Girl of Vengeance Read Free Page A

, he called it—and a few minutes later Andrea, George-Phillip, Dylan and Jane were sitting at a cozy table in a room dominated by large windows on three sides. Surrounding the sunroom was grass, leading off to the trees and the row of houses on the other side of the fence.
    With a wry smile, George-Phillip said, “We’ll have to do an audit of security here,” he said. “If you’d been an assassin I would have been done for.”
    Dylan thought the Prince was right, of course. Even though Dylan had distracted the Marines, a sixteen-year-old should never have made it into the building.
    A woman wearing a knee-length double-breasted tunic poured tea for all of them. There was no sugar in sight, unfortunately.
    “Summer sausage rolls, Your Highness, with mini sandwiches and custard kisses.”
    Jane’s face lit up at the last and she reached for the pastry.
    George-Phillip blocked her hand with his. “Have a sandwich or two first, Jane.”
    The little girl pouted, but obeyed. Andrea watched with misty eyes, and Dylan—whose childhood had been a mess of alcoholics and abuse—understood exactly why. It’s what he had always wanted too—a simple, domestic existence, with parents who cared.
    Andrea said nothing—simply watching, her eyes moving back and forth between the father and daughter.
    “You should know,” George-Phillip said conversationally, “I’ve come to the conclusion that my career is interfering with me spending time with Jane, here. Regardless of what happens with the current scandal, I intend to resign my position as Chief. I’ve no right to ask this, Andrea—but I’d like you to consider coming to London with me. When you have the opportunity. I’d like for us to get to know each other.”
    Andrea didn’t reply. An awkward silence fell over the table, and Dylan leaned forward. He cleared his throat, covering it with his closed fist— should he have used his napkin? Then he spoke. “Do I call you … Highness? Or sir? Or…”
    “In public, Highness or Your Grace is generally my title, but here, please call me George-Phillip. Do I have it correct that I have you to thank for my daughter still being alive?”
    Dylan gave a wry smile. Not in a million years was he going to call a royal prince by his first name. “Sir, Andrea did that all on her own. She’s just about the most courageous person I’ve ever met.”
    Prince George-Phillip gave his daughter a warm look. “Would that you hadn’t had to deal with those situations. But I’m proud and amazed at how you handled them.”
    “I was just trying to survive,” Andrea said, shifting in her seat. Dylan tried to parse out George-Phillip’s sentence, but it still didn’t make sense. Would that … what?
    Without preamble, George-Phillip said, “I think you should both stay here for the time being. You’ve been on the run and in hiding, and this is the safest place for you. Not to mention that until things are sorted out with the American investigation, both of you are wanted by the police here.”
    Dylan met Andrea’s eyes. She was impassive. He nodded to her, as imperceptible of a motion that he could make.
    She nodded back, then her eyes cut back to George-Phillip. She pursed her lips for a moment then spoke. “Yes, we’ll stay. I have a thousand questions for you.”
    “I’ll tell you everything I know,” George-Phillip said in a soothing tone. “You can ask anything. Within the bounds of the confidentiality required by my position, I’m an open book to you, daughter.”
    “You say that my—the person I thought was my father—” she whispered the next words, her eyes darting to Jane, “raped my mother. And that she was forced to marry him?”
    George-Phillip nodded. “She was seventeen when they actually married. Your eldest sister Julia was born a few months later.”
    “When did you meet my mother?”
    “In the winter of 1984. We met in February, at a dinner party here in Washington. I was new in the city, and so