The Improperly Pregnant Princess

“Mr. O’Connell is waiting in your office,” she said. “Also, your mother stopped by.”

That was hardly big news, since Charlotte’s even larger office suite lay at the opposite end of the corridor. “Did she say why?”

“No, Miss Carradigne.” The secretary, although a reserved woman, talked fast because she’d learned that otherwise she’d never get to finish her spiel. “She said she’ll drop by again when she has time. I put the new traffic study on your desk.” That was a compilation of data by DeLacey executives regarding potential problem areas, including trade routes and competitors.

“Thank you,” CeCe said as she breezed past.

She flung open the broad, polished-wood door into her office. Even in February, light flooded the expansive room overlooking the harbor.

A large silhouette blocked one window. “I’ll get back to you,” Shane said into his cell phone, and clicked off. Frowning, he turned to face CeCe.

Time stopped. Even the adrenaline rushing through her arteries slammed to a halt as their gazes met.

The man’s fierce brown eyes pinned her with such force that CeCe could hardly breathe. In the two months since they’d seen each other, she’d forgotten the impact of Shane’s presence.

His husky build and broad shoulders made most other men look scrawny. Even more impressive was the masculine confidence that showed in every movement.

He tapped his watch. “You’re five minutes late. I have a busy schedule.”

She rejected the idea of blaming her tardiness on traffic. “I was unavoidably delayed,” she said, and clapped her briefcase onto her broad desk.

That was a mistake, because it forced out some air. Shane caught a whiff. “You stopped for lunch, I gather.”

“I didn’t stop. I ate on the run.” CeCe grabbed the hot dog wrappers and dumped them in a wastebasket.

“You’ll get indigestion.”

I’m going to have indigestion for about seven more months, so what the heck? No, she scolded herself, that was not the best way to break her earth-shattering news. “That’s my problem.”

Shane gave her a crooked grin, revealing a devastating dent in one cheek that sent heat flooding through CeCe’s body. Annoyed with herself, she unbuttoned her coat and tossed it onto a chair.

“If you don’t want to discuss your eating habits, let’s get down to work.” He set his laptop computer on her conference table and flipped it open. “To date, Wuhan Novelty has cobbled together a variety of carriers to transport toys down the Yangtze River, across the Pacific and on to warehouses and stores. Add the fact that they’ve also begun selling directly on-line, and you’ve got a complicated mess.”

“Which we can uncomplicate,” CeCe said.

“Absolutely.” Swiftly, he outlined his plan for combining DeLacey’s shipping capacity with his fleet of trucks and planes to provide door-to-door service to North America.

Sitting beside him at the conference table, CeCe felt the energy pulsing through Shane as he talked. If there were a bed in her office, she might be tempted to fall into it.

Hadn’t she learned anything?

“Your eyes are glazing over,” he said. “Am I boring you?”

“Not at all,” CeCe said. “It’s a brilliant plan.”

What she needed, she realized abruptly, was a brilliant plan of her own. Not to win the contract with Wuhan, but to introduce the subject of children.

“Do you have anything to add?” Shane asked.

“Toys!” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“They make toys.” It was the perfect lead-in.

“I’m aware of that,” he said.

As usual when CeCe’s mind was racing a mile a minute, an idea popped into it. “We’re going to do more than transport their product,” she said. “We’re going to give them free publicity and get some for ourselves.”

“How do you propose to do that?” From the glint in his eye and the way he leaned forward, it was clear she’d engaged Shane’s interest.

“As you know, if we get the contract, DeLacey will be buying a couple of new container ships,” CeCe said. “We’ll paint them—what are Wuhan’s corporate colors?”

“Yellow and red,” Shane said.

She should have known that, CeCe thought, hating to be caught short in even the smallest detail. “Great. Also, we’ll put their logo alongside ours and fly their flag right below ours. We’ll paint some of your planes and trucks, too. We want everybody to notice that DeLacey and O’Connell are bringing them toys.”

“Like Santa Claus,” he suggested.

“Yes!” The more she expanded on it, the more CeCe loved her idea. “We’ll design an ad campaign. Not just for trade publications, but TV commercials and billboards.”

“We don’t ship for the general public. We only serve corporate customers,” Shane pointed out.

