The Playboy Prince and the Nanny (Royal Duology 1)

“Thank you, Rose.”

She left the office and shut the door behind her, then let out a long, slow breath. Stephani came around the corner, and they shared a look that Rose translated as “what an ungodly mess.”

“You’re okay?” Stephani asked.

She wasn’t, not really. Not when she thought about Diego leaving without a word. There had to have been a better way to deal with the situation than to go to another continent and then head off to the nearest club to party it up.

Maybe he did find her dull. Maybe he missed the freedom he’d always enjoyed. Maybe she’d known better all along and had ignored those little voices because she’d so desperately wanted him to mean what he said.

“I’ll be fine,” she replied, straightening her spine. “I’ve got to get back to the children.” She was halfway to the exit when she turned back. “Oh, Stephani, about the dress last night. What should I do with it?”

“Keep it.” Stephani smiled at her. “You looked lovely.”

But she didn’t want to keep it or even look at it again. It was a reminder of too many things. “I don’t have any use for it again,” she said quietly. “Perhaps you could . . . I don’t know. I don’t know what people usually do with these things.”

“Just put it in the garment bag for now and we’ll worry about it later,” she advised.

“All right.”

And then she made the long walk back to the nursery, relieved Ernestina, and got the children ready for the family dinner. Once they were delivered to the dining room, she went to the kitchen and got her own supper, but took it to her room to eat privately. Went through the motions of retrieving the children and getting them ready for bed.

And still no word from Diego. No call, no text, no . . . nothing.

She crawled beneath her covers and closed her eyes. She wouldn’t cry. She would simply get on with things, like she always did. The way she should have from the beginning. She’d put money in Hayley’s account for Alice. She’d write charming letters to her parents about how wonderful her life was. She’d send birthday and anniversary cards and presents because she never forgot anyone’s special occasion.

But she would not cry for herself. And she certainly wouldn’t cry over Diego Navarro.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Thirty-six hours later, the first story appeared. Diego hadn’t wasted any time; the photo looked to be in some sort of club and he was holding a drink in one hand with his arm around a woman’s waist.

Rose angled her head and studied the red-haired beauty. There was no denying she was gorgeous, and she was leaning into him with what Rose could only interpret as familiarity. The desire to know who she was was overwhelming, and Rose tossed the paper aside as soon as she read the first line: Not to be outdone by his brother, Prince Diego appears in a Dar es Salaam club, partying with an unidentified beauty. That was the only mention of Raoul. The plan to deflect attention was already working, but she felt like a casualty in all of it. The worst of it was that she was partly to blame. She’d been the one to sit with Raoul and to help him inside.

Her mother always used to say, “No good deed goes unpunished.” Boy, had she been right. She never should have gone back down to the ball, or danced with Diego, or slept with him, or freaked out and gone walking in the gardens. If she hadn’t been there, none of this would have happened.

For the next two weeks, photos appeared online and in the tabloids. One night it was the redhead, another it was a stunning woman with flawless dark skin and the best set of cheekbones Rose had ever seen. Then there was the pic of him doing shots with a man identified as his friend Ryan, university mate and polo team member.

As almost an afterthought, his charity for women’s education was mentioned at the end of the articles. One questioned how much work he could possibly be doing if he was partying every night.

Nothing was mentioned about the source of the initial picture, but then another article appeared, this one on a prominent celebrity website. There was a picture of Diego, looking rather melancholy and sipping on something from a highball glass, and next to it the original picture of her and Raoul in their badly lit embrace. Getting over a broken heart: brothers torn over the nanny was printed in big font just below the photos.

This time she couldn’t look away. She read every single, salacious word. How the woman in the photo was the palace nanny, how she’d led Diego on only to betray him with his brother, and so on.

When she was done, she went to the bathroom and threw up.

Her sister would see this. And so would her mother, because someone wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation to show her. And Raoul and the children . . . She wiped her mouth and ran herself a glass of water, the tumbler shaking in her hand. Her professional reputation was in tatters. There was no way she could stay on at the palace, and no one else would hire her now either.

Who in the household hated her so much? She couldn’t think of a single person who hadn’t been pleasant. Perhaps their motivation was money; gossip was a high-paying business. But to be so heartless . . .

She went back to her laptop and looked at the site again, studying Diego’s picture. He looked unhappy, with his arm resting on what appeared to be the bar, with a few empty glasses and an abandoned rose littered the top.

A white rose. Her chest cramped. This was too hard. And now she was frozen, unsure of what to do or where to go next. Crawl home with her tail between her legs, nursing what remained of her broken heart?

Her life had often been lonely, and it had never been parti

cularly easy, but she’d never really felt hopeless. Until now.

There was a knock at the door, which she didn’t want to answer, but she figured she’d better in case it had to do with this latest development. When she opened it, she was surprised to see Senora Ortiz on the other side, holding a tray.