat yesterday, did you?”

  “Had an apple last night.”

  “Before we do anything else, let’s get food. Then I need to brush my teeth and find clothes other than these.” She’d rather not wear dirty sweats and a nightgown to the police station.

  “Food’s easy. Kos keeps a few essentials on board, though it’s nothing grand. And check the storage space under the bed. Some of the clothes might fit you.” He eyed the moccasins she’d kicked off next to the bed. As some point last night, the stitching had come apart on the side of one. “Can’t help with shoes, though.”

  She bent down to open the drawer, hoping she didn’t sound ungrateful as she asked, “Your mother’s?”

  “Lina’s. When she visited last summer, she stayed here instead of at the villa so she could go island-hopping along the coast. Accidentally left a few things behind.”

  While Rocco checked out the mini-fridge and cabinet to see what Kos had stocked, Justine found a sundress, a pair of jeans, two T-shirts and a hooded sweatshirt. “You never sent them back to her?”

  “I offered, but she said she’d pick them up next time she was in town.” He located a carton of Parmalat and an unopened box of cereal. “Guess she forgot after the funeral.”

  Mention of the funeral cast a pall over them both. “If I haven’t said it yet, I’m sorry about your mother.”

  “You haven’t, but you didn’t exactly have the opportunity. Thank you.” He handed her a bowl of cereal once she’d replaced her nightgown with the jeans and a T-shirt. The jeans were a little tight on her thighs, but passable, and better than the mud-stained sweatpants.

  “Why’d you come to my mother’s funeral?”

  Justine nearly dropped her bowl at the unexpected question, though she should’ve known he’d seen her hiding near the tree. “I wanted to say goodbye.”

  “You and my mother weren’t exactly bosom buddies.”

  Honesty time. “I wasn’t there for her so much as for you. I wanted to say goodbye to you.”

  His rear end hit the chair harder than it should’ve as he took a seat across from her. Though his, “Really?” sounded perfectly calm, it came too late to hide the bone-deep pain that flashed in Rocco’s eyes before he looked down at his cereal to pour milk and shovel in a bite. That quick look grabbed Justine by the gut and twisted her inside out. She wished there was a way to make this easier.

  “That phone call? I had a job interview scheduled this morning. I suspect it’s out of the question now, but the opportunity excited me enough that I’ll pursue others.”

  “A job? Doing what?”

  The disbelief in his voice rankled. “I’m capable of working, Rocco. I finished my degree during the off-seasons.”

  “I didn’t say you weren’t capable—”

  “Your tone of voice did.” She stirred the flakes, which held no appeal despite the hunger gnawing at her belly. “It’s in broadcasting. I’d cover World Cup skiing and certain events at the Winter X Games.”

  “No one would be better.” He took a bite of his cereal and considered her as he swallowed. “You’d be traveling again.”

  “Mostly in the States. Colorado, Utah, Tahoe. Not like when I was competing.”

  “You’d move back to Tahoe?”

  “Moot point now.” The network probably had a dozen other former winter athletes chomping at the bit for the job.

  “You didn’t want to talk it over with me first?”

  Tension filled the confines of the boat’s cabin. A move home meant divorce, and they both knew it. It was the one word they’d never said aloud. She hadn’t been willing to broach the subject with Rocco until she had to.

  “Rocco, there was no guarantee I’d get the job. But I didn’t know how to…I mean…with all you’ve had going on—”

  “Bull.” Rocco’s spoon clattered against the table and he reached for her hand. His fingers encircled hers. “I allowed issues with my mother to come between us. That’s why you didn’t feel you could talk to me. Not because I was distracted.”

  Justine allowed her eyes to drift closed for a moment and shook her head as Rocco caressed her thumb with his stronger one. She should pull away. But her heart missed the feeling of having him hold her hand. He’d always been her sanity. Her rock. Until he kept Teresa’s secrets and made her feel like the third wheel in her own marriage.

  “She’s gone, Justine.”

  “Does it matter?” Even as the words left her mouth, Justine thought better of them. She looked apologetically at Rocco. Twin lines of exhaustion creased his brow and his hair was a dark, ruffled mess, but he contemplated her with the same golden-flecked light brown eyes she’d fallen for that night when they’d met in Garmisch. The night they’d talked about everything but the competition she’d just finished and the medical conference he was in town to attend. She’d known that night he was the most interesting, intelligent man she’d ever met. If anyone would get the better of her, it’d be Rocco Cornaro. She’d welcomed the challenge.

  Until now. Now it hurt.

  “That didn’t come out right,” she said. “What I meant is, no matter what my issues with Teresa, it doesn’t address the deeper issue in our relationship.”

  “The horrid sex?” His fingers tightened fractionally around hers.

  She couldn’t help but grin at his attempt to lighten the mood.

  “Trust, then.”

  “Trust,” she acknowledged. “How can I talk to you when you won’t talk to me? When you won’t let me see who you are on the inside? What’s truly going on in your life?”

  “I’m trying to do that now.”

  Right. Rocco talked, but without touching upon what mattered. Unable to finish her breakfast, Justine slid her fingers from Rocco’s and rinsed her bowl in the sink. It bought her time to breathe. Once she shut off the water and dried her hands, she spun to face him. She had so many questions. She started with one she hoped he could answer.

  “Who were those men?”

  Chapter Six

  It was the question he’d been dreading since they fled down the alley, but it was easier to address than the question of their marriage.

  “The skinny guy’s name is Viktor Radich.”

  She blinked, apparently surprised that he had an answer. “The guy you took down?�
��

  “You trying to make the point that you took down the big one?”

  She shrugged, but he saw in her eyes that he’d given her ego a boost. “Maybe.”

  “Radich was the man I tackled. The one with the gun was Anton Karpovsky.” Rocco leaned back in his chair. “He looked ready to throw up when we ran. What’d you do, knee him?”

  “Elbow, but the same effect as a knee. Then I hit him with the car door.” Her shoulders tensed and a dark look passed over her face. “Didn’t stop him from shooting at us, though. Those were real bullets. He wanted to kill us.”

  “I don’t think that was Plan A.” It was as much comfort as he could offer under the circumstances.

  “Could’ve fooled me. You know that guy came into my room while I was packing? Right through my locked window and pointed a gun at me as easily as you handed me that bowl of cereal. Like he’d done it so many times before, he was on autopilot.”

  A full-body shudder rocked Justine. Her pride at escaping such a powerful man evaporated as she spoke and the impact of the night’s events settled over her. Rocco guided her to the bed. She needed to sit, to work the fear out of her system and realize she was safe, at least for the time being.

  Once she settled, he put an arm around her shoulders, hoping a gentle touch would drain her tension. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  She heaved out a breath. “I heard a noise by the window when I came out of the bathroom, and there he was. He let me put on my sweatpants and slippers first, but said if I made a sound on the fire escape, he’d shoot my neighbors. He would’ve done it, too. I don’t know what those men wanted, but if he’d gotten me into that car, I might dead now.” She slid her gaze sideways. “They’re Russian, aren’t they? That’s what the accents sounded like. The big guy, especially.”

  “I think they’re Russian mafia. Or hired by the Russian mafia.”

  “Are you serious?” She fisted her hands against her thighs and turned to fully face him. He allowed his arm to slide from her shoulder and rested his hand on the bed beside her. “Wow. You are. You knew they were coming after me?”