Salustiano Vargas, the former right hand of the man known by most of the world only as Diosdado, stared at the telephone in his cheap motel room as it rang. It was hotter than hell in there and the air conditioner chugged away to no avail.

He had told no one, no one, where he would be staying. Still, he knew damn well who was on the other end of the line. There was nowhere he could run where Diosdado couldn’t find him.

He picked it up after the seventeenth ring, unable to stand it any longer. “Yes?”

Diosdado said only one word. “When?”

“Soon,” Vargas replied, closing his eyes. “You have my word.”

“Good.” The line was cut without a goodbye.

Vargas sat in the heat for several moments, not moving.

It truly was hotter than hell in this cheap room.

When he stood, it took him only a few minutes to pack up his things. He carried his suitcase to his rented car and headed across town—toward a fancy, expensive resort. He couldn’t afford to stay there, but he would put it on his credit card. He wanted luxury. He wanted clean sheets, a firm bed. He wanted room service and a view of a sparkling swimming pool with young girls lounging around it. He wanted the cool, sweet, fresh air of a fancy hotel room. He didn’t want hell. He’d be there soon enough.

As the applause died down, Joe smiled in the direction of the TV news cameras. “Good afternoon,” he said. “It is an honor and a pleasure to be here today.”

Veronica couldn’t concentrate on his words. All her attention was on Blue and Cowboy and Harvard’s voices as they kept a constant lookout for danger.

This was the perfect setting for an assassination attempt. There were TV cameras here from every network, including cable news, and the event was political—a hundred-dollars-a-plate fund-raiser for a well-known senator’s reelection campaign.

But if the terrorists were going to try to shoot the prince— Joe—they hadn’t set up in any of the obvious vantage points. If they were here, they were in with the crowd, sitting in the rows of banquet tables.

FInCOM agents were everywhere. Veronica could see them on her video screens, their eyes sweeping the crowd, watchful for any sign of danger or trouble.

Please, Lord, protect Joe and keep him safe—There was a sudden commotion at one of the tables in the back, and Veronica’s heart lodged in her throat.

She could hear the SEALs shouting and see the FInCOM agents running, all converging on one table, and one man.

“I have my rights!” the man was shouting as he was wrestled to the floor. “I’ve done nothing wrong! I’m a Vietnam veteran and I want to know—”

Noise erupted as people tried to get away from the commotion, and the FInCOM agents tried to get the man out of the room. And Joe… Joe was still standing at the podium, watching. Why didn’t he get down, out of Harm’s way?

“Joe,” Veronica said into her microphone. “Take cover!”

But he didn’t move.

“Joe!” she said again. “Damn it, get down!”

He wasn’t listening. He was watching as the man was dragged toward the door.

“Wait,” he said sharply, his commanding voice echoing over the PA system, cutting through hubbub, through the sound of eight hundred voices all talking at once. “I said, wait!”

Blue froze. They all froze—the FInCOM agents and their prisoner, looking up toward Joe. A hush fell over the crowd.

“Is he armed?” Joe asked, more quietly now.

Blue shook his head. “No, sir.”

“I only wanted to ask a question, Your Highness,” the man called out, his voice ringing clearly across the room.

Veronica sat on the edge of her seat, watching. She could see the TV cameras catching every bit of the drama.

“He only wanted to ask a question,” Joe repeated mildly. He turned to Kevin Laughton, who now stood on the stage next to him. “Has it become illegal in this country to ask a question?”

“No, sir,” Laughton said. “But—”

Joe turned pointedly away from Laughton. “He would like to ask a question,” he said to the watching crowd, “and I would like to hear his question, if the rest of you don’t mind…?”

Someone started to clap, and after a brief smattering of applause, Joe bowed his head to the man.

“The question I wanted to ask you, Prince Tedric,” the man said in his clear voice, “and the question I want to ask all of you,” he added, addressing the entire crowd, “is how can you sit here in good conscience, spending so much money for one meal, when right next door a homeless shelter and soup kitchen for Vietnam veterans is about to be shut down from lack of funding?”

