by Romancing the Crown Series (13-in-1 bundle) (v1. 0) (lit)
"No, thank you, Ursula. I'm all right."
All right, maybe, but she looked like hell, Ursula thought unkindly. She would never let herself fall apart over some lousy man. Why, she'd been with Gardner for nearly eight years, and the only tears she'd shed at the end of their relationship were for all she was losing—the fabulous apartment, the to-die-for clothes, the A-list parties and premieres. And yet here was Jessica, all weepy and brokenhearted over a man she'd known only a year—a man who'd gotten her pregnant and conveniently disappeared before she could tell him so.
All men were rats.
"I'll be back in a couple days. If you need anything, just see Miz Carlyle next door, or you can call me at the ranch. See you, sweetie." She blew a kiss in Jessica's direction, picked up her suitcase and left the apartment. Her destination was the family ranch outside town. Ursula hated the place with a passion—enough to have left it seventeen years ago swearing she would never return—but she'd promised her sister she would spend a few days there and make certain everything was running smoothly. As if she knew what constituted running smoothly on a ranch these days. Erasing all those memories from her mind had been damn near as easy as shaking that dirt from her heels all those years ago. What she remembered about ranching could be summed up in few words—cattle, mud, dirt and all things rustic.
Hated 'em, hated 'em, hated 'em.
Who ever would have guessed that horrible little ranch could turn out to be her ticket to paradise? After all, it was the ranch that had brought Prince Lucas Sebastiani, aka cowboy Joe, into Jessica's life, If not for that, they never would have met and Jessica wouldn't be pregnant at this very moment with his royal heir.
It was really too bad that Jessica wouldn't be reasonable about the whole pregnancy thing. What a damn-fool thing to develop a stubborn streak over. It was going to end up costing her dearly … and rewarding Ursula even more dearly.
She had just one stop to make before she headed for the ranch. The house Gretchen Hanson shared with her brother, Gerald, was on the poor side of a poor town. It was tiny, boxy, and hadn't seen a paintbrush in too many years. It would be easy to take care of, though. Just start with a can of gasoline and a lighter.
She and Gretchen had been friends since grade school. Even during her years in New York, she had kept in touch with Gretchen—mostly, she wasn't ashamed to admit, so her friend could be impressed by all the glamour that had filled her life. At the time she'd thought she was being terribly shallow, bragging to someone who had nothing to brag about. But Gretchen hadn't seemed to mind. If she were a spiritual person, she would say fate, kismet or luck had kept them together, knowing that one day Ursula would need Gretchen's help. She wasn't spiritual, though. The only thing Ursula believed in was Ursula. Period.
Wearing a ratty old cardigan pulled tight against the cold, Gretchen answered Ursula's knock and invited her inside. Within minutes, they were curled up on an old sofa that had seen better days, each balancing a mug filled with more Kahlua than coffee. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about?" Gretchen asked.
Ursula pretended to sip her coffee while studying her friend over the rim of the cup. Gretchen was shorter, thinner, plainer, mousier—just about every negative "er"—than Ursula. She was only one year older, but looked ten. Gretchen's life, she'd confided not long ago, had been nothing but one hitter disappointment after another. She'd never imagined she would be the person she'd become—thirty-six, never been married, a midwife, and caring for her dim-witted younger brother. She'd intended to have a husband, children, a career. How had it all gone so wrong? she'd lamented.
Finally Ursula lowered her cup. "Jessica is staying at the apartment with me for a while."
"Lucky us. You've got your kid sister, and I've got my kid brother. At least your sister can carry on an intelligent conversation."
"She's pregnant. By that missing prince whose plane crashed last winter."
Gretchen stared at her, then her gray eyes slowly took on a sly look. She was reaching the conclusion of what a wonderful thing this could be far more quickly than Jessica the twit had. "Do you know what kind of reward you could get for returning him home?"
"Nowhere near what I could get for delivering his child to the royal family."
After a moment to process that, Gretchen said, "I take it he's no longer in the picture."
