LITMIR.BIZ

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would be terribly disappointed if Amelia sabotaged her chance to inherit the throne of Korosol.

      For the time being, discussion of Amelia marrying Nick was put on the back burner, for which she was grateful. The four women launched themselves into shopping in earnest. But one phrase kept running through Amelia’s mind…

      No wife, no adoption, no kids.

      When they arrived back at the penthouse, arms laden with sacks and boxes for the nursery, Bernice, Charlotte’s rotund, rosy-cheeked cook, enticed the sisters to have lunch before they all went their separate ways. Charlotte joined them. Amelia had hoped her grandfather, who was staying at the penthouse, might also venture out and share in the meal. In a more informal setting, she might broach the subject of Nick and Josie and Jakob again. But he took his meal in his room, which he often did.

      Charlotte presided over lunch as if it were a board meeting. Her slim stature, erect posture and short, tousled white hair made her look far younger than her fifty years. She was deeply concerned about her girls’ futures, but she had spent so much time away from her daughters when they were young that none of them felt terribly close to her.

      “So, Amelia,” Charlotte began as they all munched on crab-salad croissants around a table on the screened lanai, “how did Mr. Standish’s audience with the king go?”

      “That was yesterday,” Lucia commented. “You’re just now asking?”

      “I’ve been busy,” Charlotte said tightly. “We’ve got the dock workers threatening to strike and a new ship to ready for dedication next week. The mayor’s coming for that one, you know.”

      Lucia poked her fork into the crunchy end of her croissant. “I thought you were interested in Nick’s audience.”

      “I am, of course. And I’m sure Amelia will tell me what happened, if you’ll stop sniping at me.”

      “Sniping? All I did was—”

      “Knock it off, Lucia,” Amelia said wearily. “You were picking a fight and you know it.” Lucia and Charlotte mixed about as well as gasoline and matches. All of her life, Amelia had been the peacekeeper. If it wasn’t Lucia trying to establish her independence, it was CeCe trying too hard to compete with her mother, though Charlotte had been getting along better with CeCe since learning of her impending grandchild. Charlotte, who had not been the most attentive of mothers while the princesses were growing up, intended to make up for it with her grandchildren.

      “You’re right,” Lucia said grudgingly. “Sorry, Mother.”

      Charlotte smiled at Lucia. “My little drama queen. You always did like to scrap. I’ve always had that problem myself.” Crisis averted, Amelia related to her mother what had happened during Nick’s brief audience.

      “He can be so inflexible,” Charlotte said in an exasperated reference to the king. “And once he’s made up his mind, there’s no changing it.”

      “I was afraid you’d say that.” Amelia blotted her mouth and set her napkin on the table, no longer hungry. She couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. She had to at least talk to Nick one more time. He’d avoided her and all of the New York Carradignes like Ebola ever since their audience yesterday. She’d pried the name of his hotel out of Eleanor, and left half a dozen messages, but he wouldn’t return her calls.

      Each hour that passed with no word from him increased Amelia’s suspicion that he was going to do something crazy. And she was powerless to stop him.

      Or was she?

      Quincy Vanderling, Hester’s husband, opened the door and stepped onto the lanai. “Begging your pardon, ladies,” he said even as he grabbed an olive off Amelia’s plate and popped it into his mouth. He then smoothed his thinning white hair in a gesture of nonchalance.

      When Hester had come to America to work for Lady Charlotte and Prince Drake shortly after their marriage, a besotted Quincy had followed, eventually hired as the Carradignes’ butler—and as Hester’s husband. Slightly stooped and a little husky, he wasn’t very butlerish. But he was utterly devoted to Hester and the Carradigne family.

      “What is it, Quincy?” Charlotte asked.

      “Miss Eleanor Standish is here. She needs to deliver some faxes to the king, but she would like to pay her respects to you all as well. Want me to put her in the Grand Room?”

      Ellie! Exactly who Amelia needed to see. She popped out of her chair. “I’ll bring her out here. Maybe she’ll want a sandwich—there’s plenty of crab salad left.”

      Amelia wended her way through the kitchen and up the back stairs, following Quincy as he led her to Ellie, who was just coming out of the king’s suite. She heard the king’s final murmured words to her as she closed the door behind her.

      “Here you go,” Quincy said, then shuffled off to do whatever it was he did when he wasn’t butlering—possibly getting himself a little nip of sherry.

      “Amelia!” Eleanor said as she shoved some papers into her briefcase. “You didn’t have to escort me down. I just wanted to pop in and say hi to everyone.”

      “But I wanted to speak to you privately,” Amelia said. Not here in the hallway, though, where someone might overhear. She led Ellie into an empty suite across the hall from Easton’s quarters and closed the door.

      “Why all the mystery?”

      “Is Nick still in New York?”

      Ellie looked at her watch. “For about forty more minutes. His plane leaves at 2:05.”

      “Plane to where?”

      “To Korosol, of course. Where did you think?”

      “LaGuardia, or JFK?” Amelia asked urgently.

      “JFK.”

      “What airline?”

      “Air France, I think. Amelia, what is this about?” She gave Ellie a quick hug. “I don’t have time to explain. Tell the family I’m…running an errand.”

      She sprinted down the hall to her own room, not really thinking or planning her actions, just running on pure instinct. There was no time to order the limo—she would have to take a taxi. She’d regretted her decision to abandon Nick and the kids to the fates. This was the only way to make it right again.

      From her room she grabbed big sunglasses, a hat and a long, bulky jacket that disguised her figure, which sometimes drew unintended attention despite the fact she did little to show it off. As she crept down the main stairs, she stuffed her telltale blond curls into the hat, shoved the glasses onto her face and donned the jacket.

      She would have to sneak past the security station. The guard on duty couldn’t keep his eyes on everything at the same time. While he checked the various monitors, she darted past him to the elevator. Ordinarily she was expected to let security know where she was going, but she didn’t have time for lengthy explanations.

      Her luck held—no one saw her exit the Carradignes’ private elevator. Walking without her usual bold stride and confident gaze, shuffling along staring at the ground in front of her, she was a master at blending into crowds when she had to.

      Once outside, she quickly secured a cab. “JFK, please, and there’s an extra twenty in it for you if you make it to the Air France gate in thirty minutes.”

      “Yes, lady!” the Ethiopian driver said. He punched the gas pedal and the car jolted forward.

      Amelia’s luck held out as they encountered no traffic jams in the Queens Tunnel. The cabbie made it with two minutes to spare. Amelia shoved some cash at him and leaped out of the taxi without a backward glance.

      She found the flight to Korosol on the Air France monitor. It was on time, probably the only flight all afternoon that wasn’t running behind. So much for luck. She dashed through the airport until she reached the gate, which was devoid of passengers. Everyone had boarded

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