The Royal Baby Revelation (10 page)

So why had that simple request made her hackles rise? Was it because she felt as if he was very possibly
ashamed
of her? As if he wanted to send out the subliminal message to anyone who happened to see them eating together that she was the kind of woman who helped arrange parties but certainly not the kind of woman he ever associated with on a personal level.

Well, he had associated with her once upon a time, Melissa thought fiercely. Even if he couldn’t remember it.

Hoping that her fitted black dress and fake-pearl earrings fitted the bill, she felt almost dizzy as she approached him and even dizzier when he lifted his head and looked at her. He was wearing some kind of charcoal-grey suit, which fitted his muscular body to perfection, a soft ivory silk shirt and a tie in an understated shade of beaten-gold.

He didn’t get up—just gave a businesslike nod of his dark head in greeting and then a narrow-eyed glance at the maître d’ who instantly slipped away, as if that was what he had been briefed to do. You would never have thought that she and this golden-eyed man had been lovers, thought Melissa, with a sudden terrible wave of sadness.

‘Sit down,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’

Indicating the drinks which were already cluttering up the table, Casimiro raised his dark eyebrows in question. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering the food and wine. We need to talk and I don’t want to be disrupted by an endless series of sommeliers and waiters. I hope you don’t have any objections to that?’

She wondered what he’d do if she said yes. That she wanted nothing more than to hear a five-minute spiel about the ‘dish of the day’ or spend minutes in a glory of indecision while she made the impossible choice of what wonderful food to eat. But you didn’t object when a king chose your meal for you, did you? She doubted whether anyone had objected to anything in his whole privileged life. And her appetite had practically disappeared anyway.

‘That’s fine.’

‘You’d like some wine?’

She thought of the dangers of wine and the way it softened your perception of the world. The slow creep of intoxication and then the even greater danger of staring across the table into the deep golden gleam of his eyes and remembering the way he’d made love to her on the sofa…

She felt her cheeks redden.
He didn’t
make love to you—
he had quick and emotionless sex with you,
she reminded herself painfully.
He made you feel worthless—and wine is the last thing in the world you need.

‘Just water for me, thanks,’ she said quietly, picking up the already poured glassful and swallowing some quickly—even though it seemed to have little effect on the parchment-like sensation in her throat.

Sipping some Petrus from his own glass, Casimiro studied her across the flickering candlelight. ‘I’ve had the test result,’ he said slowly.

‘And?’ Even as she said it Melissa wondered why she was bothering to ask when she knew exactly what the answer would be. Probably for the same reason that she had let that middle-aged doctor poke around in Ben’s mouth with a swab yesterday morning. Because ever since she had told Casimiro about his son, she seemed to have lost control of her own life. Well, wasn’t it time to start taking some of that control back?

‘It’s positive,’ he said. ‘Ninety-nine point nine per cent positive, in fact.’

‘You should have listened to me and saved yourself the money.’

Casimiro’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is that supposed to be a joke?’

‘It’s not really a joking matter, is it?’

His frown deepened. He had expected—what? Some kind of
relief
that he had acknowledged the paternity claim. Maybe even some gratitude. When instead she was sitting there with what looked suspiciously like defiance flashing from her green eyes.

‘We have to decide now what to do,’ he said heavily.

Melissa opened her mouth to reply but at that moment a plate of grilled fish and salad was placed on the table in front of each of them—and a basket of warm bread offered. She shook her head and waited until the waiter had gone before staring at Casimiro.

‘What do you mean, “do”?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘What did you think would happen next? When it was proved that I was the child’s father?’

‘Ben,’ she said hotly. ‘His name is Ben.’

‘What did you think would happen?’
he repeated.

Melissa stared down at the feathery little bits of dill which were decorating her plate before looking up at him again, steeling herself against the accusation sparking from his golden eyes. ‘I thought you’d want to see him from time to time.’

He gave a short and bitter laugh. ‘What, just slot in and out of his life occasionally? And no doubt write you a big fat cheque so you could up your standard of living.’

