Enough. The cats weren’t interested in wishes, and neither was anyone else. She smiled ruefully into the night, turned her back on her disgruntled cats and went inside. She needed to fix a blocked sink.

Where was Prince Charming when you needed him?

The little boy would live.

Prince Stefanos Antoniadis-Dr Steve to his patients-walked out of Theatre savouring a combination of triumph and exhaustion. He’d won.

The boy’s mother-a worn-looking woman with no English, but with a smile wide enough to cut through any language barrier-hugged him and cried, and Stefanos hugged her back and felt his exhaustion disappear.

He felt fantastic.

He walked into the scrub room, sorely tempted to punch the air in triumph-and then stopped dead.

This wasn’t fantastic. This was trouble.

Two months ago, King Giorgos of the Diamond Isles had died without an heir. Next in line to the throne of the Mediterranean island of Khryseis was Stefanos’s cousin, Christos. The only problem was, no one could find Christos. Worse, if Christos couldn’t be found, the throne belonged to Stefanos-who wanted the crown like a hole in the head.

In desperation he’d employed a friend who moved in diplomatic circles and whose discretion he trusted absolutely to search internationally for Christos. That his friend was here to tell him the news in person meant there must be a major problem.

‘They told me you’ve been opening a kid’s skull, chopping bits out and sticking it back together,’ his friend said with easy good humour. ‘How hard’s that? Seven hours…’

‘I get paid by the hour,’ Stefanos said, grasping his friend’s hand. But he couldn’t make himself smile. ‘What news?’