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The Prince Next Door
Sue Civil-Brown
When Serena Gregory's clothing-optional Caribbean cruise fell through at the last minute, the thrill-seeking dermatologist decided that helping Darius Maxwell, her mysterious new neighbor–who might or might not be a crown prince–commit a felony would be a worthwhile alternative.Yes, it would involve clothes–for the most part–but the risk of skin cancer would be drastically reduced. Not to mention she'd be helping to secure the future of an entire European country…that she'd never even heard of.That's how Serena wound up over her head in trouble when she should have been next to naked in paradise–and risking her career and cold, hard jail time for a man she'd only just met!


“I can’t believe I’m actually proposing to commit a felony in order to prove I’m not a prince.”
“It does sound weird,” Serena admitted.
“It’s the stuff of comic opera. Ordinary man on the street is suddenly informed he’s a prince. He quite naturally denies it. Then his mother informs him she has been kidnapped, and a dubious figure from the local consulate of the country involved confirms it. Ordinary-man-slash-prince knows better. Neither is he a prince, nor has his conniving mother really been kidnapped. But in order to save this flyspeck of a country buried in the Pyrenees, said ordinary man must now break in to a museum to discover who the real prince is.”
“If I were an editor, I’m not sure I’d buy the book.” Serena was laughing silently, her eyes dancing.
Darius laughed with her, aloud. “This is sheer insanity.”
“I know it is. But I love insanity.”
Readers can’t resist Sue Civil-Brown’s alluring blend of love and laughter!
“The zany supporting characters from Civil-Brown’s previous novels are back…in this breezy contemporary romance…. The romance between Derek and Sam will have fans believing in magic.”
—Publishers Weekly on Next Stop, Paradise
“The tone is upbeat, the breezes are warm, and the characters and dialogue crackle like lightning before a Florida thunderstorm.”
—Oakland Press on Catching Kelly
“Her offbeat characters and humor are wonderful.”
—Affaire de Coeur on Chasing Rainbow
“You won’t stop laughing or reading until the very end.”
—Amazon.com on Carried Away
“A powerhouse author.”
—Romantic Times reviewer Melinda Helfer

The Prince Next Door
Sue Civil-Brown


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

ALSO BY SUE CIVIL-BROWN
BREAKING ALL THE RULES
NEXT STOP, PARADISE
TEMPTING MR. WRIGHT
CATCHING KELLY
CHASING RAINBOW
LETTING LOOSE
CARRIED AWAY
HURRICANE HANNAH

CONTENTS
PROLOGUE (#ue83f5df6-a3ae-588e-bcdf-405d6f407416)
CHAPTER ONE (#ua01b07df-49e1-5465-8d10-b639dce0ace6)
CHAPTER TWO (#u05880fbd-4366-545e-875a-90705ef50e8d)
CHAPTER THREE (#u601477ee-f316-592a-a26b-26ae77ef20ec)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u0e872790-566d-58e7-b8b4-bdc73272d107)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ucc26bc31-80f6-5110-a8f3-a500ea8dd4b3)
CHAPTER SIX (#u7bcdd884-de8b-5fcf-9d83-06e63c382807)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

PROLOGUE
MARIA TERESA MAXWELL believed in God. That He existed was beyond question. Still, it would be nice if He would listen when she told Him what to do. Instead, like her late husband and her son, God insisted on making up His own mind. Men, she thought with a huff of impatience.
Worse, her late husband, her son and God all seemed to have something else in common. They had absolutely no sense of humor or adventure. Okay, God must have a sense of humor, but He certainly kept it well hidden. And as for young Darius, well, if he ever blew the universe a raspberry, she hadn’t seen it.
That simply had to change. The boy was entirely too stable and solid. Stable and solid were good to a point, but a man was never going to attract a good woman, the kind of woman who would melt his butter for life, without at least a little bit of the wild side. His father had had one, after all; and bless his dear departed soul if he had hidden it too often, but when he had let it out, oh my, her world had rocked!
She smiled at the memory. The elder Darius had lit up her life for forty-one years. And while God had taken him far too soon, she had come to accept that he was now safely among the celestial beings, which made him fair game.
“So, Darius, it’s time to get your sainted butt in gear and talk to His Omnipotence. It would be nice if you and He could get little Darius off his bubble. Soon. I’ve never prayed for patience, and I don’t especially want to learn it. So now would be nice.”
But she didn’t really expect Him or him to do anything. After all, what influence did a poor shepherd’s daughter have with beings on high, anyway?
Plenty, she decided. Especially if she set the ball rolling and the celestial beings had no choice but to catch it and play the game.
So she would, naturally, start the ball rolling. She always had. Darius, Sr., had gotten used to it over the years, and even sometimes admitted that the most exhilarating times of his life had come when she had done something naughty beyond belief and he’d had to rescue her.
He had actually swashbuckled fairly well, once pushed to it.
But Darius, Jr.—or Darius I as he would soon become, like it or not—was as immovable and as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar.
Now what, she asked the beings above, could be more boring than that?
Of course she received no answer. She rarely did. But the silence didn’t make her feel as if they weren’t listening. Right now she would bet her diamonds at Monte Carlo that her late husband was standing right there beside her, covering his angelic eyes and begging her not to be outrageous.
She sniffed again. Whatever had possessed her to marry a Swiss banker? She couldn’t imagine anything stodgier. On the other hand, she had been quite certain she’d seen a twinkle in his beautiful green eyes on more than one occasion. It was that twinkle that had won her heart.
But that did nothing to solve her problem with Darius the son. Her son. Sometimes she wondered if they could possibly share the same gene pool.
But the gene pool was exactly the issue right now, and she was going to give that boy a run for his money that he would never forget.
She looked heavenward and said stoutly, “Kidnapping is a crime, but not always a sin.”
She could almost hear the groans from above.
Then she called those funny little men from the Masolimian Consulate, the ones who had given her the fantastic news.
The news that would push Darius off his bubble for good.

CHAPTER ONE
THE MAN IN THE CONDO next door was up to no good.
Serena Gregory, M.D., dermatologist-on-vacation, peered through the fish-eye lens in her door and watched a distinctly criminal-looking weasel pass by. Then she heard the door of the condo next to hers open and close.
No good at all. Putting her hands on her hips, she cocked her blond head to one side, her blue eyes narrowing with thought.
The balcony, she decided. Maybe she could hear something from the balcony.
Stepping out through the sliding glass door, she paused as the persistent breeze caught her hair and whipped it across her face. With impatient fingers she combed it out of the way and looked out across the sparkling expanse of the late-afternoon Gulf of Mexico. Eleven stories up, she was well above the tourists below.
This view, and the privacy afforded by this eagle’s eye height, had been her primary reason for purchasing this condo.
Now that man had moved in next door, probably bringing the underworld with him.
Her eyes narrowed again, and she moved toward the concrete wall that separated her balcony from his. Maybe she would hear something.
After all, what else did she have to do? It was her vacation. Her job was usually boringly humdrum, removing minor imperfections from bodies and faces so that everyone could look luminously plasticized, punctuated by serious cases like melanoma. Vacations were her time to cut loose.
Unfortunately, the Federal Government had interfered with her two-week, clothing-and-commonsense-optional cruise. They had impounded the ship, claiming that the owners hadn’t paid taxes. She knew better, of course. The Feds were just afraid that someone might have a good time out there on the Caribbean.
But the man who had moved in next door only three weeks ago had caught her attention. He looked entirely too urbane and suave for the local island culture, even in expensive condos like these. As far as she could tell, he had no visible means of support, he came and went at all hours, and he never so much as socialized with anyone else at the complex. A cool nod, a faint smile.
He might as well have introduced himself as Bond, James Bond. The thought made her snicker quietly to herself. The man actually wore ascots with his blue blazers and khaki slacks. Ascots! Too much for Florida.
And now that weaselly looking man had come by twice today. If he didn’t look like the underworld on the hoof, then Serena didn’t know what the underworld looked like.
Which was entirely possible, she admitted, as she realized she’d forgotten to put sun block on her overly sensitive skin. Sighing, she went back inside and got a tube of SPF 50. No basal cell carcinomas for her. No melanoma. No early aging.
Just gobs and gobs of SPF 50, until no matter how she rubbed, she felt sticky over every exposed inch.
As a result, she was a very young-looking thirty-five, albeit a sticky one.
That’s when she realized that with the wind blowing like this, she wouldn’t be able to hear anything from next door unless it turned into a major argument.
Drat.
What she needed was an excuse to be outside her front door. Like most structures in Florida, there was no enclosed hallway, only a covered balcony running along the street side of the building, and exterior elevator shafts. Hence, her condo window ledges held flower boxes full of geraniums.
Excellent excuse to be outside and thus observe the squirrelly crook when he reappeared.
Almost—just almost—she stopped herself. She was being silly and overimaginative. She knew it. But this was her vacation, darn it, and she was going nuts for lack of adventure, all because some IRS agents had chosen this week to seize the cruise ship. What alternative did that leave her? Another trip to Orlando to stand in lines forty-five-minutes long to take rides she’d already taken? Sitting on the beach below where she could sun and bathe at any time of year?
That wasn’t a vacation.
A vacation was a time to cut loose and get into trouble of some kind.
But she did pause. Maybe she should just get a flight to Aruba and go play Texas Hold ’Em. She could get into some serious trouble doing that. Trouble of the financial kind. No matter how often she played—and if she never saw Tunica again, it would be too soon—she was still the sucker at the table.
What harm could it do to tend her geraniums, though? None. Absolutely none.
So she got out her gardening gloves, her shears and a bottle of premixed fertilizer. She’d fertilized the plants last week. At this rate she was going to have geraniums taking over the world. She’d need to call the army to put them back in their place.
The thought made her giggle, easing some of her irritation at the IRS, who were already robbing her blind, so why had they stolen her cruise, as well?
And why was she letting irritation ruin her vacation?
Implements in hand, she stepped outside and surveyed her window boxes. No sound came from the condo next door. Pity. But maybe that would change.
The plants were actually doing quite well. She wondered how long she could legitimately spend out here snipping off three yellowed leaves and six dying flower heads. Fifteen minutes?
She was just reaching out to trim the first leaf when the elevator door twenty feet away slid open, and her nemesis neighbor stepped out, dressed as always for London rather than Florida. She glanced at him, received the usual cool nod and gave him one in return.