‘I told you in the beginning that I wasn’t motivated by money and I meant every word of it. What is more, I don’t have to stay and listen to your insults, Casimiro.’

‘Oh, but I’m afraid that you do,’ he demurred, in a low, silky voice. ‘Try throwing a scene in here and you will regret it. The restaurant is owned by a friend of mine and the car in which you travelled is at my disposal. They won’t take you anywhere without my instructions, and it’s a long way to walk back to that…’ he seemed to struggle with a word to describe it ‘…apartment you live in.’

The subtle dig about her home was the last straw—because didn’t he realise how difficult it had been for her to manage on a salary like hers? No, he probably didn’t realise and even if he did—he probably wouldn’t care.

For a moment she felt like defying him. Like jumping up and running out and flagging down a car to take her home as fast as possible. But she couldn’t do that. She was a mother and responsible, not only for her own safety—but for that of her child. And besides, you couldn’t run away from things just because they made you feel uncomfortable. You had to stand your ground and face them—no matter how arrogant and unfeeling the person you were dealing with.

‘Is that why you brought me here?’ she demanded. ‘So that I would be a captive audience?’

‘Partly, yes.’ But there had been other reasons. The risk of him being seen visiting her apartment twice in one week was too great. Someone wanting to earn themselves some extra money could easily tip off one of the tabloids. Yes, the car he had travelled in had been unmarked, but the presence of bodyguards always alerted the general public to someone of money and substance.

And hadn’t he wanted to see her in a setting somewhere outside his home—or hers? Somewhere neutral. To view her objectively, as it were. To see how she might fit in if she was outside her comfort zone. His eyes skated over her consideringly, acknowledging that she didn’t look too bad despite the fake jewellery and the unremarkable dress. But then she did have magnificently thick hair, he conceded—as well as a pair of remarkably green eyes.

‘What do you suggest we do?’ she questioned, wishing that he wouldn’t look at her like that—in that cool and calculating way—and wishing even more that her body wouldn’t prickle with response to his lazy assessment.

‘We will have to marry,’ he said flatly.
‘Marry?’

The heavy silver fork with which she had just been about to attack the fish—more in a polite gesture to the chef than because she had really wanted it—fell to her plate with a loud clatter and as if by magic a waiter suddenly appeared, his face wreathed in concern. But Casimiro waved him away impatiently, his face darkening with fury because her reaction did not bode well. Hadn’t he expected—wanted—some kind of fawning gratitude from her?

‘Must you show your emotions so openly?’ he snapped.

Melissa gave a bitter laugh. ‘Maybe my acting skills aren’t as accomplished as yours.’

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Oh, but it does,’ he objected. ‘Tell me. I insist.’

For a moment she felt like retorting that he might be King but he didn’t have the power to get her to do something she didn’t want to. Except that deep down she suspected her words might lack conviction. And maybe it would do him
good
to hear a few home truths for once.

‘When I met you—you seemed like—well, like a…’ She chose her words carefully because the last thing she wanted him to hear was how completely he had captivated her heart in those few heady days of their romance. Because even if he had lost his memory, she wasn’t stupid enough to think it had been mutual. For her, it had been a life-changing experience. And for him? Nothing more than an agreeable affair with no questions asked. ‘You seemed like a nice guy,’ she finished.

Casimiro recoiled as if he had been struck.
‘A nice guy?’
he repeated incredulously. ‘You are trying to damn me with faint praise?’

‘Oh, what’s the point in raking up all this?’ she questioned tiredly. ‘It doesn’t matter what I say—all I know is that, whatever happens, we can’t get married.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Why not?’

‘Because we don’t love each other—why, we don’t even
like
each other!’

Her insolence and thanklessness almost took his breath away—but he would wait until he had his ring on her finger before he attempted to show her just what he would and would not tolerate.

‘We have a child between us,’ he reminded her. ‘A child who is the rightful heir to my throne. A throne that I was about to renounce,’ he added bitterly, the words out before he could stop them.