"He went missing again. And Jessica says—" Ursula clasped her hands to her heart, let her features sink into distressed lines and in a melodramatic Southern magnolia voice said, "'I shall never, ever use my child to win a place in Joe's life. If he wants to be a father to his son, he must come and claim him.'"
"Damn. What an idiot. I'd be on the first plane to Montebello and basking in the glow of the king and queen's love for their unborn grandchild before you could say Mother's Day."
"You and me both." Though she didn't show it, Ursula felt a great relief at hearing Gretchen's words. Her friend was going to help. She was sure of it. Still, she took her time. "Have you ever seen pictures of the palace? It's just too incredible. And those people jet around the world, wining and dining with the richest and most famous of the rich and famous. They lavish everything a kid could possibly want on their children. I can't even imagine having the astounding good fortune to be carrying the baby of the heir to the whole damn thing."
"And being stupid enough to say, 'I'd rather stay here on my piss-poor little ranch and struggle to feed my little prince or princess.'" Gretchen gave a rueful shake of her head. "Have you smacked her upside the head?"
"I've been tempted." Ursula smiled to show that she was merely joking, then went on. "If you can fit her in, Jessica's agreed to have you deliver the baby. This being her first, she's a little anxious, of course. You hear all those terrible stories about how painful childbirth can be, and about women dying giving birth, even in this age of modern medical miracles. Of course, if she were to die, God forbid, I'd have no choice but to accept my duty as my nephew's only living relative on his mother's side. And frankly I think I'd have no choice but to take him to his father's family in Montebello. After all, they are so much better equipped to raise a child of royal blood than I am. They have nannies, tutors and an unlimited supply of money, as well as all the resources of the royal family at their fingertips. And really—" she faked an innocent expression and tone "—what kind of aunt would I be if I denied the child the upbringing, title and lifestyle that are his birthright?"
"A very bad aunt," Gretchen agreed. She sipped her coffee for a moment, gazing into the distance, then said, "Of course, you would have to relocate to Montebello. Even though he'd have plenty of relatives on his father's side, you would need to be there to keep the memory of his mother alive. A bunch of princes and princesses … they might prefer to forget his mother was a commoner. But you could make sure he never forgot. It would be the least you could do in your sister's memory."
"The very least."
After another silence, Gretchen spoke again. "I imagine being aunt to the future king's firstborn son would be pretty damn honorable, too. They'd probably give you a place of your own near the palace so he could visit you regularly. And a staff to maintain it. And they'd probably include you in all their family functions. Introduce you to visiting kings and princes and dukes."
Ursula nodded solemnly. "And it would probably be a place more than big enough for a dear friend to visit for months at a time, if she wanted. If she didn't want, I'm sure there would be a generous allowance, one that could be shared quite easily."
This time it was Gretchen's turn to nod—slowly, thoughtfully. Ursula counted the moments, letting them drag out, before taking a deep noisy breath. "Of course, Jessica's young and healthy. I told her, the chances of anything going so badly wrong are slim. Why, it never happens these days."
Leaning forward, Gretchen laid her coffee cup on the table, then turned on the sofa to face Ursula. There was a gleam in her gray eyes and a slyness in her expression as she very quietly corrected her.
"Wel
l … hardly ever."
Chapter 3
J et lag was hell on a man's system, Tyler decided when he crawled out of bed the next morning. After leaving the princesses the previous afternoon, he'd stopped at a mall and bought a new jacket, then checked into the first motel he'd come to and fallen into bed. He'd slept straight through the night without moving, so now he was not only dim-witted but stiff, too.
But he'd better get used to it if he was going to work for the Noble Men. He very well might be tasked to fly anywhere in the world on a moment's notice and to be ready to work when he arrived. They wouldn't be cutting him any slack for jet lag or too little—or too much—sleep.
He showered, dressed, and walked to the office to check out, then grabbed breakfast to go at the fast-food place next door—a fried egg and cheese on a biscuit and a preformed hash brown, along with a large black coffee. Within a half hour of awakening, he was in the SUV and on his way.
