by Carolyn Zane
She was right on that count.
Overhead an explosion of thunder rattled the windows as Sebastian made a sickening discovery that he suddenly knew was about to ruin his life.
If he was indeed Philippe de Bergeron’s son, then he was at the same time Marie-Claire’s brother.
Marie-Claire burrowed deep under her feather bed and watched with awe the spectacular storm that had rain sluicing over her windows in sheets. Glowing veins of light branched the sky and thunder boomed in a show that was quite rare for St. Michel.
Especially for March.
She couldn’t remember ever having seen anything quite so violent in her twenty-one years in this country. Before now, she’d only read about such things. As the waffled shadow of her French panes flickered on the wall, she wondered how people in less sturdy abodes were faring.
She wondered how Sebastian was faring.
Sebastian.
Nature’s wrath only augmented her turbulent feelings since she’d seen him that afternoon. She’d had no idea how powerful their reunion would be for her. When she’d been in Denmark, she’d missed him, to be sure. But just how much became apparent only after he’d liquefied her knees with his kiss.
Eyes closed, she tugged her covers higher and groaned.
Even now she could still feel his warm lips over hers, open, prodding, insistent, his hand around the back of her neck, pulling her closer and she, wilting against him. As they’d stood alone together in the pond that evening, it had been perfect. His kiss had been as warm and wet and sultry as the weather that had rolled in over them.
Fingertips against her mouth, she swallowed a giddy squeal. She was in love. Untamed, stormy, tingling, thrilling love that stole her appetite and robbed her of any rational thought. She couldn’t imagine ever feeling more blissful. Happier. More in tune with life.
Though her eyes drifted shut, Marie-Claire knew she’d never be able to sleep. Images of her and Sebastian running for the shore, struggling to pull dry clothing over wet skin, more kissing, riding home just ahead of the storm….
Her earlier worries had seemed light years removed with his arms around her waist. Only Sebastian knew how to soothe her. To make her chaotic world seem right again. He was the only man for her, and she was sure that he was a gift straight from God himself.
Murmuring to the rhythm of the rain that pelted her windows and balcony, Marie-Claire drew up her knees, clasped her hands beneath her chin and sent up a prayer of thanksgiving for such a perfect match. When she was finished offering her gratitude, she asked the good Lord to tell her Papa not to worry. Everything would eventually work out. Rhineland would drop its ridiculous bid to overtake St. Michel. Her long-lost sibling would be found. Papa’s annulment to Katie Graham would be found.
And soon, as all good princesses did, she would marry Sebastian and live happily ever after.
A knock at the door startled Marie-Claire out of a deep, dreamless sleep. She sat up and peered through the darkness to numbers that glowed from her nightstand. Way after midnight. What on earth could anyone want in the wee hours of the morning?
“Just—” She cleared her throat and fumbled for her robe. “Just a minute.”
Padding across her room, she pulled open her heavy oak bedroom door and squinted against the shaft of light from the hallway. The security night doorman stood at attention.
“Yes?”
“Your Highness, you have a visitor in the library. Mr. Sebastian LeMarc.”
Sebastian? A bubble of joy surged into the back of her throat. It was an effort to maintain a businesslike facade. “Tell him I’ll be down in a moment.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Marie-Claire rushed to her bathroom, jammed a toothbrush in her mouth, dragged a comb through her hair, spat, fluffed, spritzed, puffed, applied a dash of makeup and finally declared herself ready.
He cut a striking figure, standing in the middle of the massive library, staring at the fire that flickered in the hearth. Before he became aware of her presence, she watched him, and her heart swelled with love.
He was magnificent. Rangy legs spread for balance, he stood, his powerful arms folded over his chest. A long, black trench coat hung to his knees and accentuated the breadth of his shoulders. His hair was damp from the weather and curled most appealingly at his nape and just above his ears. A pensive expression graced his perfectly chiseled mouth, and his gaze was clouded with some unreadable emotion.
Something had happened.
Fear leapt in Marie-Claire’s heart. She glanced at the clock that ticked away the hour on the mantle. Nearly two in the morning. What on earth could be wrong?
As if he sensed her presence, Sebastian turned.
The tortured look in his eyes had her flying across the room and finding solace in his embrace. Her hands sought to cup his cheeks and she pulled his mouth to hers, knowing that whatever it was, they could handle it together.
His lips grazed hers and then—oddly—he pulled back. There was stiffness in his countenance that worried Marie-Claire. Eyes flashing, he searched her face and she cast him a tentative smile. She could feel the heat in his hands as he clutched her arms and his breathing came in labored puffs. His hand shook as he traced the barely discernable cleft in her chin with the pad of his thumb.
“In so many ways, you are the feminine version of him.”
“Papa?” Marie-Claire’s brow furrowed at his strange comment.
“Yes. You have an expression…I don’t know…when you smile. It leaves no doubt that you are his.”
“Mama would have agreed with you. Although, to her way of thinking, the resemblance was not a compliment.” Again, she smiled, hoping to lighten his somber expression.
“It must have been why he favored you.”
“What?”
“This resemblance. None of your siblings seem to have inherited so much from him.”
