TWO DAYS LATER, Clara returned to the palace for her next night shift, her stomach twisted into knots of dread and humiliation. Half of her was desperate to avoid seeing Andreas again—Prince Andreas—the other half had no idea what she wanted, beyond wishing she could turn back time and never have met him in the first place. How dared he flirt with her twice, but keep such an important identity a secret?
Following the footman to Prince Henrik’s private rooms, her face heated with the memory of how she’d snogged, ogled and then insulted the heir to the throne. She stifled a snort of disbelief. Her actions had been bad enough when she’d assumed Andreas was a hunky diplomat and then a doctor.
Now, she was so confused, because Andreas was right—she did recall every thrilling second of that kiss and she had no hope of forgetting. She might not trust him, but her body didn’t seem to care that, for a woman like Clara, an ordinary nobody with financial woes and a notorious convicted conman for a father, he was the most ridiculously out-of-reach man in the universe.
She had such little experience with relationships, thanks to Lars and those lost teenage years and thanks to the guy who’d taken her virginity and then acted as if they were strangers. Her attraction to Andreas of all men was...laughable.
The only sensible course of action was to keep her distance. No more lusting after him, no more bickering and no more reliving his look of defeat when he’d accused her of wanting nothing more to do with him.
Resolved, Clara waited while the footman tapped quietly on the door. She dragged in a shaky breath, preparing herself to finally meet her patient, Andreas’s father. After signing her confidentiality agreement on the first night, she’d been given the prince’s medical records.
The prognosis wasn’t good. After a short battle with prostate cancer, Prince Henrik had recently been diagnosed with stage four disease and was currently undergoing a course of radiotherapy for painful bone metastases.
Clara’s heart ached for the older man, and for Andreas. Having nursed her mother through breast cancer treatment a few years ago, she knew exactly what the family was going through—although Andreas had shown no obvious signs that he was even aware that his father’s disease was terminal, beyond stating that he was both a doctor and a diplomat for the time being.
Had that cryptic reference been because he knew he would soon need to forgo his medical career and succeed his father? Compassion clenched her heart. She understood how it felt to be tugged in all directions. She’d just started her nursing degree when Alma Lund had been diagnosed. Clara had considered dropping out to care for her mother full time, but fortunately her mother wouldn’t hear of it. At least Clara had been able to continue with her career, her independence invaluable, whereas Andreas would likely have no choice but to give up medicine. He couldn’t rule Varborg and work at the hospital.
The door opened. Prince Henrik’s private butler appeared and quietly ushered Clara inside.
‘His majesty is uncomfortable tonight and cannot sleep,’ the man she’d been informed was named Møller said, his face etched in concern. ‘I believe his pain management requires addressing.’
Clara nodded, trying to shove her patient’s son from her mind. But she couldn’t seem to block out the vulnerability she’d seen in his eyes when he’d accused her of treating him differently because he’d grown up here, surrounded by wealth and privilege.
Why had that look of defeat in Andreas’s eyes called to her on such a profound level? Was it just that, for all their differences, she could empathise with him both about his father’s illness and the loss of his career? Or was the idea he might be torn between his two roles deeply unsettling? She shook her head, disgusted with herself. How did all roads lead back to Andreas?
She followed Møller’s stiff gait through a series of ante rooms, her nerves growing with every step. But the prince was a patient like any other; all Clara needed to do was her job.
They arrived outside another door and the butler knocked, waiting to be admitted into what Clara soon saw was the prince’s private sitting room.
The man sat in an arm chair before a sleek contemporary fireplace built into a marble surround. Clara approached and curtseyed, as she’d been taught, waiting for Prince Henrik to address her first.
‘Your name is Clara?’ he asked, his face pale, his eyes red with fatigue.
‘Yes, Your Highness.’
She’d seen him a handful of times in the media. His head was on Varborg’s stamps and coins. But in person it was the likeness to his virile, handsome son that made Clara’s heart gallop with longing to see Andreas again.
Huh! Her resolve clearly meant nothing...
But how could she ignore the prince she’d kissed—the man to whom, for all her denials, she was obviously still drawn—when his life was about to change irrevocably because his father was terminally ill?
‘Can I help you, sir?’ Clara stepped closer, urged by the butler, who then discreetly left the room.
‘I’m in pain,’ the prince said. ‘My bones ache and this blasted thing isn’t working.’
He indicated the syringe driver strapped to his arm, which had been prescribed to administer analgesia while he was undergoing treatment.
‘Can I examine your arm, sir?’ Empathy for the older man, a man from whom Andreas had inherited his grey-blue eyes, tugged at her heartstrings.
Varborg’s ruler was beloved by the nation. For fifty years he’d ruled with diligence and dignity, despite his share of adversity—losing his wife when his sons had been teenagers and, more recently, his oldest son, Oscar. If only she’d done her homework on her patient’s past sooner, she might have recognised Andreas.
Prince Henrik nodded and slipped his arm free of his blue velvet dressing gown. Focussed on her work, and not the tragic losses of Varborg’s royal family, Clara peeled away the dressing from the needle site, finding an angry red patch of skin where the cannula had extravasated.
‘I’m afraid it’s slipped out.’ She disposed of the cannula in the nearby sharps bin. ‘I’ll need to re-site the needle, if that’s okay.’
‘Of course, dear. I’m pretty much a pin cushion at this stage,’ he said with a sad smile that gave his stare the same aching vulnerability she’d witnessed in Andreas. Did these two proud men know how similar they were?