He did go a little farther this time, though. His gaze raked over her in a way that left her feeling naked, rather than clad in a tank top and shorts. Typical man.
Feeling her cheeks heat, she looked away…and snipped a perfectly good leaf off her plant. She almost winced, imagining the cry of outrage from the geranium.
Looking out the corner of her eye, she watched her neighbor walk up to his door and pull his keys out of his pocket. She felt a twinge of nasty pleasure as she realized he was looking a little wilted. So he wasn’t impervious to the climate.
Then, for reasons she would never know, she blurted, “There’s someone in your unit. I hope you were expecting him.”
He paused and turned to look at her. “There is?”
“Yes.”
A frown creased his handsome face. “How…odd.”
“You weren’t expecting someone?” She straightened, facing him, thinking that now here was an adventure at last. “Should I call the police?”
He didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll look into it first. Thank you for the warning.” Then he unlocked the door and disappeared inside.
So he was a criminal! Anyone else would have wanted the police. No one else would have gone in there alone. Drug dealer? No, too urbane looking. Cat burglar?
Oooh, she liked that idea. Like David Niven in The Pink Panther, or Cary Grant in It Takes a Thief. Smooth. Cultured. Daring. Dangerous. Yummy.
She was standing there, debating just what kind of crook she might have next door when a familiar voice caught her attention from behind.
“Hi, Serena.”
She whirled around, startled, and saw another neighbor, a young woman, barely grown up, named Ariel. “Shh,” she said, holding her gloved finger to her lips.
Oops. Making ptooey sounds, she tried to spit dirt from her sunscreen-sticky lips. It didn’t work. She tried to rub the dirt off with her forearm, only to notice—one moment too late—that her forearm had also been sporting a dappling of semiadhered potting soil. Which had now made its way to her face. An attempt with the other forearm had the same effect, with the result that she was sure her appearance now resembled Sylvester Stallone in First Blood.
Ariel proceeded to tiptoe toward her. “What’s up?” she asked in a stage whisper.
Ariel had the clearest, greenest eyes Serena had ever seen. They held depths of mystery in them that no woman so young, no girl-woman, ought to have. And yet they could still be as clear as dewdrops. She also had two servings of imp in her personality, which is why they got along so great together.
“I’ll tell you later. Right now I want to listen.”
Ariel nodded, as always ready to fall in with the scheme. For the next few minutes, they edged closer to the door, Ariel all the while trying to wipe flecks of soil from Serena’s face. Sidestep. Wipe. Sidestep. Wipe. Marcel Marceau would have wept.
A few minutes later the door of the neighbor’s unit opened up, and the weaselly man stepped out, bumping Ariel’s elbow in midwipe, causing her hand to skid across Serena’s face like an ice skater after an all-night bender.
Turning, he said through the open door, “Just remember. We have your mother!”
Then he stomped away toward the elevator in what Serena could only think was a perfect imitation of high dudgeon.
Serena stared after him for a moment, then caught Ariel’s glance. Her eyes slid to the still-open door. Of course.
“You’ve a bit of dirt on your face,” James-David-Cary-Bond-Niven-Grant said, as smoothly as if he were commenting on an expected afternoon thunderstorm.
Then he stepped back into his unit and closed the door, leaving both Serena and Ariel agape. Ariel paused for a moment, pursed her lips like Spassky pondering a chess move, and finally spoke.
“Ice cream?”
THIS REQUIRED A PLAN. And plans required ice cream. Conveniently, there was a quart of Godiva in the freezer, whispering her name. Serena scrubbed off potting soil and sunscreen—how had it gotten there? she wondered—while Ariel ladled out obscenely large bowls of frozen chocolate sweetness and fat. She also added chocolate syrup, in case the ice cream wasn’t sinful enough on its own.
Serena liked that idea—serious plans called for serious calories—and rooted around for whipped cream and a jar of maraschino cherries. And the shaker of chocolate sprinkles. And the ground cashews. In for a penny, in for ten pounds.
Five minutes later the two of them were sitting cross-legged on the living room’s plushly carpeted floor, one on each side of the coffee table. The first mouthful of ice cream carried enough chocolate that Serena figured she wouldn’t have PMS for the next year.
When the mouthful had melted into a frigid memory, Serena spoke. “Okay. Let’s talk about the creep next door.”
Ariel lifted both of her eyebrows. “About Mr. Maxwell?”
Serena felt her jaw drop. “You know him?”
“Well, not exactly.” Ariel scooped some more ice cream into her mouth and closed her eyes as she savored it.
“What do you mean, not exactly?” Serena could barely wait for the girl to swallow.
“Well,” said Ariel, fully a minute later, “I introduced myself to him one day. In the elevator.”
Now Serena was fully agog. It was one thing for a grown woman to take risks, but a girl Ariel’s age? “You spoke to a strange man in the elevator?”
Ariel shrugged. “Not exactly a stranger when he lives in our building.”
“Jeffrey Dahmer lived in someone’s building!”
Ariel looked at her as if to say, you poor frightened person. “He looks rather respectable, don’t you think?”
“No I don’t think. Nobody dresses like that around here. In London he would look respectable. Maybe even in France. But not here. Here he looks like a man who lives a pretense.”
Ariel frowned. “Do you really think so? He seemed perfectly nice to me.”
Ice cream forgotten—if only for a moment—Serena tapped her finger on the marble top of the coffee table. “Don’t you listen to the news, Ariel? What do they always say about the killer or the drug dealer? ‘He was quiet, kept to himself, never caused any trouble.’”
“Oh.” Ariel shrugged and took some more ice cream. “Well, he didn’t bother me. I said hi, told him my name, he told me his, and I welcomed him to Gull’s Rest. That was it.”
“You don’t know how lucky you are.”
“I don’t?”
Serena had the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that those green eyes were laughing at her, but Ariel’s face merely looked interested.
She took another tack when she spoke again, hoping this fey young woman wasn’t speaking to every stranger she met in elevators. “Didn’t you hear what that weaselly man said when he left?”
“That he had Mr. Maxwell’s mother?” Ariel nodded and dabbed the corner of her mouth with a paper napkin, erasing the evidence of chocolate syrup. “That was odd.”
“It was more than odd. It sounded like a threat.”
“True.” The young woman sat up straighter. “But it still doesn’t mean that Mr. Maxwell is up to any wrong. He might be a victim.”
“Hah. When I told him there was a man in his apartment and offered to call the police, he refused. Said he would handle it himself.”
“Hmm.” Ariel once again frowned. “That’s a strange response.”
“I think he’s a rogue. A dangerous rogue.”
Ariel nodded. “Probably a pirate. He looks like he’s fresh off the boat from Marseilles, doesn’t he? What with the peg leg and the eye patch and all….”
Trust youth to make an older person feel stupid, simply by pointing out the absurdity of the obvious. “Okay, maybe he’s not that dangerous. But something’s not right about him. You mark my words.”
Ariel, once again attacking her sundae with a gusto that would have shamed wolves, paused to speak. “Well heaven forfend that there should be anything not right about someone. Those perfect people are so hard to come by.”
“Okay, you win. He’s probably a perfectly ordinary, dime-a-dozen junior executive.”
“Anything but, I hope! God, how boring would that be?” The girl took another heaping spoonful of ice cream, laden with nuts, syrup and sprinkles. “But there’s a lot of room between boringly ordinary and dangerous rogue.”
Serena gave the girl her most serious look. “I,” she said, her voice weighted with significance, “am on vacation.”
Ariel looked up, chocolate staining one corner of her mouth, her unusual eyes suddenly looking very puckish. “And you can’t go on that naked cruise.”
“Clothing optional,” Serena corrected her.
Ariel shrugged. “Same thing.” She ate another huge spoonful of ice cream. Serena wouldn’t have guessed Godiva could go down quite so fast.
“It’s vacation,” Serena said again, ominously.
Ariel nodded. “And you need to get into trouble.”
“Right.”
“Okay.” That charming smile speared again. “A little trouble.”
“Certainly not enough to get me arrested.”
“Well, you didn’t get arrested last winter when I suggested you take that job playing Mrs. Santa Claus at the mall.”
“Only because I didn’t commit murder.”
Ariel laughed. “You sure raised a ruckus, though.”
In spite of herself, Serena had to smile.
“And,” Ariel added, “I’m sure there are quite a few parents who now take child-rearing more seriously.”
“I hope so, for the sake of civilization. But that won’t do this time, Ariel.”
“No, of course it won’t. It’s the wrong time of year.” Ariel put down her empty bowl. “I suppose you want to spy on Mr. Maxwell.” Her eyes danced. “He does have a job, you know.”
Serena felt her stomach sink. She didn’t want the man to have a job. That would ruin all her fun. How boring it would be if he were a loan officer. “How did you find that out?”
“I asked him,” Ariel replied complacently. Her eyes started dancing. “He’s an international art dealer.”
Serena’s eyes widened with joyous anticipation. Her heart leaped. “Do you have any idea how many illicit activities that could cover?”
Ariel laughed. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”
“Afraid? Why?”
“I didn’t really mean afraid. Just that I guessed you were going to say that.”
“Oh.” Serena settled back, satisfied. “Well, you know I don’t want to get you into any trouble.”
Something passed over Ariel’s face, at once amused and wise. “I won’t get in any trouble. Have I gotten into any trouble yet?”
“Not that I’m aware of, but there’s always a first time.”
Ariel rolled her fey eyes. “This won’t be it,” she said, as if the future were as clear to her as writing on the wall. “I know how to take care of myself. You might get into trouble, though.”
“That’s the point.”
Ariel leaned forward gleefully. “But it might be more trouble than you’re looking for.”
“Pish-tosh,” Serena said with a wave of her hand. “I can take care of myself, too.”
“So how are you going to start?” Ariel asked. “Wiretapping? Spy cameras?”
Serena frowned. “That would be illegal. No, I’m just going to follow him. And so are you.”
“But that’s boring.”
Serena had to agree. Especially in this heat. “Well then, what do you suggest?”
Ariel’s eyes danced. “You have to meet him.”
All of a sudden Serena had an inkling that she might be in for real trouble, and not of her own making.
“I’ve already met him,” she said, remembering the encounter just a few minutes before.
