LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Who is?” the princess snapped, in her mother’s best we-are-not-amused tone.

      But Micheline was just too thrilled by this latest turn of events in the months-long drama the world had been following with such excitement. Who could have kept silent now?

      “But the prince, madame!” she supplied breathlessly. “Et quel héros! Si brave!” She slipped into her native French, English being insufficient for her feelings. “To conquer those terrorists, madame! To risk his life to save us from the anthrax…” She sighed luxuriously. “I am sure you are very happy, madame. Who would not be, with such a man to love her?”

      Julia pressed her lips together and made no reply. She might almost have been fooled by the romance of it herself, if she hadn’t known better. She couldn’t understand what game he was playing. But that it was a game was certain.

      “Everyone is so happy, madame, to know that you will be happy at last!”

      Julia’s jaw clenched. Whatever this latest move meant, it boded no happiness for her. Happy? With a man whose family was still manipulating a painful, century-old tragedy into a totally unjustified claim on Sebastiani land?

      “So, madame, what do you think?” Micheline prompted, unabashed. It was a moment before Julia realized that she was being urged to admire her own hair.

      Julia no longer wore the smooth pleat that had once almost been her trademark. This morning her long, dark hair had been loosely caught back, with soft curling tendrils escaping all around her head.

      The style emphasized the fine bones of her face, very prominent now because of the weight she had lost over the past year, the porcelain skin, the wide blue eyes. She was starting to gain the weight back now, with the pregnancy, but she was still much thinner than she had been in those days when her marriage had seemed storybook perfect from the outside.

      “Perfect, Micheline, thank you,” the princess said, her smile reflected in the deep blue eyes in a way that ensured that most of her staff would walk across burning coals if she asked them to. She got to her feet just as her chief private secretary came through the door, a sheaf of papers in one arm, an extremely odd look on her face.

      “Valerie,” said Julia, as Micheline brushed her down, “have you seen that?” She indicated the newspaper on the floor, and Valerie stopped short and bent to pick it up.

      A stupid question at nearly 9:00 am. The entire island had read or heard the story by now.

      “Uh—yes,” Valerie replied blankly.

      “Will you tell Bertrand I want to talk to him? Immediately, please, if he can make it.”

      “I’m sure he’s waiting to talk to you,” Valerie said, pulling out her phone.

      Micheline handed Julia into her jacket. The soft dusty rose suit had a pencil skirt—she could still wear those—but the boxy jacket hung low over her hips, disguising the first signs of her pregnancy. Underneath she wore a neat white bodysuit with a low scooped neck. She slipped on gold medallion earrings as Micheline passed them to her. On her wrist she wore the bracelet of gold and diamonds she called her lucky bracelet.

      “Thanks, Micheline,” Julia said, with another smile.

      Valerie meanwhile was talking to Bertrand, passing on her message. She disconnected as Julia took the newspaper from her hand.

      “He’ll meet us,” Valerie said, and the two women left the room to stride down the hall together.

      Although obviously consumed with curiosity, Valerie calmly began her usual briefing. “You’ve got the Arts Council representatives due at nine-thirty. I’ll put them in the Blue Room. They’ll be asking…”

      Julia tried to concentrate, but the world seemed to be behind a veil. It was happening more and more lately—no doubt it was pregnancy hormones. She just didn’t seem to have the attack, or the cool nerves, she was known for.

      Or maybe it was because she was preoccupied with what Rashid Kamal had said to the media. What game was he playing? Everyone knew a Sebastiani could never marry a Kamal, baby on the way or not. Even if she wanted to.

      Which Julia certainly did not. Marry a Kamal? Not if he was the last man standing.

      Bertrand, in a smart blue suit and collarless shirt, was waiting in the anteroom of Julia’s private offices, one hand in his pocket, looking rather irritated. They all moved through to the inner office.

      Julia tossed the newspaper down on a low table in the centre of a cluster of chairs and sofas before seating herself and waving at them to do the same.

      “You’ve read it, Bertrand?”

      Of course he had. As her press secretary he made it his business to see everything printed about her, usually before Julia did. He and Valerie slipped into seats facing hers on either side and he leaned forward and picked up the Montebello Messenger, looked at it, then at her.

      “Yes, I got my own copy, as usual. May I say—”

      “He’s got one hell of a nerve! I wonder what he’s playing at?”

      Bertrand, his head bent, elbows on knees, lifted his gaze and looked at her under his brows in silent astonishment.

      “I’d like to issue a statement as soon as possible, please.”

      The press secretary paused, as if waiting for more. Then he prompted, “What do you want me to say, Princess?”

      “A categorical denial that there’s any engagement or any possibility of a marriage, of course!”

      “It’s not true?”

      “I wish these—what?” She jumped as if her seat were suddenly electrified. “True? No, of course it’s not true! Are you crazy, Bertrand?”

      His mouth relaxed imperceptibly. “Forgive me, Princess. I assumed the two of you had—”

      “Had what?” Julia stared at him, and realized belatedly that Bertrand thought she had gone behind his back to make this announcement with Rashid. He had probably been mentally drafting up his letter of resignation, which was just one more sin to lay at Rashid Kamal’s door.

      “Rashid Kamal is a Kamal. He is a long-standing enemy of the Sebastiani family, and that includes myself. I haven’t spoken to him since his return.”

      Bertrand nodded, one eyebrow raised.

      “Has Papa seen it? Has he called?” Her father and mother, thank God, were abroad this week. “He must be raving.”

      “I understand that he has called. He did not speak to me,” her press secretary said carefully.

      Julia almost laughed. “Well, and you’re grateful for that! Why didn’t he ask to speak to me?”

      “I understand he has left a number and hopes that you will call when you have a moment.”

      “That bad, huh?” Julia smiled, but inwardly she quailed a little. Her father would be in a towering rage until she could explain.

      “I can’t believe the Messenger ran the story without calling us for a reaction! Why didn’t they check with us first?” she demanded furiously.

      “Because what the prince said will sell papers,” Bertrand told her dryly. “Our reaction, which they hope to run in the later editions, will sell more copies. Prince Rashid has timed it very nicely. The Messenger is probably going to break all previous sales records today. And given the last few months, that’s saying something.”

      “Well, make getting the statement out your first priority this morning. And I suppose I’d better make Papa mine.”

      “Princess, if I may make a suggestion…”

      She looked an inquiry.

      “I’d like to suggest that we refuse to comment for the moment.”

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