‘Yes.’ His face was still calm. She was standing two feet back from him, gazing up into his eyes as if trying to read him. Trying to find some sort of comfort in his calmness.

‘H…how?’

‘They took out a bobsled.’ His face tightened for a minute, as if in anger. ‘They took it on a black run—a run for experienced skiers only. Bobsledding in those conditions is madness. I’m afraid…I’m afraid they’d been drinking.’

The knot of pain in Tammy’s stomach tightened. Oh, you fool, she thought bleakly. Lara, you fool. It took an almost overpowering effort of will to go on. ‘So…’ It was so hard to speak. It was as if her voice didn’t belong to her. ‘She…Lara was married to your cousin?’

‘Yes.’

‘And your cousin died, too?’

‘Jean-Paul died, yes.’

She couldn’t see what he was thinking. His face was still impassive. Was there pain there? She couldn’t tell.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I guess we’re both sorry.’

He had a nice voice, she thought dispassionately. Deep and rumbly. It was tinged with what sounded almost like a French accent, but it was very slight. He’d been well schooled in English.

She wasn’t supposed to be thinking about this man’s voice. Or maybe she was still using thoughts to distract herself.

Lara was dead.

What else had he said? They had a baby?

‘I can’t believe that you don’t know about this.’ Marc’s voice was suddenly rough, tinged again with anger. ‘That your mother didn’t tell you.’

‘My mother knows?’

‘Of course your mother knows. I flew her to Broitenburg for the funeral. They were buried with a State funeral last month.’

Her mother would have enjoyed that, Tammy thought inconsequentially, going off on another tangent as her mind darted back and forth, trying to avoid pain. She thought of Isobelle Dexter de Bier as a grieving mother at a royal funeral. Isobelle would have done it brilliantly. She could almost guess what her mother would have worn. It would have been something lacy and black and extremely elegant. She’d have worn a veil, and there’d have been a wispy handkerchief dabbing at eyes that welled with tears that were never allowed to fall.

‘Was…was she alone?’

‘Your stepfather came with her.’

Oh, of course. Which stepfather was this? Tammy bit her lip, anger welling. Isobelle didn’t bother to marry her lovers any more, which was just as well. Tammy’s mother had been up to husband number four when Lara was born.

Lara was dead?

Lara was buried.

And there’d been a funeral. She should have been there, she thought bleakly. She should have been there as she’d been there for Lara since birth. Of all the things her mother had done to her, maybe this was the worst. To bury Lara with only her mother…

‘You were fond of your sister?’ Marc didn’t understand. He was staring at her with the same confusion she was feeling—maybe even more so.

‘Once,’ she said brusquely. ‘A long time ago.’

‘You’ve completely lost contact?’

‘Yes.’

‘And with your mother?’

‘Do you think my mother would admit she has a daughter who was a tree surgeon? That she has a daughter who looks like this?’

His calm gaze raked her from the toes up, but his face stayed impassive and his voice stayed gravely calm. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. ‘I can’t say,’ he told her. ‘Maybe not.’

Maybe definitely. ‘Look, I think I need time to take this in.’ She was glaring at him now. Maybe her anger was misdirected, but she needed space to come to terms with what she’d learned. ‘Have you got a card or something to tell me where I can contact you? I need…’

She hesitated, but she knew what she needed. To be alone. She’d learned early that solitude was the only solution to pain. It didn’t stop anything, but alone she could haul her features back into control, adjust the mask and get herself ready to face the world again. ‘Can you just leave me be? Contact me tomorrow if you must. But for now…’

‘I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘I need to be back in Sydney tonight, and then I’m leaving for Broitenburg immediately,’ Marc told her. ‘I’ve brought the release papers with me. You need to sign them. Then I’ll take Henry back to Broitenburg and let you have all the solitude you want.’

CHAPTER TWO

HE HADN’T expected this. Marc hadn’t known what to expect of Lara’s sister but it certainly wasn’t the woman standing before him.

She looked bereft, he thought, and he accepted that she really hadn’t known about her sister’s death. Which led him to Isobelle. Their mother.

What sort of mother would not tell one daughter about another’s death?

