I’m doing.”
He almost smiled. “That’s been obvious from the first moment I saw you.”
She pressed her hand on his and gazed earnestly up into his eyes. “No, I’m serious. I really don’t know who I am.”
He blinked and the smile faded. “That’s why you made up that name, Marisa Fleur?”
She gasped. “How did you know?”
He shrugged. “I saw the sign in the café and figured it out pretty quickly.”
She sighed, shoulders slumping. “I wish I was a better liar,” she muttered.
“What was the point of lying?” he said sensibly. “You got hit on the head and you’re a little confused. That’s why you need to see a doctor.”
She looked at him in surprise, then realized what he saw when he looked at her. He saw a woman under suspicion of wanting to commit suicide. Maybe he thought she’d wanted to jump because she was pregnant and had no husband. And why wouldn’t he think that? She had no wedding ring on her finger. That made her bite her lip. She probably wasn’t married, but she really didn’t know. And why was her impulse to lie about it all? Was she trying to hide something?
But all that was crazy. She wasn’t suicidal. She was confused, but not ready to end it all. Was she?
No, of course not. Why couldn’t she keep things straight? She’d climbed up on the bridge to try to see where the man had tossed her suitcase. She had hoped to see where it had landed, or where the river might have taken it, so that she could get it back and find her things and clear everything up. That was all. Nothing earthshaking. She hoped.
“Come on,” he said. “I live right across the street.”
She looked at where he was pointing and gasped.
“Wait a minute. Isn’t this Altamere? The royal palace?”
“Yes. Come along.” He started across the street and she came along willingly, gaping at the huge Gothic building they were headed for.
“Oh my,” she said softly.
He glanced down at her. “Have you been here before?”
“What? No. I don’t think so. But…” She looked at him questioningly as he used a remote to open the huge iron gates. “Do you work here or something?”
“No, Marisa,” he said, closing the gates behind them and nodding to a security guard. “I live here.”
“Wait.” Grabbing his arm, she stopped and stared up at him, her eyes huge with wonder. “Ohmigod. You’re one of the princes, aren’t you?”
He smiled, his blue eyes shining with amusement. “Guilty as charged.”
That did it. The world started to swirl and if Nico hadn’t caught her, she would have hit the ground for the second time that night.
CHAPTER THREE
“ALL I can say is, it’s about time you brought a woman home.”
Nico turned to throw a stern glance at his lively, dark-haired sister as she entered the parlor where he’d taken Marisa just after she’d fainted in his arms. But his next words were directed at the silent-as-a-ghost butler standing near the door.
“Chauncy, has Dr. Zavier been contacted?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” the man responded with a slight bow. “He is on his way here now.”
“Good.”
He turned back to Marisa, looking down at her, where she lay on the velveteen couch, with a frown of concern. She hadn’t stirred since he’d carried her in. Did that have any connection to the bump on the head she’d taken earlier on the bridge? He took her hand in his again and felt her pulse. She was lying very still with her eyes closed, but he couldn’t see any other evidence of injury. Her breathing was normal.
What the hell—maybe she was asleep.
“She’s very pretty,” Carla noted, leaning on his shoulder to look at the exceptionally pretty blond woman. “Though I thought brunettes were more your type.”
He had to bite back the sharp retort that rose in his throat. Maybe Carla had forgotten about Andrea.
Andrea. Just thinking her name slashed another jagged tear into his heart. A vision of wild, lustrous auburn curls filled his mind’s eye. Memories of her dancing green eyes, her soft skin, her rolling laughter swept over him in a wave that threatened to choke him. He pulled away from his sister and began to pace the Persian carpet, fighting back the crippling anger that always came when he thought of his loss.
Marisa was a very different type. Slender and light, her blond hair curling into an impenetrable mass that didn’t quite reach her shoulders, she was nothing like the woman he had loved. But just seeing Marisa lying there on the couch brought back his most painful memories.
Andrea had been on the cold, hard ground that awful night, over a year ago now. They’d been pinned down by a sniper and his rounds were still biting in around them as he’d worked frantically on her wounds. Ripping apart his shirt to use to bind her torn flesh, he tried desperately to stop the bleeding. He cried out encouragement, prayed aloud, promised things and begged. But the blood kept coming, slowly draining her life away. And finally, there was nothing to do but to cradle her lifeless body in his arms and curse and sob out his anguish and promise revenge.
But that was then. This was now. And the woman on the couch wasn’t in danger of dying. Still, she was alone and vulnerable and she carried a child, just like Andrea. He couldn’t ignore the parallels.
“This is hardly a date, Carla,” he rebuked her curtly, just because he had to funnel his anguish into anger in order to keep it under control.
“Well, brother dear, it’s as close as you’ve come lately,” she said cheerfully, pushing back her thick black hair and bending over Marisa.
He glanced over, regretting that he’d snapped at her, though not quite enough actually to apologize. He knew it hadn’t been easy for Carla, growing up during a war with three older brothers always taking precedence. He should cut her some slack.
Carla had lived a strange, schizoid existence, sometimes thrust into the midst of bloody battles as the family fled attack, at other times treated as though she were the proverbial pampered princess to be kept away from ordinary life as long as possible. Their mother had died two years ago and their father, the king, very recently. When she’d been alive their mother had always acted as though Carla’s primary role in life was to wait for the right eligible swain to present his credentials and get permission to sweep her off her feet. So Carla had waited. But the war and other things had cluttered the time up and now, in her early twenties, he knew she was beginning to fear she had waited too long.
Seeing the look in his eyes, Carla knew he was thinking about her situation. She appreciated his compassion, but a little action on her behalf would be more useful. Princesses were usually betrothed by now. And no one seemed to be doing anything about it.
When she’d taken her fears to their aunt Kitty, the older
