"Are you sure she's — ?" Chase Savage broke off, stifling a curse.

A horn honked. Traffic inched slowly forward. He pressed the cell phone against his ear with one hand, keeping the other on the steering wheel while he negotiated the heavy downtown Silverton traffic.

"Yes, of course." His caller chuckled. "Isn't it obvious?" Though he hated to do so, especially to his boss, as head of the royal publicity department Chase felt he must point out the obvious. "She's avoiding the reporters."

The all-important press. Couldn't live with them, couldn't live without them.

His Grace, Russell Southgate, III, Duke of Carrington, and Chase's employer, made a rude sound. "For now. She's holding out. You know how the game is played. You've dealt with her kind before."

Chase sighed. At the ripe age of twenty-nine, he really had seen it all. There seemed to be an endless supply of royal groupies and hangers-on, all wanting something for nothing. Some craved sex, most sought money or a slight slice of fame. Royal fame. Which he knew could often be a royal pain in the ass.

"Are you certain Reginald didn't —" Chase began.

"His Highness might be difficult, but he's still next in line for the throne. And this is not just any groupie. Even if she is from the wrong side of the blanket, she's still daughter to Prince Kerwin of Naessa. You know that."

"She doesn't move in the usual circles. I've never met her."

"I know." Carrington sighed again. "Maybe that's what intrigued Reginald. Who knows? Though Reginald is denying everything this time, his mistake could have an enormous impact. Not just Silvershire is affected. The woman says she's pregnant, for God's sake. If this is not handled properly, the situation could become a political disaster." The Duke muttered a particularly un-royal curse, making Chase grin. Unlike most of the royals he spent his time protecting, when Carrington let down his guard, he could be a regular guy. Almost.

"Get to her before she talks to the press. The damage she could do..." Chase could hear the other man shudder, even over the phone line.

"So you want me to 'handle'her?" As a huge, blue SUV cut him off, Chase lay on his horn. "How?"

"With style and class, as usual. Offer her money to take her child and disappear.You can do it, the way only you know how. I have confidence you'll do splendidly, as usual."

The rare compliment, coming from Carrington, told Chase more than anything how important this was. In the six years since Chase had moved up the ranks from royal bodyguard to publicist, Carrington had been a good employer and a fair boss. He'd been instrumental in Chase's career, taking an interest in the younger man and helping him navigate the sometime intricate maze that comprised royal life.

Effortlessly and tirelessly making the royals look good had earned Chase a promotion to head of public relations. The Wizard of PR, his staff called him. He sort of liked the name.

"I'm on my way to the Hotel Royale now." Chase consulted his watch, a Rolex, which had been an expensive holiday gift Prince Reginald had given half the palace staff.

"I should be there in, oh, thirty minutes or less."

Traffic slowed to a stop, forcing Chase to hit his brakes, hard. Rush hour sucked. Most times he managed to avoid the snarl of cars by working late at the palace. Not today. Today he had to hightail it over to the plush hotel in downtown Silverton and intercept this woman before she checked out. Best to confront her in her room, to make the offer in private. Timing was everything in his business.

"You'll handle this." It wasn't a question. Carrington rarely asked. He expected or demanded. And what he wanted, he got.

"Yes, I'll handle it. Never fear." Chase closed his cell phone and turned up the volume on the radio. He'd downloaded and burned a new CD of classic American rock last night. Aerosmith blasted over the speakers, making him grin. Stuck in traffic was as good a time as any to enjoy his favorite tunes.

He saw no need to plot a strategy — groupies were groupies. Once he started talking money to this woman, he anticipated a quick resolution.

Reaching the hotel, he eschewed the valet parking and drove into the parking garage himself. With the ever- vigilant press always on the lookout for a story, he didn't want to risk being seen.

The Hotel Royale had a back entrance and he used it now. Carrington had given him the woman's room number, so he took the service elevator to the sixth floor. He encountered no one, not even hotel staff. Shifts were changing, and he anticipated another ten or fifteen minutes of privacy.

Moving silently on the plush carpeting, he found her room and shook his head. Her door was ajar, the deadbolt turned out to keep the heavy door from closing. Since maids often did this when cleaning the rooms, he wondered if he'd arrived too late.

Pulling the door open, he saw he was not. With her back to him, a slender woman with shoulder-length, cinnamon- colored hair was loading clothes into an open suitcase she'd placed on the bed.

"Not much of a princess," he drawled. "Where's your entourage? Sydney Conner, I presume?"

Her head snapped up. When she met his gaze, he felt an involuntary tightening low in his gut. Damn. She was heart- stoppingly gorgeous. He'd expected that. They all were.

But this woman was no flashy blonde, Prince Reginald's usual type. Her wealth of thick, silky hair framed a delicate, oval face. With her generous mouth, high cheekbones, and dark blue eyes, she had a serene, quiet sort of beauty, not at all what Chase would have expected from one of Prince Reginald's lovers.

Instant desire — fierce, intense, savage — made him draw a harsh, ragged breath.

Staring at him with wide eyes, she reached for the phone. Calling hotel security, no doubt.

"Wait." He held up his ID. "I'm with the palace."

Her full lips thinned. "Let me see."