It wasn’t any of his business, he told himself savagely. His job was to get the papers signed and get out of here. Heaven knew a trip to Australia at this time was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Jean-Paul’s death had left a huge mess at home. He needed to collect the child and go.

He just needed the signature, but, judging by the look of devastation on the face of the girl before him, it was going to be tricky.

Maybe he could just push the papers in front of her and say sign. Maybe she would. She looked so shocked he could push her right over and she wouldn’t fight back.

He shouldn’t do it—he should give her time—but it was his country he was fighting for. Henry’s country. Henry’s inheritance.

And his own freedom.

‘I need you to sign,’ he repeated, this time more gently, and he motioned to the car. ‘I have the papers here.’

‘What papers?’

‘The release papers.’

‘I still don’t understand what you’re talking about.’ She was standing as if she’d been turned to stone. Her face was totally devoid of colour and he thought she looked as if she was about to topple over. She looked sick.

He made an involuntary gesture of comfort, holding out a hand—and then he pulled it away. What was he thinking of? He needed as little contact here as possible. He couldn’t possibly comfort this woman.

‘I need the release papers to allow me to take Henry back to Broitenburg.’

She thought about that. ‘Lara did have a child?’

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t know.’ She looked up at him, her eyes bleak with shock. ‘I didn’t know anything about a baby.’ It was a despairing wail. ‘Surely if she’d had a child she would have contacted me. If she was in trouble…’

‘Your sister wasn’t in trouble,’ Marc told her. ‘She married Jean-Paul and she had everything she’d ever wanted. A royal marriage. Servants. Luxury you can’t begin to imagine.’

‘She never would have wanted a child.’

Marc nodded. That fitted with what he knew of Lara, but there was an explanation. ‘Jean-Paul needed an heir,’ he told her. ‘He was Crown Prince of Broitenburg. He wouldn’t have married Lara if she hadn’t been prepared to give him a child.’

Tammy thought about that, too, and it almost made sense. Maybe with Lara’s warped sense of values marrying royalty would be worth the cost of having a child. She knew her mother and Lara so well. She knew the way they thought. Money and status were everything. For Lara to be a royal bride… Yes. It was a price Lara might well have been prepared to pay.

‘So she had a child? Henry?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you said Henry was here. In Australia. In Sydney.’

‘Lara sent him back to Australia about four months ago.’

‘Why?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Yes, it does matter.’ Anger and sadness were surging back and forth, and now anger won. ‘You tell me my sister married and had a baby, and was royal, and is now dead. You tell me you want the baby. And when I ask questions you say “Does it matter?”’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you here? Obviously my mother didn’t think it was worth telling me of my sister’s death. And my sister didn’t bother to tell me of her marriage or the birth of her child. So why are you here now? What are you demanding that I sign? What does all this have to do with me?’

Marc took a deep breath. He didn’t want this. He just needed a signature and then he’d leave. He had enough complications without this, and, looking at her face, he knew a complication was looming right now.

‘Your sister named you as Henry’s legal guardian in the event of her death,’ he told her. ‘If Henry was still in Broitenburg it wouldn’t matter, but because he’s here your Department of Foreign Affairs say I can’t take him out of Australia without your permission.’

It was all too much. Tammy stared at Marc for a long, long moment and then silently slipped her harness from her shoulders. She lifted a radio handset from her belt.

She didn’t look at Marc.

‘Doug?’ she said into the radio, and Marc thought back to the foreman he’d met down the road, organising the rest of the team—two young women and an older man. That’d be Doug, then. ‘The people in the big car who were looking for me?’ she was saying. ‘They’ve told me that my sister and her husband have been killed and their baby—my nephew—is alone in Sydney. Can I leave my gear here and have you pick it up? I’m going to Sydney and I need to leave now.’

There was a crackle of static, and then a man’s voice raised in concern.

‘Yeah, I know it’s the pits,’ Tammy said bleakly. ‘But I’ve got to go, Doug. No, I don’t know how long I’ll be away. As long as it takes. Put Lucy onto the tree I’m working on now. She has the skills. But for now… I’ll be in touch.’