“No, I mean meet him when you don’t look like a condo commando.”
“Was it that bad?” Serena asked, having spared herself the indignity of a mirror before she washed up.
“Arnold Schwarzenegger would have quailed,” Ariel replied. “‘More flies with honey than vinegar’ and all that. So, you have to meet him.”
“If I must.” Unfortunately, Serena could think of no other plan that didn’t involve wandering all over town in the heat trying to stay out of sight, an activity she suspected she would not be very adept at.
“Don’t worry,” said Ariel. “I’ll take care of it.” Serena wasn’t at all comfortable with that notion.

CHAPTER TWO
PABLO MENOS RETURNED to the consular office from his meeting with Darius Maxwell hot and seething. Hot from the climate, seething from the encounter.
His position as deputy for administration to the consul-in-residence for the country of Masolimia had its perks, but living in Florida was not one of them. Even this late in the year he still longed for the cool mountain country of his home, a flyspeck in the Pyrenees between Spain and France.
In keeping with the size of Masolimia, the consular offices were a storefront in a run-down strip mall entirely too close to the Port of Tampa. In short, not the best neighborhood. Train tracks ran right behind them, and on a far too regular basis all conversation was drowned by the deep thrumming of locomotives practically driving through the offices.
Not that the consul cared. He was rarely around.
The glass door swung closed behind him, its little bell ringing a note of alert, and modestly air-conditioned air washed over him. In a half hour or so, he might actually cool off.
Juan Mas, his underdeputy, was sitting at his battered desk reading a comic book. He barely looked up. “¿Qué pasó?” he enquired, bored.
“It was terrible!”
That got Juan’s attention. A small man with a beard that defied the sharpest razor, giving him a perpetual five-o’clock shadow, he finally really looked up from his comic book. “Huh?”
“Exactly,” Menos said, going to stand under the nearest air-conditioning vent, hoping to dry out the Hawaiian shirt that was sticking to him everywhere. How did people ever manage to live in this horrid, humid swamp?
“He called the police?” Mas sat up straight and looked wildly about as if afraid the local SWAT team was about to burst in on them.
“Worse,” Menos said flatly. Ay, Dios, the air was barely lukewarm, emerging as a trickle. “He doesn’t care.”
“Huh?” That was one American expression Mas had learned well.
“He doesn’t care,” Menos repeated in a snarl.
“But we kidnapped his mother! What kind of son is he?”
“What kind of prince is he going to be if he doesn’t care about his own mother?” Menos corrected darkly.
“I can’t believe it.”
Neither could Menos. He’d been there, he’d seen the reaction, heard the words, and his jaw was still dragging on the ground, metaphorically speaking.
“That’s inhuman,” Mas said. “Maybe he doesn’t really believe us.”
“Oh, he believed me,” Menos said, plucking rayon away from his chest. “He said, ‘I pity you. You don’t know what you’re in for.’”
Mas’s eyes widened, then a snicker escaped him. “He’s right.”
Menos, whose world view was rather dour to begin with, silently agreed. Why, oh why, had he ever allowed that woman to talk him into this?
But then he squared his shoulders and reminded himself his country’s future was at stake, and it was riding on his shoulders while the consul-in-residence chased bikini-clad bimbos down in Key West.
“We will call her,” he announced. “She must call her son and convince him she’s in danger.”
Mas nodded, only too eager to agree to anything that would allow him to get back to his comics. “Good idea.”
MARIA TERESA STOOD on the stool while her dressmaker jabbed industriously at the waist of the green watered-silk gown she was having made for her son’s coronation.
The call from Menos in Florida hadn’t pleased her at all. Imagine Darius not being upset that she’d been kidnapped! Even Menos, squirrelly as he was, had sounded appalled by the utter lack of concern Darius had displayed.
What was it Menos had quoted Darius as saying? “Enjoy your time with my mother.”
Humph.
Rolling her eyes heavenward, Maria Teresa demanded to know why His Lordliness had given her such an unfeeling son. Why, in fact, the stolid Swiss side had predominated to such an extent.
Was the boy not of her flesh, as well? Where was his passion and fire? Why wouldn’t he take up his lance and tilt at windmills for the sake of his mother?
Why didn’t he believe it?
And how could he laugh at being told he was the prince of Masolimia, a not-inconsiderable flyspeck of a principality in the Pyrenees? It was, after all, bigger than Monaco. It was his birthright. And hers, for that matter. To return as the dowager princess, rather than as the daughter of a despised shepherd family…well, what more could justice demand?
She sniffed and looked down at the dark hair of her dressmaker as the woman worked to pin a fold in at the waistline.
“I’m not sure I like this silk at all,” Maria Teresa announced.
The dressmaker’s hands froze. Without looking up, the woman said, “But it becomes you so well, madam.”
Maria Teresa glanced sideways at the mirrored wall, taking in all the expensive, basted fabric that covered her. Fabric her own mother could only have dreamed about. It did flatter the olive tone of her skin, she decided.
“But blue,” she said, anyway.
The dressmaker, now on solid ground, looked up. “Madam doesn’t want to look as if she has a liver disease.”
Maria Teresa sighed theatrically. It was true, blues made her look sallow.
“Oh, very well,” she said irritably, hating to be reminded that there was anything she couldn’t do. “Perhaps yellow…”
The dressmaker, Adele, straightened, stepped back and put her hands on her hips. “Madam,” she said sternly, “we tried every color of the rainbow and agreed this flattered you best. Moreover, it will not be so green once we add the pearls.”
Of course it wouldn’t. She needed to remember that. She was just being difficult because of Darius. Speaking of whom…
“You’re right, Adele. Keep working. After you bring me a telephone.”
“Yes, madam.”
Help just wasn’t what it used to be, Maria Teresa thought. But Adele was one of the best dressmakers around, unless you were interested in the ridiculous fashion ideas that were called haute couture in Paris these days, and Maria Teresa definitely was not.
When Adele passed her the phone, Maria Teresa didn’t need to look up the number, even though Darius had only moved into his new residence three weeks ago. She had memorized the number instantly, just the way a bloodhound memorizes the scent it wants to follow.
Or a predator.
But such unflattering descriptions of herself were not on her mind as she tapped her toe and waited for her son to answer. It seemed to take a long time, but when she absolutely needed to, she could be patient. Barely.
“Maxwell.”
“Darius,” she said, making her tone as pathetic as she could. “Estoy secuestrada.” I am kidnapped.
“Sí, so I’ve heard. How much are you paying them?”
She puffed up with indignation and heard the faint tearing as pins ripped through silk. Adele cast her a disapproving glance, but Maria Theresa ignored it. She would deal with this woman’s impudence later. First, though, she had to deal with her son.
“Darius!” she snapped, in a tone that every mother knows and at which every child quails. “I’m not paying anyone anything. You have to help me!”
“Just how am I supposed to do that? I have no idea where you are.”
She frowned, tapping her toe. This was certainly not the treatment she had expected from him, and certainly not when she employed the voz de la madre, the stern voice of a mother. Looking heavenward, she blasted a handful of saints and her poor departed spouse for having cursed her with such a child.
“Ma mère?”
In this family, a plethora of languages were spoken, and Maria Teresa had always insisted her son address her by the French rather than the Spanish for “my mother.” Sometimes he liked to irritate her by calling her mamacita.
Regardless, she didn’t hear nearly enough concern in his voice. Feeling frustrated, she twisted just a bit, and one of the seamstress’s pins jabbed her side. She cried out.
Which had the desired effect, she realized instantly.
“Ma mère?”
“They’re torturing me,” she cried with great relish.
Adele jumped back, her face paling. Maria Teresa waved her concern away. “You have to save me at once!”
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know!” Which was a lie. The Riviera was a little hot this year, but otherwise comfortable.
“Mother.” This time Darius spoke in English. “Has it occurred to you that kidnapping is a very dangerous thing to do?”
“Only if the police catch them before I am killed,” she wailed.
“That isn’t what I meant.”
She hesitated. This wasn’t going as expected. “What do you mean?”
“Just that if they’re doing this to make me accept that I’m prince of Masolimia, they’re making a big mistake. Because if I accept the throne, I can have these kidnappers beheaded.”
“My dear son, beheadings are so déclassé.” The wheels were truly spinning in her brain now. This was a kink she definitely hadn’t expected, and she was glad that neither Menos nor Mas was able to hear this conversation. They were loco enough without fearing they’d lose their heads.
“Then I’ll have them shot.”
“That’s better,” she approved. She feigned every ounce of pathos she could muster. “But you will rescue me?”
“Which hotel are you at?”
She almost slipped. The answer rose naturally to her lips, but she bit it back just in time. “Believe me, this is not a hotel! It’s a hovel!”
Now Adele was looking seriously annoyed, but Maria Teresa hardly cared for that. A generous tip would bring the smile back.
“Really.” Darius sighed. “If you want the truth, Mother…”
“But of course!”
“If you really have been kidnapped, I feel sorry for your abductors.”
“Darius!”
“Tell you what, Mother. I’ll save you.”
Her eyes lit up, and she sent paeans of praise winging heavenward to the lately slandered saints. “You will?”
“Of course.”
Now he would swashbuckle. At last. Her son was going to play Errol Flynn, John Wayne, Sean Connery….
“How soon?”
“I’m not sure. First I have to prove I’m not the prince.”
He disconnected, leaving Maria Teresa to feel as if she had been struck by a truck.
Prove he wasn’t the prince? ¡Dios no lo quiera!
SERENA WAS SUNBATHING, dermatologist-style. She was lying beside the condo swimming pool, clad in a maillot, coverup, wide-brimmed sun hat and half a tube of sunscreen. And just to be sure, she’d chosen a chaise beneath an umbrella. Immediately to her right on the pool deck sat a tall bottle of spring water and a kitchen timer which she had set to twenty minutes.
To her left was a patient-to-be, Marco Paloni. She considered him a patient-to-be because he wore only a Speedo—which left little to the imagination and much that would haunt her dreams—and a thin sheen of olive oil, which he had applied with the same loving care a chef might use to baste a leg of lamb. He had then proceeded to spend the next fifteen minutes regaling her with tales of his days on the Grand Prix circuit.
“And then there was Monza,” he said. “The Italian Grand Prix. My home country. My home course.”
