Annie And The Prince. Elizabeth Harbison
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for just a minute without realizing it because Annie suddenly found herself leaning against the window with Hans reading a newspaper in front of her. How long had she been out?
Thank goodness he wasn’t looking at her, because as she came around she had lingering daydream images of herself and Hans in unspeakable—but unforgettable—entanglements together. Yet the lingering feeling she had from the dreams was not of sexual fulfillment, but of emotional fulfillment. For just those brief few minutes that she had dreamed, Hans had been the answer to every ache and pain of loneliness that she’d ever felt.
Which was just how illogical dreams were, really, because while the man in front of her was the stuff of sexual dreams, he didn’t seem to have a single impulse for fun. And though he’d been kind to offer to help her, he wasn’t exactly a warm man.
But something in her said that he could be. That he needed someone to cover him and warm him and show him how to enjoy life and not just be all business all the time.
“Then again, you probably have a wife for that, don’t you?” she said under her breath.
He lowered the newspaper and looked at her in a way that made her feel she’d made a terrible mistake.
She straightened in her seat and resisted the urge to clap a hand over her mouth. Had he really heard that? What was he, bionic?
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” he asked.
She stumbled over her response. “I—I—I was, um, saying that I suppose your wife,” she searched frantically for something to say, “takes care of the children while you’re away.” It was a terrible improvisation, but it was too late to stop. “You did say you have children?”
He gave her a long look, then shook his head. “I didn’t, no.”
“Oh, my mistake then.” The train began to slow as it entered the outskirts of Lassberg. She took the opportunity to begin gathering her things.
“I do, though.”
“Do…?”
“Have children. But my wife died a few years ago.”
She looked up, surprised. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
He gave a small, unreadable, shrug.
“How old are your children?” she asked, careful not to tread on potentially painful territory.
A small light came into his dark eyes, like a match lit in a large dark room. “Very young. Both are under ten.”
Like the de la Fuenza children she was going to care for. She loved elementary school age, an age when they began to be interested in books and in the outside world. “It must be difficult raising them on your own.”
He splayed his arms. “I have a staff to help with that.”
“A staff. My goodness, that sounds so—so large. Is that common in Kublenstein?”
He was thoughtful. “More so than in America, I think. Do you not have nannies and governesses in America?”
“It’s very rare.”
“Then who cares for the children when both parents work or are unavailable?”
“Well, there’s day care, school. People work it out, though it’s not always very easy. I think it’s something of a luxury to be able to stay home with them or have someone else stay home with them.”
“Mmm.” He nodded. “I’m very interested in the American way of raising children. Some aspects, anyway,” he amended. “For example, American children tend to be so confident. Bold. Those are good qualities.”
“Absolutely. After working in a school for so long, I’ve seen a pretty direct link between high self-esteem and lots of family involvement.”
He shifted in his seat. “Really? In what way do you mean that, family involvement?”
She stepped carefully, conscious not to insult him. “I just mean when parents spend as much time as they can with their children, the children benefit.” And Annie knew from her own experience the damage that could be done when there was no one around to take an interest in a child’s life.
“Often it’s not possible to spend a lot of time with the children.”
She shrugged. “So you make time.”
He looked out the window for a moment.
“Still, you’re a single father,” Annie went on. “That can’t be easy.”
“No,” he agreed. “There are times when it can be trying. They need a woman’s influence more than they need mine. They’ve had many caretakers yet at times they still seem so…needy. So emotional.”
“Well, there’s your problem right there,” Annie said, without stopping to think about whether she should or not.
A wall went up behind his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
She realized her mistake immediately. “Nothing,” she said, trying to backpedal. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s none of my business.”
He hesitated. He was inclined to agree with her. But seeing as how he’d only be with her for a few more minutes before they parted and he would never see her again, he felt he could listen to her opinions a bit more. After all, he’d just hired an American. It was important for him to know what kind of style he might be dealing with. “No, no, please go on. I asked you. I truly am interested in the American perspective.”
“Well…” She shrugged again. “You said you’d hired ‘many caretakers’ but what kids really need is one person they can depend on. Preferably you, since you’re…around…” She paused just for an instant. “There is an emotional risk to them if you hire a rapid succession of caretakers.”
He was genuinely puzzled. “Emotional risk?”
She frowned. “Yes. In not having one single caretaker to rely on, whether it’s you or someone you hire. But preferably you.”
His defenses went up. He wanted her general opinion, not a personal judgment. “The children know they can rely on whomever I choose to hire.”
“But maybe that’s not enough.”
“It’s enough,” he said shortly.
A vague protectiveness for the unknown children rose in Annie’s heart. “All right,” she conceded. “Just let me say this. Children need to have people in their lives who will be there for them, even when you think it’s not important, like after school, before bed, whatever. They need to know that they can count on that person to be there, to be available if they need them. Not just a person, but someone they love and trust, and who loves them, too.” Annie knew she might be overstepping the bounds of courtesy, but the conversation struck too close to her heart for her to be concerned about being polite.
He nodded slowly, watching her. Then a tiny smile nudged at the corner of his sensuous mouth. “You don’t have children of your own, do you?”
“As I said, I’ve worked with children for years.”
“Yes, well, until you have them, perhaps you don’t realize exactly what their needs are.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Her voice was quiet, but hard.
Satisfied that the conversation was settled, Hans leaned back and began thinking about the list of things he had to take care of that afternoon. He was very anxious to get away from this conversation.
“In general,” she said, cutting into the silence, “if a person has been through a long line of caretakers and can’t understand why the children are emotionally needy, I don’t think that person has been listening to them.”
Hans shifted in his seat and looked at her, hard. “May I ask why you feel so strongly about