“Corporations are run by people who have children,” CeCe said. “We’ll make them love us. When we pitch them our services, it’ll give us an edge over our competitors.”

“It could work,” Shane agreed. “Personality is one thing most freight companies lack.”

“Speaking of children,” CeCe said, and stopped, unable to figure out how to finish the sentence.

“Yes?” His face, close to hers, was manly. A strong jaw. An expressive mouth…

“Do you like them?” she asked.

“Do I like kids?” he echoed. “I’m not sure I follow your point.”

“You might…act as a spokesman. In the ads,” she improvised. “You could talk about how having children humanizes corporate executives. About how you can’t wait to have children yourself.”

“Me?” he said.

“Who better?” CeCe asked. “I mean, I’m a woman, so it wouldn’t make people sit up and pay attention if they heard me talking about children.” Unless they knew me, of course. “But if you said a few words about how much fatherhood meant—or might mean—to you, or was something you looked forward to…”

He leaned back, disconnecting. “Sorry, CeCe, but I’m not the type.”

“What type is that?” She hoped her sinking feelings didn’t show on her face.

“I’m not cut out to have kids.” Shane’s voice had a tight quality that hadn’t been there before. “I don’t have the time or the interest. I don’t even like them.”

“We’re talking theoretically,” CeCe said. “About how you might feel someday, not right now.”

“Children make me feel trapped,” he said. “My childhood was pretty miserable. Not that I use that as an excuse for anything. The whole family thing just doesn’t work for me.”

“That’s so—so—1980s of you!” she flared, hopping up because she couldn’t bear to sit next to this man for another instant. “You’ve heard of the ‘me generation’? We’re supposed to be past that! Men today march in picket lines for fathers’ rights. How’d you get stuck in the past?”

“Wait a minute.” Shane, too, got to his feet, apparently unwilling to have CeCe tower over him. In this position, his six-feet-one-inch frame would have dwarfed hers had she not been wearing three-inch heels. “We’re talking about an ad campaign, for heaven’s sake. Don’t take it personally.”

“It’s a great ad campaign!” CeCe could hear her tone rising. “Or it was until you loused it up!”

“I never claimed to be an actor.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing! Everything! Isn’t it obvious?”

“I guess we should talk about what happened between us,” Shane said.

“Nothing happened,” CeCe said. “Didn’t we agree on that?”

“If nothing happened,” came her mother’s voice, “why are you shouting about it?”

Shocked, CeCe came to a dead stop. How much had Charlotte heard?

The president of DeLacey Shipping glided into the room. The Duchess of Avion—who had received the title upon her marriage, although no one called her that outside of Krissy Katwell’s gossip column in the Manhattan Chronicle—moved with natural grace.

“Good to see you, Shane,” she said.

“It’s a pleasure, Lady Charlotte.” As they shook hands, Shane’s manner became subtly more polite and restrained. Like everyone in New York except Charlotte’s own daughters, he was a little in awe of her.

She could do things that nobody else got away with. Take, for instance, her short hair, which had turned completely white as she approached her fiftieth birthday. The unfashionable hue looked so attractive that a lot of people assumed she’d bleached it, and hairdressers had hurried to follow the trend.

As for her clothing and grooming, they were always immaculate and perfect for the occasion. Today she wore a blue wool jacket that brought out the color of her eyes, over a gray silk blouse and winter-white skirt.

“Discussing the Wuhan account?” Charlotte asked. “What have you decided?”

She didn’t sit down, so Shane and CeCe kept their recital brief. The company president nodded approval when they finished. “Let me know when you’ve finalized the presentation.”

“Before we submit anything formally, a trade representative has invited CeCe and me for brunch day after tomorrow,” Shane said. “He seems thrilled at the idea of meeting a princess.”

“Good. She’ll be there.” Charlotte didn’t bother to ask CeCe whether the engagement fit her schedule. “Now, if you’ll excuse us?”

“Of course.” Shane closed his laptop. CeCe felt his gaze linger on her as he said goodbye.

After closing the door behind him, Charlotte said briskly, “Well, well. That man likes you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not his type, of course,” her mother continued with maddening certainty. “A man like him needs a lady who builds her life around him. Someone compliant, which no one has ever accused you of being.”

