and Queen Marissa and switched the newborn royal twins for a set of American fraternal twins who were going to be adopted by a couple in Illinois. King Morgan and Queen Marissa raised them as their own. At least that’s what Broderick says. I’m here to speak to Marcus Cordello because he and his twin might be the true heirs to the throne!”
“You were right about the story sounding far-fetched.” Marcus tried to keep his tone even.
“Oh, it’s even more complicated than that. The queen found out about Broderick’s plans before he was able to execute them—at least that’s what she believes—and she thinks Dylan and Owen, the sons she raised, are truly the royal heirs. But she also knows that she and the king have been betrayed by enemies more than once, and her plan to foil Broderick might have gone awry. The head of the Royal Intelligence Institute is investigating all of it, but the bottom line is—Owen and Dylan, who have been raised to be the true heirs of Penwyck, might not be the true heirs. I need to speak with Mr. Cordello and convince him to tell me where his brother is. DNA tests could settle this whole matter.”
Shocked by Amira’s story—it sounded like an implausible plot from a soap opera—Marcus took a few moments to think about it while he continued eating. Was Miss Corbin truly acting as an emissary for a royal family? Or was this whole story some ploy to get to him and his money or connections? Was Lady Amira Sierra Corbin for real? And if she was…
The last thing in this world he wanted was to be a prince! He liked his life just the way it was. He didn’t want to be involved in some royal family’s intrigue. Besides, although he and his brother Shane were twins, they weren’t adopted. His parents might have had their problems, but they never would have kept something like that a secret.
He studied Amira once more. She was beautiful and entertaining, and he hadn’t been truly interested in a woman since Rhonda had died. Every time he looked at Amira, his whole body quickened. For the first time in a long while, he was interested in more than the Dow Jones Industrial Average or whether a company was ripe for a takeover. He wanted to check into this woman’s background, get to know her a little better, possibly even take her to bed. But he couldn’t do any of that if she knew he was Marcus Cordello.
“How long do you intend to stay in the United States?” he asked.
“Until I can meet with this man.” She bit her lower lip and said almost to herself, “I can’t fail the queen.” Meeting his gaze again, she went on, “Mr. Cordello’s secretary tells me he has meetings out of his office until this weekend and then he’ll be gone for a week. I might have to wait until he returns. I have to figure out if it’s worthwhile sitting outside his office door any longer, hoping I might catch him. I must think of a better way to get to him.”
After taking a sip of water, she set down her glass. “Thank you so much for sharing your dinner with me. I don’t even know your name.”
The wheels in Marcus’s head spun. When he was a boy away at school, he used his middle name, Brent, since there was another boy in his class named Marcus. “My name is Brent,” he responded now. Then choosing a last name from thin air, he added, “It’s Brent Carpenter.”
She held out her hand to him. “It’s good to meet you, Brent.”
When he enfolded her hand in his, it felt delicate and fragile. Yet he sensed a strength about Amira that intrigued him as much as everything else. The softness of her skin under his made his blood rush faster, and he told himself to slow down. He told himself this was a woman like none he’d ever met. He had the urge to bring her hand to his lips…to do much more than that.
Before he could analyze his attraction to her, the waiter came in, carrying two apple tarts topped with whipped cream. Amira pulled her gaze from his, glanced at the tart and smiled. “Oh, that looks good.”
He laughed.
The waiter left as unobtrusively as he’d come in and Marcus breathed a sigh of relief. The staff usually addressed him as “sir” and when he had a guest, they didn’t converse with him at all. But there was always a chance someone would call him by name. He found himself liking the idea of becoming Brent Carpenter more and more. He needed a vacation, not only from the city, but from who he was and what he did and everyone’s expectations of him. From now on when he was with Amira, he would think of himself as Brent.
As they both sampled their tarts, he asked her, “Have you seen anything of the city?”
“Nothing but the airport,” she said with a sigh. “During the taxi ride from the airport to the hotel, I had to hold on to the seat in fear for my life, so I haven’t dared take another one. After the warnings the queen gave me about big American cities, I didn’t think it was a good idea to go out alone at night.”
“Chicago’s a wonderful city, Amira. You should see some of it.”
“I’m not really here for a vacation.”
She’d eaten her tart as delicately as any lady, but her beautifully curved upper lip was smudged with a dot of whipped cream. He couldn’t help leaning toward her and sliding his thumb over the spot. Her deep-violet eyes became wider, and her intake of breath at his touch told him she was affected by it. He was, too.
His voice was husky as he explained, “Whipped cream,” and brought his thumb to his own lips and licked the sweet topping.
They gazed at each other, lost in the moment. The thrum of sexual awareness between them practically filled the room.
Her cheeks became flushed and her lashes fluttered down as she demurely cast her eyes at what was left of her tart.
“Amira?” he asked.
She looked up at him once more.
“How old are you?”
“I’m twenty.”
That’s what he’d suspected. But he’d also guessed she was a very innocent twenty. Not at all like Rhonda. The familiar pain, guilt and blame rushed in with the remembrance of his fiancée. For two years he’d hardly looked at women. For two years he hadn’t wanted the responsibility of a relationship…and he wasn’t contemplating a relationship now, he told himself. Amira would be going back to her island. After next week’s vacation, he’d be returning to mergers and interest rates and building a new hotel in St. Louis. But for the next few days…
Amira sipped the coffee the waiter had brought with dessert. He’d noticed her load it down with cream and sugar.
As she returned her cup to the saucer, she couldn’t stifle a yawn. “I’m so sorry,” she said embarrassed. “I think I’m still adjusting to the time change.”
“Nothing to be sorry for. How are you feeling?”
“Wonderfully satisfied. Everything was delicious.” She took her purse from the table where she’d laid it. “You must let me pay for this.”
“Nope. It’s my treat. You saved me from another dinner alone.”
“Do you have dinner alone a lot? Never mind,” she said with a flutter of her hand. “That’s none of my business.”
Her chagrin was enchanting. She was definitely a proper lady. “For a long while now, I’ve had lots of dinners alone. By choice. I put in a long day and just want peace and quiet in the evening.”
“What
