He’d been stunned.

He’d known Isobelle had taken the little boy back to Australia, and he’d assumed that she’d had his care in hand. But his phone call to Lara’s mother had elicited exactly nothing.

‘The child’s arrangements have nothing to do with me,’ Isobelle had told him when he’d finally tracked her down. She was somewhere in Texas with her latest man, recovering miraculously from her daughter’s death and obviously far too busy to be concerned with her grandson’s welfare. ‘Yes, the child and the nanny Lara employed came back with me four months ago, and I last saw them in Sydney. I assumed Jean-Paul and Lara had left the girl well provided for. It’s no fault of mine if the wretched girl’s done a bunk.’

Marc had stood by the phone and had willed-ached-for his cousin to still be alive so he could wring his selfish neck. Then he’d set about doing everything to shore up the country’s political stability before he’d come to find his cousin’s baby son. Heir to the throne.

And he’d found this.

‘He’ll be well looked after from now on,’ he said angrily, his fury matching that emanating from the front passenger seat. From Tammy. ‘I promise.’

‘I know he will be,’ Tammy muttered, but she was speaking to herself. Not to him.

The hotel Henry and his nanny were staying in was one of Sydney’s finest, on the Rocks in Sydney Harbour. The limousine nosed into the driveway, a uniformed concierge bowed and opened the door to Marc, then looked askance as Tammy climbed out, too.

There was a plush red carpet leading to the magnificent glass entry. A waterfall fell on either side of the doorway over carefully landscaped rocks. Inside the wide glass doors Tammy could see chandeliers and a vast grand piano. The strains of Chopin were wafting out over the sound of the gently tinkling water.

This was where Marc had installed Henry and his nanny? Money clearly wasn’t an issue with His Highness, Prince Marc.