“Of course,” Serena said, doing her best to appear polite, just in case he ended up in her office.
“I was driving for Ferrari, of course. A beautiful car, the 312T2, with a transverse mounted gearbox. What a wonderful machine.”
To judge by the tone of his voice, he might have been describing a fondly remembered lover.
“Emerson Fittipaldi was the favorite, as always. But this was the course I’d been weaned on, watching Fanglia as a boy. It was the first course I’d ever driven. I knew it like…how do you say…the back of my hand.”
“And you won?” Serena asked, glancing at the timer. Three more minutes. Just three more minutes.
“Did I win?” Marco asked. “Did I win?”
“Yes. Did you win?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“How sad,” she said.
Two minutes, forty-five seconds.
“Sad? No!”
“No?” she asked.
“No!”
Two minutes, forty seconds.
“It was better than winning. I came to the chicayne on the last lap, dead even. I took a page from Lauria’s book. Fittipaldi downshifted. I didn’t. Two hundred fifty kilometers per hour.”
“That’s fast,” Serena said.
“Sì! Prestissimo!”
Two minutes, thirty seconds.
“I passed Fittipaldi. Took the first half of the chicayne, no problem. Tapped the brakes. Just the tiniest tap. Turned the wheel.”
“And?”
“Guess!” he said.
“Guess?”
“Guess!”
Two minutes, fifteen seconds.
“Ummm…”
“I flew!” he exclaimed. “Flew! Over the tires. Over the retaining wall.”
“You crashed?”
“Right into the net! That beautiful machine hung right there in the net. The right-front tire had come off, and the car hung by the axle. The ambulance, it comes.”
“Were you hurt?” Serena asked, now concerned. She didn’t care for auto racing, for that very reason. Too many drivers got hurt.
“Hurt? No!”
“No?”
“No!”
Two minutes.
“I climbed out of the cockpit. And fell…right into the arms of my Isadora.”
“Isadora?”
“Isadora!”
Serena turned off the timer. “And?”
“The woman of my dreams. Strong. Gentle. Kind.” He reached into his Speedo. “The paparazzi were there. They captured the moment. The moment I met my Isadora.”
His hand emerged, holding a laminated snapshot out to her. He had cut a dashing figure back then. And there was no mistaking the smile on his face in the photo, his eyes fixed on the raven-haired medic into whose arms he had fallen as if by an act of God. Her face was radiant.
“She’s beautiful.”
“Sì. Bella. Splendida.” His eyes darkened. “She became…my life.”
“She’s…?”
“Yes,” he said. “Four years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No,” he said, simply.
“No?”
“No. I would have been sorry if I had not taken that chicayne at 250 kilometers per hour. I would have been sorry if I had not tapped the brakes and turned the wheel at exactly the wrong instant. I would have been sorry if my beautiful automobile had not gone airborne and flown into that net. I would have been sorry if I had not fallen into her arms. For all of that, I would have been sorry.”
He paused a moment, deep-brown eyes fixing on her. “No. I am not sorry. If I see only how she died…Doctor Serena, if we see it that way, life has no happy endings. For any of us. No, God gave me twenty-five years with her. Twenty-five glorious years and four beautiful children. Those years, those memories, my children…they are my happy ending.”
She passed the photo back to him, certain that she’d exceeded her allotted twenty minutes, and equally certain she did not care.
“That’s beautiful, Marco.”
His fingers lingered on hers for a moment. “Dr. Serena, don’t be afraid to fly into the net.”
She nodded and withdrew her hand. “I need to get out of the sun, Marco.”
“And I need to wax my car.”
“Let me guess,” she said. “Ferrari?” He winked. “Always.”
“EXPLAIN SOMETHING to me?” Ariel asked as she licked an ice-cream cone—chocolate with sprinkles.
Serena had run into her in the elevator on her way up from her sunbath. “Yes?”
“How could you go on a clothing-optional cruise when you barely let the sun touch your skin?”
Serena looked at her young friend and found green eyes innocently looking back at her. She didn’t for one second believe that innocence. “Sunblock,” she said, “can be put anywhere.”
“Were you going to hide inside the ship all the time? What’s the point of going to the Caribbean, then?”
“I wasn’t going to stay inside all the time.”
“Just most of it.”
Serena scowled at her. “Are you making fun of me?”
“Moi?” But now there was a definite twinkle in her eyes. “I thought you’d like to know. Mr. Maxwell drives a Ferrari.”
The elevator lurched to a halt at the eleventh floor. The door hissed open. Serena didn’t move. Two seconds later she punched the G button for the garage level.
“What are you doing?” Ariel asked.
“I just had a brainstorm.”

CHAPTER THREE
MARCO, STILL CLAD in his obscene Speedo, was indeed in the parking area beneath the condos. On the coast like this, buildings were elevated on stilts to avoid flooding during severe storms, and the area beneath was quite handily used for parking.
He was busy applying a thick coat of something milky to the lovingly preserved red paint of his Ferrari. He smiled when he saw Serena. “This is so important to preserve the finish in this climate,” he explained.
Thinking of the condition of the paint on her four-year-old car, Serena was inclined to agree. Between salt and sun, a car didn’t stand a chance. “Have you met our new neighbor?” she asked Marco.
He paused and straightened. “No, I don’t think so.”
“He lives next door to me. He drives a Ferrari.”
Ariel snickered quietly, and Serena shot her a warning glance.
“He does?” Marco’s face, usually quite happy, brightened even more. “He appreciates fine workmanship and speed, no?”
“Actually,” Serena said, “I don’t know what he appreciates. All I know is…Marco, I think he may be up to no good.”
Marco’s expression sobered. “Why you say that?”
Ariel beat Serena to the punch, in her usual, tactless and straightforward way. “Serena thinks he might be a drug dealer.”
Marco’s face darkened. His chest swelled with ire and he spouted something in Italian that definitely sounded threatening.
“Now wait,” Serena said hastily. “I don’t know anything for a fact.” Then she shot a glare at Ariel. “Don’t make mountains out of molehills.”
“I thought that was your job,” Ariel agreed sweetly.
Marco, meanwhile, had let his chest sag once more. “Why do you think this?”
“Because…because he dresses oddly and claims to be an international art dealer. I mean…” She was starting to feel foolish, but Marco saved her.
He nodded. “International art dealer? Here? Hah!” He made a gesture that Serena had never asked the meaning of and suspected she really didn’t want to know. “So what do we do?” he asked.
“Well…” She didn’t feel quite so foolish anymore, now that Marco, a man familiar with a more cosmopolitan world than this part of Florida, found it absurd that an international art dealer would choose to live here of all places. Oh, there were some fine-art museums in the Tampa Bay area, and even the famed Dali Museum in St. Petersburg. But enough business to keep a major art dealer busy? Not likely.
“Yes?” Marco prompted.
“I thought…perhaps….well. Since you both have Ferraris, I thought you might be able to strike up a conversation and learn more about him.”
“Sì.” Marco nodded once, then vanished into his own Italianate thought. After a few minutes, during which time Serena hardly breathed, he nodded again. “Yes,” he said. “I will be a spy. I have grandchildren visit here. No drug deals in my building!”
For an awful instant Serena wondered if she was being too hasty. Then she remembered the weaselly visitor, and the threatening words he had spoken, “We have your mother.” Surely that was a sign of some illicit deal gone bad.
“But,” she said, having a final twinge of conscience, “we don’t know for sure anything’s wrong with him. We just need to find out.”
“I’ll find out.” Marco beamed. “No one can resist my personality.”
“No?”
“No.”
Serena had her doubts, considering how she had been clock-watching—or rather timer watching—just a little while ago. “Just don’t go overboard, Marco.”
He smiled. “Trust me. We will become bosom buddies.”
ARIEL LICKED the last bit of stickiness from her fingers as she and Serena rode the elevator back up to the eleventh floor.
“I wish,” Serena said, “that you wouldn’t be so…”
“Brutally honest?” Ariel asked. “It’s just the way I am. Besides, you wanted Marco to help, didn’t you? So why beat around the bush and waste time?”
Serena didn’t have an answer for that.
“Anyway,” Ariel continued blithely, “I hope you realize you may just have totally slandered an innocent man.”
Serena’s heart thumped. “I didn’t say he was a drug dealer. You did.”
“But it was your idea.” Smiling, Ariel got off the elevator ahead of her. “I hope you have a good lawyer.” Then she skipped down the balcony toward her own unit like a gleeful child.
Serena stared after her, thinking that while Ariel might be an adult by law, she was awfully immature in some ways. Sometimes it didn’t seem to Serena that the young woman ought to be living on her own.
But then, she thought with painful honesty, she could probably say the same about herself.
What had she just done?
SERENA’S SINUSES HURT. Guaranteed there was a storm coming. Her sinuses were a better predictor than the weather service. Certainly better than that dweeb on TV, who one day had stood talking about clear skies while it was raining everywhere, including on his own building.
Sighing, she pulled back the drapes, stretching out the morning stiffness and looked through her glass doors. Her sinuses were right. They were pounding like a tympani because the sky was leaden, the gulf was gray and white-capped, and the only thing missing was the rumble of thunder.
No morning run. She’d lived her entire life in the lightning capital of the world, and she knew better than to get down there on the beach and trot along the water’s edge when there were clouds visible, even at a distance.
As if in answer to her thoughts, a purple-blue-red bolt suddenly shot out of the heavens and appeared to hit the water near shore. It was followed by an eerie green halo that seemed to hang in the air like a huge ball of plasma…which it probably was.
Curious, she stepped out on her balcony—not the wisest thing but she wasn’t always the wisest person, as everyone acquainted with her knew—and glanced down.
“Oh my God!” The words escaped her as she saw what appeared to be two men dragging a third person out of the water. Idiot tourists. Someone else was running toward the beach bar at a mad dash. Probably to call 911.
Serena was a dermatologist, but she was also a medical doctor. Grabbing a blanket and the CPR kit she was never without, she dashed out of her condo. The elevator would be too slow, so she ran down eleven flights of stairs, bursting out onto the beach and churning up gouts of sand behind her.
People were crowded around the person lying on the sand. “I’m a doctor,” got her right through until she could look down on the body.
“What happened?” she demanded as she dropped to her knees.
“Lightning,” said a man.
