What, he wondered, as his heart lurched and a pulse began tap-tap-tapping in his belly, does a man say to a long-lost father who is not only his sworn adversary, but his king?

The chopper churned on across the Dunford Wood, the province of Perthegon. and crossed the Kairn River into Chamberlain. My father's lands. I suppose that makes them my lands, too?

His mouth curved in a sardonic little smile as the chopper banked sharply south over the Lodan Mountains.

The helicopter settled onto the grassy clearing, a little meadow surrounded by pine trees not far from the lodge. As the rotors slowed to a lazy swishing. Nikolas opened the door and stepped down onto the yellowing grass. He paused to wait for Rhia to do the same, and then they both hurried at a half crouch through the turbulence to meet their welcoming committee.

Three people had emerged from the woods on the edge of the clearing. Two were men, obviously security guards, resplendent in the king's livery and looking gloriously out of place in that rustic setting. The third person, Rhia was startled to see, was a woman, casually dressed in slacks and a windbreaker. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and it was a moment before Rhia recognized the king's personal physician, Dr. Zara Smith-or was it Shaw, now? she wondered. Lady Zara had recently become the wife of Dr. Walker Shaw, the Lazlo Group's chief psychologist and an old friend of Rhia's.

While the two guards stood stiffly at attention, Lady Zara, whom Rhia had met only briefly at her wedding reception, greeted her with a smile and a brisk handshake. "Hello, Rhia. it's good to see you again."

"Likewise, Lady Zara." Rhia said, returning the smile. "Good to see you looking so great. Married life must be good for you."

"Walker is good for me." Lady Zara replied, with the soft eyes and satisfied smile of a woman deeply in love, and Rhia couldn't help feeling a small, treacherous stab of envy.

"I'm surprised to see you here," she said. "I thought you were still on your honeymoon."

Lady Zara's forehead creased momentarily with a tiny frown. "Lord Southgate suggested I be here for the meeting." she said in an undertone. "He is…concerned. But it was His Majesty who insisted on it."

She turned curious, champagne-colored eyes on Nikolas and offered him her hand. "Mr. Donovan, I must tell you that I have strongly advised against this meeting."

"I imagine you have." Nikolas said drily as he shook her hand. "You, and I'm sure many others as well, considering I'm suspected of murder for hire-among other things."

"That's for others to determine." Lady Zara said without smiling. "My concerns are for His Majesty's health. The king is still recovering from his recent illness, as you know. He is still not entirely himself, which is to be expected given the series of shocks he's had to deal with. His son-ah, Reginald's death, then surgery for a brain tumor, and the hospital bombing and his subsequent coma on top of it. The news that Reginald wasn't the king and queen's biological son, and the fact that he was murdered…and now…" she shook her head "…learning his biological son and the true heir to his crown is none other than the man who's been trying to take it from him-" She broke off, realizing, perhaps, that she'd been a bit too frank.

Nikolas said with a touch of impatience, "Of course, I'll try not to say or do anything that might upset His Majesty."

Rhia winced at the note of sarcasm, but the doctor only said mildly, "Your presence alone will upset him quite enough, I expect. If you will come this way, please. He's been waiting for you-somewhat on edge, as you can imagine."

She turned and led the way to a broad pathway that wound through the pine forest. One of the guards fell in behind them while the other took up a sentry's position at the edge of the meadow-to keep an eye on the helicopter and its pilot, Rhia guessed. She turned once to look back at the chopper, sitting motionless now, like a great black insect, the pilot leaning relaxed against the Lazlo Group logo on its door.

The path beneath her feet was spongy with pine needles, the air pungent with the scent of the pines and the dusty earth. She breathed deeply as she walked, filling her lungs with that warm dry air. hoping it might help to quell the butterflies rampaging through her middle. Wondering whether Nikolas had butterflies, too.

If he does, no one would ever know it. she thought, stealing glances at him as they made their way along the pine-carpeted path. His eyes were cool as rain, his face might have been chiseled from the earth itself. There was only the tiny muscle working in the side of his jaw to tell her of the turmoil inside.

Oh, yeah. He definitely has butterflies.

Was this what Nikolas would call empathy, she wondered? Or was it only her newborn feelings for him that made her feel his turmoil too. and ache to take his hand?

The mountain setting was idyllic and beautiful, no doubt a perfect place for healing both body and soul, if Nikolas had taken notice of it. But he had gone far away for the moment, retreating inside the chilly isolation of his analytical mind. It was where he often took refuge from the chaos of his emotions or circumstances beyond his control. The meeting ahead, the current upheaval in Silvershire, the unanswered questions, even his new and unsettling feelings for the woman walking silently beside him. all these things were manageable, he believed, if he could simply reduce them to problems to be solved.

Focus, he ordered himself sternly, as his mind whirred dizzily through a blizzard of thoughts, unable to see any of them clearly. One thing at a time. First things first.

Get through this meeting first. After that… who knows where I'll be? In prison, maybe.

You will naturally conduct yourself with dignity, he told himself.

Yes, he would be courteous. But not cordial. Weston was the sovereign ruler of his country and as such, deserving of respect, no matter how Nikolas might feel about the monarchy itself.

But no amount of DNA will ever make the man my father.

And, he reminded himself. Weston no doubt had the same reservations about him. After all, the man had raised that twit Reginald as his son and heir for thirty years, and undoubtedly felt a father's love for the blighter in spite of his rather considerable shortcomings. That sort of feeling didn't disappear because of a few mismatching strands of double helixes.

