The Improperly Pregnant Princess

A break in her voice revealed a rare vulnerable side of Charlotte. However, despite the sacrifices, CeCe knew that her mother wouldn’t have had things any other way. Fierce pride had motivated her to seize the helm of the company when she might have sold it or looked to her father’s family for assistance.

“Most of all, I regret not raising you with a greater appreciation of your father’s heritage,” she said. “It isn’t entirely the king’s fault that we drifted apart. I take some of the blame on myself.”

“I’m not sure how much more we could appreciate it without living there full-time,” Lucia said. “We’re Americans, after all.”

“You have dual citizenship and don’t forget it!” said her mother. “If I’d had any inkling that this day would ever come…well, I can only hope that CeCe will rise to the occasion. If she doesn’t, you two other girls must keep yourselves available. I won’t tolerate excuses. Do I make myself clear?”

CeCe’s cheeks flamed at the suggestion that she might be found lacking. Despite her pregnancy, she couldn’t tolerate the thought of failing her family, especially her mother.

She’d always felt a duty to assist her mother, even if Charlotte rarely seemed to notice. As a teenager, CeCe had fussed with pretty dresses and social occasions only when her mother required it. Mostly, she’d devoted herself to her studies and to working part-time at the shipping company, learning the business from the ground up.

Now she was ready to take on the monarchy. The fact that she might not be allowed to, that she might bring disgrace on herself and her family just when everyone’s hopes were riding on her, made CeCe want to cry.

Well, she wouldn’t cry. She never cried, or hardly ever. Somehow, she was going to find a way to save face and pull this whole thing off.

SHANE WISHED HE COULD READ CeCe’s thoughts. Something must be buzzing through her mind, he’d concluded during brunch. Fortunately, the Chinese trade representative, Mr. Wong, hadn’t appeared to notice anything amiss.

To someone who knew her well, CeCe’s attention seemed scattered. At the same time, she’d changed in a subtle way that made her coloring more vivid and her manner less brisk. Shane couldn’t stop looking at her.

When they left the restaurant, he was glad to find that the sun had come out. Despite the winter chill, across the street women were pushing baby carriages through Central Park while college-age skateboarders whizzed past.

“Let’s take a walk,” he said after Mr. Wong departed in a taxi.

CeCe regarded him suspiciously. “A walk?”

“I’ll escort you to your apartment building, if you like,” Shane said. “Or are you heading to the office?”

“The apartment.” She pushed a wing of blond hair off her temple and started to step off the curb against the light.

He grabbed her arm. “What’s wrong with you today?”

“I’m a little distracted,” CeCe said.

“Tell me it’s the effect of my boyish charm,” Shane teased.

“Sorry, but it isn’t.”

The light changed and they crossed in a swarm of people. For no logical reason, he found himself wanting to protect her against jostling passersby.

“What’s wrong?” he asked again. “Anything I can help you with?”

CeCe’s eyes widened. “You want to help me?”

“If I can.” He wondered if she was surprised by the idea that a woman in her lofty position might need anything from a man who’d had to claw his way up in the world. No, he thought, CeCe had never struck him as a snob. “What’s going on?”

“It’s…personal,” she said.

Personal. That might mean she was seeing another guy. Shane disliked that notion thoroughly.

They veered onto a park path. Most of the other strollers were elderly people or mothers with young children. A couple of students, book bags at their feet, sat on a park bench, smooching.

On the lake, a few brave souls were ice skating. One tiny ballerina spun around three times and then, losing her balance, plopped onto her rear end.

“So is he in the shipping business, too?” Shane asked.

“Is who in the shipping business?”

“This personal problem,” he said.

CeCe burst out laughing. “I don’t believe you said that!”

She thought he was jealous, Shane realized. Of course he wasn’t. “Not that I care,” he added.

“It’s my family,” CeCe said. “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you any more than that. They’re very strict about privacy.”

Not having had a family since he was twelve, Shane had no idea what sort of matters families kept to themselves. He didn’t enjoy feeling like an outsider. “We’re practically partners. Your business is my business.”

“This isn’t business,” CeCe corrected him. The cold air stung her cheeks and brightened her eyes, or perhaps the sunlight merely highlighted the changes Shane had noticed in the restaurant.

