The Billionaire Prince’s Surprise Son by Leslie North

16

“Let’s go for a picnic, he said,” Summer growled under her breath as she hit redial on her cell phone. “It’ll be fun, he said. For God’s sake, Nic, could you just once actually follow through?”

Harry was whining. She’d already slathered him with sunscreen, but he’d removed the hat she’d plonked on his head, and he refused to put it back on. Even though the park was right there, he wanted to cross the street, over past the nearby boardwalk, to the ocean beyond.

“Hold on, Harry,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm even though she wanted to scream, listening to the dial tone of Nic’s personal cell phone. She’d already left a message at the hospital, but she didn’t want to make it an emergency—didn’t want to alert any of the staff, who would no doubt wonder why a fellow would be calling Nic about a picnic. Harry wriggled out of her grip, and she kept an eye on him as he toddled with wobbly determination. “Why don’t you go play on the swings, sweetie? Or the little slide? You like the slide.”

Harry’s tiny eyebrow quirked up, and it was the spitting image of his father. Ordinarily, she’d find that funny. Right now, she wanted to throw her hands up at the two of them.

The phone clicked to voicemail. “This is Nic. I’m unavailable at this time, but if you leave a message, I will get back to you as soon as I can.” She could have shrieked. Instead, she waited for the beep.

“Nic,” she said, gritting her teeth, “you said that you were going to meet us at Hyacinth Park, and Harry is getting impatient. He’s tired of playing and wants to go over to the beach. I might take him over there. If you’re even planning on coming.” She knew that some bitterness was leaching into her voice, but damn it, she’d lost patience. She turned away from Harry for a second, dropping her voice so Harry wouldn’t hear her venom and think she was somehow angry with him. No, her anger was one-hundred-percent reserved for the absent Nic. “You said you’d be here, before the fundraiser. What the hell happened to you? A text message would take you less than thirty seconds. That’s just common courtesy, however else you feel about me and Harry. So unless you’re in a coma, or on fire, or… no. You know what? Those are the only two viable excuses I’m going to accept right now, okay? Call. Me. Back!”

She pulled the phone from her ear, slamming her finger on the “end call” button with enough force that she was surprised the screen didn’t crack.

“Mama!”

The next few moments happened in a blur, almost in slow motion. She turned back to see Harry had somehow poured on a burst of speed, amazing for someone with his tiny legs. And of course, he was heading straight for the beach.

Which meant he was about to run across the busy road.

Her body was already in motion when she caught sight of the silver BMW, which was going too fast. The driver was on his cell phone, obviously not paying attention.

Harry was already stepping onto the asphalt when the car blew through the stop sign.

She was sprinting, making it close enough to see the driver’s panicked face as she wrapped her arms around Harry, yanking him back before the car could get too close. She felt the whirling torrent of air from its near miss, watched as the car careened slightly, leaving skid marks as it sped away.

“Harry? Harry! Are you all right?” She looked him over quickly, feeling for anything broken, any blood. Terror struck her like a fist.

Her heart was beating like a hummingbird’s wings, and she felt her system flood with adrenaline. Harry was wailing, and she held him tight to her. As a doctor, she knew nothing had made contact. It had been a near miss—too close, but she’d done it. She’d saved him.

It wasn’t like Mom and Dad.

It wasn’t a drunk driver—that she knew of. No one had gotten hurt. She was going to be having flashbacks of her parents’ accident that night, she felt sure. For now, Harry needed her to calm down. Others from the park had hurried over, making sure that she and Harry were all right. She was shaky as the adrenaline started to wind down. She called Felix to pick them up.

“Come on, little man,” she said to Harry. “Let’s get you some nummies—maybe a cookie? And we can build a sandcastle on the beach at the house, okay?”

Harry’s tears instantly turned to sunshine at those promises.

When the car service pulled up Felix, opened the door for her. “Did Nic use the car this afternoon?” she asked, her voice sounding brittle.

“Yes, ma’am,” Felix answered. “He had to go to the hospital, so I drove him there from the palace.”

Because of course he did. She rubbed at her temples. She brought Harry home… not home, Nic’s house, she corrected herself. She gave Harry a late lunch, his promised cookie, and let him make a sand castle before cleaning him up. By then, Alma came over to watch him, since the king and queen were going to be at the fundraiser tonight at the palace, just like she and Nic were supposed to be. They’d be too busy to babysit.

She considered just ditching the event. After all, if Nic couldn’t be bothered to let her know when he was going to bail on a planned outing with his son and with—well, with whatever she was to him, then why should she give him the courtesy of attending a fancy fundraiser and helping with his royal duties? Why the hell was she going through with this charade?

Because on some level, you still care about him. She still shared a bed with him. They shared a child. And he was the closest she’d ever let herself get to any man, in her whole life.

By the time Alma was quietly playing with Harry, Summer found herself getting ready for the party. She put on the deep crimson gown that she’d bought at the same boutique she’d first gone to with Isabella…

She winced. It was amazing how close she’d managed to get to Harry’s grandparents in such a short amount of time. The thought of losing Isabella and Frederick was a sharp pang in her chest. But even if she’d always wanted to be surrounded by family, the closeness she’d had with them was eclipsed by how solitary and shut out she felt by Nic.

