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  She laughed. “Not exactly what I had in mind.”

  “Then maybe you should be more specific.”

  “Blue jacket, red sash, black pants,” Veronica instructed. “I think of it as Tedric’s Prince Charming outfit. Didn’t you get fitted for something like that?”

  “I did and I’ll wear it tomorrow.” Joe bowed. “Your wish is my command.”

  13

  Veronica rode to Saint Mary’s in the limousine with Joe.

  He was wearing the Prince Charming-like suit she’d asked him to wear, and he looked almost ridiculously handsome.

  “This is going to be a difficult one,” she said, doing some last-minute work on her laptop computer.

  “Are you kidding?” Joe said. “No media, no fanfare—how hard could it be?”

  “I’m going in with you this time,” Veronica said, as if she hadn’t heard him.

  “Oh, no, you’re not,” he countered. “I don’t want you within ten feet of me.”

  She looked up from her computer screen. “There’s no danger,” she said. “Saint Mary’s wasn’t on the schedule we released to the press.”

  “There’s always danger,” Joe insisted. “There’s always a possibility that we’re being followed.”

  Veronica looked out the rear window. Three other limos, plus the surveillance van, were trailing behind them. “Goodness gracious,” she said in mock surprise. “You’re right! We’re being followed by three very suspicious-looking limousines and—”

  “Knock off the comedy routine, St. John,” Joe muttered. “You’re not going in there, and that’s final.”

  “You don’t want me to get hurt.” Veronica closed her computer and slid it back into its carrying case. “That’s so sweet.”

  “That’s me,” Joe said. “Prince Sweetie-Pie.”

  “But I need to go in.”

  “Ronnie—”

  “Saint Mary’s is a hospice, Joe,” Veronica said quietly. “For children with cancer.”

  Joe was silent.

  “There’s a little girl named Cindy Kaye who is staying at Saint Mary’s,” she continued, her voice low and even. “She wrote a letter to Tedric, asking him to stop and visit her during his tour of the United States. She’d like to meet a real prince before—well—before she dies.” She cleared her throat. “Cindy has an inoperable brain tumor. She’s been writing to Tedric for months—not that he bothers to read the letters. But I’ve read them. Every single one. She’s incredibly bright and charming. And she’s going to die in a matter of weeks.”

  Joe made a low, pain-filled sound. He rubbed his forehead with one hand, shielding his eyes from her view.

  “I spoke to her mother on the phone this morning,” Veronica said. “Apparently Cindy’s taken a turn for the worse. She’s been practicing her curtsy for months, but as of last night, she’s…” She cleared her throat again. “The tumor’s affecting more and more of her motor functions, and she’s now unable to get out of bed.”

  Joe swore, long and loud, as the limo pulled up outside the hospice.

  It was a clean, white building, with lots of windows, and beautiful flowers growing in the neatly tended gardens outside. There was a statue of the Madonna, also gleaming white, in among the flowers. It was lovely to look at, so peaceful and serene. But inside… Inside were children, all dying of cancer.

  “What am I supposed to say to a kid who’s dying?” Joe asked, his voice hoarse.

  “I don’t know,” Veronica admitted. “I’ll come with you—”

  “No way.” Joe shook his head.

  “Joe—”

  “I said, no. I’m not risking your life, goddammit!”

  Veronica put her hand on his arm and waited until he looked up at her. “Some things are worth the risk.”

  Cindy Kaye was tiny, so skinny and frail. She looked more like a malnourished six-year-old than the ten-year-old Veronica knew her to be. Her long brown hair was clean and she wore a pink ribbon in it. She was lying on top of her bedspread, wearing a frilly pink dress with lots of flounces and lace. Her legs, covered in white tights, looked like two slender sticks. She wore white ballet slippers on her narrow feet.

  The little girl’s brown eyes filled with tears, tears that spilled down her cheeks, as Joe came into the room and gave her his most royal of bows.

  “Milady,” he said in Tedric’s unmistakable accent. He approached Cindy and the vast array of tubes and IVs and medical equipment that surrounded her without the slightest hesitation. He sat on the edge of Cindy’s bed and lifted her skeletal hand to his lips. “It is a great honor to meet you at last. Your letters have brought great joy and sunshine to my life.”

  “I wanted to curtsy for you,” Cindy said. Her voice was trembling, her speech slurred.

  “When my sister, the Princess Wila, was twelve,” Joe said, leaning forward as if he were sharing a secret with her, “she injured her back and neck in a skiing accident, and was confined to her bed, much the way you are now. Our great-aunt, the Duchess of Milan, taught her the proper social etiquette for such a situation. The duchess taught her the ‘eyelid curtsy.”’

  Cindy waited silently for him to continue.

  “Close your eyes,” Joe commanded the little girl, “count to three, then open them.”

  Cindy did just that.

  “Excellent,” Joe said. “You must have royal blood in your veins to be able to do the eyelid curtsy so elegantly your very first time.”

  Cindy shook her head, the corners of her mouth finally curving upward.

  “No royal blood? I don’t believe it,” Joe said, smiling back at her. “Your dress is very beautiful, Cindy.”

  “I picked it out just for you,” she said.

  Joe had to lean close to understand. He looked up to meet the eyes of the woman seated beside the bed—Cindy’s mother. She gave him such a sweet, sorrowful, thankful smile, he had to look away. Her daughter, her precious, beautiful daughter, was dying. Joe had always believed he was a strong man, but he wasn’t sure he would have the strength to sit by the bedside of his own dying child, day after day, hiding all his frustration and helplessness and deep, burning anger, offering only comforting smiles and peaceful, quiet, reassuring love.

  He felt some of that frustration and rage form a tornado inside him, making his stomach churn. Somehow, he kept smiling. “I’m honored,” he said to Cindy.

  “Do you speak Ustanzian?” Cindy asked.

  Joe shook his head. “In Ustanzia we speak French,” he said.

  “Je parle un peu franis,” Cindy said, her words almost unrecognizable.

  Oh, God, thought Veronica. Now what?

  “Très bien,” Joe said smoothly. “Very good.”

  Veronica relaxed. Joe knew a bit of French, too. Thank goodness. That might have been a real disaster. Imagine the child’s disappointment to find that her prince was an imposter…

  “I would love to see your country,” Cindy said, in her stilted schoolgirl French.

  Oh, dear. Veronica stood. “Cindy, I’m sure Prince Tedric would love for you to see his country, too, but he should really practice his English, now that he’s visiting America.”

  Joe looked up at her. “It’s all right,” he murmured, then turned back to Cindy. “I know a way you can see my country,” Joe replied in perfect French. His accent was impeccable—he spoke like a native Parisian. “Close your eyes, and I will tell you all about my beautiful Ustanzia, and you will see it as if you are there.”

  Veronica’s mouth was hanging open. Joe spoke French? Joe spoke French? She pulled her mouth shut and listened in silence as he described Ustanzia’s mountains and valleys and plains in almost poetic language—both in French and English, as he translated the too-difficult words for the little girl.

  “It sounds wonderful,” Cindy said with a sigh.

  “It is,” Joe replied. He smiled again. “Do you know some people in my country also speak Russian?” He then repeated his question in flawless Russian.

  Ver