Serena bent forward, putting her ear to the man’s mouth to listen for breath as she also felt his carotid artery for a pulse.
Neither.
She tipped the man’s head back and used her fingers to ensure his air passage was clear. Then, holding his tongue with her thumb so it wouldn’t fall back in his throat, she applied the breathing bag.
“Can someone use this bag?” she asked. “Like this? While I try to resuscitate his heart.”
“I will.”
She suddenly found herself looking in the brown eyes of her mysterious neighbor, who knelt across from her. She didn’t have time now to think of that, though. “Like this,” she said. “Every time I tell you.”
“Got it.”
She began compressions, timing them, leaning fully into them with all the weight in her body, while her mysterious neighbor pumped air into his lungs as ordered. Every five compressions, she paused to listen.
Then she heard it, the thud of a heartbeat. Then a weak lub-dub.
“Stop for a second,” she said, and put her ear to the man’s mouth. A shaky breath. Another, deeper. Feeling the carotid, she found a pulse. A little irregular, but recurring.
“Thanks,” she said to her neighbor.
He nodded, his dark eyes grave. “It’s the least I could do.”
But the danger wasn’t past. In the distance she could hear the wail of approaching sirens. She looked along the length of the man’s body and realized his swim trunks were shredded, and a zig-zaggy burn, almost like a lightning bolt itself, marked his left side and left thigh.
She grabbed the blanket and spread it over him. “Elevate his feet with my bag,” she said to one of the people in the crowd.
Then she returned her attention to her patient’s face. His color was improving, he was still breathing. Thank God. She touched his cheek, shaking his head gently. “Can you hear me?”
A moan escaped him.
“Does anyone know his name?” she asked.
“It’s Jack,” said a woman.
“Jack. Jack! Can you hear me? Open your eyes!” Much to her relief, his eyelids fluttered. His eyes were unfocused, but they were open. “Stay with us, Jack. Stay awake. Help is coming.”
He moaned again, but his eyes stayed open.
“I told him,” said the woman. “I told him not to go in the water! But no, he’s a tough macho idiot…” Her voice trailed away in sobs.
“Nobody ought to be on this beach,” Serena said firmly. “Nobody.”
“But it’s our vacation,” some man argued. “Damn it, I paid a fortune…”
“You’ll pay even more in hospital bills,” Serena said shortly, trying to pick out the speaker from the crowd. “This place isn’t known as the lightning capital of the world for nothing.”
As if to back her up, another bolt sizzled and crackled downward, farther out in the water.
As if on cue, the curious began to hurry away.
Then, other than the woman who was Jack’s companion, Serena and the mysterious neighbor were alone with the patient. She couldn’t avoid his eyes then.
“Thank you,” she said again.
“You saved his life,” he said, and smiled.
God, it was a devastating smile. Things inside her went all fluttery and soft, and she wanted to kick her own butt. She cleared her throat and shrugged. “I’m a doctor.”
“I heard.” He extended his hand. “Darius Maxwell. Art dealer.”
“Hi.” She had to drag her gaze away from him and return her attention to Jack, who was beginning to actually focus his eyes. They found her and he said thickly, “You’re an angel. Oh, God, I’m dead.”
“No you’re not,” the sobbing woman said, “but you damn well oughta be.”
Jack actually smiled.
Serena was saved by the arrival of the paramedics. She gave them a crisp, professional report and let them take over responsibility. Her specialty didn’t involve caring for lightning victims…until they wanted scars removed. “Take care,” she said to Jack and his wife.
Then she gathered up her things and headed back toward the building while another crackle of lightning sizzled behind her.
“Excuse me!” Darius Maxwell caught up with her.
Who was following whom? “Yes?” She didn’t want to look at him. Absolutely not. He was too…too…attractive.
“Listen, since we’re neighbors…can I buy you dinner?”
Her instinct was to refuse. After all, what did she know about this man? On the other hand, getting to know him would be a wonderful way to find out what he was up to.
Uh-uh. Moth, flame, singed and all that. “I don’t think so. But thank you.”
“I understand.” They had reached the shelter of the parking garage, safer from the lightning, which was now forking across the sky like Thor’s own fireworks show. “You don’t know a thing about me.”
She darted a glance at him, hoping he was about to spill the beans. He disappointed her.
“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll order takeout and we can eat at my place or yours.”
Serena didn’t know if that was much safer. She hesitated before the elevator door. On the one hand, here was a sterling opportunity to learn something about this man and his evil doings. On the other, she’d be about as safe as a lamb in a cage with a tiger. Or so she wanted to believe.
“Compromise,” she said finally.
“Yes?”
God, his smile was just too inviting. “I’ll ask Ariel to join us. You know Ariel?”
“Of course. The lovely young woman who lives at the other end of the wing. That would be delightful.” His dark eyes creased at the corner.
Damn, he was oozing warmth. She wondered if she was going to get a sunburn standing here.
“One more condition,” she said.
“Yes?”
“We eat inside if it’s still storming.”
He laughed. “Of course. Say seven?”
The elevator door opened, and she didn’t know whether to be grateful or disappointed when he didn’t join her.
“I’ve got an errand to run,” he said pleasantly. “See you tonight.”
The door closed. Errand? He probably needed to deliver some dope, she thought sourly.
That’s when she realized that she was looking forward to the evening with entirely too much excitement.
Idiot.
“WHAT DO YOU need me for?” Ariel wanted to know. “I’m too young to chaperone someone your age.”
Serena tried not to grit her teeth. “I don’t know anything about him! I don’t want to be alone with him.”
“I thought that would be exactly what you’d want. So you could tie him to a chair and threaten to beat him with a kitchen appliance until he tells you the truth.”
Serena rolled her eyes. “Traitor.”
Ariel frowned. “No, he might like that.”
Serena gasped. “What do you know about such things?”
Ariel only laughed and winked. “A bullwhip would be better. You know, some leather, handcuffs—”
“Stop it!” Serena’s cheeks were so hot she felt she could illuminate the darkest night. All too often, Ariel seemed to read Serena’s mind.
Ariel just laughed. “Okay, I’ll be good…”
“Good!” Serena replied.
“…and you can be good at it!”
With that, the young woman dashed out of reach and into the kitchen, leaving Serena to consider what she would wear for this soiree. Shorts and a halter top were out of the question. Her eyes flicked over the leather corset she kept folded and hidden in a corner of the closet shelf, and her cheeks reddened again. Damn you, Ariel!
Finally she settled on her favorite sundress: light yellow, cotton, sleeveless. It was comfortable, casually attractive without going overboard. Most of all, she felt confident wearing it. And she had a feeling she would need all the confidence she could muster.
When she emerged from the bedroom, Ariel had already set the table, complete with rose linen napkins and a set of burgundy candles that Serena had forgotten she had.
“Do you like digging through my cupboards?” Serena asked.
“Of course!” Ariel replied, as if poking around in someone else’s kitchen were the most natural thing in the world. “You’d have used paper plates and napkins. And that would not do…not for an international art dealer. So I decided to give you some class.”
“Ummm, thanks. I think.”
“You’re welcome,” Ariel said, her eyes suddenly deep as the Marianas Trench. “You’re very welcome.”
What did that girl know?

CHAPTER FOUR
HE WAS LATE.
Not fashionably late, ten or fifteen minutes. Not even a half hour.
No, it was ten minutes to eight. Serena’s stomach growled as she tapped her nails on the glass tabletop. She had rearranged the place settings three times. She had chilled the sauvignon blanc, and decanted the merlot, just in case. She had even deigned to endure that most hated of feminine habits and put on makeup. Not much. A light brushing of blush on her cheeks, mascara and a shimmery pink lip gloss. Just enough.
And he was late.
The grandfather clock in her living room had swung and ticked its way to 7:58 when the doorbell rang.
“I shouldn’t even answer,” Serena said.
“Of course you should,” Ariel replied.
“He’s late.”
“So?”
“It’s disrespectful.”
The doorbell rang again.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps he was unavoidably detained.”
“Making a drug deal?”
“Maybe,” Ariel said. “Or maybe he was caught in traffic. Or maybe he had to close a million-dollar deal on a painting. There’s only one way to find out.”
The doorbell rang again.
“And that’s it,” Ariel said, pointing to the door.
With a heavy sigh—wondering yet again why this young girl intimidated her so—Serena walked to the door and opened it.
Damn him.
“Hi,” Darius said, holding out a bouquet of yellow carnations. “Sorry I’m late.”
The flowers even matched her dress.
“No problem,” Serena heard herself say, without so much as thinking about it. Then, as if another brain had taken charge of her vocal chords, she added, “I was late getting ready myself.”
What was she doing?
“It worked out well, then,” he said. He lifted the large plastic bag in his other hand. “I hope you like Italian.”
“Sounds yummy!” Ariel said, reaching out to take the bag. “Come on in.”
“Yes, do come in,” Serena added.
“Thank you,” Darius said, stepping into the small, tiled foyer. He paused a moment to look around. “You have a lovely home. That’s a Robert Franklin, isn’t it?”
“I guess so,” Serena said, looking at the painting above her sofa as if for the first time. It was a pastel watercolor, a man and a woman caressing each other’s cheeks. “I just picked it because I liked it. I really don’t know anything about art.”
Darius offered a disarming smile. “Not to worry. You’ve chosen well. It fits the room.”
She hoped he’d turn that smile off soon. Before her brain made yet another detour into complete abandon. She fell back upon safe territory. “Well, let’s eat!”
In the kitchen, as she and Ariel transferred the steaming food from the containers into serving dishes, Ariel whispered, “Well, he recognized who did the painting in your living room. One point for art dealer.”
Serena, shocked back to reality for a second, was about to admit she may have been wrong, when a thought struck her. “The painting is signed.”
Ariel gave her one of those long, deep looks, then nodded. “That’s true.”
But Serena was beginning to wonder if her need for excitement hadn’t pushed her right over the edge. Then she remembered the weaselly man saying, “We have your mother.” Darius Maxwell was not acting like a man who was in any way worried about his mother. The weasel’s words had certainly sounded like a threat, not a reassurance.
Hmmm.
Food in serving dishes—scampi, pasta primavera, ravioli stuffed with Portobello mushrooms, and garlic bread, she and Ariel paraded into the dining area with the offerings.
“I hope,” said Darius, standing near the table, “that the selections please you.”
