Chapter 14

For the first time in her life, Cassandra found herself cold and rational in a crisis.

"I am damn well not waiting fifteen minutes for a helicopter to arrive," she announced, brandishing a can of caviar at the chief inspector. "I'm taking him to get medical help now."

The gentleman in question lifted hands in the air, obviously not thinking much of the beautiful young woman's powers of logic. "But where?" he asked. "The nearest hospital is too far away."

"The nearest Swiss hospital," she amended with the can to his blue-clad chest. "Braz is no more than ten minutes away." And then she turned to take in Gerta and Brian, who were stationed by Paul on the living-room floor. "I'm taking him home."

"We'll come with you," Gerta said, getting to her feet.

Cassandra shook her head. "You stay and clear this up. I don't want all that nonsense hanging over Paul's head. If Brian's Porsche is anything as good as Paul's, I'll get him there faster than you. And I don't have to worry about the border guards. Now, help me get him in the car."

With a grin, Brian took hold of Cassandra by the arms. "I'm beginning to get the measure of the queen you would have been, lass. It's a shame you left."

"It's not, really," she said, smiling gratefully in return. "I don't care half as much for fiscal policy as I do for Paul. Moritania would have gone bankrupt."

It wasn't until she was turning onto the road to Braz that Cassandra allowed herself the luxury of fresh tears. There had been just enough room in the back seat to lay Paul down. He was scrunched up, it was true, but he was horizontal, and from what Gerta had told her, that was what was important. They'd strapped him in to protect him from bouncing along the mountain roads and applied a pressure bandage to the bullet wound that bracketed his left side and still bled much too steadily. Now all Cassandra had to do was reach the palace in the ten minutes she'd promised. Briskly wiping the tears away with a shaking arm, she downshifted with businesslike attention and turned into a curve, the can of caviar sliding a little across the passenger seat.

She didn't have any problems until she reached the border. It was the first time she realized just how much she'd changed. The border guard, a middle-aged little man with stiff propriety and an oversize nose, had held this station since she'd been a child. He didn't recognize her.

"Please, Franz," Cassandra insisted, suddenly thinking how this all resembled an odd musical comedy. Franz was attired in the time-honored traditional uniform of gold-and-black-striped garb with plumed hat. He looked more like a troubadour than a guard. And Paul was losing his precious blood to the back seat. "I have to get him to the palace for help. Let me through."

"Excuse me, Fraulein," he demurred, the sight of the inert form squeezed in the back seat noticeably unsettling him. "I need your papers."

Cassandra's eyes lifted. "For heaven's sake, Franz, I'm Cassandra. Now stop stalling and let me through."

Franz barely took a better look. "I'm sorry, Fraulein, but you're not..."

His hesitation cost Cassandra what was left of her patience. Without further ado, she pulled herself to her full height and packed every ounce of cold disdain she could muster into her expression.

"How dare you not recognize me, you little pimple?" she sneered, this time praying for his forgiveness at a later date. "Open the gate at this very moment and call ahead to the dowager queen to tell her of my arrival and my needs or I will personally see your head served up for tonight's dinner!" Nailing him with a particularly scathing glare, she put the finishing touches on the performance. "Is that perfectly clear?"

Franz was no fool. He very nearly slammed his forehead on the car door in an attempt to bow low enough. "Yes, Your Highness. Of course, Your Highness. Right away."

"Then stop stammering and open the gate!"

The gate was opened and Cassandra sped through.

"You're beautiful when you're a bitch," she heard from the back seat. Paul's voice almost sent her into a guardrail, she was so relieved to hear it.

"Saved precious time." She smiled back to him in the mirror, feasting on the sight of his open eyes. "I'll apologize after I get you some help."

"After seeing that, I might just take my proposal back." His voice was still so quiet, so careful. Cassandra hit the gas a little harder. The first buildings of Braz began to whiz by the window.

"I had to convince him who I was," she said to defend herself.

"And you did. In spades. He's probably back there... changing his shorts."

"Are you all right?"

"Until Brian realizes that I've bled over his best leather upholstery. Where is he?"

"Back with the police. I decided that you didn't need to wait around for the questions to all be answered before they took care of you."

"And I appreciate it." He stretched a bit against the constraints of the seat belt and winced. "Are you sure you're going to be able to get me back out of this?"

