Lynn Harris - Cavelli's Lost Heir

Lily gasped. “Is this a joke?”

She stared at her reflection—their reflection—in the mirror. At the darkness of his fingers against her skin, her hair wild and tumbling around her shoulders in a silky mess. Her pink cotton shirt was stained over the left shoulder, and her eyes, though tired, gleamed with fury. Nico, in contrast, was cool and unruffled. If not for his quickened heartbeat against her, she’d almost think him bored.

But, no, there it was—that flash of something in his eyes, in the set of his jaw, that spoke volumes without a sound being uttered.

“No joke, Liliana. I have broken a long-sought-after treaty between my country and Monte-verde, not to mention embarrassed my father and our allies, so that I can do what should have been done the instant you conceived my child.”

“I—I don’t understand,” she whispered, searching his face in the mirror, her heart slamming into her ribs.

“Of course you do,” he replied, dipping his head until his lips almost grazed the shell of her ear. Almost, but not quite.

“You, Miss Lily Morgan, are about to become the Crown Princess—my consort and the mother of my children.”

Lynn Raye Harrisread her first Mills & Boon ®romance when her grandmother carted home a box from a yard sale. She didn’t know she wanted to be a writer then, but she definitely knew she wanted to marry a sheikh or a prince, and live the glamorous life she read about in the pages. Instead, she married a military man and moved around the world. These days she makes her home in North Alabama, with her handsome husband and two crazy cats. Writing for Harlequin Mills & Boon is a dream come true. You can visit her at www.lynnrayeharris.com

by

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Mom and Pop, who took me to live in fascinating

places, bought me lots of books, and didn’t blink when

I locked myself in my room for hours on end to read.

CROWN PRINCE NICO CAVELLI, of the Kingdom of Montebianco, sat at a fourteenth-century antique desk and reviewed a stack of paperwork his assistant had brought him an hour ago. A glance at his watch told him there were several hours yet before he had to dress and attend the State dinner given in honor of his engagement to a neighboring princess.

Nico had a sudden urge to loosen his collar—except it was already loose. Why did the thought of marriage to Princess Antonella make him feel as if a noose were tightening around his neck?

So much had changed in his life recently. A little over two months ago he was the younger son, the dissolute playboy prince. The prince with a new mistress every few weeks, and with nothing more pressing to do than to decide which party to attend each night. It wasn’t the whole truth of his existence, though it was the one the media enjoyed writing stories about. He’d been content to let them, to feed their need for scandalous behavior. Anything to keep their attention away from his emotionally fragile brother.

Nico pinched the bridge of his nose.

Gaetano had been the oldest. The delicate one. The legitimate one.

The brother that Nico had spent his childhood protecting when he hadn’t been fighting for his own honor as the product of a royal indiscretion. Ultimately, he couldn’t protect Gaetano from the ramifications of his choices, or from the fateful decision to aim his Ferarri at a cliff and jam the pedal to the floor.

Per Dio, he missed Gaetano so much. And he was angry with him. Angry that he’d chosen such finality, that he hadn’t fought harder against his personal demons, that he hadn’t trusted Nico with his secret years ago. Nico would have moved mountains for Gaetano if he’d known.

“Basta!” Nico muttered, focusing again on the paperwork. Nothing would bring Gaetano back, and nothing would change Nico’s destiny now. He was the remaining prince, and though he was illegitimate, the Montebiancan constitution allowed him to inherit. In this day and age, with modern medicine being what it was, there was no doubt of his parentage—if, indeed, there could be any doubt in the first place; Cavelli men always looked as if they’d been cast from the same mold.

Only Queen Tiziana disapproved of Nico’s new status—but then she’d disapproved of him his whole life. Nothing he ever did had been good enough for her. He’d tried to please her when he’d been a child, but he’d always been shut out. He understood now, as a grown man, why she’d disliked him. His presence reminded her that her husband had been unfaithful.

When he’d moved into the palace after his mother’s death, the queen had seen him as a threat, especially because he was stronger and bigger than Gaetano, though he was the younger of the two. That he was now Crown Prince only drove the pain deeper. He was a constant reminder of what she’d lost. It didn’t matter that he’d also loved Gaetano, that he would give anything for his brother to still be alive.

Since he couldn’t bring Gaetano back, he would do his utmost to fulfill his duty as Crown Prince to the best of his ability. It was the only way to honor his brother’s memory.

A knock on the door brought his head up. “Enter.”

“The Prefect of Police has sent a messenger, Your Highness,” his assistant said.

“I will see him,” Nico replied.

A moment later, a uniformed man appeared and bowed deeply. “Your Serene Highness, the Prefect sends his greetings.”

Nico tamped down his impatience as the man recited the ritual greetings and wishes for his health and happiness. “What is the message?” he asked, somewhat irritably, once the formalities had been observed.

Though it was indeed the Crown Prince’s duty to oversee the police force, it was more a symbolic role than anything else. That the Prefect was actually communicating with him about something filled him with an uncharacteristic sense of foreboding.

Ridiculous. It was merely the awareness of his loss of freedom that pinched at the back of his mind and made him feel uneasy.

The man reached into his inner pocket and pulled out an envelope. “The Prefect has tasked me with informing you that we have recovered some of the ancient statues taken from the museum. And to give you this, Your Highness.”

Nico held out his hand. The man stood to attention while Nico ripped into the envelope.

He expected the sheet of paper inside, but it was the photograph of a woman and child that caught Nico’s attention first. Their faces filled the frame as if someone had stood very close to snap the picture. He recognized the woman almost instantly—the wheat-blond hair, the green eyes and the smattering of freckles across her nose—and felt a momentary pang of regret their liaison had not lasted longer. His gaze skimmed to the child.

Sudden fury corroded his insides. It was not possible. He had never been that careless. He would never do to a child what had been done to him. He would never father a baby and walk away. It had to be a trick, a stunt to embarrass him on the eve of his engagement, a ploy to get money. There was no way this child was his.

His mind reeled. He’d spent only a short time with her, had made love to her only once—much to his regret. Wouldn’t he have remembered if something had gone wrong? Of course he would—but the child had the distinct look of a Cavelli. Nico couldn’t tear his gaze away from eyes that were a mirror to his own as he unfolded the paper. Finally, he succeeded in wrenching his attention to the Prefect’s scrawled words.