It was so quiet in the room, a pin could have been heard falling on the floor.

Joe didn’t answer at first. He let the question sit, filling the air, surrounding all the luncheon guests.

“What is your name?” Joe asked the man.

“Tony Pope, sir,” the man said. “Sergeant Tony Pope, U.S. Marines, retired.”

“You served in Vietnam, Sergeant?” Joe asked.

Pope nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Joe looked at Blue and the FInCOM agents who were still holding Pope’s arms. “I think you can release him,” he said. ‘’I think we’ve determined he’s not out for blood.‘’

“Thank you, sir.” Pope straightened his jacket and tie.

He was a good-looking man, Veronica realized, with a neatly trimmed goatee and mustache. His suit was well-tailored, if rather worn and fraying in spots. He held himself proudly, standing tall, with his shoulders back and head high.

“Do you run this homeless shelter, Sergeant Pope?” Joe asked.

“Yes, sir,” Pope replied. “The Boylston Street Shelter. For ten years, sir.” His mouth tightened. “We’ve had some tough times, but never like this. The few grants we had left ran out, and it’ll be six months before we stand a chance of getting any additional funding. And now the city says we need to make repairs to the facility by the end of the month—Friday—or our site’s condemned. We barely have enough cash to feed our residents, let alone make the kind of repairs they’re demanding. To be bluntly honest, sir, the Vietnam vets that live at Boylston Street Shelter are getting screwed—again.”

“How many men use your facility?” Joe asked quietly.

“Daily we average around two hundred and fifty,” the man replied. “These are men who have nowhere else to go—no food, no place but the street to sleep.”

Joe was silent.

“Our yearly overhead cost is twenty thousand dollars,” Tony Pope said. He looked around the room. “That’s what two hundred of you are paying right now, for one single meal.”

“Is the Boylston Street Shelter serving lunch today?” Joe asked.

“Today and every day,” Pope said. “Until they nail our doors shut.”

“Do you mind if I come take a look?” Joe asked.

If Pope was surprised, he hid it well..“I’d be honored.”

“No way,” Veronica heard Kevin Laughton say vehemently. “Absolutely no way.”

“Joe, what are you doing?” she asked. “You can’t leave the building, it’s not safe.”

But Joe had already jumped down, off the stage, and was striding between the tables, toward Sgt. Tony Pope, U.S.M.C., retired.

As Veronica watched, Pope led Joe—surrounded by FInCOM agents and his three SEALs—out of the room. The TV news cameras and reporters scrambled after them.

The shelter was, quite literally, right next door to the hotel. Once inside, Pope gave Joe—and the camera crews—a tour of his modest facility, from the cafeteria to the kitchen. He pointed out the holes in the roof and the other parts of the building that needed repairs. He introduced Joe to many of the longtime residents and workers.

Joe addressed them by rank, even the grungiest, rag-clad winos, and spoke to them all with the utmost respect and courtesy.

And as Joe was leaving, he slipped the jeweled ring from his finger and handed it to Tony Pope. “Fix your roof,” he said.

Tears sprang to the older man’s eyes. “Your Majesty,” he said. “You’ve already given us so much.” He gestured to the TV cameras. “The publicity alone is priceless.”

“You need some quick cash, and I have one ring too many,” Joe said. “The solution is so obvious. So simple.” He smiled into the TV news cameras. “Just like my friend Cindy says.”

“Oh, Joe, that ring’s not yours to give away,” Veronica breathed, knowing that she would pay for the ring herself, if she had to.

The final scene in the evening news report showed all of the men in the Boylston Street Shelter sharply saluting Prince Tedric as he left the building.

“Sergeant Tony Pope asks that contributions be sent directly to the Boylston Street Shelter,” the news anchor said, “at 994—”

The phone rang, and Veronica pushed the Mute button as she answered it.