Although she didn’t consider Shane O’Connell to be her type, either, CeCe bristled at her mother’s words. She knew better than to say anything, though. Revealing one’s feelings to Charlotte meant turning them over for inspection and rearrangement.

“Linzy said you dropped by earlier. What’s going on?” she asked.

“Your grandfather is coming to visit,” said Charlotte. “How’s that for a bombshell? Arriving tomorrow, no less. I suppose it’s a royal prerogative not to give much advance notice.”

To CeCe, who hadn’t seen King Easton of Korosol since she was nine, the king was both a stranger and a legendary figure. A thrill of excitement ran through her.

“Why?” she asked. “He never travels this far.”

“He refused to say anything except that the trip is secret,” Charlotte said. “He’ll be staying with us. The rest of his staff will reside at the embassy, except for the bodyguards. As it turns out, the apartment below ours is vacant, so they’ll be housed there.”

CeCe’s head spun. She wasn’t sure she could deal with a royal visit while her personal life was in such an uproar. Still, what choice was there? “What can I do to help?”

“He’s expressed a desire to spend time with you,” said her mother. “You’ll accommodate anything he requests. The king expects to get his way, and he shall.”

“But my work—”

“If you need to take time off, then do it,” her mother said. “You’ll attend that brunch with Shane. There’s nothing like a princess to impress the customers. Otherwise, I’ve run this business since your father died and I can handle it without you just fine.”

Her words hit CeCe like a slap in the face. Since earning her master’s degree in business five years earlier, she had worked long hours to reorganize and modernize DeLacey Shipping’s corporate structure. It appeared none of that meant anything to her mother.

She had to speak up on her own behalf. She didn’t, however, want to sound like a little girl whining to an all-powerful parent, so CeCe chose her words carefully. “I’m sorry you don’t value my contributions more than that.”

“Don’t get all worked up over nothing.” Charlotte waved her hand dismissively. “You’re a big help, most of the time. Now, remember, the king is arriving tomorrow afternoon, so you’ll need to leave the office early. We’ll discuss the rest of the arrangements at home.”

Then she was gone, leaving CeCe steaming. Sometimes it was hard to tell who infuriated her most, Shane or her mother.

A roiling sensation in her stomach brought her back to reality. The delicate matter of her pregnancy would have to be kept secret, even within the family, until the king departed.

Thank goodness she hadn’t told Shane. No one must know and there must be no risk of scandal in front of King Easton, or CeCe would never be able to face her mother again.

Chapter Two

Shane had his cell phone clamped to one ear as the cab halted in front of his Madison Avenue office building. O’Connell Industries occupied an entire floor of the sleek high-rise.

“We’ll see you Thursday morning,” he confirmed to the Chinese trade representative. They had already agreed to eat at a French restaurant near Central Park, convenient to CeCe’s apartment. “The princess looks forward to meeting you.”

The cab driver turned and gave him a hurry-up look. On the sidewalk, a man tugged at the door and called, “You getting out or what?”

Mindful of the Chinese sensitivity to protocol, Shane said a polite goodbye into the phone while paying the driver. After hanging up, he pocketed the phone, collected his laptop and hurried across the sidewalk into the lobby.

Other people jostled him as Shane bolted for the elevator and wedged himself inside. The first thing he would do when he owned his own building was to designate a private elevator, he vowed.

On the thirty-first floor, Shane stepped into the East Coast headquarters of O’Connell Industries. He always relished passing through the vast outer office filled with desks and ringing phones. What a contrast to the shabby hole-in-the-wall where he’d begun his career!

“Mr. O’Connell? Ferguson is here,” said Tawny Magruder, Shane’s secretary, when he reached his office suite. A tall, dark-skinned woman who took no guff from anyone, she nodded toward the man sitting outside Shane’s office.

His personal assistant and valet, Ed Ferguson, rarely came to the headquarters. His domain included Shane’s apartments on both coasts, his vacation cottage, his yacht and his corporate jet.

Today, Ferguson’s purpose was evident from the tuxedo, encased in a plastic cleaner’s bag, draped over his arm. “I thought you might not get home in time to change for tonight,” he said.

