Capturing the Crown Bundle. Nina Bruhns
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Even though Reginald had refused to acknowledge her pregnancy, she’d had hopes he would change once the child was born.
Even though her own sire hadn’t.
“Was there an accident? How…how did he die?”
“No accident. There’s some speculation it was a drug overdose. Other than that, I don’t know. They haven’t begun the autopsy. I’m sure I’ll be notified—as will the press—when they know anything.”
“Overdose?”
“You didn’t know he did drugs?”
Slowly, she shook her head. Pulling her hand free, she pressed herself into the seat. Tension began to build in her shoulders. For an instant, she longed for Camille, her talented, personal masseuse back home in Naessa, and she rubbed her aching neck. The beginnings of a headache started behind her eyes. Damn it. She felt vaguely guilty, though she knew her wishing him dead had nothing to do with what had actually happened.
Though he’d dumped her and scorned their child, Reginald didn’t deserve to die.
“Are you all right?”
She’d been so lost in her own thoughts she’d managed almost to forget he was there. Almost being the key word. She doubted people often forgot a man like Chase Savage. Even sitting still, he dominated the cabin space.
“I’m fine,” she murmured. “I think.”
For a moment she thought she saw compassion in his hazel eyes. Because she didn’t want that, she swallowed and lifted her chin. “Did you know Reginald well?”
“Prince Reginald?” He raised his brows. “He was a bit out of my stratosphere.”
What could she say to that? “He was out of everyone’s stratosphere.”
“What about you?” he asked. “How’d you meet him?”
“After a performance.” A thousand bittersweet memories rushed back to her. He’d sent her flowers the first night. And every night after that, in every city in which the symphony had performed. He’d come backstage every single time, charming her fellow performers, his dark and hooded gaze focused on her. Only on her.
Afraid, she’d refused his invitation to dinner. Again and again. Her refusals never seemed to faze him, for he’d continued to ask until finally, wearily, she gave in. After all, as he’d pointed out, it was merely a simple meal. What objections could she have to eating?
That dinner had been the beginning of her downfall.
“Reliving the excitement?” Though his tone was kind, he gave her a mocking smile.
Without thinking, she shook her head. “Just remembering,” she told him softly. “Reginald was a charismatic man.” She wouldn’t tell him the rest. “His death will be felt by many.”
“Perhaps.” Chase gave her an odd look. “But then, of course, you must have seen a different side of him.”
Before Reginald’s betrayal, Sydney could have talked about him for hours, and cherished every word. She’d believed he’d loved her, she who’d been so patently unloved her entire life. She’d bloomed under his attention. Now that she knew the truth, that she’d merely been a flavor of the month to him, she felt foolish. What she’d mistaken for love on her own part was mere infatuation. But she’d refused to retreat into her safe little shell. For her baby’s sake, she’d pursued Reginald back to his own country, determined to give her child what she herself had never had. A father.
Staring blindly out her window, she realized the light-colored fog had changed, darkened.
She took a deep breath. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here. In view of what’s happened, I think I should know.”
After a moment, he nodded. “As you know, I’m head of public relations for Silvershire. Prince Reginald forwarded the e-mails you sent him to the duke, who dispatched me to handle you.”
“Handle me?” As though she was some royal hanger-on who now presented a problem.
“Yes. I was sent to check you out.” His gaze swept over her, making her insides tighten.
“Now it no longer matters. Reginald is dead. My baby will never know its father now.”
“No longer matters?” He watched her closely. “You aren’t going to try and claim rights to the throne?”
After a startled moment, she could only shake her head. “I have no reason to do that. If King Weston wants my child to be named heir, then I would consider it.”
“Your child has royal blood. Not just Reginald’s but yours. You’re Prince Kerwin’s daughter.”
“Bastard daughter.” She smiled, a pro at hiding the hurt. “There’s a world of difference between the two. Believe me. That’s why I find it difficult to believe that someone wants to kill me. I’m important to no one, especially my sire.”
Hearing her own words, she winced. She hadn’t meant to reveal so much to this employee of Silvershire’s royal family.
“I still think the attack was because you’re carrying Reginald’s baby.”
“Why would that matter? Reginald and I were not married. My child,” she swallowed, forcing herself to say the hateful words, “is illegitimate.” Like her. “A bastard child can never be heir. Believe me, I should know that better than anyone.”
“True, but the playing field has changed. The prince is dead. Your child is the last of the royal bloodline.”
“I care little about that. Being a princess has only brought me discomfort and unwanted attention.”
“Unwanted?” He still watched her closely. “Is that why you haven’t gone to the newspapers or granted a television interview?”
He sounded incredulous, but then he was in public relations. Nothing would be more important to him than the press.
She couldn’t tell him she didn’t want to be like her own mother, who seemed to spend much of her life courting reporters, while Sydney had been, until Reginald, able to skirt the edges of their radar. She’d like to return to her former quiet life, if possible. “I’d prefer to avoid notoriety.”
His incredulous expression told her he didn’t believe her. “You’re saying you’d actually shun the limelight? You’re an illegitimate princess who’s been largely overlooked. Until now. I know how this works. You’ll bask in your fifteen minutes of fame, just like anyone else.”
Like any other groupie, he meant. As her mother had been. Still was, as far as she knew. Sydney no longer spoke to her mother. “I repeat, I’d prefer a quiet life.”
“You could make a lot of money exploiting this.”
“I have plenty of money,” she said stiffly. “My sire set up a trust fund for me. And, as I’m sure you know, I play cello with the Naessa Royal Symphony.”
“True, but now you’ll have a child to support. One can always use more money.”
She looked out the window instead of attempting to dignify his comments with a response. They’d flown into dark clouds. Lightning flashed to the west, and rain splattered the jet’s windows.
Inhaling, exhaling, she willed herself calm. Years of yoga, breathing exercises and even hypnosis had helped conquer her unreasonable terror of storms.
The jet banked sharply to the right.
An involuntary gasp escaped her.
Chase smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I think it’s just one of those sudden spring thunderstorms. If it had been forecast, we wouldn’t have flown anywhere near it. I’m sure we’ll go around. Franco’s flown this jet a hundred times or more, and Dell’s been his copilot for years.”