“Oh, definitely,” Serena said, managing a bright smile. At least he’d turned off that thousand-watt smile of his. It had settled into a pleasant curve of his very pleasant mouth.
After the women had finished placing the dishes on the table, Darius held their chairs out for them, Serena’s first. That was an old-world courtesy, so old that Serena had actually forgotten men could do such things.
Ariel’s gaze seemed to say, And you think this guy is a drug dealer?
Serena felt herself blushing, faintly, she hoped. Damn her fair complexion. Maybe she should bake in the sun, set herself up for melanoma, and make sure the world could never again see her cheeks pinken.
When they were all seated, Darius apologized again. “I really was unforgivably late. But like an idiot, I decided to go to this small mom-and-pop restaurant where they have the most wonderful Italian cuisine, and I totally forgot about rush hour across the drawbridges.”
Serena smiled politely. “It’s all forgiven. The food smells wonderful. Don’t you have to deal with rush hour?”
A clue, she thought. She had to deal with rush hour, as did every other upstanding American, except perhaps the president.
“Well, not usually,” he admitted as he passed the scampi. “My job has rather irregular hours.”
“Oh?” She lifted her brows at him, then scooped a small portion onto her plate before passing the dish to Ariel.
“I’m an art dealer, as I said,” Darius explained smoothly. Maybe too smoothly. “I’m working on a project in St. Petersburg right now. A new gallery is opening, centered on the works of Mateus Davilla.”
Ariel perked up. “Like the Dali Museum?”
“Yes, like that.” He smiled at her. “The gallery is very well funded by a collector, and I’ve been scouting for some additional paintings for them. Some of Davilla’s works have been missing since World War II. I’ve managed to find a few of them, along with a truly priceless collection of his charcoal sketches. But there are some provenance issues I need to work on while I continue to scout. At present, I have reason to believe a number of Davilla’s works are here in the U.S.”
“So you’re based here for a while?” Ariel asked.
“Yes, until my project is finished.”
So he was a drifter, Serena thought, stuffing her mouth. Then the flavor hit her and astonishment filled her. “My goodness, that’s the best scampi I’ve ever had!”
Darius grinned at her. “So maybe getting stuck at the drawbridge was worth it.”
Much as she wanted to, she couldn’t resist that smile. As the scampi warmed her stomach, that smile warmed every inch of her, including the cockles of her heart.
“It sounds like an exciting job,” Ariel said.
“It is,” Darius agreed, turning to her and releasing Serena from his thrall. “Well, to be fair, most of the time it’s terribly routine. I breathe a lot of dust in old archives chasing clues. But occasionally…well, there have been a few times when it’s been rather dangerous. One doesn’t always know who one is dealing with, and some of these paintings are stolen, so…” He shrugged, a very European gesture. “I’ve met a few thugs in my day.”
Like the one outside his door, Serena thought. She wished she had the nerve to ask him about it. Then it struck her that she did. “I was concerned about that man who let himself into your apartment yesterday. I’m glad it was all right.”
Darius shook his head. “As it happens, it was merely a nuisance.”
“But…you say you’ve met thugs. Why didn’t you let me call the police?”
There, it was out, the question that had been plaguing her.
He tilted his head, studying her, as if reading her mind. “Sometimes unsavory characters merely want to sell me a painting. Other times…well, I know how to deal with them.”
“Oh!” Ariel exclaimed, looking as thrilled as any teen faced with her idol. “Do you carry a gun?”
For an instant he looked shocked. “Never!” he said firmly. “Not ever. I realize you Americans depend on them, but I was raised in a different culture. I tend to believe that guns only elicit greater violence.”
Serena heartily agreed with him on that point, and felt herself thinking she might actually be able to like this man. How unfortunate, when he was probably just feeding her a pack of lies. Very good lies, but lies, nonetheless. Lies that could provide an excuse for all the unsavory characters that might come to his door.
Hmmm.
The evening light that poured through the sliding glass doors began to grow golden. The glow it cast through the living-dining areas was almost surreal, as if the room were under a spell.
“I wish,” Darius said unexpectedly, “that I had an ounce of artistic talent.”
“Why’s that?” Ariel asked.
“I’d love to be able to capture this light.”
“Did you want to be an artist when you were little?”
He nodded. “I most certainly did. I grew up surrounded by fine art, and was given every opportunity and a lot of very expensive lessons. Nothing helped. I can identify masterworks, but I’ll never paint one.” Then he laughed. “Oh, well. At least I spend my life looking at the things I love most. Not many can say that.”
Serena was beginning to believe him. She didn’t want to believe him. It would ruin her entire vacation, not to have a criminal living next door. Nonetheless, her suspicions were falling away like dead leaves. If this man wasn’t exactly what he said he was, then he deserved every acting award in the universe.
But still nagging at her was that threatening statement: We have your mother.
AFTER DINNER they moved out onto her balcony to watch the sun set over the water. Serena served Tia Maria in liqueur glasses along with Blue Mountain coffee. Between that, the wine they’d had with dinner, and the soothing glow of the sunset, Serena felt…delightfully buzzed.
The evening breeze was just warm enough to be delightful. The passing of the storm had left the air surprisingly dry, creating the kind of evening that made Serena want to close her eyes, let her head fall back and feel her hair toss gently.
“I love the wind,” she said impulsively. “Gentle or fierce, it always gives me such a feeling of freedom.”
“I love it, too,” Ariel said. “It makes me feel as if I could fly.”
Darius said nothing. Curious, Serena turned to him. He appeared lost in thought, not necessarily of the happiest kind. Maybe he wasn’t completely indifferent to that threat made earlier.
“Do you have any family in the area?” she asked, hoping to pry some information loose.
“No. My family, such as it is, is in Europe.”
“Such as it is?”
“My mother is the only close relative I have left.” His mouth twisted wryly. “She is, however, the world’s biggest schemer, highly manipulative, and highly volatile. And I love her dearly.”
Serena didn’t know how to reply to that. In fact, she was beginning to wonder if she had utterly misheard that weasel’s words. “Do you…see her often?”
“Whenever I’m in Europe, which is quite often. It can be something of a trial, though. She’s forever plotting to find a way to turn me into something I’m not.”
“Which is?”
“Well, it used to be James Bond. Right now it’s something else.” He waved a hand, as if to brush away the thoughts. “What about you ladies? Your families?”
“Well,” said Ariel, “I have none.”
That was a question Serena had never asked her, and now, hearing the answer, she felt her throat tighten. “I’m so sorry, honey.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” Ariel said brightly. “It’s been a long time. And I’m well-off. Luckier than most, don’t you think?”
“You’re such a positive thinker.”
Ariel laughed. “Of course. Is there any other way to be?”
“Well, you can share my family from now on.”
Ariel looked impishly at her. “Are they all like you?”
A helpless laugh bubbled out of Serena, rising from deep within her. “Touché,” she managed to say between giggles.
Ariel laughed with her, and Darius looked from one to the other, amused, even though he must surely feel left out.
“Serena,” Ariel confided, “is a would-be adventuress. She gets into all kinds of trouble when she’s on vacation.”
“Hey,” Serena said, “I haven’t been arrested yet.”
“She came awfully close last Christmas,” Ariel explained to Darius. “She was playing Mrs. Claus at the mall, and one too many little brats mouthed off at her and kicked her in the shin. So she told the parents, all the parents, what they could do with their little monsters.”
Darius laughed heartily. “Good for you,” he told Serena.
“She was supposed to go on a naked cruise this time,” Ariel continued, “but the IRS seized the ship.”
“Ariel!”
The young woman shrugged. “It’s the truth. I know you keep saying ‘clothing optional,’ but I don’t know what the difference is.”
Darius’s gaze settled on Serena again. He was smiling, but his eyes seemed to hold some deeper message, something that made her squirm in her chair. Something that felt too pleasurable for her own good. She gripped the armrests tightly and forced herself to be still.
At that moment an errant gust hit her, blowing her hair across her face and somehow managing to blow her skirt up to the top of her thighs.
“Oh!” Embarrassment filled her and she blindly reached to pull her skirt down and tuck it tightly around her legs.
“Better than Marilyn’s,” Darius said, a laugh trembling in his voice.
Serena glared at him through strands of blond hair. “Don’t be a cad.”
“Odd. That’s one thing my mother has always hoped I’d become.”
Brushing her hair out of her eyes, she asked, “Why?”
“My father was a very stolid Swiss banker. She spent most of his life trying to turn him into D’Artagnan.”
“Poor man.”
“They were very much in love.” Darius’s gaze strayed back out over the water, his face growing pensive, almost sad. “Anyway, now she’s decided to reform me.”
Serena’s heart slammed. “How so?”
“She’s staged her own kidnapping.”

CHAPTER FIVE
“SHE WHAT?” Serena asked, words tumbling out of her mouth. “I can’t believe…who…why…I don’t understand.”
Darius looked at her and smiled. That smile again. “I don’t think you’d understand my mother if you lived to be a hundred. I certainly don’t. But yes, that’s what she’s done.”
“So that guy outside your apartment, he’s the kidnapper?” Ariel asked.
Darius chuckled. “He thinks so. I suspect it’s more a case of her holding them captive than vice versa. Truth is, I pity the poor man. But yes, such as it stands, he’s the kidnapper.”
“But…why?”
“Oh, that’s the easy part,” Darius said with a wave of his hand. “She thinks I’m a prince.”
If he’d said he had six ears, Serena couldn’t have been more floored. He said it so off-handedly, as if there were no great mystery involved in a mother staging her own kidnapping because her son was, or might be, a prince.
“Ummm…” Serena said.
“Exactly,” Darius replied. “Ummm…”
“I take it you don’t think you’re a prince?” Ariel asked.
He laughed. “No, I don’t. And what’s more, even if I were, I wouldn’t want the job. I mean, who in his right mind would want to be the crown prince of Masolimia?”
“That place in the Pyrenees, with the awful sheep?” Ariel asked. Both Serena and Darius looked at her in stunned silence. “Well, I read something about it in a science magazine.”
“Yes,” Darius said. “The place with the awful sheep. And the awful weather. And the awful…everything.”
“But that place is going to be rich!” Ariel countered.