Then she laid the handset on the ground with her harness. She lifted a backpack that was lying nearby and heaved it over her shoulder. It was an action that spoke of decision.

‘You’re going back to Sydney now?’ she asked, still with that curious detachment.

‘Yes, but—’

‘But nothing,’ she told him. ‘Take me with you.’

‘Take you to Sydney?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ she snapped. ‘You tell me I have a nephew and I’m his guardian—’

‘He doesn’t need you.’

That was blunt. She paused and bit her lip. ‘So he has someone who loves him?’ she demanded, and it was his turn to pause.

‘He has people—a nanny who’s caring for him—and once I have him back to Broitenburg I’ll employ someone thoroughly competent.’

Competent. The word hung between both of them and Marc immediately knew that it wasn’t enough.

‘That’s not what I asked,’ she said.

He knew what she meant but was helpless to offer more. ‘I…’

‘Why on earth did Lara send him home?’

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted honestly. ‘It seemed odd to me. But Jean-Paul and Lara were in Paris four months ago. Then they were in Italy and Switzerland. I’ve seen neither of them since just after the child was born. It wasn’t until after their death that I knew the child had been sent to Australia.’

The child…

That was a mistake. The brief description was chilling, even to him, and it made everything suddenly worse. Bleaker. Marc thought about it and amended it. ‘Henry,’ he said gently, and Tammy flushed.

‘Yeah. Henry. The child. How old did you say he is?’

‘Ten months.’

‘And he’s heir to some royal thing?’

‘Yes.’

‘And so you want to take him back to Broitenburg so he can be looked after by nannies in the lap of luxury until he’s old enough to be king?’

‘Prince,’ Marc corrected her. ‘Broitenburg is a principality.’

‘Prince, then. Whatever,’ she said distractedly. ‘It makes no difference. Are you married?’

‘What?’

‘You heard. Are you married?’

‘No. I…’

‘So who gets to play mother to Henry?’

‘I told you. He’ll have nannies. The best.’

‘But as legal guardian I get to decide whether he goes or not.’

She’d cornered him. He hadn’t wanted to admit it. Get her signature and get the child. At home it had seemed easy.

‘If you refuse to let him return to Broitenburg I’ll apply for custody myself,’ he said stiffly.

‘You do that. You’re going home tomorrow, did you say? Good luck getting legal custody by then.’

He took a deep breath, trying to control his temper. There’d been no one near the child for months and now this! ‘Until five minutes ago you didn’t know of the child’s existence. You can’t want him.’

‘So why do you want him?’

‘He’s part of the Broitenburg royal family. A very important part. He has to come home.’

‘But maybe he’s my family, too,’ Tammy muttered. She swung open the front passenger door of the limousine and tossed her pack on the floor. Then she climbed in after it, sat down against the luxurious leather and stared straight ahead, refusing to look back at Marc. ‘Maybe he needs me. As I see it, it’s up to me to decide. So, are you going to take me to Sydney or are you planning on making me catch a bus? Either way, I’m signing nothing until I’ve seen him—and maybe not even then.’

It was an incredibly strained journey.

How could she just pick up her pack and leave? Marc wondered. Most women—all the women he’d ever met—would have taken hours to prepare. Hours to decide. But Tammy appeared to have everything she needed in the battered pack at her feet and wanted nothing else.

‘I have a tent, a sleeping bag, a toothbrush and enough food and water for twenty-four hours,’ she told him when he enquired how she could just leave her work and make the journey to Sydney without further fuss. ‘We were planning to camp out tonight.’

‘So now you’re planning on camping somewhere in Sydney’s parks?’ he asked, and she glowered, and went right on staring straight ahead.

‘I’ll get a hotel. You needn’t worry about me. Just show me where my nephew is and I’ll look after myself. I’m not asking any favours from you.’

He was right up there with all the people who’d failed to tell her of her sister’s death and the existence of her nephew, he thought grimly. Her loathing sounded clearly through the tight-clenched words. He was useful as a tool for getting her to see her nephew—nothing more.

So how the hell was he to get her to sign release papers?

It’d have to be money, he thought, as he sat back beside Charles and the big car nosed its way towards Sydney. She looked as if she didn’t have a penny to spare. Her sister had married for money. Money would no doubt buy Henry for him.

