Rich, Rugged And Royal: The Maverick Prince. Catherine Mann
want to think overlong on why he still ate his same childhood breakfast—deep fried strips of potato dough. His mother had always poured a thick rich espresso for herself and mugs of hot chocolate for her three sons, an informal ritual in their centuries-old castle that he now knew was anything but ordinary.
Vernon eyed him over the rim of his coffee cup. “So it’s all true, what they’re saying in the papers and on the internet?”
Absurd headlines scrolled through his memory, alongside reports that had been right on the money. “My brother’s not a Tibetan monk, but the general gist of that first report from the Global Intruder is correct.”
“You’re a prince.” He scrubbed a hand over his dropped jaw. “Well, hot damn. Always knew there was something special about you, boy.”
He preferred to think anything “special” about him came from hard work rather than a genetic lottery win. “I hope you understand it wasn’t my place to share the details with you.”
“You have brothers and a father.” He stirred a hefty dollop of milk into his coffee, clinking the spoon against the edges of the stoneware mug. “I get that you need to consider their privacy, as well.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that.”
He wished Shannon could see as much. He’d hoped bringing her here would remind her of all that had been good between them. Instead those memories had only come back to bite him on the ass when she’d told him that he was her first since her husband died. The revelation still sucker punched the air from his gut.
Where did they go from there? Hell if he knew, but at least he had more time to find out. Soon enough he would have her in his private jet that waited fueled and ready a mile away.
The older man set down his mug. “I respect that you gotta be your own man.”
“Thank you again.” He’d expected Vernon to be angry over the secrecy, had even been concerned over losing his friendship.
Vernon’s respect meant a lot to him, as well as his advice. From day one when Tony had turned in his sparse job application, Vernon had treated him like a son, showing him the ropes. They had a lot of history. And just like fourteen years ago, he offered unconditional acceptance now.
His mentor leaned forward on one elbow. “What does your family have to say about all of this?”
“I’ve only spoken with my middle brother.” He pinched off a piece of a churro drizzled with warm honey. Popping it into his mouth, he chewed and tried not think of how much of his past stayed imprinted on him.
“According to the papers, that would be Duarte. Right?” When Tony nodded, Vernon continued, “Any idea how the story broke after so many years?”
And wasn’t that the million-dollar question? He, his brothers and their lawyers were no closer to the answer on that one today than they’d been last night. “Duarte doesn’t have any answers yet, other than some photojournalist caught him in a snapshot and managed to track down details. Which is damn strange. None of us look the same since we left San Rinaldo as kids.”
“And there are no other pictures of you in the interim?”
“Only a few stray shots after I became Tony. Carlos’s face has shown up in a couple of professional magazines.” But the image was so posed and sterile, Tony wasn’t sure he would recognize his own sibling on the street. For the best.
His father always insisted photos would provide dangerous links, as if he’d been preparing them from the beginning to split up. Or preparing them for his death.
Not the normal way for a kid to live, but they weren’t a regular family. He’d grown accustomed to it eventually … until it almost seemed normal. Until he was faced with a regular person’s life, like Shannon’s treasured photos of her son.
He broke off another inch of a churro. His hand slowed halfway to his mouth as he got that feeling of “being watched.” He checked right fast—
Kolby stood in the open doorway, blanket trailing from his fist.
Uh, okay. So now what? He’d only met the child a few times before last night and none had gone particularly well. Tony had chalked it up to Kolby being shy around strangers or clingy. Judging by the thrust of his little jaw and frown now, there was no mistaking it. The boy didn’t like him.
That needed to change. “Hey, kiddo. Where’s your mom?”
Kolby didn’t budge. “Still sleepin’.”
Breaking the ice, Vernon tugged out a chair. “Wanna have a seat and join us?”
Never taking his eyes off Tony, Kolby padded across the tile patio and scrambled up to sit on his knees. Silently, he simply blinked and stared with wide blue-gray eyes just like Shannon’s, his blond hair spiking every which way.
Vernon wiped his mouth, tossed his linen napkin on the plate and stood. “Thanks for the chow. I need to check on business. No need to see me out.”
As his old friend deserted ship, unease crawled around inside Tony’s gut. His experience with children was nonexistent, even when he’d been a kid himself. He and his brothers had been tutored on the island. They’d been each other’s only playmates.
The island fortress had been staffed with security guards, not the mall cop sort, but more like a small deployed military unit. Cleaning staff, tutors, the chef and groundskeepers were all from San Rinaldo, older supporters of his father who’d lost their families in the coup. They shared a firm bond of loyalty, and a deep-seated need for a safe haven.
Working on the shrimp boat had felt like a vacation, with the wide open spaces and no boundaries. Most of all he enjoyed the people who didn’t wear the imprint of painful loss in their eyes.
But still, there weren’t any three-year-olds on the shrimp boat.
What did kids need? “Are you hungry?”
“Some of that.” Kolby pointed to Tony’s plate of churros. “With peanut bubber.”
Grateful for action instead of awkward silence, he shoved to his feet. “Peanut butter it is then. Follow me.”
Once he figured out where to look. He’d quit cooking for himself about ten years ago and the few years he had, he wasn’t whipping up kiddie cuisine.
About seven minutes later he unearthed a jar from the cavernous pantry and smeared a messy trail down a churro before chunking the spoon in the sink.
Kolby pointed to the lid on the granite countertop. “We don’t waste.”
“Right.” Tony twisted the lid on tight. Thinking of Shannon pinching pennies on peanut butter, for crying out loud, he wanted to buy them a lifetime supply.
As he started to pass the plate to Kolby, a stray thought broadsided him. Hell. Was the kid allergic to peanuts? He hadn’t even thought to ask. Kolby reached. Tony swallowed another curse.
“Let’s wait for your mom.”
“Wait for me why?” Her softly melodic voice drifted over his shoulder from across the kitchen.
He glanced back and his heart kicked against his ribs. They’d slept together over the past month but never actually slept. And never through the night.
Damn, she made jeans look good, the washed pale fabric clinging to her long legs. Her hair flowed over her shoulders and down her back, still damp from a shower. He remembered well the silky glide of it through his fingers … and so not something he should be thinking about with her son watching.
Tony held up the plate of churros. “Can he eat peanut butter?”
“He’s never tried it that way before, but I’m sure he’ll like it.” She slipped the dish from his grip. “Although, I’m not so certain that breakable stoneware is the best choice for a three-year-old.”
“Hey,