"The other choice was a fifteen-minute wait for a helicopter."

Paul nodded again, singularly unruffled for a man with a bullet in his stomach. "Good. I hate heights."

"Did you really mean your proposal?"

Cassandra could see a ghost of a grin on his face. "I wouldn't have gone to all that trouble if I hadn't."

"You had a roomful of witnesses, you know."

"To keep you from backing out later."

The tears threatened again, but Cassandra wouldn't let them take over. She still had to get Paul to the palace. The car took the twisting roads with grace, easing around each with barely a shudder. The steel and glass of Braz's downtown area slid past and the road climbed into the forests around the palace.

"I hope Uncle Eric is busy at the bank," Cassandra thought out loud.

"Why?"

Her laugh was a dry one. "Grandmother is going to be difficult enough on her own without Uncle Eric goading her on."

"Are you sure they won't mind my bleeding all over their palace?"

"I'll convince them."

Paul actually managed a chuckle. "Like that poor old guard back there?"

Cassandra smiled back, new determination in her eyes. "If necessary. My notorious past comes in quite handy sometimes."

"Remind me of that later when I'm paying for your caviar habit."

Cassandra turned the car into the entrance lane and shifted up, the tires spinning a bit over the carefully graveled lane. A vast expanse of trees flanked them for almost a quarter of a mile before they reached the palace, a great, grand old building of gray stone, glass and timber. Cassandra hadn't realized how much she'd missed it until she caught sight of it again.

One of the grooms was waiting for them when she pulled the car around the circle drive. Cassandra pulled the car to a stop before the front steps and yanked open her door.

"Get help, Heller," she called, pulling the seat forward for Paul. "I have an injured man."

Heller nodded, stepping up alongside her. "Franz notified us. The Queen Mother said to take the gentleman to the green bedroom. She awaits you in the Rose Room."

Hands appeared from nowhere, unbuckling the belts and gently prying Paul loose from his prison. Cassandra supervised, her hand always in Paul's, her eyes on his face.

She saw the movement take its toll. He gasped once, and his hand clutched hers. She wanted to cry out for him. She didn't. When Paul looked over at her, he winked the import of his discomfort away. She knew better than to challenge him.

Werner met them at the door. A formal, precise kind of man, Werner was her Uncle Eric's secretary and the household's unofficial organizer. Cassandra had never really taken the time to know him before.

"Princess Cassandra," he said, greeting her with a stiff bow as if she showed up with gunshot victims every day of the week.

The strength of dear old Moritania, Cassandra thought dryly. The idea of allowing surprise was considered an insult. Life Goes On should have been inscribed in Latin under that very fancy family crest over the great front doors.

Cassandra was so intent on getting Paul to a bed that she didn't notice the extra cast in the foyer. A couple was just walking in from the library. The commotion effectively stopped them in their tracks. The sight of the injured man brought a gasp from the woman. She stepped forward, suddenly almost as ashen as Paul.

"Pauly...?"

Paul managed to get his eyes up to find his sister before him. He straightened, unwilling to frighten her on top of everything else. "Hi, sweetie. I thought I'd come for the wedding."

Even the smile he offered was costing him now.

"Paul..." Cassandra admonished, hot on his trail.

But Paul was still watching his sister. Waiting for the anger to take the place of surprise. Waiting for her condemnation. When he caught sight of the man who stood beside her, Paul knew Casey wouldn't have any choice but to hate him now. Especially after what he was going to do.

"So is this the infamous Prince Eric?" he asked, pulling free of the supporting hands. It took all his strength to stay upright, but he had a certain score to settle. There was a young lady who had spent her life trying to live up to this man's expectations and torturing herself for not being able to. Suddenly Paul wanted to tell him how he felt about it.

"I am Eric," the man said without much comprehension, his gaze flicking in growing irritation from his niece to her surprise guest.

Paul nodded back. "Just wanted to know."

And then he hit him. Full square in the jaw, almost sending Paul to the floor right behind him. He felt the action tear along his side, felt the fresh flow of blood. And recognized a sense of satisfaction at seeing the prince on the floor, rubbing his jaw.

"Since Cassandra couldn't see her way to doing it," he told him, "I thought I would."

"Sir," Werner gasped behind them where the servants still clustered openmouthed and aghast. "You have just struck the king."

Paul didn't really care. He was going to pass out, anyway.