He decided not to pursue the subject. Instead, he made conversation about Mr. Wong and how their meeting had gone.

CeCe relaxed. Any minute, he thought, she’d let slip whatever was bothering her and then he could help her fix it.

SHE OUGHT TO TELL SHANE about the pregnancy, CeCe thought. But if she did, she would have to mention the repercussions involving her grandfather’s visit and his offer to make her queen, both of which were state secrets.

It wasn’t as if Shane was eager to be a father, she reminded herself. He’d made it clear how much he disliked children.

Also, from working in a mostly male environment, CeCe knew that most men’s reaction to a problem was to leap in with an instant solution. That worked all right in business situations. When it came to personal matters, however, she would find it highhanded and infuriating.

She didn’t want to get irritated with Shane today. His presence comforted her, even though she couldn’t confide in him.

Central Park was a different place when she was with him. Usually, she walked through it mentally reviewing reports and formulating plans for DeLacey Shipping.

Today, she didn’t want to concentrate on anything but Shane. The pattern of light and shadow falling across his face fascinated her. So did the vulnerable twist of his mouth.

Despite his protestations, what kind of father would he make? CeCe watched a mittened toddler tossing a ball with his father and tried to picture Shane in the man’s stead. She couldn’t make the stretch.

At least his company was peaceful. So peaceful that it wasn’t quite normal.

“I know what’s missing,” she said.

“What?”

“Your cell phone’s not ringing.”

“Neither is yours,” he said.

“I turned it off during brunch. So did you, I guess.” When he nodded, CeCe said, “Maybe we should both turn them on.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t.”

He moved closer. Despite their coats, she could feel heat radiating from his body. It made her itch to slide her hands inside his clothing and stroke his chest.

If she became queen, she would have to choose a husband who could reign alongside her, presumably someone from European nobility. CeCe hoped it was possible for her to get this excited about being close to another man. If she couldn’t, well, she supposed that was the price a queen had to pay.

But right now, she had Shane to herself. There were so many details of his life that she wondered about, and it might be her last chance to ask him.

“Do you mind if I ask you something personal?” she said.

“Go ahead.”

“I’ve heard the stories about your being an orphan.” Seeing nothing in his expression to indicate she was trespassing on forbidden territory, she continued, “I’ve read that you built a struggling air-freight company into a major contender by carving out your own niche in the package-delivery business.”

“You left out the part about my dogged work ethic and brilliant flashes of insight,” Shane joked. “Otherwise, you got it right.”

“What I never understood was how you got your hands on an air-freight company in the first place,” CeCe said.

“CPR,” he replied cryptically.

She tried to place the initials. “Is that a venture capitalist firm?”

“It stands for cardiopulmonary resuscitation.”

“Oh, that kind of CPR,” CeCe said.

“They taught it to us at the group home. Part of our health-and-safety training.” Shane moved her gently aside as a messenger’s bicycle whizzed past, its bell ringing. “Probably they figured we ruffians might give the counselor a heart attack.”

“What’s the connection to air freight?” she asked as they strode with their long legs in sync.

“While I was in high school, I got a part-time job at an air-freight company at Long Beach Airport,” Shane said. “The owner, Morris O’Day, suffered a heart attack my third day on the job. While everyone else was waiting for the paramedics, I administered CPR.”

“You saved his life?” CeCe asked.

“So Morris believed,” Shane said. “Once he recovered, he took me under his wing and taught me the business.”

“You must have impressed him in a lot of ways. He wouldn’t have wasted his time on you otherwise.” The teenage Shane, although no doubt slighter of build and less polished, must still have been a force to reckon with.

“We became friends,” he said quietly. “Morris took the place of the father I’d scarcely known. My mentor, that’s how I describe him to people, but he meant much more to me than that.”

“You’re speaking in the past tense,” CeCe said. “Did he die?”

“Five years later, when I was twenty-two, he suffered another heart attack.” Shane’s pace slowed. “That time, I couldn’t save him. Later, I was astonished to learn that he’d willed me the company. The assets were mortgaged and the planes were outdated, but it gave me a start.”