Serena felt as if she had slipped into a reality warp. She’d never heard of Masolimia, but that was no surprise. There were probably hundreds of little places in the world she’d never heard of. The surprise was that Ariel had heard of Masolimia. And not only had heard of it, but seemed to be something of an expert on the place. That girl seemed to know entirely too much for Serena’s comfort. It was almost as if she’d been…set up.
Darius nodded to Ariel. “That’s what they tell me. Something about genetic research, I gather.”
“Yes!” Ariel said. She turned to Serena. “It’s like this. Geneticists are trying to figure out which parts of the human gene structure do what things. How much of what happens to us is inherited, how much is environmental. The old debate of nature versus nurture.”
“Right,” Serena said, nodding as if to say, I know this, dear. “I’m a doctor, remember?”
Ariel nodded excitedly. “Of course you are! So you know they’re trying to find out if there are genetic bases for diseases. Does this gene cause cancer? Does that gene cause depression? Things like that. But it’s complicated, because genes sometimes skip generations, lie dormant or some such. Plus a lot of places in the world have become so cosmopolitan, with people from all over the world adding to the local gene pool. So what you need is…”
Darius cut in. “An isolated, homogeneous population, with accurate genealogical records, so you can follow the path of genes through tens or hundreds of generations.”
“And Masolimia has that?” Serena asked.
“Yes,” Ariel replied. “It’s a mountain principality which has had little contact with its neighbors. What’s more, their traditional burial customs—going back to before the Roman Empire—use a labyrinth of catacombs, where an individual’s crypt is connected by tunnels to his or her parents, siblings and children. The catacombs are a precise genealogical history of Masolimia. So a genetic research firm wants to use them as a case study.”
“Which would, of course, involve a substantial payment to the people of Masolimia,” Serena said.
Darius nodded. “About fifty million dollars, all told. Plus loans and investments to help modernize the place. Quite lucrative, mother tells me. Except…the last prince died childless, and his bloodline died with him. So Masolimia has no official in charge who can okay the contract.”
Serena’s brow furrowed. “But surely there’s a legislature or a cabinet or something?”
“Nope,” Darius said. “You’d think so, but no. By tradition—and everything in Masolimia is about tradition—only the crown prince can approve contracts between the government and outside companies. No prince. No contract. No money.”
“Ahhhh,” Serena said, suddenly understanding. Or so she thought. “Your mother thinks you should be the next prince.”
“Not quite,” he replied. “She thinks I am the next prince. Apparently my family—her side of the family—has some connection to someone who was someone six hundred years ago. I don’t pretend to understand it. Frankly, I don’t care. I don’t want the job.”
“But what about the poor people of Masolimia?” Ariel asked.
“Yeah, what about them?” Serena echoed. He did, after all, seem awfully callous about the condition of his native land.
As if to confirm her feelings, he gave another of his patented European shrugs. “The people of Masolimia will settle on someone. It just won’t be me. Not even if my mother did get herself kidnapped.”
“Aren’t you worried about her?” Ariel asked.
“Ha! The only person who worries about my mother is God, and that’s only because she wants His job. No, I’m not worried about my mother. Not by a long shot.”
The sky had grown dark, the moon glittering on the waves. As if sensing Serena’s disapproval of his attitude, Darius glanced at his watch.
“And I’ve overstayed.” He stood, then reached out and took her hand, a purely polite, old-fashioned gesture that, nonetheless, sent a shiver down her spine. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
He actually kissed her hand. Shiver again.
Then he turned to Ariel, repeating the kiss. “And it was a pleasure to improve my acquaintance with you, young lady. It’s remarkable to meet so well-read a person.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” Ariel said, her voice suddenly rich with a cultured depth which lay far beyond her years. “And your choice of dinner was delightful.”
Serena made as if to rise, but he held up a hand. “Please, stay here and enjoy the night air. I’ll let myself out.”
After the briefest of bows, he turned and strode away with a grace that was undeniably…royal.
“Wow,” Ariel said, after he had left. “Just think—a prince helped you wash the dishes!”
“Hmmm,” Serena replied.
THE MOON, which had been chasing the sun across the sky all day, now hung above the water, an argent orb with an amused face. Serena figured it was laughing at her, but what the heck. Ariel had gone inside to watch television, leaving her all alone on her balcony to watch the mesmerizing rhythm of silver-capped waves. The wind was now blowing offshore, leaving her untouched in her nook.
This vacation was certainly not going the way she had planned. Which reminded her, she needed to tell Marco to drop it before he did something outrageous that came back to haunt her.
Maybe, she thought wistfully, it was time to grow up year-round, not just when she was working. Yes, her job was mostly dull, but she met some very nice people. Some even had fascinating stories to tell. That should be enough, right?
Today—Ariel was right about this—she had slandered a man. In her haste to have a good time, she’d invented a dastardly criminal out of whole cloth. Instead he was an art dealer cum prince, who seemed to have a share of his own troubles.
For some reason the old song about a prince coming someday was whirling around in her head. However, so did the old joke about kissing a prince and finding a frog.
But darn it he was attractive. Everything about him appealed to her, even if he did dress outlandishly for the climate.
On the other hand, he did have a mother who would stage her own kidnapping to get her way. Did she want to get tangled up with that kind of family?
Yes! The thought made her laugh. He wasn’t the least interested in her, but his mother sounded like a character after her own heart. In fact, his mother was the best recommendation he had.
A prince. Living next door. Well, a prince who didn’t believe he was a prince. She felt a little disturbed by his cavalier dismissal of the genetic contract which could help Maso-whatever-it-was to prosper, but he was probably right. They’d find someone else to be their prince.
She could hardly blame him for not wanting the job. It would probably be tedious beyond belief. Meetings and papers and appearances, and people telling you what to do and how to behave every moment of the day….
Still…She closed her eyes a moment and indulged a Cinderella fantasy of being garbed in a beautiful gown, waltzing around a huge ballroom in the arms of a prince in a comic-opera uniform of blue and gold.
Hmmm.
Once again it was time to corral her thoughts. She had such a tendency to go off into flights of fancy, it was a wonder she’d ever made it through medical school. Or a day in her own practice.
“Hey,” said Ariel, rejoining her. Apparently her program was over. “You look pensive.”
“I’m facing weeks of tedium.”
“With a handsome prince next door?”
Serena cocked an eye her way. “He says he’s not. Don’t you think he would know?”
“Actually, no. Distant line and all that.”
Serena shrugged. “Doesn’t matter anyway. He’s determined not to be a prince. I don’t suppose they can force him. Besides, who’d want to be a prince in this day and age?”
Ariel nodded. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Sounds like a boring job to me.” Serena took a sip of iced tea from the frosty glass on the table beside her. “Oh, well. I’ll call off Marco first thing in the morning. Can you imagine having a mother like that?”
“You mean Mr. Maxwell’s? Sure.” Ariel giggled. “I just have to look at you.”
Serena pretended to frown at her, but she couldn’t contain her own laughter. “I had the same thought.”
“So what are you going to do now? Stage a bank robbery?”
“I’m not that crazy.”
Ariel laughed again. “I hope not. I’d have to save you from yourself, and I’m not sure I could do that.”
“You won’t have to. I’ve been ruminating over possibilities, but it seems I’m going to have to be bored one way or the other.”
“What you mean is, you haven’t thought of anything that tickles your fancy yet.”
Serena sighed. “I guess I have some kind of problem. Other people don’t get bored the way I do.”
“Other people have more in their lives. Husbands. Kids. Clubs. Maybe instead of going out to run along the beach you should join the Y. You’d meet more people.”
It was lowering to admit it, but Ariel was right. Her world had started narrowing in medical school and never really broadened again, until all she had to look forward to were her vacations. That wasn’t healthy.
“But my days are so long.” And they were. No matter how she scheduled them, they wound up being ten to fourteen hours at a stretch. Supposedly minor matters for which fifteen minutes had been allotted would turn into necessary surgical procedures that took longer, and so on. Even dermatologists had emergencies. And when she was done with the patients, it was time to complete paperwork, attend to business management, make calls to discuss upsetting test results. She never asked her nurse to call with a diagnosis of malignancy or other serious skin condition.
So she came home beat. If she didn’t run in the mornings before she left for work, she wouldn’t run at all.
“Something needs to change,” she heard herself announce.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Ariel said. “You absolutely, positively have got to get a life.”
THE WORDS WERE still ringing in Serena’s head the following morning. Get a life. Never had truer words been spoken, and how like Ariel to cut to the heart of the problem.
She went hunting for Marco and found him as expected beside the pool, covered in layers of olive oil, browning his already brown skin.
“You know,” she said to him, “you’re going to make me wealthy at this rate.”
He laughed. “I will come to you to cut off any trouble.”
“There’s going to be a lot of trouble. I’m surprised you haven’t already turned into one huge melanoma.”
He grinned at her, showing enviously white, although crooked, teeth. “I have good genes.”
“Apparently so.”
She pulled up a chair and sat facing him. On her head was a wide-brimmed straw hat that shaded her pretty well. “Listen, about what I said yesterday afternoon about our new neighbor?”
His face darkened. “The drug dealer. I have not yet seen him.”
“Well, forget what I said.”
“Forget it? How can I forget such a thing? My grandchildren…”
She interrupted ruthlessly. “Marco, I checked him out. He’s not a drug dealer.”
Marco fell silent, his mouth open, taking in her words. “No?”
“No.
“No.” He nodded. “What is he?”
“A perfectly legitimate businessman.” Although now that she thought about it, that prince business…had she been seriously snowed last night?
“Yes?”
“Yes.” She said it firmly, despite the sudden niggling doubt.
“Okay, then. I forget it. Pah!” He waved a hand as if tossing the thought away.
“Good. I jumped to conclusions.” And she’d jump right back to them if Darius Maxwell gave her any reason to.

CHAPTER SIX
THERE WAS NO Y on the island, and going to the nearest one meant crossing two drawbridges, not something Serena cared to do first thing in the morning, during rush hour. It was bad enough when she had to go to work and left every morning at six to beat the rush. No way was she going to do it on her vacation.
But Ariel’s comments were still stinging, mainly because they were true. So instead of putting on her jogging outfit, she chose a white polo shirt and white shorts and picked up her tennis racquet and balls. She could practice her serve for a while, and maybe someone else would show up to play with her. Someone with whom she could be sociable.