“Did you see it?” It was Henri Freder, the Ustanzian ambassador. “Did you see the news? It’s not just a local story, it’s being run nationally, and by the cable network.”

“I saw it,” Veronica said.

“Gold,” Freder said. “Pure, solid gold.”

“I know that ring was valuable, sir,” Veronica started to say.

“Not the ring,” Freder enthused. “Prince Tedric’s image! Absolutely golden! He is America’s newest hero. Everyone loves him. We couldn’t have done it better if we’d tried. I’ve got to go, my other phone is ringing—”

Veronica stared at the disconnected telephone and slowly hung up the receiver. Everyone loved Prince Tedric— who was really a sailor named Joe, and not a real prince at all.

Or was he?

He was more of a prince than Tedric had ever been.

Now, because of Joe, everyone loved Prince Tedric. Except Veronica. She was falling in love with a prince named Joe.

Veronica had two hours to rest before the party. She lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling, trying not to let the words Joe had spoken on the plane echo in her mind.

The kiss they’d shared. It didn’t mean anything.

She was in love with a man who had told her, on more than one occasion, that the best she could hope for with him was a casual sexual relationship. He’d told her that the kisses they’d shared meant nothing to him.

He did desire her, though.

Veronica knew that from looking into his eyes. She knew it, too, from the way he’d kissed her in the chapel at Saint Mary’s. If they’d been alone, it wouldn’t have taken much for that one, single kiss to escalate into lovemaking.

But he didn’t love her.

So now what? Was she going to just sit around loving Joe from a distance until the terrorists were caught, until he went back to SEAL Team Ten’s temporary base in California? Or was she going to do something foolish, like make love to the man, stupidly hoping that the physical act would magically make him fall in love with her, too?

It would never happen. He would have all he’d ever wanted from her— sex. And she would have a broken heart.

A single tear slid down the side of her face and lodged rather uncomfortably in her ear. Perfect. She was now one-hundred-percent pitiable and pathetic.

The telephone rang, and Veronica rolled over and looked at it. She contemplated letting the front desk take a message, but after three rings, she finally picked it up. She wasn’t going to get any sleep anyway.

“Veronica St. John,” she said on a sigh.

“Hey.”

It was Joe.

Veronica sat up, hastily wiping the moisture from her face, as if he would somehow be able to tell she’d been crying. She hadn’t expected the caller to be Joe. Not in a million years. Not after their dreadful conversation on the plane.

“Are you awake?” he asked.

“I am now,” she said.

“Oh, damn,” he said, concern tingeing his voice. “Did I really wake you?”

“No, no,” she said. “I was just… No.”

“Well, I won’t take too much of your time,” Joe said. His husky voice sounded slightly stiff and unnatural. “I just wanted to tell you that if you get any flak about me giving away that ring of Tedric’s—”

“It’s all right,” Veronica interrupted. “The ambassador called and—”

“I just wanted to let you know that I’ll pay for it,” Joe said. “I don’t know what I was thinking—giving away something that didn’t belong to me. But—”

“It’s all taken care of,” Veronica said.

“It is?”

“Your popularity rating is apparently through the roof,” she told him. “I think the Ustanzian ambassador is considering having you knighted or perhaps made into a saint.”

Joe laughed. “I can see it now. Joe, the patron saint of celebrity impersonators.”

“Don’t you mean, the patron saint of dying children and struggling causes?” Veronica said softly. “You know, Joe, you never fail to surprise me.”

“That makes two of us,” he muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. I should go—”

“You really are softhearted, aren’t you?” Veronica asked.

“Honey, I’m not soft anywhere.” She could almost see him bristle.

“I didn’t mean that as an insult,” she said.

“Look, I just have a problem with the way this country treats war veterans, all right?” he said. “I’m tired of seeing good men, soldiers and sailors who risked their lives fighting for this country, being forced to live in the lousy gutter.”