He had to play it right, though. He had to give her time to settle. If he offered money right at this minute she might throw it back at him just to spite him.

No. Let her see the baby—tell her how much it cost to pay for decent childcare—give her time to realise how impossible it was for her to keep the child in Australia…

Could he do that in one night?

He must, he thought. He must.

He had to get home! The problems Jean-Paul had left were massive. If he wasn’t careful the entire monarchy would crumble. That would be okay if there was a decent government to take its place, but Jean-Paul had been running the country like a miniature despot for years, milking it for every penny he could. He’d manipulated the parliament so that politicians were paid peanuts, and if you paid peanuts you got monkeys. There had to be major political reform, and the only way to do that was to ensure the continuity of the royal line.

Which meant getting Henry home.

But it was so complicated. He hadn’t realised Lara had registered Henry’s birth in Australia. He hadn’t thought Lara would have had so much gumption. The knowledge had shocked him. But Henry now held dual citizenship. The Australian authorities wouldn’t let him leave without Tammy’s say-so, so what was supposed to have been a flying visit to collect his small relative was turning into a nightmare.

‘Tell me who’s looking after him?’ Tammy asked from the front seat, and he had to force himself to think about his response.

‘A nanny.’

‘I know what she is. Tell me about her.’

‘I’m sorry, but…’

‘You don’t know?’

‘She’s an Australian girl,’ Marc said reluctantly, knowing that what he was saying wouldn’t reflect well on any of them. ‘I employed her through an agency after the woman who came here with your mother left.’

‘My mother!’

‘Lara sent Henry back here when your mother last visited her. I gather your mother saw them in Paris, when Henry was about six months old. When your mother came back to Australia Lara asked her to bring Henry with her.’

‘My mother…’ Tammy swung around to stare at him in incredulity. ‘My mother would never agree to look after a baby.’

‘No.’ They agreed about that. Marc thought about what he knew of Isobelle and his lip curled in contempt. ‘Henry came with a nanny from Broitenburg. Your mother installed them in an expensive hotel in Sydney—which Lara was supposed to pay for—and left them. Then it seems the nanny wasn’t paid. She’d been given a return flight to Broitenburg, so she left. The first I heard of it was last week. Your mother had assured me at the funeral that Henry was being cared for in Australia, and I assumed…I assumed he was with your family. The assumption was stupid. The next thing I heard was a message from your department of Social Services to say Henry had been abandoned. I managed to employ an Australian nanny through an agency here, set them back up in a hotel, and came as soon as I could.’

There was a sharp intake of angry breath, and then more silence.

What was she thinking? Marc thought, but he knew what he’d be thinking if it was him receiving this news. He knew what he had thought when he’d received the phone call from Australia saying Henry had been abandoned.

He’d been stunned.

He’d known Isobelle had taken the little boy back to Australia, and he’d assumed that she’d had his care in hand. But his phone call to Lara’s mother had elicited exactly nothing.

‘The child’s arrangements have nothing to do with me,’ Isobelle had told him when he’d finally tracked her down. She was somewhere in Texas with her latest man, recovering miraculously from her daughter’s death and obviously far too busy to be concerned with her grandson’s welfare. ‘Yes, the child and the nanny Lara employed came back with me four months ago, and I last saw them in Sydney. I assumed Jean-Paul and Lara had left the girl well provided for. It’s no fault of mine if the wretched girl’s done a bunk.’

Marc had stood by the phone and had willed—ached—for his cousin to still be alive so he could wring his selfish neck. Then he’d set about doing everything to shore up the country’s political stability before he’d come to find his cousin’s baby son. Heir to the throne.

And he’d found this.

‘He’ll be well looked after from now on,’ he said angrily, his fury matching that emanating from the front passenger seat. From Tammy. ‘I promise.’

‘I know he will be,’ Tammy muttered, but she was speaking to herself. Not to him.

The hotel Henry and his nanny were staying in was one of Sydney’s finest, on the Rocks in Sydney Harbour. The limousine nosed into the driveway, a uniformed concierge bowed and opened the door to Marc, then looked askance as Tammy climbed out, too.