The leads he was following had come from a woman in Colorado by the name of Ursula Chambers. What he knew about her was minimal. She'd been a two-bit actress in New York before returning home to Shady Rock, where she lived in town despite being part owner of a ranch outside town. She'd hired a hand, a drifter by the name of Joe, who stood a good chance, the king's men believed, of being the missing prince. Unfortunately, "Joe" had taken off from the Chambers place, leaving behind only one clue—an inordinate interest in an article on mining operations in Montana. He'd told Ursula he might head that way, to try his hand at something different.
There were a hell of a lot of mines in Montana, but she'd been able to narrow the field for them to three possibilities. According to Ursula, who had been contacted once again by the royal family regarding "Joe's" whereabouts, Joe had circled the names of three in particular in the article—gold-and silver-producing mines located outside Garden City, Golden and Clarkston. And if those were a bust, he could check out the precious metals operation in Stillwater County, the coal mines in the south-central part of the state, the copper operations at Butte, the sapphire mines scattered through the mountains or the phosphate rock mines in the western and southwestern counties. Hell, he could spend the next six months doing nothing else … and still come up empty-handed.
Or he could luck out and find Prince Lucas, Joe, or whatever the man was calling himself, at the first mine.
He'd decided to check out the Clarkston operation first and took U.S. 87 north out of town. It was about 130 miles away according to the information he'd been given, all of it on local highways. The temperature was only about twelve degrees, but the sun was shining and there was no snow in the immediate forecast. No warmth, either, he acknowledged as he nudged the heater a little higher then adjusted his dark glasses over the bridge of his nose.
Any of that could change in a minute, of course. The sun could disappear behind a bank of leaden clouds, it could suddenly warm into the forties, or a blizzard could blow in from the mountains. Back in his ski instructor days, he'd once spent an entire week snowed in with a pretty blonde he'd fallen for head over heels. With a more than adequate supply of firewood, plenty of candles and oil lamps, enough food to last twice as long and a good supply of condoms, they'd hardly noticed the inconvenience. They'd said goodbye when the snow cleared with every intention of continuing the relationship, but distance had proven to be too big an obstacle. For a long time, he'd thought she'd broken his heart, but he'd recovered … eventually.
If he got snowed in on this trip, there would be no pretty blonde to keep him company … and no pouty princess to drive him nuts. Who said life wasn't fair? he wondered with a grin.
It was noon when he reached Clarkston. A stop at a gas station on the outskirts of town netted him directions to Murchison Mining, which he found with no problem. He followed a red SUV into the parking lot, then turned left when it turned right. Pulling into a space directly in front of the mine's office, he got out and glanced around as he climbed the steps.
He'd never seen a mine before, other than a passing glance at a couple of coal strip mines. This place was big, spread out and busy—and a damn sight less depressing than the strip mines. If anyone had asked him, he would have said the gold rush ended over a hundred years earlier and he wouldn't have bet money that there'd even been a silver rush. But the metals had to come from somewhere, and a fair amount of them, apparently, came from here.
Inside the office, he flashed his most charming grin at the receptionist, who directed him to the human resource office. From there he got bounced upstairs to a paper shuffler, who hemmed and hawed before taking him to the boss.
Cliff Murchison was a big man, silver-haired, in his sixties, but he looked as if he could hold his own in any fight. He sat at a cluttered desk in front of a large window that looked out on his whole operation. With an incoming fax printing on the machine behind him and four lines flashing on his phone, he was apparently a busy man, but there was no hint of impatience in his expression or his voice. "How can I help you, Mr. Ramsey?"
"I'm looking for a man," Tyler said, withdrawing a photograph of the prince from the inside breast pocket of his corduroy jacket. "He's been using the name Joe, though that might have changed. Rumor has it he was heading up this way from Colorado to look for a job."
Murchison accepted the photo and studied it blankly. "This man wanted for something?"
"No, sir. He's been missing a while. His family would like to make sure he's okay."
After a moment, the man shook his head. "There was a time when I knew every single man who worked for me but not anymore. You'll have to talk to my human resource manager." He chuckled. "Used to be, he was called the personnel director. Same job, fancier title, bigger salary. Let me call my secretary and have her take you down to Lyle and see if he can help you out." He pressed an intercom button, then handed the photo back. "Good luck finding him."