Cassandra turned on Werner with as much impatience as distress. "We'll hang him later, Werner," she snapped. "After we've cared for his wound."

That was all it took. The men who had supported Paul in helped him straight through to the back where the green room—a downstairs bedroom for the monarchs who got too old for the stairs—was located. Cassandra was all set to follow him when Werner discreetly blocked her path.

"The dowager queen is waiting on you in the Rose Room," he reminded her.

"The queen can—" Cassandra bit off her retort and turned to him. "I'm sorry, Werner. Of course I'll go see her. But make sure Paul is well taken care of."

He agreed with a little bow, his eyes down and his brow up.

Cassandra was set to continue down to the Rose Room when her uncle addressed her from where his fiancée was helping him back to his feet.

"Cassandra, I hate to ask just who that was," he said, rubbing his jaw. "But I suppose I must."

"That," Cassandra informed him with a silly grin, the sight of Paul outraged on her behalf one she would cherish for a long time, "was my fiancé."

And even knowing how unfair it was to leave Casey without an explanation, Cassandra walked away.

The dowager queen sat in regal silence on one of the Queen Anne chairs before the fire. The Rose Room was where she held her audiences, did her correspondence and kept her small family treasures.

Cassandra looked around as she entered and realized how much warmer it was than she'd always thought. Aunt Anna Marie's harp sat in the corner, lush Oriental rugs covered the glossy hardwood floors, and ranks of framed pictures crowded on the couchback table. There were even flowers in a vase by the queen's elbow. Cassandra saw her grandmother and thought suddenly that she was getting old. And that, unbelievably enough, she'd missed her.

"I don't suppose I should be surprised by anything you do, Cassandra," the old woman began, her eyes on the fire rather than her granddaughter. The bejeweled hands rested quietly on the arms of her chair. The regal gray head was held as formally as Werner's. The queen embodied that great Moritanian tradition of propriety. Her voice bit with annoyance. "But this time I have to admit that you have quite outdone yourself."

"I know I have no right to come here, Grandmother," Cassandra began, finally moving into the queen's range of view.

She got no farther. The queen saw the blood all over Cassandra's blouse and came abruptly to her feet.

"Oh, my child," she gasped, her hand instinctively out, the steely blue eyes that had offered so many reproaches suddenly liquid with fear. "Are you...?"

"No, I'm fine," she insisted, taking the thin hand in hers and easing her grandmother back into her chair. "It's Paul's. Please help him, Grandmother. He saved my life."

But the queen couldn't quite get over Cassandra's appearance. "Your... your hair..."

Cassandra saw then how much Paul had changed her. For the first time she saw the uncertainty beneath her grandmother's steel, the emotions locked up within that rigidly proper exterior.

Her heart went out to the olderwoman, left with only a son and granddaughter, and thinking that the granddaughter had made a botch of it. Cassandra very suddenly wanted to put her arms around her grandmother's shoulders, but she understood that just holding her hand would be enough.

"It's all part of a very long story, dear." She smiled, kneeling before the chair.

"Well," the queen said with a set of arched eyebrows and a recovery of her brisk manner, "considering that the doctor arrived just before you did, I'd say we have quite enough time to hear it. Ring Rolph for tea."

* * *

Paul woke to find he wasn't alone. He'd half expected to see Cassandra there. She had been every other time he'd awakened, always with a hand on his, her eyes tired and strained. He tried to tell her that this was just the way he mended, that the gunshot was no worse than most of the rest. She hadn't believed him. He imagined the fact that the doctor had ended up transferring him to the Braz National Clinic for surgery and back again under Cassandra's close scrutiny didn't help his case any.

The healing process was now well under way. He didn't feel so much like pulverized silly putty, and his appetite was coming back. It was, anyway, until he opened his eyes to find his sister, Casey, seated in Cassandra's chair.

He expected anger. What he got was uncertainty, brittle eyes and a crooked grin. "I don't suppose you could have just shown up on your knees begging forgiveness, could you? I've had more than enough drama for one life already, thanks."

She would have been beautiful even without the royal makeover, her honey-colored hair in a soft upsweep, her frame encased in very fine aqua silk. There was something that transcended the new wealth, though, a spark that refused to be extinguished. A real rebellion that he was sure Moritania wasn't quite ready for yet.