Veronica pushed her hair from her face, suddenly understanding. This was personal. This had something to do with that old sailor Joe had known when he was a child. What was his name…? “Frank O’Riley,” she said, hardly realizing she’d spoken aloud.

Joe was silent for several long seconds. “Yeah,” he finally said. “Old Man O’Riley went on a binge and lost his job. Got himself evicted. It damn near killed him to think of losing his garden, and he sobered up, but it was too late. No one helped him. He was a war hero, and he was out on the street in the goddammed middle of the goddammed winter.”

“And because of that, he died,” Veronica guessed correctly.

“He caught pneumonia.” Joe’s voice was curiously flat, and she knew by his lack of inflection and emotion that Frank O’Riley’s death still hurt him deeply.

“I’m sorry,” Veronica murmured.

Joe was quiet again for a moment. Then he sighed. “What I don’t get, is how the hell our armed forces can send our guys to fight a war without really preparing them. And if we are going to send out these… kids, then we shouldn’t be so damned surprised when they come home and fall apart. And then—and this is real genius—we try to sweep the pieces under the rug so no one will see. Nice move, huh?”

“Those are pretty tough words for someone who specializes in making war,” Veronica said.

“I’m not suggesting we demilitarize,” Joe said. “I think that would be a mistake. No, I just think the government should take responsibility for the veterans.”

“But if there were no wars, there’d be no veterans. If we spent money on diplomatic relations rather than guns and—”

“Right,” Joe said. “But there are enough bad guys in the world that wouldn’t hesitate to step forward and kick some butt if our country couldn’t defend itself. I mean, sure we could hand out flowers and love beads, but we’d get back a round of machine-gun fire in our gut. There are some mean bastards out there, Ronnie, and they don’t want to play nice. We need to be as tough and as mean as they are.”

“And that’s where you come in,” Veronica said. “Mr. Tough and Mean. Ready to fight whatever war pops up.”

“I’m a fighter,” Joe stated quietly. “I’ve been prepared for war my entire life.” He laughed softly, his voice suddenly so intimate and low in her ear. “It’s the other surprises in life that knock me over.”

“You are so utterly un-knock-overable.” Veronica wished the same were true of herself.

“You’re wrong,” Joe countered. “The past few days, I can barely remember what solid ground feels like.”

Veronica was quiet. She could hear Joe breathing on the other end of the phone line, three doors down the hotel corridor. “Cindy?” she asked softly. He didn’t say a word. “I’m sorry,” she added. “I should have prepared you more for—”

“Not Cindy,” he said. “I mean, going to see her was tough, but… I was talking about you.”

Veronica felt all the air leave her lungs. “Me?” She couldn’t speak in more than a whisper.

“God, would you look at the time? I gotta go.”

“Joe, what—”

“No, Ronnie, I don’t know why I said that. I’m just asking for trouble and—” He broke off, swearing softly.

“But—”

“Do yourself a favor tonight, babe,” Joe said brusquely. “Stay the hell away from me, okay?”

The phone line was disconnected with a click.

Veronica sat on the bed for a long time, holding the receiver against her chest. Was it possible…? Could it be…? Did Joe think she was the one who didn’t want any kind of relationship?

What was it that he’d said on the plane…? About the kiss they’d shared—It didn’t mean anything, and I know you ‘re not going to let it happen again.

You’re not going to let it happen again.

Not we. You. Meaning Veronica. Meaning…what? That she was the one who was preventing their relationship from growing?

The telephone began to emit a series of piercing tones, and Veronica quickly dropped the receiver into the cradle.

If Joe really thought she didn’t want a relationship with him, then she was going to have to set him straight.

Veronica stood and crossed to the closet, her nap forgotten. She looked quickly through her clothes, glancing only briefly at the rather staid dress she’d intended to wear to the party tonight. That dress wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all—