“None of us inherited what he’d hoped.” Her laughter was dry. Rueful. “The similarities would have been much easier to spot in a son.”
“Maybe.”
“Sebastian, what is it? Surely you did not come here at this hour to discuss my relationship with my father.”
He swallowed and glanced away. “No.”
“Then what? You’re scaring me.”
“I’m sorry.” His eyes slid closed and with a heavy exhalation, he rested his head against hers. “I came here to talk to you.”
“At this hour, it must be grave.”
“I don’t know.”
“Sebastian, please.” Her heart was pounding. Again, he held her apart from his body and scrutinized her face in a most unnerving manner. “Have I done something wrong? Said something?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
She lifted a finger and rested it on his lower lip and the simple gesture seemed to scald him. Roughly, he grasped her hand and reared back. Hurt, white-hot in its intensity, crowded into her throat, this simple rejection rendering her speechless.
On the mantle, the clock ticked, and, beneath it, the fire crackled in the hearth. Outside, the sounds of a dying storm whispered through the trees.
“I have to go.” Sebastian released her hand and took a step back. And then, another.
“What? But you just got here. And you needed to talk to me.”
“I…no. I was wrong.”
His simple words held a deeper nuance that she could not fathom, but she knew that something had happened. Something that would change the course of her life. Marie-Claire suddenly knew a fear of loss that overshadowed the death of her father.
“Now. I have to go now.” His eyes were cloudy and almost anguished as he backed toward the door. “Goodbye, Marie-Claire.”
Marie-Claire’s lungs froze in midbreath.
Good-bye?
Why did this usually breezy parting hold such an echo of permanence? Wordlessly, she watched him stride through the massive palace foyer, past the guards, and out through the several sets of double doo
rs that led to his freedom.
Just outside Sebastian’s bedroom window the next morning, the sky was a brilliant blue, showing no sign of last night’s freak hurricane. The news had reported damage in the millions and more than a dozen fatalities connected with the unusual spring storm. Now, the sun belied the devastation of the night before and streamed into his room, warming great patches on his bed and the floor. The dust had been settled and the air had a scrubbed-fresh quality that Sebastian usually reveled in.
But not this morning.
This morning, he noticed none of the splendor in the world beyond his window, for he was focused on the cracks in his heart. Woodenly, he forced himself to go through the motions of dressing. Preparing for the day. The day after the world had ended.
He hadn’t been able to tell her.
He hated himself for his weakness, but it had been beyond his ability when she was so close. Even forcing himself to leave hadn’t helped build his courage. Neither had the whiskey he’d drunk when he’d come home, hoping to lull himself into a forgetful stupor. That stupid stunt had only managed to drive what felt like a rusty ax through his brain, leaving his head pounding, his mouth a dust bowl, and his heart a bloody ball of hamburger.
What the devil was he going to do now?
It seemed his only recourse was to meet with Simone and get to the bottom of this mess. The…truth. Then he’d either continue his path with Marie-Claire, or pick up the pieces and do his duty for his country.
It was that simple.
And that horrible.
Sebastian’s hands stilled as he buttoned his collar and stared at his haggard reflection in the full-length mirrored doors of his closet. He hadn’t slept a wink all night long for lying there and calling himself every kind of fool. It had been lunacy to see Marie-Claire. He should have known that he had no willpower where she was concerned. Her understanding expression and willingness to soothe him without even knowing the problem only endeared her to him further. Made what had to be done between them—temporarily or permanently—only that much harder.
Bracing his palms on the back of a chair, he hung his throbbing head and, squeezing his eyes shut against the brilliant sunlight, thought over his life. He’d grown up with wealth and privilege. Even his high-powered career in St. Michel’s fast-paced world of import/export had been essentially handed to him because of his social status. Although, why on earth such status should have been afforded his mother was a mystery indeed. She was uneducated, brash, charmless.
It was common knowledge that she’d married into her social position. Claudette was a social climber. But her husband was deceased now. And her eccentricities were becoming more pronounced with age. Surely, she had to sense that high society would eventually move on. Without her.
Then again, Claudette lived in a dream world. Blissfully, she ignored her dwindling bank account and the signs that pointed to her eventual economic failure. She craved prominence in St. Michel’s upper echelon, needing to see and be seen. Her lower class upbringing was an albatross about her neck that she routinely glossed over, fancying herself—because of her aristocratic marriage—to be above the common folk. After all, her husband had been a royal consort and a count. And her son…
Sebastian’s head jerked up and he scrutinized the face that had stared back at him these thirty-two years. Could there be any truth to Claudette’s fantastic story? Truth be told, there were certain similarities between him and Philippe. Some physical, but there were other things.
Both loved to golf. To ride horses. In fact, all manner of sport had them more than intrigued. They shared a common sense of humor, a passion for life, and intolerance for stupidity and cruelty. A complete dedication to St. Michel and her politics. A loyalty to the monarchy, to history, to destiny. A belief in God and the power of love.
But did these things add up to a blood relationship?
Claudette swore they did.
