or fifteen to sixteen weeks with an amniocentesis. Or, if you’d like to come back in two weeks, we can do a CVS, chorionic villus sampling. That’s usually reliable at ten or eleven weeks.”
“I won’t be here then.”
At her words, Chase stiffened.
The doctor smiled. “Then I’m afraid you’ll have to guess a bit longer.” He stood and held out his hand.
After she shook it, he inclined his head. “If you need anything else, have your people give me a call.”
Once in the hallway, Sydney headed for the doors under the sign marked Exit. Chase stopped her.
“We need to discuss a strategy.”
“A strategy for what?”
“Dealing with the press.”
She sighed. “What’s to discuss? We’ll just do the same thing we did before. Breeze through them with a bunch of ‘No comments.’”
“We can’t. We can get away with ignoring them once. If we do it twice, they’ll speculate.”
“So? Let them.” She tried to pull away, but his hand on her shoulder prevented her. “Let me go.”
“Do you want to read a story in the morning about how you got rid of your baby?”
Shocked, she stared up at him. “What do you mean?”
“You know how some of them can be, especially the tabloids. Lacking truth to report, they’ll simply make something up.”
“I would never do such a thing.”
“They don’t know that. The general public doesn’t either.”
“You can tell you’re in public relations.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice.
Stoically, he watched her.
“Fine. We’ll make a statement. What do you want me to say?” Despite her anger, her emotions were perilously close to the surface. The back of her throat stung, and she blinked away tears.
“Sydney—” With a curse, he crushed her to him, covering her mouth with his in a hard, possessive kiss.
Neither heard the doors silently swing open.
A flashbulb popped. Then another. Suddenly, reporters with camcorders and cameras surrounded them.
Jaw clenched tightly, Chase released her.
She turned in time to see the cameraman flash a thumbs-up sign. She recognized the reporter standing next to him as Chris Endov, one of the beat reporters for the Daily Press, Silvershire’s main paper.
“What do you want, Endov?” Chase asked. Though he sounded pleasant enough, Sydney recognized the thread of steel underlying his tone.
“I have a few questions.” Endov came closer. “For you, Miss Conner. First you’re hot and heavy with the prince, and now that he’s dead, you’re with his royal publicist? Any particular reason for that?”
Chase answered before Sydney could even open her mouth. “No comment.” Arm around her waist, he began shepherding her away.
The reporters followed, shouting questions.
“Are you still pregnant?”
Sydney tensed. Without even looking at them, Chase tossed off a quick, “No comment.”
“No, wait.” Sydney stopped, turning to face the restless throng. “I want to answer that. Yes, I definitely am still pregnant. I came here to have a routine checkup.”
More flashbulbs. Several of the camcorders were rolling. Sydney tried to look a dignified as possible, memories of her mother’s simpering pandering haunting her.
“Do you know your baby’s sex?” someone shouted.
She forced a smile. “No, it’s too early for that.”
“Were you and Prince Reginald secretly married?”
Without waiting for her answer, another reporter followed up. “Now that the prince is dead, are you planning to step forward and proclaim your unborn child heir to the throne?”
She stood straight and tall, the afternoon breeze lifting her hair. “Absolutely not.”
“Then,” someone else called out, “you’re saying your baby will be born unwanted and illegitimate, like you?”
Someone gasped. The rowdy reporters fell silent, one by one. Chase cursed.
For Sydney, time seemed to stand still. She blanched, turning her face away from the crowd, toward Chase, longing for the comfort of his broad chest.
He took a step toward her and stopped, his expression dark. When she raised her gaze to him, she knew she wasn’t strong enough or quick enough to hide her stark pain.
“Old wound,” she said, striving for lightness but sounding instead as though she’d taken a blow to the solar plexus. She kept her eyes fixed on Chase while she spoke, using him as an anchor.
Something dark, something haunted, crossed his face. She noticed how he fisted his hands, though he kept them at his sides while he searched the crowd to try and find out who’d spoken.
She didn’t want to know.
Someone cleared their throat.
“Who asked that?” Voice deadly calm, Chase searched their faces. No one stepped forward.
“Then we’re done here,” he said, taking Sydney’s arm to lead her off.
“I have one more question.” A woman wearing too much makeup and an overloud orange dress raised her hand.
Chase sighed. “Go ahead.”
“Miss Conner, you never answered the question.” Her broad face had the determination of a bulldog. “Is there any truth to the rumor that you and Prince Reginald were married before his death?”
His expression furious, Chase shook his head.
“She’s engaged to me,” he said.
Several in the crowd gasped audibly, but none louder than Sydney.
Once said, Chase wanted to call those words back. He had no idea what had come over him. The declaration had just popped out. From nowhere. He knew better. What he’d said was not only foolish, but improbable, implausible and highly suspect. Yet now, having said them, he realized he’d have to make them work—somehow, until something could be done to rectify his mistake.
Sydney gazed up at him, her eyes wide and impossibly blue. “Engaged? We are so not—”
“Talking about this now,” Chase put in smoothly.