Nikolas told himself he wouldn't expect a thing from this one-on-one meeting with His Majesty, except maybe a chance to begin to clear his name of those insane suspicions of murder and mayhem. No, all that would happen today was that he and Weston would take each other's measure, ask and answer whatever questions might occur to them, and that would be that.

He just wished he could do something about the bloody butterfly convention taking place in his stomach.

He stole a glance at the woman beside him. sleek and lithe in her uniform black, silent and intent as a hunting cat, green eyes focused on their guide up ahead as if she were some fascinating species of mouse. He wondered what she was thinking-feeling-right now, and whether she had butterflies, too.

He wished he could reach over and take her hand.

The Weston family's so-called hunting lodge was in fact a sizeable manor house built in the Georgian style out of natural stone. It was only two stories in height, with leaded windows, a slate-tile roof and towering chimneys, a large one at either end and several smaller ones scattered between. Rhia, who'd been picturing something more on the order of a log cabin, or maybe a Swiss-style chalet, thought that if this was what royals called a modest hunting lodge, she couldn't wait to see the palace.

The house seemed oddly out-of-place here, tucked among the towering pines. Such an imposing house. Rhia thought, deserved a proper setting, with sweeping lawns and curving driveways and magnificent formal gardens. Here, it reminded her of Sleeping Beauty's castle under the spell of the evil fairy, left at the mercy of creeping vines and rampant vegetation… neglected, abandoned, forgotten.

However, any signs of neglect-real or imagined-ended at the mansion's front door. Their approach had evidently been observed, because as they mounted the wide stone steps, the massive double doors were opened and held for them by two more of the security guards in full dress uniforms. Lady Zara, being accustomed to the trappings of wealth and position, swept through the doorway without a glance or a pause; Rhia and Nikolas followed, with their escort bringing up the rear.

The doors swung shut behind them with a quiet thump, and they found themselves in a great hall with a high vaulted ceiling, paneled in gleaming wood and lit by the soft glow of lamps tucked in alcoves along the walls and recessed high up near the ceiling. The atmosphere was peaceful, filled with the scent of wood polish and pine and an indefinable aura of elegance.

They were given no time to admire the portraits, tapestries and carved-wood panels along the walls, however. Their escort led them on at a brisk pace, her footsteps tapping on the parquet floor and instantly swallowed up in the vastness of the hall. Around them the house seemed deserted, and eerily still.

Lady Zara paused in front of a door near the far end of the hall. With her hand on the doorknob, she looked over her shoulder at Nikolas. He nodded almost imperceptibly, and she lifted one hand to knock while opening the door with the other. "Your Majesty," she said quietly. "Mr. Donovan is here."

She stood aside, then, and gestured for Nikolas and Rhia to enter ahead of her.

Neither the room nor its sole occupant were what Rhia had expected.

The king had elected to meet his son in what was obviously a private retreat, with none of the trappings or ceremony of royalty. The room was informal, even cluttered. The walls were lined with cabinets-cupboards below, and above them shelves filled with books that had obviously been read, not selected for the elegance of their bindings. The chairs arranged in casual groupings looked comfortable, even a little shabby, and there were reading lamps conveniently situated beside each one. There was a large cluttered desk, a comfortable couch, several small tables and ottomans, and in one corner, incongruously, a stationary exercise bicycle in gleaming chrome. There was a fireplace-unlit-and flanking it, twin French doors that stood open in invitation to the pine-scented breeze.

In front of the doors and the fireplace, with his hands resting on the back of a large leather chair, a tall but frail-looking man stood waiting.

She'd been prepared, but even so the king's appearance shocked her. In tapes she'd seen of his last public appearances before Reginald's death and his own surgery and subsequent collapse. Henry Weston had been a robust and vigorous man, much younger-looking than his age, which she seemed to recall was somewhere in his late sixties, with strong, handsome features, silver hair and fierce dark eyes, and the same regal bearing she'd seen in Nikolas. Now, his face was much thinner, those still-magnificent eyes were sunk deep in shadowed sockets. Although he was plainly making an effort to stand erect, he appeared to have aged a decade in less than six months.

Lady Zara closed the door, then hurried to her patient's side. "Your Majesty, please. You must-"

But the king waved her aside with a regal gesture and came around the chair, leaving one hand on its back for support. Rhia found herself stepping quietly aside and leaving Nikolas to go forward and face his father alone.

For a long moment there was absolute silence in the room, while the two men took each other's measure. Then His Majesty, King Weston of Silvershire, spoke in a soft and rasping voice:

"By God, it's true. You have your mother's eyes."

Looking back on it later. Nikolas was able to recall very little of what was said in those first moments. He felt…not so much numb as insulated. As if his mind and emotions had been carefully packed in cotton wool. He remembered being shocked, on some level that didn't involve his emotions, at the king's appearance; even knowing of Weston's illness, he hadn't been prepared to see the powerful monarch he'd considered his adversary looking frail and old.

He remembered hearing the words …your mother's eyes… and seeing Weston's mouth spasm with emotion and the sudden glaze of moisture in the fierce dark eyes. He remembered hearing Rhia's soft intake of breath, as if she'd felt a stab of unexpected pain. But he himself felt no reaction whatsoever. Weston might have been referring to someone Nikolas didn't even know.