wasn’t sure why. After all, she’d passed the entrance to her father’s quarters numerous times since his death. And though she’d experienced any number of emotions—disbelief, grief, guilt—not once had she been tempted to step inside.
Until now.
Yet suddenly she wanted to know if Prince Marc had read the note she’d sent him the last day of his life. The note thanking him for going boating in her place with King Thomas and apologizing for disrupting his schedule. The note asking if they might meet later that day so she might explain the real reason she’d begged off at the last minute.
Whether her need sprang from simple curiosity, a belated need to reconnect with her father or some sort of subconscious attempt to occupy her mind with a subject other than the sheikh, she didn’t care. She simply had to know. She opened the black-wreathed door and stepped inside.
The elegant sitting room looked the way it always had, as if it was waiting for the prince’s imminent return. The carved mahogany furniture was freshly polished, the plush gold, maroon and navy carpet recently vacuumed. Her father’s favorite smoking jacket lay folded over the arm of the Queen Anne chair next to the fireplace, and the cut crystal decanter on the wet bar in the corner was three-quarters full.
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