“What would I do without you?” Shane asked. Ed, a former foster child with whom he’d shared a group home, had been first a friend, then his devoted employee. Slight of build and modest of manner, the man might appear colorless to others, but Shane valued his steadfastness and honesty.

“You sure do need him. Don’t anybody ask me to fetch their dry cleaning,” said Tawny.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Shane said.

His secretary smiled. Like him and Ed, Tawny had had a difficult past, including a stint as a welfare mother. She’d turned out to be a real tiger, quick to defend her boss and untiring in her work.

Her loyalty, like Ferguson’s, was intense. Shane’s willingness to hire people with troubled backgrounds—as long as they adhered to his high standards—was, he believed, one of his company’s strengths.

“You’re expected at the Foster Children’s College Fund dinner at six-thirty,” Ferguson reminded him.

“He knows that,” Tawny said. “I entered it into his organizer.”

“A busy man has other things to do than look up lists,” the personal assistant retorted stiffly.

“I never leave the office without making sure Mr. O’Connell knows his plans for the evening,” snapped the secretary.

Shane grinned at them both. “I appreciate your concern, you two.”

“If you need help dressing, I can return,” Ferguson said.

“Look, if the man needs…” Tawny stopped in mid-sentence. “Okay, if he wants somebody to zip his pants, I’ll let you do it.”

“I can zip my own pants, thank you very much,” Shane said. “Ed, I appreciate your bringing the tux.”

“Also, there were a couple of messages.” The aide handed him an answering-machine tape. “Of a personal nature.”

“Thanks.”

“You could have left that with me,” Tawny said. “Mr. O’Connell, I told him earlier there was no need to wait.”

“It was my pleasure to wait,” Ferguson said. “Good day, Mr. O’Connell, Miss Magruder.” His back straight, the aide withdrew.

“I’m going to start calling him Jeeves,” muttered Tawny, and returned her attention to her computer.

Inside his private office, Shane dealt with his e-mail and returned business calls. As he talked, he propped his feet on the broad desk.

He loved this office, and the one at his West Coast headquarters in Long Beach, California. CeCe Carradigne might take her surroundings for granted, but Shane never did.

CeCe Carradigne. He pictured her tall, slim figure striding across her office to greet him this afternoon. Her blond bangs and slightly angular bone structure emphasized the size of those green eyes, and he relished the fullness of her lips.

Today, he’d watched for any sign of the warmth they’d shared that night they spent together. Surely at some point, he’d believed, she would relax and joke with him. Touch his cheek. Move suggestively closer…

It hadn’t happened. She must be made of ice, as people said. Or else that night simply hadn’t meant anything to her.

Shane wished he didn’t find the woman so fascinating. He had relished discovering the feminine side underneath her tough exterior. And he loved the quick way her mind worked.

They were too much alike, though. If he ever did settle down with a woman, she wouldn’t be someone who worked as hard as he did and fought every battle to the bitter end.

Besides, Shane had gradually come to accept, as one relationship after another failed, that he wasn’t suited to long-term intimacy. Maybe it was because his private life always came second to business. Or because, as an orphan, he’d learned that emotional safety lay in depending exclusively on himself.

That didn’t mean he’d lost interest in women, only that he was realistic about the terms of endearment. Reminded of the tape Ferguson had left, he inserted it into the answering machine.

“Shane! Darling!” It was Amy, a recently divorced stockbroker who’d flirted with him at a cocktail party. “I’ve just been handed tickets to the most fabulous musical for Saturday night, and of course I immediately thought of you.”

The next message came from Janet, an attorney he’d met at a charity event. She had sharp, lively features, he recalled, and had recently separated from her husband.

“I’m throwing a little dinner party for a few friends on Saturday,” she said. “I’d be so pleased if you could attend.”

Their interest flattered Shane. Both were attractive, successful women.

He didn’t want to start anything, however. Especially when, pointless as it seemed, he couldn’t get CeCe out of his mind.

Why had she gotten so miffed today because he’d refused to hawk the joys of fatherhood? It must have been pique because he’d spoiled her brilliant public relations idea. Well, she’d picked the wrong guy for the assignment.

