Crowned: The Palace Nanny. Marion Lennox

and teach surgical techniques, so wounds such as the ones he’d treated today could be repaired in hospitals less specialised than this one, anywhere in the world. ‘So you’ve finally found Christos?’ he asked, feeling the weight of the world lift from his shoulders.

      ‘Sort of,’ his friend said, but there was something in his face which made Stefanos’s jubilation fade. His expression said that whatever was coming wasn’t good.

      ‘Christos is dead, Steve,’ the man said gently. ‘In a car accident in Australia, four years ago. That’s why you haven’t been able to find him.’

      ‘Dead.’ He stared at his friend in horror. ‘Christos? My cousin. Why? How?’

      ‘You know he left the island soon after you? Apparently he and his mother emigrated to Australia. Neither of them kept in touch. It seems his mother held his funeral with no fuss, and contacted no one back on Khryseis. Three months after he died, so did she.’

      ‘Dear God.’

      ‘It’s the worst of news,’ his friend said. He hesitated. ‘But there’s more.’

      Stefanos knew it. He was replaying their conversation in his head. His friend’s first words had been, ‘You’re not Crown Prince of Khryseis.’

      Christos had been first in line to the throne, followed by Stefanos. But Christos was dead. Therefore it had to be Stefanos. Unless…

      ‘There’s a child,’ his friend told him.

      ‘A child,’ he said numbly.

      ‘A little girl. Christos married, but his wife was killed in the same accident. Their child survived. She was four when her parents were killed. She’s now eight.’

      Stefanos didn’t respond. He was staring at his friend, but he was seeing nothing.

      He was working on groundbreaking surgical techniques. His work here was vital.

       A child.

      ‘Her name’s Zoe,’ his friend said. ‘She’s still living in Australia with a woman called Mrs Elsa Murdoch, who seems to be employed as her nanny. But, Steve…’

      ‘Yes?’ But he already knew what was coming.

      ‘Christos’s death means the child takes the Crown,’ he said gently. ‘Zoe’s now the Crown Princess of Khryseis. That means you’re Prince Regent.’

      Stefanos still didn’t answer. There was a chasm opening before him—a gaping void where his career used to be. He could only listen while his friend told him what he’d learned.

      ‘I’ve done some preliminary checks. From what I gather of the island’s constitution, you’ll be in charge until Zoe’s twenty-five. The island’s rule, and the consequent care of your cousin as Crown Princess, lies squarely on your shoulders. Now…do you want me to find an address for this woman called Elsa?’

      CHAPTER TWO

      ROYALTY was standing on Elsa’s beach.

      Sunlight was shimmering from the surface of a turquoise sea. The tide was at its lowest for months. Their beach was a mass of rock pools and there were specimens everywhere.

      They’d swum far out to the buoy marking the end of shallow water and a pod of dolphins had nosed in to check them out. They’d dived for starfish. They’d floated lazily in the shallows; floating eased the nagging ache in Elsa’s hip as nothing else could. Finally they’d made each other crowns out of seaweed pods, and now Queen Elsa and her consort, Princess Zoe, were marching back to the house for lunch and a nap.

      To find royalty waiting for them. Royalty without seaweed.

      For a moment Elsa thought she’d been out in the sun too long. The man was dressed like a prince from one of Zoe’s picture books. His uniform was black as night, tailored to perfection. His slickfitting suit was adorned with crimson epaulettes, tassels, braid and medals. His jacket and the top collar of his shirt were unbuttoned, but for some reason that made him look even more princely.

      A prince trying to look casual?

      Uh-oh. Her hand flew to her seaweed crown and she tugged it off as icy tendrils of fear crept round her heart.

      Royalty was fantasy. Not real. Zoe’s father had always been afraid of it, but his stories had seemed so far-fetched that Elsa had deemed them ludicrous.

      ‘Look,’ Zoe said, puzzled, and the eight-year-old’s hand clutched hers. Zoe had only been four when her parents died, but maybe she remembered enough of her father’s paranoia to worry.

      Or maybe the sight of someone dressed as a prince on a Queensland beach was enough to worry anyone.

      ‘I can see him,’ Elsa said. ‘Wow. Do you think he’s escaped from your Sleeping Beauty book?’

      ‘He’s gorgeous,’ Zoe said, relaxing a little as Elsa deliberately made light of it.

      ‘He must be hot,’ Elsa said cautiously.

      ‘Do you think he came in a carriage like in Cinderella?’

      ‘If he did, I hope it has air-conditioning,’ Elsa retorted and Zoe giggled.

      Good. Great. Zoe giggling was far more important than any prince watching them from the sand dunes.

       She would not let anything interfere with that giggle.

      ‘Maybe he’s looking for us,’ Zoe said, worry returning. ‘Maybe he’s from Khryseis.’

      ‘Maybe he is.’ Neither of them had ever been to Khryseis, but the fabulous Mediterranean island was part of Zoe’s heritage—home to the father who’d been killed when she was four. According to the Internet, Khryseis was an island paradise in the Mediterranean, ruled up until now by a King who was as corrupt as he was vindictive. Zoe’s father, Christos, had spoken occasionally of the old King’s malice. Now those stories came flooding back, and Elsa’s fears increased accordingly.

      The man—the prince?—was walking down the sandy track towards them, tall, tanned and dropdead gorgeous. Elsa stopped and put down her pail. She held Zoe’s hand tighter.

      A lesser mortal might look ridiculous in this situation but, despite his uniform, this man looked to be in charge of his world. Strongly built, aquiline features, dark hooded eyes. Cool, authoritative and calm.

      And then he smiled. The combination of uniform, body and smile was enough to knock a girl’s socks off. If she had any socks that was, she thought, humour reasserting itself as she decided it was ridiculous to be afraid. She wiggled her toes deep into the sand, feeling the need to ground herself.

      Oh, but that smile…

      Down, she told herself fiercely. Hormonal response was exactly what wasn’t wanted right now. Act cool.

      She met the man’s gaze and deliberately made herself match his smile. Or almost match it. Her smile was carefully that of someone passing a stranger. His smile, on the other hand, was friendly. His gaze dropped to Zoe—and his smile died. That always happened. No one could stop that initial reaction.

      Instinctively Elsa tugged Zoe closer but Zoe was already there. They braced together, waiting for the usual response. Try as she might, she couldn’t protect Zoe from strangers. Her own scars were more easily hidden, but Zoe’s were still all too obvious.

      But this wasn’t a normal response. ‘Zoe,’ the man said softly, on a long drawn-out note of discovery. And pleasure. ‘You surely must be Zoe. You look just like your father.’

      Neither of them knew what to say to that. They stood in the brilliant sunlight while Elsa tried to think straight.

      She felt foolish, and that was dumb. She was wearing shorts and an old shirt, and she’d swum in what she was wearing. Her sun-bleached hair had been tied in