Rhys rarely took action without considering the consequences. If he did, he would currently be wondering if a deflowered virgin was incubating a royal baby. He’d had the presence of mind to stay this side of sane with Sopi, thankfully, but he wouldn’t expose her as his lover to the likes of Nanette until such time as he’d weighed the ramifications for both of them. What little she’d told him about her relationship with Maude meant there could be consequences for her.
She had also left him with the impression that she was the rightful owner of this property, if not legally, at least morally. Her father had bought it for her mother, who had lovingly restored it, but Maude was the one trying to unload it in a private sale under the radar.
That had his mind churning as he took the elevator back to his floor, passing Nanette in a chair in an alcove, hair twisted around one finger, an open book in her lap.
“Good night,” she said as he passed, shoe dangling from her toe.
He nodded curtly, entered his room and went directly to the window on the north wall. He thought he might have seen a flash of movement in the trees but wasn’t sure.
Annoyed, he went back to the folio Maude had given him.
Lawyers cost money, Sopi had said.
They did but, as it happened, he had an abundance of both.
Sopi’s morning went from bad to worse very quickly.
She woke with the worst type of hangover—the sober kind that piled nausea on remorse with none of the blurry celebration of alcohol to dampen her memory or give her an excuse for behaving so wantonly. She didn’t even regret the sex part. She had wanted that, but she felt very much like she’d fallen for a line from a playboy who set up conquests like bottles on a log, simply so he could shoot them down.
At least no one would know, she told herself. Then her walk of shame past the pump house turned up fruitless. One of the hotel’s maintenance men must have checked the gate and gathered her bra and underwear. She could only pray her things would be thrown away rather than turned in to Lost and Found.
By the time she was heading into the back door of the hotel and passing Maude’s office, her phone was exploding with the usual work-related texts. Sopi had her head down, reading complaints about late deliveries and equipment needing repair, and didn’t see Maude waiting for her until her stepmother’s haranguing voice said, “Sopi.”
Hiding her wince, Sopi detoured into Maude’s office. “Good morning.”
“Two of Fernanda’s friends are arriving in Jasper in an hour. They don’t want to wait for the shuttle. Can you collect them?”
“Fernanda can’t do it?” Wasn’t that the obvious solution?
“She’s tied up.”
Doing what? Sopi didn’t ask. She was too relieved to have an excuse to disappear for three hours. Plus, the drive was always pretty. Minutes later, she was admiring the golden gleam of snow off the craggy peaks above her and caught the stub tail of a lynx as it slunk into the trees.
Maude’s information on the women’s flight was completely wrong, of course. Sopi wound up with time to kill, so she engaged in retail therapy while she was in the bigger center. Then she sat in the airport addressing as many texts and emails as she could.
When the chartered flight finally arrived, there were a dozen women, too many for Sopi’s SUV, and they’d already arranged for a private shuttle.
Annoyed, but completely unsurprised—this was classic Fernanda—Sopi drove home alone.
Rhys had grown up on the sort of palace intrigue that had resulted in the murder of his parents. The infantile game Maude was playing, trying to sell this property without telling the person it would affect most gravely, was nothing more than a mosquito-like annoyance to him.
Things took a turn into adult parlor games when Rhys decided to play along while he turned the tables. He kept hearing Sopi ask, How long does it last? What happens when it’s over?
They had barely even started and couldn’t really continue, not properly. That infuriated him, but after their intimacy last night, he couldn’t ignore the way Maude was going behind Sopi’s back. He was convinced Maude would pursue the sale with someone else if he declined, so he decided to go through with it. He had Gerard call Maude first thing and tell her to expect the prince’s counteroffer later today.
Rhys then sent his bodyguard to fetch Sopi. He wanted to come clean about his purchase and include her in the negotiations. Maybe they could work out some other arrangement while they were at it. He knew it was next to impossible, though, and that put him on edge.
When his bodyguard returned with Cassiopeia’s neatly bagged delicates and the news that she had driven away in a company vehicle, he nearly snapped.
This was the only time they had!
He was in a brooding, foul mood when Gerard knocked and entered carrying his trusty tablet. “I relayed the stepdaughter’s details to the palace for the due-diligence investigation, sir. You’ll want to see this. The palace investigators dug fairly deeply into the Brodeur background—”
“And Maude is on the run from the law?” he surmised facetiously. “Shocking.”
“Um, no, sir. Maude and her daughters don’t seem to have a criminal record of any kind. But Cassiopeia’s mother is a Basile-Munier.”
Rhys snapped his head around. “But they died out.”
Nevertheless, his blood leaped as he took the tablet and scrolled through the report. It included an image of a birth certificate and a short article by a historian who had visited this spa some years ago. The man had been trying to prove the owner was the surviving child of a prince who had disappeared from public life after an assassination attempt. That prince and his wife had had a daughter late in life. She’d eloped against her father’s wishes.
A marriage certificate and a title search on this property all seemed to indicate Sopi’s mother was that same woman.
“Is this real?”
“A DNA test would confirm it, although I’m not sure where we’d get a sample. Miss Brodeur seems to be the only surviving member. But if you scroll to the photo at the bottom, it would seem, um, like mother like daughter. And granddaughter.”
Rhys stared at a scan of a dated color photograph of two women who both had Sopi’s cheekbones and chin, rich brown hair and gleaming dark eyes.
The room was absolutely still and silent, but he felt as though a gust of wind hit him. Went through him. Nearly knocked him on his ass.
This was too easy. Too perfect. This wasn’t how life worked. Not how it should do in any case, not for him.
At the same time, a roaring thrill went through him. He could have her. He would have her. His agile brain quickly found the rationale for it. A commoner would have been a
