When he shoved away and strode up the passage, she didn’t make a sound.
It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Prince Nico had no heart.
Nico strode into his apartments in the palace and summoned his assistant. Once he gave the order to find out everything about Miss Margaret Lily Morgan—oh yes, that had been a surprise, finding out she used her middle name instead of her first, and yet it explained why he’d never found a trace of her when he’d inquired two years ago—he went onto the terrace and gazed out at the city below.
The encounter had affected him more than he cared to admit. Lily Morgan was not at all what he expected. She was not the soft, almost shy girl he remembered, his Liliana who was as pure and fine as the flower she was named after. The night in prison should have frightened her, made her cooperative. Yet this Lily was fierce, determined.
But determined to do what?
He did not know, but he would not leave her there for another night—was, in fact, somewhat appalled she’d been held there without his knowledge in the first place. Nico’s mouth twisted in distaste. It made sense that the old fortress was still used as a prison, but the conditions could be improved. Yet another thing he would change now that he was Crown Prince.
He slipped the photo from his pocket, held it between two fingers without looking at it. The photograph had been altered, he was sure of it. Any talented photographer with the right computer equipment could make a photo say anything he or she wanted it to say. How well Nico knew this. Today was not the first time he’d been presented with such a lie. The media tried all the time to place him somewhere he’d not been, or with someone he’d not been with. The photographs were doctored, easily disproved, though it was irritating and inconvenient to constantly do so.
And yet it was the life he’d chosen when he’d chosen to be the foil for Gaetano. Nico shoved a hand through his hair. He could handle it. He’d always been able to handle it. He would do so now, and he would send Miss Lily Morgan back to America where she belonged.
Madonna diavola, this was also not the first time he’d been presented with a paternity claim—though he’d never been presented with it in quite this way. Lily hadn’t mentioned the child at all until he’d shown her the picture. And then she’d been desperate to get the photo from him, had never actually come out and said the child was his. But it must be her intention. What else?
He lifted the photo, studied it—and felt that jolt of awareness and recognition he’d never experienced before. Unlike the children that two of his former lovers had tried to assert were his—each incident had been disproved and the claims retracted, though Nico still gave money for the children’s care since it was not their faults they’d been born without fathers—this boy had the look of a Cavelli. It was more than the eyes. It was something in the dark curls, the smooth olive skin, the shape of jaw and nose, the firm set—even in a toddler—of the lips. The likeness was remarkable, yet surely it was a trick.
Nico had been captivated with her, he remembered it well, but not so captivated he’d forgotten to take precautions when he’d stripped her naked and slid his cock inside her body. He never forgot to take precautions. It was as necessary to his existence as sleeping or eating. He’d grown up the product of an indiscretion and he would not ever cause a child to suffer the way he had. When he eventually fathered children, they would be legitimate, wanted, and loved.
A knot tightened in his stomach. What if his precautions had somehow failed with Lily Morgan? Was it possible? Could he be this boy’s father? And if he was, how could she have kept his son from him all this time?
But no, it was not possible. He would have remembered if something had happened to the condom. Nothing had. The child could not be his, no matter how strong the likeness. It was a photographic trick.
Satisfied, he dropped the photo into a potted plant. He would not be played for a fool by this woman. Soon, he would know the truth. And tonight he would formalize his engagement to Princess Antonella and move forward with the effort to unite Montebianco and Monteverde by honoring the commitment his family had made to the Romanellis when Gaetano was still alive. Antonella Romanelli was a beautiful woman. Surely he would be well pleased with her as his wife.
Nico turned from the view and strode toward the terrace doors. He only took a few steps before faltering. With a muttered curse, he retrieved the picture and tucked it against his heart.
Chapter Three
Lily bolted upright on the musty cot, panic gripping her. Where was she? Why was she so cold?
A moment later, she remembered. The thin blanket she’d huddled under wasn’t enough protection. She scrubbed both her hands through her hair and got to her feet, hugging herself against the chill settling into the damp fortress walls as night crept over the city. How had she managed to fall asleep after her encounter with Nico?
Her eyes were gritty and tired, and her head throbbed. She’d cried so hard she’d given herself a migraine, though it was thankfully nothing more than a dull pain now. The sleep had helped at least.
The sudden clanging of the metal door in the passageway startled a little cry from her. Her heart pounded as she backed toward the opposite wall of the cell. A naked bulb overhead gave off only meager light and she squinted into the darkness outside the bars. A big shape shuffled into view and thrust a key into the lock. The door swung open just as she made out the uniform of a Montebiancan police officer.
“Come with me, signorina,” the man said in thick English.
“Where are you taking me?” Fear, sharp and cold, slashed into her. Did the prince plan to have her thrown off a cliff somewhere?
Stop being silly.
“Come,” he said, motioning. She hesitated only a moment longer, deciding she might have a better chance once she was out of this cell. She could give him the slip if the opportunity presented itself, or perhaps she could scream for help. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was better than sitting here another night.
The policeman ushered her up into the bright light of the rooms above the ancient cells. Before she could grow accustomed to the light, she was outside in the cool night air. A Mercedes limo idled near the exit and a man in a dark chauffeur’s uniform snapped the car door open.
Lily faltered. The policeman held out his hand, motioning at the car. “Please,” he said.
She hesitated, glancing at the street beyond the black iron gates. There was no escape that way, so she climbed into the car, her mind racing with possibilities. The door slammed behind her and a moment later the car whisked into traffic. Her questions about where they were going didn’t penetrate the glass between her and the driver, so she settled into the plush leather of the interior and watched the city lights slide by as she planned her escape.
Lily gripped the door handle in a damp palm, her heart racing. When the car came to a halt at a light, she pulled the lever, intending to slip out and disappear into the night before the driver could blink—but the door was locked. She jerked it again and again, but it refused to open. The driver didn’t even glance at her. The car started moving, climbing steadily uphill, and Lily bit her lip, tears of frustration choking her.
Soon, they passed beneath an archway and into a courtyard. The car came to a halt. Lily pulled in a deep breath as her door swung open. Whatever was about to happen, she would not be a blubbering wreck. She was stronger than her fear, stronger than Nico Cavelli could ever imagine. She’d had to be.