She slipped on a pair of stilettos then started applying her makeup. She’d hopefully meet Nic at this fundraiser, and then they’d have it out somewhere private—most importantly, somewhere away from Harry. For once, Nic was going to make their little family first priority.

And if he couldn’t do that…

Summer slicked on lipstick, then set her jaw. Well, if Nic couldn’t do that, then she and Harry were out the door, no looking back.

* * *

Nic rubbed his hands over his face. “Her oxygen saturation levels are still way too low. What the hell is going on here?”

Dr. Buckham looked concerned. “She keeps gasping,” he said. “Just can’t get a breath in.”

“We got her on a course of steroids. Did you use the nebulizer?” Nic said. “She’s got asthma, was diagnosed months ago from the sound of it, but it doesn’t… I can’t put my finger on it. Something’s not right.”

Obviously something’s not right. The girl’s face was practically turning blue. He was losing her—he was watching the child struggle and fight, there in the hospital bed.

“What did I get wrong?” Nic hissed, and he could hear the creep of panic in his own voice. He retreated to his office. Dr. Buckham followed him.

“What we do is difficult, and not always a matter of right or wrong,” Dr. Buckham reminded him, and Nic hated that he was showing his own insecurities to the point where a colleague was trying to comfort him. It only made matters worse—only showcased how out of control he truly was. “Not only do we need to be able to recognize, diagnose, and treat any number of illnesses, but we need to know how they would present, in different periods of development across a wide age span. I’d say that we’ve got one of the hardest disciplines in medicine.”

Nic fought the urge to glare at the older man. Dr. Buckham was a respected diagnostician. He was used to talking to fellows and medical students, to lecturing. He was only trying to help.

It wasn’t his fault that Nic had screwed this up so badly.

And a child might pay the price.

Unbidden, a memory of Tom’s tired, weak smile crossed his mind. He clenched his jaw, shutting his eyes.

Not now. Work the problem.

The girl was six. She said that she couldn’t really breathe. The bronchia might not be the problem. She was gasping, open mouthed, too often. What else might be the problem?

“Not cystic fibrosis,” Nic muttered, flipping through the girl’s file. “Checked for that. Her lungs… what is going on there?”

Dr. Buckham studied the X-rays. “They seem… wait a second. Where does this girl live?”

“They’re too big,” Nic said, and something clicked in his head. “As in, someone living in a high-altitude environment big, and frankly, there’s nowhere in Mynia that has that kind of altitude. Why would a child have lungs this big?”

“Which means she’s been struggling to get oxygen for years,” Dr. Buckham mused. “We assumed asthma based on her symptoms and past diagnoses by her primary pediatrician, but asthma wouldn’t present like this.”

“Let’s order a CAT scan,” Nic said quickly. “It’ll take a full day or so, but if the tests show what I think they will—I think she might have blocked sinus cavities. Severely blocked… something solid, maybe a tumor. We’ll check. But I am willing to bet that it’s the reason she’s gasping but doesn’t have asthma. She simply can’t get oxygen in any other way.”

“That’s good,” Dr. Buckham said, quickly putting in the call to radiology. Then he looked at Nic. “May I speak freely?”

“Always,” Nic said, trying not to wince. “You know my title doesn’t matter here.”

“You are still Head of Pediatrics,” Dr. Buckham said with a small smirk, but his eyes were kind. “How many times would you say you’ve misdiagnosed something?”

Nic blinked, taken aback. “Never.” He thought that was common knowledge.

Now Dr. Buckham’s eyes widened. “Never? Really?”

“Of course not.”

“Then… well, statistically speaking, you were kind of… due, weren’t you?”

Nic couldn’t help the wave of offense that hit him. “I beg your pardon?”

“We’re doctors, yes. And I would say you are a stellar doctor,” Dr. Buckham quickly assured him. “But we’re still human. And we can’t do it right every time.”

Nic ground his molars so hard he was surprised they didn’t turn to powder. “I damned well am going to try. I just… I’ve been having some trouble focusing lately. The ministry has been pressing too many health initiatives, and it’s summer, so fundraising season means a full schedule…”

And Summer and Harry. God. He pulled out his phone. It had been on silent all this time. Ten missed calls and three voicemails. The thought of being castigated—and rightfully so—only added more exhaustion to his already heavy shoulders.

Dr. Buckham nodded slowly. “We’ll keep an eye on her, keep the oxygen mask on her,” he said, referring to the patient. “Don’t worry. We caught it in time. We will figure out what’s going on, and she’ll be fine. I feel quite confident.”

Nic nodded curtly in response, then watched the older man walk out of the office, closing the door behind him. Once the door was closed, Nic slumped into his chair, covering his face.

He’d almost lost a patient because he hadn’t focused, hadn’t asked the right questions. Hadn’t done what he’d swore he’d do: be a doctor, one that saved kids, the way his brother had always wanted to—and who couldn’t be saved, himself.

His phone’s alarm rang, notifying him: the fundraiser was already in full swing. He’d snoozed it several times already. He felt a headache brewing.

He still had royal duties. He’d deal with Summer’s rightful wrath later. Right now, he had to get changed into the suit he’d stowed at the palace and get down to the party, and see what he could do to keep it all together.