"Thank you, sir."
The secretary who came to escort him downstairs was about twenty-five, blond, not pretty but striking, and she looked as if she could teach him a thing or two. He would have been flattered by her interest if she hadn't displayed the same interest in the photograph of the prince, and if he didn't suspect she showed the same interest in every male of legal age she came across.
"Are you going to be in town long, Mr. Ramsey?" she asked as they descended the stairs to the first floor.
"Not too long."
"You might want to visit the Silver Nugget tonight. Real original name, huh? A lot of the miners hang out there—the single guys, and the ones that like to pretend they are. Someone there might have run across your guy." She looked him up and down. "Are you a private detective?"
"Something like that." It had been decided before he'd left Montebello that there was no need to tell anyone he was working for King Marcus. A lot of people probably wouldn't believe him, and there might be more than a few who would try to profit from the royal family's misfortune.
"Where are you from?"
"Arizona."
"You're a long way from home, hon." She pushed open the door marked Human Resource, then gave him a promising smile. "The Silver Nugget's not my regular hangout, but I'll make a point of being there tonight. In case you get lonely." Then she called into the office, "Lyle! Cliff wants you to give this gentleman whatever help he needs."
"Be right there, Cindy," came a reply from the rear of the office.
"See ya, hon."
Tyler watched her walk away with an appreciative smile. "Sultry" wasn't a word to come quickly to mind on a day when the wind chill was down around zero, but Cindy made it happen easily enough. Cliff Murchison might be sitting on a gold and silver mine, but his biggest asset was probably his secretary. The laziest man in Montana would be happy to work if it meant seeing her every day.
Lyle came out of the back office in a short-sleeved dress shin, a tie that was too bright and too wide for Tyler's tastes, with a half-eaten submarine sandwich in one hand. He looked around, found a napkin to put the sandwich on, then wi
ped his hands on another napkin. "I'm Lyle. What can I do you for?"
Tyler gave him the same line he'd given Murchison and showed him the photograph, and Lyle gave the same negative response. "Want me to show it to the girls?" he offered, then gestured for Tyler to follow him.
A half-dozen women were having lunch in the employee lounge at the end of the hall. They passed the picture around with little response until the last woman got it. "Hey, this looks kinda like that prince that's missing," she said. "I saw him on TV not long ago. Remember—his plane crashed in Colorado or someplace a while back and they thought he was dead, but then they thought he was alive. He's from Monte Carlo or someplace like that."
"Not Monte Carlo. Monaco," another woman corrected her. "Isn't Monaco in Monte Carlo? Or is Monte Carlo in Mona— Heck, I don't know. But he kinda looks like that guy." She handed the photo to Tyler. "Is he some kind of royalty? Maybe with a reward for finding him?"
"You'd have the gratitude of his wife and kids," he lied with a smile.
"Heck, if he's married, I don't want him," the woman muttered before picking up her sandwich again.
"Even if he wasn't married, you are, Faye," the second woman said, "and you've got five kids. When would you find time for him?"
"Honey, I'd leave the kids with my husband and run away with the guy," Faye said with a laugh. "Heck, there're days when I'd leave the kids and run away by myself if I could find the energy."
"Sorry we can't help you, Mr. Ramsey," Lyle said.
"I appreciate your time," Tyler said as they walked to the main entrance. Glancing out, he saw a cluster of men standing in front of the building across the parking lot. "Do you mind if ask some of your men out there?"
"You can't go in any of the facilities, but … sure. Go ahead." Tyler claimed his parka from the coat rack inside the door and pulled it on, then drew his gloves from the pockets. The men out front were apparently on their lunch break and had gathered in the frigid weather to smoke. He appreciated a good cigar now and then, but he couldn't imagine developing any habit that he'd want to indulge badly enough to stand outside and freeze off vital parts of his anatomy. The seven or eight burly men didn't seem to even notice the cold, maybe because their attention was riveted on someone else.