Trying not to think about his deceptive son, Clara pulled on gloves and grabbed a fresh subcutaneous cannula, some antiseptic wipes and a new adhesive dressing.
‘I hear you’ve met my son,’ the prince said, watching her with shrewd eyes that spoke of sharp intelligence and an ability to read people easily.
‘I have. We work together at Nordic Care.’ Clara willed herself not to blush.
While she held this prestigious position she couldn’t expect to have any secrets. She only hoped that the prince was unaware of her late-night antics with his naked son.
In the days since she’d discovered Andreas’s true identity, she’d scoured the Internet for any information she could find on Europe’s most eligible and unusual prince. There’d been tales of his military career, his work as a doctor and photographs of his playboy antics—an immaculately dressed Andreas attending various glitzy functions accompanied by a string of beautiful society women. The latter had caused such searing jealousy, she’d had to slam closed her laptop in disgust.
‘Ah, yes, the day job...’ Prince Henrik sighed and closed his eyes as Clara cleaned a patch of skin on his arm with the antiseptic wipes. ‘Tell me, is he a good doctor?’
‘Yes,’ she said simply, recalling the way they’d worked together to revive Mr Engman. ‘He’s very well respected. A favourite with the patients, I’m told.’ Many of whom had volunteered to Clara what a compassionate and caring man they found the heir to the throne; how natural and grounded he appeared to his patients, treating them with empathy and respect.
But why was the prince asking her, the palace’s newest member of staff? Surely he and Andreas spoke about his work?
‘Just a small scratch now, sir,’ she said, burning up with questions about their relationship she would never dare to ask. At Prince Henrik’s silent nod, Clara inserted the subcutaneous needle just beneath the skin, securing it with the dressing. Then she reattached the syringe driver and adjusted the dose of pain killers.
She shouldn’t care what kind of relationship Andreas had with his dying father or whom he dated. He was handsome, intelligent and a prince: of course he was a catch for any woman willing to forgo her independence and put his life first.
Intense chemistry or not, that woman wasn’t Clara.
For all her father’s faults, Alma had loved Lars Lund. Young Clara had loved him too, craving his attention. But, where her mother had forgiven him countless times for his erratic employment history and excused his unreliability, teenaged Clara had grown more and more wary with each disappointment. She’d seen the fallout and had witnessed Alma struggling to put on a brave face when Lars had lost yet another job, or pretend all was well when the electricity had been cut off. Clara had been the one taking care of Freja after school while Alma had worked longer hours. She’d understood that her parents’ marriage was unequal; that loving the wrong man, having his children, had left Alma vulnerable.
Even after her father had left for good to pursue his dubious, get-rich-quick schemes, the final one sending him to prison, he’d burdened the family with deeper debt. It wasn’t until after his death that Clara’s mother had discovered he’d re-mortgaged the house.
‘We don’t get on terribly well, my son and I,’ Prince Henrik said, taking her by surprise.
He opened his shrewd eyes and Clara froze, uncertain how to reply. But her curiosity for Andreas went wild. The more she learned about the man behind the headlines, the harder it was to ignore him the way she wanted to.
‘He resents me, you see,’ the older man said, as if to himself, his stare far away. ‘I’ve reminded him of his birth right and his responsibilities to the crown.’
Without comment, Clara silently disposed of her gloves.
She had no idea how Andreas felt about anything, his relationship with his father and his crown prince duties included. They were virtual strangers.
She understood complex relationships, having experienced years of rejection and disappointment with her own untrustworthy father. But, whereas Lars had passed away while serving his sentence for fraud before Clara had had a chance to face him with some home truths, at least this father and son still had time to air their grievances and reconcile their differences.
But not much time.
‘Are you feeling more comfortable now, sir?’ Clara stooped at the prince’s side, adjusting the blanket across his knees. His eyes had fallen closed once more, the tension around his mouth easing as the pain medication began to work.
‘I gave him too much freedom when he was younger, you see...’ he continued. ‘I allowed the boy to choose a career for himself, when perhaps I should have had greater expectations of him as a prince.’
Clara’s skin prickled with discomfort, as if she were eavesdropping. Patients voiced all sorts of things in their most vulnerable moments. Part of her wanted to leave the prince to his privacy but, if he wanted to talk as her patient, she would listen.
‘I promised his mother before she died that I would allow the boys to have as normal a life as possible...’ He was slurring now, obviously on the cusp of sleep. ‘It wasn’t always possible for Oscar, but with Andreas... I tried my best, but I missed their mother, so very much...’
Compassion squeezed Clara’s heart. She blinked away the sting in her eyes, recalling the stark terror she’d experienced on more than one occasion when she imagined losing her mother. Prince Henrik was a man like any other. He was still grieving for his wife and wondering if he’d been a good enough father to his sons. Like many families, Varborg’s first family had their issues, for all their power and privilege.
In desperation, Clara cast around for sight of the butler lurking in a doorway. Perhaps together they could encourage the prince back to bed. Spying a call button next to the prince’s arm chair, Clara gave it the briefest of pushes, hoping it wouldn’t sound in the room and wake the dozing man.
Within seconds, the butler appeared. Clara explained the issue with the syringe driver, keeping the man’s privileged confessions to herself. But, as she made her way back to the staff sitting-room, her feet dragged, her heart heavy.
The more she learned about Andreas, the murkier the picture that emerged. Did he resent his father for calling him back to Varborg? Did he know the prince was terminally ill? That would surely devastate him; and how would he feel, having to give up his career as a doctor?
But the hardest question of all to answer was why she cared so much when she’d vowed to keep him at arm’s length.