Shane had no interest in children. And he certainly wouldn’t consider having one himself. It was too painful. When he happened to look into one of those little faces, he saw himself as he’d once been, vulnerable and helpless.

At eight, his father had died in an industrial accident. His mother, Annie, had had to work two jobs, in day care and as a waitress, so most days Shane had come home alone from school, fixed his own dinner and put himself to bed.

When he was twelve, Annie stumbled into a gang fight outside the restaurant where she worked. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, the police had said.

Desperately missing his mother, Shane had hated both of his foster homes. He’d run away repeatedly, until he was placed in a group home.

There he saw the other boys picking on shy Ed and sprang to his defense. From then on, Shane stuck around to protect his friend.

Why was he dragging up memories that he’d sworn to leave untouched? he wondered. It must have been CeCe’s mention of children.

Still, he was sorry to have left their conversation unfinished. After making his excuses to Amy and Janet, Shane turned to his computer.

His office and DeLacey Shipping had recently installed equipment to allow videoconferencing. It was time to put it to good use.

KING EASTON DOZED DURING the nine-hour flight from Korosol to New York. He was grateful for the comforts of a private jet, although there was a lot to say for the old days when luxury liners were the transatlantic transport of choice.

He and his bride, Cassandra, had traveled to America by ship a few years after the death of Easton’s father, King Cyrus. They’d combined business of state with their honeymoon.

Although Cassandra claimed to feel awkward in public, she became a darling of the press with her fashionable figure and ready wit. Easton had enjoyed his meeting with President Truman and had retained a fondness for the United States ever since.

He missed Cassandra terribly. Wise and well educated, she’d been his closest friend and adviser. Had she been born a generation later, she would surely have pursued a career of her own.

Her death six years ago had devastated the king, although in a way it came as a blessing after a series of strokes. If he could have spared her any suffering by taking it on himself, he would have.

He’d have given his life to save either of his dead sons, as well. Twenty years ago, he’d shared his grief with Cassandra when Drake died in the crash of a private plane. It had also killed Drake’s father-in-law and seriously injured his nephew Markus, who’d been in America on holiday.

Easton remembered how Byrum and Sarah had posted a vigil by their son’s hospital bed, and how joyfully they’d brought the fifteen-year-old home to Korosol. It was almost beyond belief that their beloved son had had a hand in their deaths, yet Easton couldn’t discount the rumors.

Troubled, he gave up trying to sleep and called for a meal. A short time later, the flight arrived in New York.

While Harrison Montcalm and Cadence St. John went directly to the embassy, two helicopters fetched Easton, his bodyguards and his secretary to the roof of an apartment building overlooking Central Park. He was impressed all over again by the vast stretch of greenery marking the heart of the metropolis.

“All cities should have a refuge like this,” Cassandra had declared. Easton wished, achingly, that she was with him now.

“We’re so high up!” Ellie Standish said as the helicopter’s motor fell silent.

“Do you think we should build skyscrapers in Korosol la Vella?” teased the king. His country’s capital city had its share of modern buildings, but none this tall.

“Absolutely not!” Ellie pushed her glasses up on her nose and smoothed out her skirt. “I wouldn’t change a single thing about my home.”

At twenty-six, the young woman had all the makings of a knockout, with her bright blue eyes and long, curly brown hair, but she hid beneath frumpy clothes. That suited Easton fine. Otherwise, some young fellow was likely to fall in love with his secretary and snatch her away.

“Please stay here, Your Majesty, while we secure the area,” said Devon Montcalm, the captain of the Royal Guard.

“Certainly,” Easton said.

Since his daughter-in-law’s two-story penthouse apartment was already guarded, it took only a few minutes for Devon to make contact with her security chief and reassure himself as to the arrangements. Then he and the other guards escorted the king across the roof and down a private elevator.

Easton declined Devon’s offer of his arm for support. The king had no intention of appearing as an invalid.

He found his heart beating faster as the elevator halted. It was exciting to meet the granddaughters he hadn’t seen since they were children. Especially the one who, he hoped, held the future of his kingdom in her hands.

The doors opened on a marbled foyer. What an elegant place, Easton thought, noting the two-story-high ceiling and the curving staircase to his right.