tiny little bites, and each time she lifted the fork to her lips, Dylan felt a tightening in his groin. He knew he should look away. Lusting after a woman who lay injured and in pain was hardly a gentlemanly thing to do, especially when he’d been the one to inflict the injuries.
But then, he hadn’t always claimed to be a gentleman.
“Sally told me you’ve been away from the palace for two years,” Emily said after a few moments. “That’s a long time to be away from your family. You must have missed them very much.”
“Yes.” He hadn’t realized how much until he’d returned. “Though my sisters have been horrible nags about how long I’d been gone and the fact I’d been hard to reach.”
“So was it the jungle, the ocean or the Italian villa?”
“What?”
“I’m sorry.” Reaching for her napkin, she dabbed at the corners of her mouth. “I shouldn’t have asked that.”
“Ah. The rumors.” He lifted his chin. “I’ve heard the jungle and ocean ones, but the Italian villa?”
She cast a sideways glance at him. “Where you’ve been hiding out while you were gone, with your lover, the contessa.”
Dylan couldn’t remember that he’d ever been with the same woman for two weeks, let alone two years. “Oh, that villa,” he said, taking another bite of scone. “I’d forgotten. There have been so many.”
Emily raised a brow. “Villas or women?”
“Rumors.”
Too many, Dylan thought in annoyance. From the time he was seventeen, the paparazzi and media had lurked in shadows and hidden around corners everywhere he’d gone. If he had so much as glanced at a woman, suddenly they were a couple, deeply in love, with eyes only for each other. According to the tabloids, Dylan Penwyck had been secretly engaged or actually married more times than he could count. His personal favorite was the eyewitness who’d sworn to have seen him in a Las Vegas chapel, slipping a ring on a famous model’s hand while an Elvis minister presided over the ceremony.
Still, he hadn’t much cared what the newspapers reported one way or the other, even when the headlines had been less than admirable. The only one that had ever bothered him in the slightest had been the accusation he’d fathered a baby and left his lover in poverty and rags while he dined in the finest restaurant with three buxom blondes then got into a drunken brawl with a waiter.
He still saw red every time he thought of that article and the accompanying photograph that barely resembled him. No Penwyck man would ever turn his back on his own child, let alone leave them in poverty.
It was the only time Dylan had personally stepped in and insisted on an apology, written and public, then made a “suggestion” to the newspaper that they make a rather large contribution to a local social services agency that assisted single pregnant women and mothers.
“I’m sorry,” Dylan heard Emily say quietly. “I’ve upset you.”
Dylan turned his attention back to the woman in the bed. She watched him with a worried look in her green eyes, and the sight of her lying there, so fragile and delicate, made him forget about the irritation he’d felt over that damn tabloid article.
Smiling, he shook his head. “Rumors go with the territory, I’m afraid. But it’s certainly taught me that you can’t believe everything you read, or even what you hear and see. Things,” he said evenly, “are not always what they seem.”
Her expression was blank as she held his gaze. “Prince Dylan is a cynic?”
“I question,” he said, then leaned close. “Especially when it comes to beautiful young women with amnesia.”
He caught the slight intake of her breath before she replied, “Are you complimenting me, Your Highness, or cross-examining?”
“Dylan,” he reminded her. “And if I have to tell you it’s a compliment, then I have been in the jungle for too long.”
“Ah.” She arched a brow. “So you were in the jungle, then?”
He shrugged. “Jungle, ocean, villa. Las Vegas wedding chapel.” He smiled at the curious lift of her brow. “What difference does it make? I’m home now, that’s all that matters. My family and serving my country are all that are important to me now.”
Emily glanced away, but not before he saw the tears suddenly form in her eyes. He tucked a finger under her chin, then turned her face back toward him.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “It must be hard for you, not knowing if your own family is out there somewhere, looking for you, wondering if you’re all right.”
“I—” She paused, swallowed hard. “I couldn’t bear it if I thought any harm had come to someone I loved.”
A tear dropped on his hand. He stared at that single drop of moisture, then frowned at the unexpected hitch in his chest. A woman’s tears had never affected him so. Had never inspired him to comfort or soothe.
Pulling his hand away from her, he stood quickly, then forced himself to slip into the stance he reserved for formal public occasions. “You should rest now. Nurse Mavis will have me drawn and quartered if I overtax her patient. If you need anything at all, dial zero and you’ll be connected with the proper department.”
“Thank you.” She lifted her gaze to his. “You’ve been more than kind.”
He turned, was nearly to the door when she called his name. He glanced over his shoulder.
“What if I need you?” she asked softly.
Dylan felt his blood heat, then surge through his veins. Too stunned to speak for a moment, he simply stared at her.
Blushing, she said quickly, “I mean, if I need to speak with you?”
“Star twenty-four will page me.” He swallowed the dryness in his throat. “Star twenty-five will put you through to the private phone in my suite.”
He didn’t give her a chance to answer, just left, nearly closed the doors on his own heels in his hurry to get out before he did or said something he knew he’d regret.
“This chartreuse linen was absolutely made for you, Emily. With your hair and your coloring, you’ll be nothing short of fantastic. Oh, let’s try it on.”
Emily bit the inside of her mouth, swearing if she heard those four little words—let’s try it on—one more time, she might scream. Devonna Demetrius, a short-haired platinum blonde who was the most recent addition to the staff of palace couturieres, had shown up at Emily’s bedside two hours ago, followed by a large, rolling rack of clothes that ranged from sportswear to evening gowns. There were trays underneath overflowing with lingerie and mountains of boxes filled with shoes.
Yesterday, a simple phone call from Dylan had set Operation Wardrobe in motion. Devonna, assistant to Princess Megan’s couturiere, had spent most of the previous day in Emily’s room with a measuring tape in one hand and a color chart in the other. The couturiere had been given free rein with Prince Dylan’s charge, and though Emily had insisted that a few simple
