about the many children with no real father? She had certainly made the right decision not to get in touch with him two years ago. Danny deserved so much better than a father like him, a father who would never be bothered to spend any time getting to know his child. She didn’t want her baby to grow up the way she did, with a wastrel father who only came into her life whenever it suited him—and left it again without concern for the emotional wreckage strewn in his wake.
“What are you doing in Montebianco?” he demanded, his tone distrustful and suspicious. “Why did you come here, if not to try and blackmail me?”
“I was doing research,” she said, her temper flaring. “For a newspaper article. And why would I want to blackmail you?”
“Do not play games with me, signorina.” He tucked the photo back into his pocket. He looked murderous, as if he could order the guard to forget she was down here and throw away the key. A sliver of fear knifed into her; he probably could do such a thing.
“I hope you are comfortable, Lily Morgan, because you are going to spend as much time in this cell as it takes for me to learn the truth.”
“I told you my boss sent me. I didn’t come for any other reason!”
“You do not wish to tell me this child in the photo is mine? You did not come all this way to do just that? To demand money?”
Lily wrapped her arms around her body, surprised she was trembling, and looked away. “No. I want to go home and forget I ever met you.”
Nico moved so fast she jerked back a step, forgetting the bars between them. His hands were the ones gripping the metal this time, his pale gaze lasering into her. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Miss Morgan, but I assure you I will get to the truth.”
When he shoved away and strode up the passage, she didn’t make a sound. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Prince Nico had no heart.
Nico strode into his apartments in the palace and summoned his assistant. Once he gave the order to find out everything about Miss Margaret Lily Morgan—oh yes, that had been a surprise, finding out she used her middle name instead of her first; and yet it explained why he’d never found a trace of her when he’d inquired two years ago—he went onto the terrace and gazed out at the city below.
The encounter had affected him more than he cared to admit. Lily Morgan was not at all what he expected. She was not the soft, almost shy girl he remembered, his Liliana who was as pure and fine as the flower she was named after. The night in prison should have frightened her, made her cooperative. Yet this Lily was fierce, determined.
But determined to do what?
He did not know, but he would not leave her there for another night—was, in fact, somewhat appalled she’d been held there without his knowledge in the first place. Nico’s mouth twisted in distaste. It made sense that the old fortress was still used as a prison, but the conditions could be improved. Yet another thing he would change now that he was Crown Prince.
He slipped the photo from his pocket, held it between two fingers without looking at it. The photograph had been altered, he was sure of it. Any talented photographer with the right computer equipment could make a photo say anything he or she wanted it to say. How well Nico knew this. Today was not the first time he’d been presented with such a lie. The media tried all the time to place him somewhere he’d not been, or with someone he’d not been with. The photographs were doctored, easily disproved, though it was irritating and inconvenient to do so.
And yet it was the life he’d chosen, when he’d chosen to be the foil for Gaetano. Nico shoved a hand through his hair. He could handle it. He’d always been able to handle it. He would do so now, and he would send Miss Lily Morgan back to America where she belonged.
Madonna diavola, this was also not the first time he’d been presented with a paternity claim—though he’d never been presented with it in quite this way. Lily hadn’t mentioned the child at all until he’d shown her the picture. And then she’d been desperate to get the photo from him, had never actually come out and said the child was his. But it must be her intention. What else?
He lifted the photo, studied it—and felt that jolt of awareness and recognition he’d never experienced before. Unlike the children that two of his former lovers had tried to assert were his—each incident had been disproved and the claims retracted, though Nico still gave money for the children’s care since it was not their faults they’d been born without fathers—this boy had the look of a Cavelli. It was more than the eyes—something in the dark curls, the smooth olive skin, the shape of jaw and nose, the firm set—even in a toddler— of the lips. The likeness was remarkable, yet surely it was a trick.
He’d been captivated by her, he remembered it well, but not so captivated he’d forgotten to take precautions when he’d made love to her. He never forgot to take precautions. It was as necessary to his existence as sleeping or eating. He’d grown up the product of an indiscretion, and he would not ever cause a child to suffer the way he had. When he had children, they would be legitimate, wanted, and loved.
But what if those precautions had somehow failed? Was it possible? Could he be this boy’s father? And, if he was, how could she have kept him from his son for all this time?
But no, it was not possible. He would have remembered if something happened to the condom; nothing had. The child could not be his, no matter how strong the likeness. It was a photographic trick.
Satisfied, he dropped the photo into a potted plant. He would not be played for a fool by this woman. Soon, he would know the truth. And tonight he would formalize his engagement to Princess Antonella, would move forward with the effort to unite Montebianco and Monteverde by honoring the commitment his family had made to the Romanellis when Gaetano was still alive. Antonella Romanelli was a beautiful woman; surely he would be well pleased with her as his wife.
Nico turned from the view and strode toward the terrace doors. He only took a few steps before faltering. With a muttered curse, he retrieved the picture and tucked it against his heart.
Chapter Two
LILY BOLTED UPRIGHT on the musty cot, panic gripping her. Where was she? Why was she so cold?
A moment later, she remembered. The thin blanket she’d huddled under just wasn’t enough protection. She scrubbed both her hands through her hair and got to her feet, hugging herself against the chill settling into the damp fortress walls as night crept over the city. How had she managed to fall asleep after her encounter with Nico?
Her eyes were gritty and tired, and her head throbbed. She’d cried so hard she’d given herself a migraine, though it was thankfully nothing more than a dull pain now. The sleep had helped at least.
The sudden clanging of the metal door in the passageway startled a little cry from her. Her heart pounded as she backed toward the opposite wall of the cell. A naked bulb overhead gave off only meager light and she squinted into the darkness outside the bars. A big shape shuffled into view and thrust a key into the lock. The door swung open just as she made out the uniform of a Montebiancan police officer.
“Come with me, signorina,” the man said in thick English.
“Where are you taking me?” Fear, sharp and cold, slashed into her. Did the prince plan to have her thrown off a cliff somewhere?
Stop being silly.
“Come,”
