“Yes,” she bit out, letting her sharpness take over her tone because it was much, much better than what she was afraid hid beneath it. “I know where it is.”
“I will expect you in one hour,” he told her.
Expect away, idiot, she thought darkly.
But she made herself smile. “Sure thing.”
“And if you do not appear,” Reza said quietly, because apparently he really could read her like a very simple book, “I will come and find you. I know where you live. I know where you work. I know the car you drive, if, indeed, that deathtrap can rightly be called a car at all. I have an entire security force at my beck and call, and as the sovereign of another nation, even one who is flying under the radar as I am here, I am granted vast diplomatic immunity to do as I please. I would suggest you consider these things carefully before you imagine you can plot your way out of this.”
And he turned on his heel before she could come up with a response to that. Which was good, because she didn’t have one. His men leapt to serve him, flanking him and opening the door for him, then swept him back out into the night.
The cold air rushed in again. The door slapped shut behind him, the echo of the bell still in the air.
Maggy was breathing too hard. Too loud. And she couldn’t seem to operate her limbs.
So she made herself move. She sank back down to her knees and she scrubbed that damned sticky area like her life depended on it. And only when she was finished, only when she’d mopped the rest of the floor and dealt with her bucket in the utility room in the back, did she pull out her own phone again.
She looked at it for a long moment. Maybe too long.
Then she pretended she was doing something, anything else as she opened up her browser and typed in king of the Constantines...
And there he was. Splashed all over the internet. On the covers of reputed newspapers and all over their inside pages. In image after image. She saw articles about his childhood. His education at Cambridge. His coronation following his father’s sudden heart attack and the war he’d wrenched his country back from in the months that followed. That same harsh face. That same arrogant brow. That same imperial hand waving here, there, everywhere as he gave orders and addresses and spoke of this law and that moral imperative and the role of the monarchy in the modern world.
It was him. Reza was exactly who he’d said he was.
Which meant that there was a very high probability that she was, too.
And this time, when Maggy went back down on her knees on the floor, it wasn’t because she was in a hurry to get back to cleaning it.
It was because for the first time in her entire life, when she’d learned how to be tougher than tough no matter what, her knees failed to hold her.
BY THE TIME Maggy walked into the gaspingly precious and markedly high-class resort and spa, set in all its grand timber and soaring glass splendor some miles outside of Deanville at the foot of the local mountains, she’d done a great deal more research.
She’d gone home after locking up the coffee shop and she’d crouched there on her single bed in her narrow little room with her phone to her face, taking an internet crash course on the life and times of the Santa Domini royal family. And everything she’d discovered had made her...a little bit dizzy.
Could this be real? Could she have a history after all these years of being nothing but a blank slate? Would she finally discover how and why she’d been left by the side of that road twenty years ago? Was it possible that the answer really, truly was something like one of the many silly and fanciful stories she’d made up when she was a girl to explain it away?
She’d spent a lot of time and energy back then trying to explain to herself how and why she’d ended up the way she had. The possibility that she’d been a kidnapped princess had featured heavily in the rotation of the tales she’d told herself when she’d still had a little foolish hope left. After all, it was a much better story than the more likely one—that whatever adults had been responsible for her had abandoned her because they couldn’t care for her or didn’t want that kind of commitment any longer. For whatever depressing reasons adults would have to make such decisions. A few came to mind as more likely than finding out she was a misplaced princess. Substance abuse, for example. Mental illness. Poverty. She could take her pick and they all ended the same way: a sad eight-year-old girl on the side of a road with no memory of how she’d gotten there.
But that wasn’t the sort of story Maggy had wanted to tell herself back then. Princesses won hands down every time.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” she’d snapped at herself, there in her rented room in an old, converted Victorian that had likely seen its better days when Vermont was still more or less one big farm.
She’d scrolled through pictures of the queen, the king. She’d taken great care not to think the word parents. Or the other, more personal words that indicated the kind of close relationships she’d never had with anyone. Mother. Father. And she’d sucked up her courage and taken a long, close look at the princess who had supposedly died in that car accident twenty years ago. She’d stared at that little girl’s face, not sure what she saw when she looked at it. Or what, if anything, she should see. There was no sense of recognition. There was...nothing inside of her. No spark, no reaction. There was simply the picture of a little girl lost years ago.
And then she’d studied the many, many pictures of and corresponding articles about Cairo Santa Domini. He was once the most scandal-prone royal in all of Europe. Now he was the beloved king of the country he’d taken back from the military everyone seemed to assume had not only wrested control of his kingdom thirty years ago, but ten years after that had engineered that car accident in Montenegro to take out the exiled king. And in so doing, had killed everyone in the Santa Domini royal family save King Cairo himself, who had been in boarding school in the United States at the time.
He was potentially her only living family member.
It was possible, after all this time and a life lived entirely on her own in every conceivable way, that she actually had a living family member.
Maggy had felt as if she might be sick.
She’d thought a lot about simply getting into her junky old car and driving absolutely anywhere Reza—who it seemed really was the king he’d claimed he was no matter how little she wanted that to be true—was not.
But in the end, she hadn’t done it. She’d thrown on the only dress she owned that was even slightly nice and she hadn’t gone to too much trouble with the rest because he’d made his feelings about her appearance pretty clear. And then she’d driven herself over to the upscale resort instead of out west toward California. And yes, she had to sit in her car in the frigid parking lot until her hands stopped shaking, but that was between her and her steering wheel and the close, hard dark all around.
Maggy prided herself on the toughness she’d earned every day of the past twenty years, having had no one to depend on but herself. Ever. That meant that no matter how she felt—in this case, about as far from tough as it was possible to get without actually dissolving into a sea of tears, which she never allowed herself and certainly not in public places—she’d pulled herself together and climbed out of that car, her shaking hands be damned. She’d wanted answers to questions she’d stopped asking years ago. It was a little bit surprising how very much she wanted them, so long after she’d decided wondering about such things only made her weak. And how, with only the slightest provocation—if that was what she could call the appearance of an actual king in The Coffee Queen on Main Street—all those same old questions flooded her.
Making her realize she’d never really gotten over wondering who she was or where she’d come from the way she’d assured herself she had. She’d simply stuffed her urge to ask those things way down deep inside,