“He didn’t have any family?” CeCe couldn’t imagine such isolation. “How sad that he didn’t have a wife or a child. He worked so hard and then he had no heir.”

“He did have an heir—me,” Shane said crisply.

CeCe saw that she’d offended him. “Of course. You meant a lot to him.”

“I’ve had to blaze my own trail. So did Morris,” Shane snapped. “I guess that’s hard for you to understand.”

“What do you mean? I’ve had to…” She stopped herself in midsentence.

She’d intended to say that she’d had to work hard, but so what? There was no denying that her path had been paved. Much as CeCe hated to admit it, she would never have become executive veep at twenty-nine if she weren’t the owner’s daughter.

She knew that, with her drive and organizational abilities, she’d have made a success of herself one way or another. Not on the scale that Shane had, however, or at least not as rapidly. For one thing, she couldn’t get by on five hours’ sleep a night, as he was reputed to do.

They reached the west side of the park and headed for her apartment building a block away. CeCe wished she could undo the offense she’d given by her thoughtless remark about Morris.

Making truces came so easily to her sister Amelia. If only CeCe could borrow a pinch of her kind nature before it was too late.

“I didn’t put things very well,” she said, by way of preamble.

“You said what you meant. There’s no need to apologize for the fact that you and I look at the world from very different perspectives.” Shane spoke in an even, impersonal tone. “We’re about as different as two people can be. I don’t hold that against you, and I hope you don’t hold it against me, either.”

“It doesn’t sound like you’re leaving much room for us to meet in the middle,” CeCe said.

“Was there ever any hope of that?”

She had to be honest with him, and herself. “I guess not.”

In front of her building, they shook hands formally. “I’ll keep in touch about the negotiations with Wuhan Novelty,” Shane said, and walked away.

CeCe drank in the sight of his broad shoulders as he cut through the slow-moving tide of pedestrians. Her palm tingled where it had touched his moments before.

If her grandfather still wanted her to be queen after he learned of her pregnancy, she might not be handling the Wuhan negotiations, CeCe realized with a start. That meant there was a scary chance that she might never see Shane O’Connell again.

When she glanced back at the street, he’d disappeared.

Chapter Four

On her way up to the apartment, CeCe noticed that the royal guards weren’t patrolling with Charlotte’s regular staff. That meant her grandfather must still be at the embassy, thank goodness.

She needed time to sort out the turmoil in her mind. There were so many decisions to make, and despite her reputation as a take-charge executive, she had no idea how to make them.

Against her better judgment, she yearned to bring Shane into the picture. He’d just made it clear, however, that he saw no common ground between them, outside of their business alliance.

This would be the right time for most women to ask their mothers for advice. Unfortunately, CeCe knew exactly what Charlotte would say: (a) The man isn’t right for you, (b) Of course you’ll be queen, and (c) You’re what?

Under the circumstances, she was glad to learn from Hester Vanderling that Charlotte had gone to the office. According to the housekeeper, Amelia was in her room, working on her computer, and otherwise the vast apartment was practically empty.

“The cook and her assistant have to work late tonight to prepare a special dinner for your grandfather, so your mother gave them the morning off,” explained Hester.

The housekeeper and her husband, Quincy, the Carradigne’s butler, occupied private quarters. Since they lived on the premises, they were usually around although, like now, not necessarily on duty.

“Could we talk?” CeCe asked.

“I’d like that.” Hester gave her a pleased but slightly puzzled smile.

Although she’d confided in Hester a lot in her younger years, CeCe rarely turned to her these days, believing she ought to handle her own problems. However, Hester, with her gentle nature, loyalty to her native land of Korosol and devotion to the Carradigne girls, might have exactly the perspective CeCe needed.

They went into the kitchen for coffee. From the broad terrace came a scuffling noise.

“What on earth?” said Hester.

“Got you, you skulking scumbag!” roared the voice of Quincy Vanderling.

“Oh, dear!” Hester pressed a wall button to summon security. “We’d better find out what’s happening.”

“It sounds like Quincy caught an intruder.” No one had ever penetrated Charlotte’s guards before. Or had the butler taken one too many nips of kitchen sherry and tried to tackle a pigeon? Quincy had his vices, but a better butler couldn’t be found.