Paul knew her because she so closely resembled Cassandra. Yet at the same time they looked nothing alike.

"I guess I should apologize for slugging your fiancé," he greeted her back.

Casey waved his apology aside. "If Eric can't take a joke, the hell with him."

"That's my Casey," Paul replied, smiling. "Are you sure this guy knows what he's getting into?"

Casey laughed, taking Paul's hand in her own. "If he didn't figure it out right after the first time I pushed him in the fountain, he'll never learn. And that's his problem."

He smiled. "You love him?"

She nodded, glowing with a satisfaction that only a woman can. "You love her?"

Paul nodded back with a wry grin. "Hard as it may be to comprehend."

"Oh, Cassandra's okay," she assured him. "Just a girl with some unique tastes. Do you know that she was down in the kitchen asking if they could get in some Oreos? And I thought the caviar was odd."

Paul laughed, clutching at his still-tender side. "That was my fault. I decided that if I was going to be supporting her habits, at least Oreos were cheaper."

Casey gave him an impish grin. "We sat up all night in her room eating cookies and dishing dirt."

Paul rolled his eyes. "I think I've created a monster."

"Nah. Just a real person. My question is, how are we going to explain this all to Mom?"

Paul squeezed Casey's hand with meaning. "To tell you the truth, kid, I don't think anything I do would surprise Mom."

Suddenly Casey's face clouded over, and Paul knew the time had come. He didn't feel up to it, but then he never would.

"We have to talk, huh?" Casey asked, tilting her head just as she used to as a girl.

Paul nodded, holding on to her more tightly. "We have to talk."

And pray, he thought, that you'll forgive me for what I'm going to tell you.

* * *

The Grand Ballroom glittered beneath the huge chandeliers. The exalted company of guests eddied about, chatting to the accompaniment of the string quartet on the bandstand, refreshed by the endless procession of waiters bearing champagne-laden trays.

The best and brightest of European society was here tonight. Generals and deposed kings and oil barons. In one corner the Prince of Wales discussed architecture with the American ambassador. By the window, James McCormac, internationally acclaimed actor, traded stories with Sandy Perone, a secretary who had worked with Casey. King Eric II, resplendent in his full white uniform of the Moritanian Guard, was to be found by one of the few chairs in the room speaking with his niece and brother-in-law. To Eric's left stood his new wife and queen.

"So you mean to tell me you discovered that this Justin was actually the double agent when you found out he knew more about that man's murder than he should have?"

Seated in the chair in full evening attire, Paul took a sip of champagne and nodded. "The usual idea in a murder is to hold back certain evidence from the public. The Berlin police knew that there had been a message scrawled on Elliott's wall by the ELM, but no one else was supposed to. When I contacted the police, they demanded to know how I'd found out."

Eric nodded. "Justin."

Paul shrugged. "It began to make sense. Especially since there had to be a real mole in the company to lay the trail to me. So I got in touch with my old boss and let him in on it. I also decided to return to get Cassandra out before Justin had time to get in touch with his friends and let them know where we were."

"Well, Cassandra," Eric toasted his niece, "you have certainly kept busy since I've last seen you."

"I'm not the only one," she countered. "Did I actually see a Renoir in the entrance foyer today?"

Eric laughed. "Casey's idea."

"In that case," Cassandra announced formally, lifting her own glass to her new aunt, "I will say again how much I underestimated you. You're just what this country needs."

"I think a few people have underestimated you, too," Casey responded with a grin and a meaningful nudge to her husband.

"Yes, dear," he immediately replied.

Paul looked up with his own grin. "What, you, too? I thought kings had a better chance of holding out against female harassment than the rest of us."

Cassandra would have none of it. Leaning over, she slid a kid-gloved hand around Paul's throat. "It wouldn't take all that much to put you back in the hospital, my love," she cooed.

Paul laughed up at her and thought how he had to get her off the farm once in a while just to see her dressed like this. She wore a strapless gown of electric blue that was belted at the waist and flared out into a lovely, swirling skirt. Around her throat were diamonds, and her hair was swept up much as her new aunt's. She'd kept it dark, at least for the time being, and Paul had to admit that it flattered her. She glowed tonight.

Outshone everyone in the room with the possible exception of his kid sister in her ivory-and-lace wedding dress and sixteenth-century Idee veil.