There was a plush red carpet leading to the magnificent glass entry. A waterfall fell on either side of the doorway over carefully landscaped rocks. Inside the wide glass doors Tammy could see chandeliers and a vast grand piano. The strains of Chopin were wafting out over the sound of the gently tinkling water.

This was where Marc had installed Henry and his nanny? Money clearly wasn’t an issue with His Highness, Prince Marc.

But she didn’t intend to be intimidated. Tammy dumped her pack on the red carpet, wiped a little dust from her overalls and looked about her with every appearance of nonchalance.

‘Will you be all right?’ Charles had emerged from the car and was looking at Marc with some anxiety. He seemed to think Tammy might somehow contaminate Marc. ‘You don’t wish to stay at the embassy tonight, Your Highness?’

‘I’ll be fine here.’ Marc glanced at his watch. ‘If you could collect me and the boy at eleven tomorrow…? The flight is at two.’

‘I’ll do that.’ With a last worried glance at Tammy, Charles disappeared back into the limo—which left Marc and Tammy standing on the red carpet together.

A prince with his princess? Tammy looked Marc up and down, then glanced down at her worn boots and almost smiled.

Almost. Smiling was actually a long way from what she felt like doing.

‘Take me to Henry.’

‘You don’t want to clean up first?’

She glared at him then. Really glared. ‘How old did you tell me Henry was?’

‘Ten months.’

‘You think he’s going to judge me because of a little dirt?’

‘I…no.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

The concierge was still hovering, holding the door for them to enter, but by his expression Tammy could tell that given half a hint he’d grab her and haul her away. She looked the type who’d be annoying the customers, not paying to be here.

‘It’s all right,’ she told him. ‘I’m not about to mug His Royal Highness. I just want to see my nephew.’ She heaved her pack up over her shoulder and stomped through into the plush foyer, leaving Marc to follow.

Marc stared after her for a long moment—and then shrugged and followed.

The suite Henry and his nanny were occupying was on the sixth floor. Marc knocked once, knocked again, and the door finally swung wide.

Most people’s first instinct would be to glance at the view—from this position it was spectacular—but Sydney’s Opera House and the Harbour Bridge beyond held no interest for Tammy. Her eyes were all on Henry. She brushed past Marc and was in the room before he was.

He was just like Lara!

Lara had been the loveliest baby. Tammy’s sister had been born with a fuzz of dark curls and huge brown eyes that had seemed to take over her entire face. She’d had a smile that could light up a room.

And here was Henry, and Henry was just the same. The only difference was that this little boy wasn’t smiling. He was seated in his cot beside the window, watching the harbour below. His eyes were wide and wary, but there was no trace of the smile his mother seemed to have been born with. As Tammy and Marc came through the door he turned to see who was entering his world, but there was no hint of expectation in his eyes.

He looked like a child who had no one.

The nanny had been reading, Tammy saw. A paperback had been hastily thrust aside and a daytime television programme was blaring. The little boy was wide awake but he was simply sitting in his cot. There wasn’t a toy in sight. His only distraction was the window.

And the nanny had been watching television and reading. Dear heaven…

Tammy dropped her pack and was across the room in seconds, gathering the little boy into her arms as if he was her own. As her face nestled into the familiar curls, as she smelled the familiar scent of baby powder and…well, just baby…it was all too much. Until this minute what Marc was telling her had been a fairy tale. But this was real. Henry was real.

For the first time in years she burst into tears.

The child didn’t respond. He held himself stiffly against her, his small body rigid. His expression didn’t change at all.

Slowly Tammy pulled herself together. She was aware that the other adults were watching her without comment—the nanny, who looked about sixteen, and Marc. Their expressions were wary, as if they didn’t know where they’d go from here.

Which was maybe just as well, as Tammy didn’t know where she was going either.

There was a vast armchair beside her. She sank into it, perching Henry on her lap so she could look at him properly.

The little boy gazed back up at her, and then his gaze returned to the window. Windows were more important than people, his expression said.

‘Henry?’ It was a faint whisper against his cheek, but the child didn’t respond.

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