its golden crest, which he was as familiar with as she was. Motioning to the lone chair in front of his very messy desk, he growled, “Sit down. It looks like you’ve got something to tell me.”
That was all the encouragement she needed. Plopping down into the chair, she immediately launched into the story, leaving nothing out. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the happy ending—yet. “I know he’s alive, Simon. He’s got to be! This is proof he walked away from the crash site.”
“Not necessarily,” he argued, playing devil’s advocate. “An animal could have dragged it away.”
“And built a campfire?” she tossed back. “Willy said he found the scarf near the remains of a campfire five miles from the crash.”
Put that way, Simon couldn’t argue with her. “Who else knows about this?”
Not surprised that he’d asked the same question she had, she grinned broadly. “Just you and me and Willy. The king and queen don’t even know yet. Willy was afraid to tell the authorities.”
She didn’t have to tell him why. Willy’s reputation with the cops was well known by every reporter in Denver. A slow smile sliding across his chipmunk cheeks, Simon leaned forward just to be sure he’d heard her correctly. “Are you telling me that the king and queen don’t know there’s new evidence that their son is alive?”
Her blue eyes sparkling, she nodded. “You got it in one, LaGree.”
“Then you’ve got to go to Montebello and tell them!”
Whatever Eliza was expecting, it wasn’t that. “What?! But don’t you think we should tell the police?”
“And let them leak the story to every Tom, Dick and Harry who writes a gossip rag? Hell, no! Go home and pack your bags. I’ll make the airline reservations and get you some spending money. You’ve got to move fast. I want a play-by-play of everything that happens. Everything!” he stressed. “The king and queen are going to wig out when they find out the Prince is alive—”
Throwing instructions at her like darts, he never noticed that Deborah Jones had stepped into the open doorway until she demanded, “What prince? Who are you talking about? My God, is this about Prince Lucas? Are you saying you’ve found him?!”
Caught off guard, they both looked up and swore. From the look on Deborah’s face, it was obvious that she’d heard more than either one of them wanted her to.
Shooting her a hard look, Simon growled, “You’re barging in on a private conversation, Missy. Your daddy may own this place, but that doesn’t give you the right to just waltz in here without so much as a by-your-leave.”
He might as well have saved his breath. Ignoring his lecture on etiquette, she retorted, “If you have proof that Prince Lucas is alive, then I should be the one who goes to Montebello. I’ve traveled all over the world with my father. I have connections that will not only get me in the front door of the palace, but an audience with the king and queen. She doesn’t.”
Furious with the younger girl for trying to steal her thunder, Eliza felt her heart sink. She couldn’t summon a single word in her own defense. Deborah was right—she’d never been to Europe and didn’t have a clue how she would get in to see the king and queen. All she had were her wits and the Prince’s scarf. That might or might not get her anywhere, and what was important here was that Prince Lucas’s grieving parents be told that there was a very good possibility that he was alive. If Deborah could do that and get the story, Eliza couldn’t blame Simon if he sent her. He was caught between a rock and a hard place. Not only did he have to do everything he could to put out a good paper, he had to keep the owner happy. That meant keeping Deborah happy.
But this was her story, dammit! Hers! And she didn’t want to give it up…especially to a little blond-headed twit who used her father’s money and influence to get whatever she wanted. Glancing at Simon, she braced for disappointment. “It’s your call. Who gets to go?”
He didn’t even blink. “You do. It’s your story.”
For a moment, Eliza couldn’t believe she’d heard him correctly. But then Deborah started to sputter in protest, and she knew she’d won. Thrilled, she jumped to her feet and impulsively launched herself at Simon. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she sang, giving him a bear hug. “You won’t regret this. Wait’ll you see the finished story. It’s going to be great!”
Patting her shoulder, he tried and failed to hide a crooked grin. “Don’t get sappy on me,” he said gruffly. “Go on and get out of here. You’ve got a plane to catch.”
“But I want to go!” Deborah cried. “This isn’t fair!”
“I’ve got a more important assignment for you,” Simon said as Eliza hurried out the door. “I need someone to go to Hollywood and interview Brad Pitt. You’re just the girl for the job.”
The throne room at the royal palace of Montebello was seldom used for official business anymore. Years ago, the coronation ceremonies for King Marcus and Queen Gwendolyn had been held there, but most palace guests who visited the room were usually interested in viewing the mosaics on the walls that depicted the country’s history. Not today. King Marcus had called his family together, as well as Kyle and Tyler Ramsey, two American allies assigned to protect his interests, and the ruling family of Montebello’s neighboring country, Tamir. Both royal families had long-awaited King Marcus’s decision, especially now that the two long-feuding countries had been united by the marriage of King Marcus’s eldest daughter, Princess Julia, to Sheik Ahmed Kamal’s son, Rashid, the crown prince of Tamir. Recently, Julia and Rashid had given King Marcus and Sheik Ahmed their first grandchild and as a result, the ruling family of Tamir was concerned about who would take over the Montebellan throne and how this might affect future relations between the two countries.
Now as the guests mingled about and talked among themselves in hushed voices, their eyes lifted time and time again to the clock on the wall. And with good reason. King Marcus was late to his own meeting. Speculation rippled around the room like heat lightning on a summer day. Where was the king? Had he decided not to make a decision today, after all? What was going on?
“Maybe you should go see if something is wrong,” Prince Rashid told his wife, Julia. “This can’t be an easy decision for your father. He doesn’t want to admit Lucas is dead.”
Julia could well understand that. Her brother had always been so full of life. She couldn’t imagine him dead at thirty-six. But it had been a year since his plane had crashed, and even though his body had never been found, what choice did she and the rest of the family have but to accept the fact that he must have died during the winter storms that blanketed the Colorado Rockies after the crash? If he had survived both the crash and the storms, surely he would have found a way to return to them by now.
It was the not knowing that was killing her parents. She’d watched them struggle with hope and despair and, finally, resignation, and her heart ached for them. Now that she and Rashid had their own baby boy, Omar, she didn’t even want to think about what it would be like to lose him. How did a parent handle the death of a child?
“Father just needs some time,” she said huskily, blinking back tears. “He’ll be here in a moment.”
Standing nearby, Rashid’s father, Sheik Ahmed, and Rashid’s brother, Hassan, surveyed the crowd with the sheik’s advisor, Butrus Dabir. There had been a time in the not too distant past when the Kamals wouldn’t