A long way from Brooklyn, he thought with a wry smile. A very long way. Casey caught his expression and smiled down at him. There were still ghosts in her eyes from the burden he'd had to finally share with her. But there was also joy, fulfillment and happiness—enough, he hoped, to balance out.

"Pauly, you're not going to believe this."

Paul turned to see his tiny mother approaching with a scowling Brian in tow.

"According to this barbarian," his mother announced, "we're related. On the O'Hanley side."

Paul groaned. "Don't believe a word he says, Mom. He's a pathological liar."

But his mother, turning back to her new friend, reached up to tweak his cheek. "I think he's cute."

Brian groaned. Gerta, alongside, chuckled. Paul laughed.

"You'll dance with me, then, my love?" Brian asked Cassandra with gentlemanly hand outstretched.

"A little later, Brian," she said, perfectly happy to stay in the corner with Paul.

He conceded with a gentlemanly bow, although with his girth and looks, even a tux couldn't tame him. "A sorry loss it is to the party, lass. I'll just have to take this young lady here, then."

Even kings turned to smile at the great bear of an Irishman twirling the tiny Margaret Callan Phillips around on the dance floor.

"Are you sure you won't change your mind?" Eric asked his niece a few minutes later as his wife danced with the eminent Mr. McCormac.

Looking out on the crowd of swirling, gliding dancers, Cassandra shook her head with quiet contentment. "I'll visit, of course, Eric," she decided. "But I think I'm much more suited to the life my husband has planned for us."

Eric straightened, gaped a little. "Excuse me?"

Exchanging fond looks with Paul, Cassandra turned to her uncle and king with a broad grin. "Well, you were so busy getting ready for all this that we had to settle for Brian and Gerta as witnesses. I'm surprised Werner didn't tell you. He arranged the whole thing."

But then, she'd threatened Werner with his well-organized life if he mentioned one word to the king. The dowager queen had promptly backed up the threat.

"Witnesses?" Eric turned on a placid Paul to find him sipping champagne and holding hands with his wife. "Are you telling me you've been married?"

Paul made it a point to check his watch. "For five hours and seven minutes."

"Without my permission? Without the archbishop?"

"Eric, my dear—" Cassandra grinned with real delight "—you're getting stuffy in your old age. We had Grandmother's permission. And of course the archbishop was there. Who do you think married us, Werner?"

"But Cassandra," Eric objected, still not understanding. "Why sneak away like that when you could have had a true wedding?"

At that, Cassandra laughed. "If you remember, dear, I wasted the last one I had. Believe it or not, I was much happier with just the few of us in the Rose Room."

And she was; truly happy, and more contented than she'd ever been in her life. She'd finally come home to her family and found a new one in Paul's. And she'd come to find her own place in life. Looking out on the vast wealth and privilege collected in this one room, Cassandra could honestly say that she wouldn't miss any of it. She had Paul, and she had a future she could look forward to. And that, she realized, was all she needed.

"Caviar, Your Highness?" a passing waiter asked, bowing with a laden tray.

"Oh, maybe one last time," she demurred, reaching for the hors d'oeuvres. "And then it's definitely marshmallows for me."

"So," Casey spoke up as she approached, dance partner in tow. "Have you ever had moon pies?"

Cassandra's head came up, her eyes avid. "Moon pies?"

"No," Paul groaned.

"They're wonderful. Chocolate and marshmallow..."

Cassandra didn't even notice her new husband get to his feet beside her. "Dance, Your Highness?"

Cassandra looked up, still savoring the salty taste in her mouth. "You dance, too?" she demanded in delight. From one delicious taste to another. From one life to another.

Paul's grin was almost piratical as he held out his hand to her, the tux giving him a dash of elegance that made women's heads turn all around the room. "You think I can only drive a fast car?"

"No," she assured him with a smile that said it all. "I think you can do anything you want."

Paul drew her out onto the floor and slipped her into his embrace. "And you," he countered, kissing his wife with as much tenderness as passion, "can do the same."

"I know," she agreed, closing her eyes and laying her head against his chest, savoring the strong, whole feel of him against her. With Paul beside her, she'd never doubt again. She'd never wonder again just what Cassandra Catherine Anna Marie von Lieberhaven was worth. Because when she looked at Paul, she saw her worth in his eyes. And it was enough. It was more than enough.

The End

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Korbel Classic Romance, Humorous Series

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