Sebastian dragged his hands over his face, rubbing his painful temples and forehead. Knowing Claudette as he did, he knew she was not beyond lying. But he’d never known her to fabricate anything to these lengths.
Even so, until he knew the absolute truth, he had to stay away from Marie-Claire. Should the public catch wind of this rumor and suspect anything deeper in their relationship, it could be catastrophic for everyone involved.
Sebastian dropped into the chair that sat at the end of his bed and reached for his shoes. He allowed a loafer to dangle from his fingertips and stared into the mirror as he mulled over his identity. Just who the hell was he? One day, he was a successful playboy, wooing the king’s daughter and the next, he was heir to the throne and was dating his half sister.
Confused didn’t begin to describe his state of mind.
Even so, several things were becoming dismally clear. Now that his identity was in question, he was shocked at how he’d allowed the life he’d been handed to dictate who he was.
Well, no more.
Soon enough, Sebastian would find out who his parents really were. And in the process, he hoped, he’d discover exactly who he was. Filled with a sense of purpose, Sebastian jammed his feet into his shoes, shrugged into his coat, and strode to the door.
Time to get to the bottom of this mess. As much as he hated the idea of Marie-Claire learning the truth, he knew that there was no time like the present.
He’d swing by and pick up his mother on the way to the palace.
Chapter Six
As the head of security for St. Michel, Luc Dumont knew he must squelch the urge to squirm under the Dowager Queen Simone’s intense scrutiny. Because he’d already been hired by Prime Minister Rene Davoine to locate the missing heir, he knew this interview with Her Royal Highness was simply a formality. Nevertheless, it was nerve-wracking. His dealings with some of the world’s most hardened criminals suddenly seemed a breeze in comparison to this social interrogation.
The old woman sat, shoulders square, hands clasped in her lap, both feet planted firmly on the floor. Over the years, her severe expression had etched censorious creases into the corners of her mouth and between her eyes. And these eyes, like blue laser beams, missed nothing as they bored into his soul.
It was not every day he spent the morning chatting with royalty in the throne room. Especially crotchety, old royalty, poised like a buzzard, ready to pounce and peck away at even the slightest lapse in the dedication of the police to her case. It was times like these that Luc wished he’d gone into sales, like his father before him.
Luckily for him, Simone preferred a comfortable pair of overstuffed chairs in a grouping by the window to the throne itself, which, to his surprise, actually sat on a small stage in the middle of the room. On a low table before them, a tray laden with fresh pastries lay untouched. Luc knew he’d never be able to chew, let alone swallow in front of such unabashed scrutiny. He shifted in his seat, touched his tongue to his dry lips and glanced around the intimidating room. With the exception of the ever-present security people stationed at the far doors, they were alone.
He glanced back at Simone, wondering where to look. Her shoes were very plain. Functional. There seemed to be a bit of tissue stuck to the bottom of one.
“Are you looking at my legs?”
“Wha…what?” Dazed, Luc snapped his head up from his introspective pose and felt every drop of blood in his body rush to his cheeks.
“My legs. You seem to be staring at them.” She picked a bit of fluff from her pencil skirt.
“No! No, I was…” The old bird thought he’d been checking out her legs? Mortified, his gaze dropped to her legs, which weren’t that bad, all things considered—Good heavens man, don’t look at her legs! He glanced around for a focal point, any focal point, found it in an exit sign and wished he were on the other side.
“Don’t be embarrassed, young man. I pride myself on keeping my figure trim.”
“But I was just noticing—” Needing vindication, he gestured to the tissue on her shoe, but she paid no heed.
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“Daily walks. I can do a fourteen-minute mile. Pretty good for an old broad pushing eighty, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but—”
“You look vaguely familiar to me, and I’m not saying that as a pick-up line.” Simone stared at him, her dry, rather flirtatious humor at odds with the permanent scowl on her face. “However, I don’t believe we’ve met before today?”
“I—” Because the moment had passed, Luc gave his head a clearing shake and decided to let the leg issue drop. “You may have seen me interviewed on the local news last month, in a case connected with a French smuggling ring.”
“Perhaps. Though I’m not much on TV, unless it’s that Iron Chef thing. You ever see that?” She chuckled, not caring if he answered. “And The Antiques Road Show. Oh, and Biography. I’m waiting for them to call me anytime now, as my childhood would make a riveting story…At any rate, where were we?”
“Have we met before?” he prompted.
“Are you flirting with me, young man?”
Again, Luc was at a loss, but she seemed not to notice and instead chuckled at her private joke.
“Oh, yes. Now then.” Simone gathered her thoughts. “Before you tell me how you plan to find my missing grandchild, tell me a little about yourself. I like to know who I’m working with.”
Anxious to get out of there, Luc decided it best to plunge in at the beginning with an abridged version of his thirtysomething years.
“I was born in the United States, but grew up in France. My maternal grandparents died when I was four and my mother died when I was six. When my father remarried, I was sent off to study in England. First at Eton and then at Cambridge. The father of a friend of mine at Cambridge suggested that I go for a career in Interpol, which I had for eight years. I was then brought in as head of the Security Force for St. Michel.”
“Why?”