The complex had two private tennis courts with well-maintained clay surfaces. When she arrived, a couple were already playing at the farthest court. They paid her no attention and their game wasn’t of a quality to justify watching, so she grabbed a bucket of practice balls and began to hit serves.
It stank. With the first six balls she hit the net three times. Boy, was she out of practice.
Just as she moved to go gather up her balls and try again, a familiar voice said, “You’re tossing it too far forward, so you’re hitting it on the downswing.”
Her cheeks, already a little flushed, flushed more. She turned and saw Darius Maxwell, potential prince and ruler of some nearly invisible country, standing just inside the gate. He, too, wore tennis togs and carried a racquet and balls. Lord, did he look fantastic in white, with his bronze skin.
“Hi,” she said, suddenly feeling as if she might trip over her own feet.
“Good morning.” He smiled, and the world lit up like noon, even though the sun was still trying to creep its way up from the horizon. “I don’t mean to butt in, Serena. If I’m annoying you, tell me to go away. But if you’d like a match…”
His voice held a hopeful note she couldn’t resist. “Sure. But I’m out of practice.”
“So am I. But I suspect you’ll get your game back faster than I will.”
Not only was he a gorgeous man, but he also had a gorgeous accent. British, with a hint of something exotic.
He helped her gather the balls, then came to stand behind her while she practiced. She could feel him back there, watching. It made her nervous. Too nervous.
The other couple finished their game just then, and gave her a few moments of reprieve as they left the court. Then there was just her and Darius.
She felt wobbly. “Look,” she said tartly, “you’re making me nervous, standing back there and watching.”
“But I’m not being at all critical,” he answered. “Tell you what. I’ll stand beside you and we’ll both practice our serves.”
“Fine.”
It gave her great pleasure when his hit the net and hers went exactly where it was supposed to.
“See?” he said. “I’m out of practice, too.”
His next ball hit the net, but so did hers. Now she was getting annoyed. She could serve better than this. Far better than this. And for some reason she felt a strong need to show him up.
She picked up another ball, drew her racquet back and slammed the ball across the court. “Bingo! Slam-dunk!”
He laughed. “Beautiful serve.”
It was his turn, and this time he, too, aced it. She suddenly had a bad feeling, and turned to him. “You weren’t hitting the net on purpose were you? Just to spare my feelings?”
He held his free hand up, as if to push away any such thought. “Of course not. I’m rusty.”
She still felt suspicious, even though he looked as innocent as a newborn baby. Turning, she picked up two more balls and served them, one after another, perfectly. Her arm was going to hurt tomorrow, but she didn’t care.
“What are you going to do about your mother?” she asked him.
“I don’t really need to do anything,” he replied. He served, and watched the ball fall short again. “She’s on the Riviera enjoying herself.”
“But how can you be sure of that?”
“I talked to her. She didn’t want me to behead her kidnappers. Besides, I recognized the country code and exchange. I called the phone company and they were able to tell me that much.”
“Behead her kidnappers?” Stunned, Serena forgot all about tennis. “Would you really do such a thing?”
He shook his head, and this time when he hit the ball she could sense anger in his swing. He aced it.
“I’d never behead anyone. But I was testing her. She would ordinarily love the idea, if not the execution of it. Instead she told me it was déclassé.”
“Oh, my word!”
“Exactly. The woman is so hung up on becoming the dowager princess of Masolimia that she’ll go to any lengths. Well, I absolutely refuse to become her pawn.”
“I can’t say I blame you. I imagine being a prince would be an awful job.”
“Exactly.” He slammed another ball across the net. “I like to travel. I like my business, most of the time. I like being in the art world. Why in the world would I want to give up my entire life so my mother can preen for the rest of hers?”
Serena found herself nodding. But then she had a thought, “Still, there’s that genetic thing.”
“I know.” He bounced a ball off the clay, caught it and looked at her. “I’m not heartless. Those people really do need this contract. I visited Masolimia enough as a child to know how impoverished it is. But the real prince will serve just as well.”
“How are you going to find him?”
He hesitated, then said, “I have an idea. The problem is carrying it out.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s…a little illegal.”
Serena looked at him, her jaw dropping. Then, before common sense could resurrect its ugly head, she said, “If it doesn’t call for hurting anyone, count me in.”
SHE REALLY DID NEED someone to stitch her tongue to the roof of her mouth, Serena thought as she showered. How had she ever allowed herself to say such a thing? And now she had to meet Darius at his apartment in twenty minutes.
To plan something that was “a little illegal.” As if there were degrees of illegality.
Although, in a way she supposed there were: misdemeanors and felonies. Somehow she had a feeling this was going to be no mere misdemeanor.
Good Lord, she needed to grow up!
Well, she’d just go over there and tell him she’d changed her mind. She didn’t want to even conspire to commit a crime. She didn’t want to have knowledge of a crime. She didn’t want any reason to find herself in a courtroom, either as defendant or witness.
But even as she castigated herself, she was intrigued. There were butterflies in her stomach. Her adrenaline was pumping.
And she wasn’t bored. Not one whit.
AT THE APPOINTED TIME she presented herself at Darius Maxwell’s door. It opened immediately in answer to her knock, and he invited her in.
His living room was full of paintings, large and small, cramming the walls and sitting on easels. The room itself was done all in white, including the furniture, as if not to detract in any way from the beauty on the walls.
Before she had done more than say hello, Serena was drawn to the walls, to the paintings. A small Rembrandt in an ornate frame. Heavens, it was real! Some artists whose names she didn’t recognize. A goodness-gracious-for-real Titian.
Her jaw practically agape, she turned to Darius. “Aren’t you afraid these might be stolen?”
“If they ever are, I’ll know how to get them back. That’s the advantage of my trade.”
She nodded, believing him. “Did you collect them all yourself?”
“The more recent works. The older ones are family heirlooms. A trust for future generations.”
Never once in her life had she thought that way. Of course, she didn’t come from an old European family, either. “I’m surprised you brought them here with you.”
He shrugged. “I’m going to be here awhile, and they give me great pleasure. It would be a shame to keep them in storage. They’re meant to be enjoyed.”
“Well, I’m certainly enjoying them.”
She walked slowly around the room, feasting her eyes, trying to remember each and every painting. Before she finished, however, she was honestly feeling overwhelmed. It was all too much to take in. “This is like trying to do an entire gallery in a single day.”
“I know. Feel free to drop over when I’m home. I’ll be glad to take down whichever painting you like so you can just sit and admire it. I often do that. This space is too cramped. Each painting really needs a separate setting.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” She accepted his invitation to sit, feeling as if she sat in a room covered with jewels. “Listen, about this thing you’re planning…”
“I know.” He smiled and poured coffee from a carafe into a bone china cup. “It was kind of you to offer your help, but you don’t want to get involved in anything shady.”
For some reason that set her back up. “I’ll be the one to make that decision, depending on what it is you’re planning.” Staples. She needed to staple her tongue to the roof of her mouth.
His smile deepened. “You’re feisty, aren’t you? Well, here’s the problem. The reason the Masolimians think I’m the prince is because they followed the catacombs all the way back until they found a male branch in the late prince’s line that was not yet defunct. Then they followed the catacombs along that branch and came to me. They naturally believe, given the way the catacombs are laid out, that I’m descended from that long-ago prince, and am his only surviving male heir.”
“And you disagree.”
“Certainly I disagree. Is my entire future to be determined by a handful of Masolimians crawling through a network of crypts with flashlights and a ball of twine?”
“Well, when you put it that way…”
“What’s more, they’ve made no allowance for the fact that one or more walls might have been broken through by nature or accident. They may well have followed an entirely wrong course!”
“That’s possible.”
“Of course it’s possible,” he said. “In fact, it’s likely, considering how far back they had to go. We’re talking about the fifteenth century here.”
Serena nodded, fascinated. “That is a long time back.”
“Long enough for something to have become bollixed. I’m hoping to prove that with as little ado as possible.”
“But how? Aren’t the crypts a map themselves? The only map? Isn’t that why the genetics company wants the contract?”
He nodded and sipped coffee. “But I did my homework, you see. There is a seventeenth-century map of the entire network of catacombs. And it’s here. Well, it’s in St. Petersburg. Five miles from here.”
“Where?” Coffee forgotten, she leaned forward, as expectant as a child on Christmas morning.
“In storage at the Kristoff Museum.”
“I’ve been there. It’s quite a place, but don’t they show mostly artifacts from old civilizations?”
He too was leaning forward, looking less urbane and far more intense. “A private collector has made a conditional donation. It’s a hodgepodge of works of art and artifacts collected from around the globe.”
“Well then.” Serena straightened. “All you have to do is ask to see the map.”
He shook his head. “I wish it were that easy.” Rising, he began to pace the room. “The museum won’t let me see any part of the collection, because the donation is conditioned on the collection being seen by no one until the donor dies.”
“Why would someone do that?”
He gave her a wry look. “Oh, I suppose because the provenance of some of the articles is in doubt.”
“What do you mean?”
He lifted a hand. “Some of it is stolen.”
“Oh. Oh! But…” Now Serena was standing. “From museums?”
“Probably not. Would you like a croissant or something?”
“No, thank you.”
He nodded and resumed pacing. “First of all, a lot of artwork disappeared during and immediately after World War II. Someone who stole any of those items would not want to be identified while alive. Then there’s another whole category of theft, having to do with archaeological artifacts. Most countries have made it illegal for such items to be in the hands of private collectors, and certainly illegal for them to be removed from their country of origin. This collection could well contain some of those items.”
Serena nodded. “So the museum will lose the collection if it lets you view anything at all.”
“Precisely. And I attempted to get permission from the collector directly, just to see the painting of Princess Rotunda, but he refused.”
Serena blinked. “Princess Rotunda? For real?”
He smiled. “For real.”
“Good grief, the poor woman!”
“Indeed.”
She shook her head. “But why would you want to see the portrait of a princess? I thought you wanted to see a map.”
“I do. But the map is overlaid on the Princess’s portrait.”
“What?”
He spread his hands and shrugged, looking suddenly very Gallic. “Apparently someone was short on materials for making the map. Or perhaps it was done purposefully. No one knows for sure. The stories I’ve been able to dig up conflict in all but one essential element—the map of the catacombs as they existed in the midseventeenth century is painted over her portrait like a spiderweb.”

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