CeCe hurried into the breakfast nook. Through the wide-open French doors, she saw the husky butler wrestling a darkly tanned man with short brown hair. In his forties, the intruder was thin but muscular and easily held his own.

“He was in the kitchen!” Quincy panted when he spotted the women. “I chased him out here and caught him!”

The fellow stopped struggling and turned toward CeCe. “Hello, princess,” he said with oily familiarity. “Why don’t you call off this old geezer before he injures himself?”

Winston Rademacher. CeCe hadn’t seen him in several years, but it was hard to mistake that creepy smile and those shifty eyes that always seemed to be squinting.

From the other side of the terrace, two guards raced toward the pair. “Hold on,” CeCe called, stepping outside. “It’s my cousin Markus’s adviser.”

Quincy dropped the fellow’s arm. “You work for Markus Carradigne? Why didn’t you say so?”

“No one gave me a chance.” Rademacher tugged on his wrinkled coat sleeve.

“What are you doing here?” CeCe demanded.

His gaze met hers, then veered away. “Looking for the king. I’m in New York on Markus’s business while he’s tending to his affairs in Korosol.”

“He was snooping, is more like it,” retorted Hester. “I’m sorry, Miss CeCe. I shouldn’t have said that, I suppose. Now, come inside, Quincy. It’s cold out there.”

“Call off your dogs, will you?” Rademacher sneered at the guards and strode toward CeCe.

On the few previous occasions when she’d met him, he’d struck CeCe as a dangerous type. She hoped Markus had researched the man’s background.

Right now, his attitude offended her, and he’d had no business bypassing security on his way up. Still, it would give unnecessary offense to her cousin if her guards bodily ejected his confidant.

“You may go. Please check the locks on the back and side stairs,” she told the two men.

That was probably how he’d broken in. In addition to connecting the apartment’s two floors, the staircases served as emergency escape routes down through the building, although the heavy intervening doors could only be opened from the Carradigne side. “Quincy, you were very brave. Thank you for defending us.”

“It was completely unnecessary.” Rademacher oozed past CeCe into the kitchen.

“Mr. Rademacher.” Her sharp tone halted him as he headed for the coffee carafe. “Your behavior is unacceptable.”

“Is it indeed, princess?” Despite the supercilious tone, he hesitated.

“You had no business sneaking into this apartment without announcing yourself to the guards. The king is not here. I suggest you look for him at the embassy, and I suggest you do it now,” CeCe said.

Resentment flashed across his face, and was instantly replaced by obsequiousness. “Whatever you wish, princess.”

“I’ll show you out,” said Hester. Quincy accompanied her, watching Rademacher’s every move.

A short time later, Hester returned alone. “We put him on the elevator,” she said. “What an unpleasant man.”

“Is your husband all right?” CeCe was fond of Quincy, a former handyman whose devotion to his wife and to the Carradignes was beyond question.

“He’s better than all right. A scuffle like that makes him feel young again.” Hester smiled. “Now, let’s have that coffee.”

They took their mugs to the breakfast table and sat facing each other. Outside, boxed evergreens on the landscaped terrace blocked the cityscape.

Memories from years past drifted comfortably over the scene. There’d been summer days when blooms transformed the terrace into a lush paradise, and rainy days when the nanny entertained the three girls with hot chocolate and Korosol folktales.

“What’s on your mind?” asked the housekeeper.

CeCe released a long breath. She had to tell someone her news, and the longer she waited, the harder it would get. “Oh, Hester, I’m pregnant.”

Her old friend blinked in surprise. “Well! I don’t know what…You know, it might be the best thing for you.”

“What?” CeCe had never expected this reaction.

“It’s time you figured out you’re a woman. You’ve been denying your feminine instincts ever since your father died,” Hester said.

“I have not!” she flared.

“It was as if you thought you had to be the man of the family,” said her friend, undeterred by the outburst. “For a while, you refused to wear anything but pants. It nearly gave your mother fits.”

“I remember that.” CeCe had assumed her behavior must have represented a typical preteen phase. Perhaps, though, there was some truth in the housekeeper’s observation. “But, Hester, this isn’t the right way to rediscover my feminine instincts, as you call them, even if I wanted to. It’s a disaster!”

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