He tossed it, surprised when she caught the laminated badge with one elegant, perfectly manicured hand. After she ascertained he really was whom he'd said he was, she replaced the phone in the cradle and narrowed her amazing eyes.

"I locked my door. How did you get in here?"

He gave her a slow smile, his PR smile. "Actually, your door was open. Rather careless, don't you think?"

That caught her off guard. Glancing at the door, she blinked, then frowned. "What can I do for you, Mr...." She studied the badge again, her lush lips curving in a rueful smile. "Savage? I'm on my way out, so this will have to be quick."

Again when she looked at him, he felt that punch to the gut. This time, a flare of anger lanced through his lust.

She was good, he admitted grudgingly. Her every movement was elegant, sensual. Her appearance, from the cut of her expensive, designer clothing to the pampered, creamy glow of her skin, spoke of wealth and breeding. Not your usual palace hanger-on at all.

But then, she was a princess. "Where are you going?"

"That's none of your business," she told him, matching his cool tone. "Since I have little to do with the royal family of Silvershire these days, I don't understand why you're here. What do you want?"

He flashed her a hard look, belatedly remembering at the last moment to soften it with another smile. "As you saw from my ID, I'm with the royal publicity department. His Grace, the Duke of Carrington, sent me."

She stared, her emotions flashing across her mobile face, hope, disbelief and a tentative joy chief among them. She read the badge one last time before handing it back to him.

"Reginald spoke to the duke?" she asked. "He told him about our baby?"

Hearing the raw emotion in her voice, Chase felt a flash of pity. The look she gave him told him she'd seen and hated both that and the fact she'd let her guard down enough to show her feelings to a total stranger.

Chase narrowed his eyes. "I wasn't informed how Lord Carrington learned of your claim."

"But Reginald —" She bit her lip.

"Reginald what?"

One hand instinctively went to her belly. Protective. He noted this and filed it away for future reference. "What do you and/or Lord Carrington want with me?"

She was sleek and beautiful and sexy as hell. Chase could think of a thousand ways to answer that question, though he'd say none of them. He had a job to do.

He lifted his briefcase. "I've been authorized to offer you —"

The window exploded in a shower of glass. "Get down!" He leapt at her.

Too stunned to react when he pushed her down, Sydney fell heavily, the man on top of her. Panicked, terrified the fall had hurt her unborn child, she fought to get up.

"Stay down," he snarled. "That was a gunshot."

"A gunshot? Why would someone shoot at me?"

When he looked at her, she saw a different man. Gone was the affable, smiling stranger. This man wore a grim face, a hard face, the kind of face she'd seen on her mother's bodyguards, hired mercenaries for the most part. Dangerous men who played by their own set of rules.

"Who are you, really?" She whispered, still cradling her abdomen. "You might be in public relations now, but I'm thinking you might have another job title, as well."

He looked away, climbing off her, still keeping low to the ground.

Another shot rang out, taking out what was left of the window.

He cursed. "That window — what's it face?" Confused, she shook her head. "I'm not sure. I'm on the sixth floor. No view. All that's out there is the roof of one of the lower buildings." Then she realized what that meant. If she were to climb out her window, she'd be able to step without much discomfort onto the other roof.

The shooter was that close! She had to protect her baby. "We've got to get out of here." He grabbed her hand, yanking her to her feet. "Stay low and follow me."

He started for the door.

She grabbed her purse. "I need my passport."

"Come on." Once they reached the hall, he turned left. "The elevator's that way." She pointed right. "We're taking the stairs. Hurry."

They hustled all the way down. Their footsteps clattered on the metal edges, echoing in the narrow stairway.

"Let's go, through here." Tone low and urgent, he shepherded her out a door marked as an emergency exit, instantly setting off the hotel alarm. "Good, a distraction," he shouted over the clanging bell and whirring siren.

Outside, momentarily disoriented, Sydney stumbled, squinting into the bright sunlight. He gave her arm another tug, urging her on, past the line of parked cars on the curb.

"My cello." She suddenly remembered her beloved instrument. "I can't leave it. Go back and get it, please?"

"No. I'll buy you another."

"You don't understand. It's a Stradivarius, one of only sixty left in the world." She attempted in vain to pull herself free, knowing she personally couldn't go back after it. She had to protect her baby at all costs, even if that meant she lost Lady Swister, her cello. "Please," she repeated. "It will only take a moment."

Grim-faced, he stared, sending a chill of foreboding up her spine. "You want me to risk my life for an instrument?"

"A three-million-dollar instrument. Please." She gestured again. "We've obviously lost the shooter."

"For now." A muscle worked in his jaw. "How the hell did you get a three-million-dollar cello?"

"Reginald gave it to me. I —"

They both heard the sharp report of another shot. Seemingly at the same time, the side window of the car behind them shattered.

"Go. Now!" Not hesitating, he yanked her after him. They took off at a run, across the deserted street and into a narrow alley.

"But my cello...!"

"Forget the cello. This way."

"My rental car's closer." She pointed at the cute red Gaston Mini, parked near the corner. "Right there." Fishing the remote out of her purse, she punched the unlock button.

A second later, the car exploded.