Across the candlelight, Melissa stared at him.
‘Renounce
your kingdom? But why would you do that?’

‘Because I felt trapped,’ he snapped. ‘Unable to live my life as I wished to live it. And my brother also has a son—which is why I was about to relinquish my kingdom to him.’

‘B-but you’ve always been heir to the throne,’ said Melissa shakily, trying to assemble all the facts which were jumbling together in her mind. ‘You must have been used to the restrictions it put on you.’

Of course he had. But he had been able to temporarily forget about those restrictions when he had been living his life to the full. Galloping his beloved horse, or taking out his little sailing boat and skimming it around the island. Or scaling one of the mighty peaks of the Prassino range of mountains over on the eastern side of Zaffirinthos.

But after his fall, everything had changed and his ‘dangerous’ activities had been curtailed. The people had nearly lost their beloved King, they had argued passionately—and he must ensure that he did not place himself in such a vulnerable position again.

Casimiro had been able see their point—even if he had not necessarily agreed with it. So that when his brother’s wife had given birth to baby Cosimo, it had occurred to him that he could give his people what they surely desired more than anything. A continuation of the royal bloodline. And his throne to a brother who had always secretly wanted it. And then along had come Miss Melissa Maguire and put paid to all his plans.

He stared into her green eyes, at the spiky shadows made by her long lashes. ‘Because since my accident so much has been forbidden to me that I feel hemmed in,’ he said grimly. ‘Like the bird about to soar up into the sky suddenly being shut in a gilded cage. Trapped.’

Melissa swallowed, because—despite his hateful arrogance—she could hear an awful kind of emptiness in his voice. And something in her heart went out to him—made her want to offer him comfort even though he would probably just fling it back in her face. ‘But won’t you feel even more restricted if you have to get married just because you’ve got a baby?’ she whispered.

His eyes became shuttered. ‘I have no choice in the matter.’

‘No choice?’ she echoed, unsure of what he meant. ‘Surely everyone has a choice—even kings?’

‘Oh, how naïve you are, Melissa!’ he mocked softly. ‘Zaffirinthian law dictates that no abdication can be made while there is a living direct heir. So, you see, your revelation about…Ben…means that I am no longer free to renounce my throne.’

She realised instantly—as perhaps he had intended her to realise—that she had effectively trapped him as well. That the baby was yet another bar in the gilded cage he had spoken of. And as Ben’s mother, so was she.

And trapping him was the last thing she had wanted, or wished for. Yes, he had been harsh and cruel in the wake of her revelation—but, in spite of the pain it had caused her, she could understand his reaction. Yes, he was arrogant and uncaring, but once she had adored him—and she had never set out to snare him. She felt the telltale prickle of tears to her eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Casimiro,’ she whispered. ‘So very sorry.’

It was the bright glimmer of tears which did it. Tears which made her eyes look as bright and as brilliant as emeralds. And their brilliant gleam—combined with the faint lilac of her scent—took him back to a place he’d thought he’d left for ever. The memory which had stubbornly stayed in the depths of his mind now rose to the surface, like a bubble of air set free.

Emerald stars, he thought. He had once told her that her eyes were like
emerald stars.

He stared into her face. ‘I’ve remembered,’ he said coldly.

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
HROUGH
the flickering gleam of candlelight, Melissa saw the dawning comprehension in Casimiro’s eyes.

‘Remembered what?’ she questioned breathlessly.

He rubbed his fingertip against the scar at his temple and for one brief moment he felt intense relief as his memory came flooding back, as if someone had just lifted a heavy weight from his shoulders. ‘You. Us.’
She had been telling the truth all along,
he realised. She was not just some woman on the make. Not some kind of ‘crazy’ who was stalking him. She was a woman with whom he had enjoyed a brief and heady affair—but one which had never been meant to endure.

And now? Now their destinies were entwined whether he liked it or not—but let them both be clear about the reality, lest she spin fairy-tale fantasies as women were so prone to do. ‘Except that there wasn’t really an “us”, was there, Melissa? We met at an after-show party and it happened very quickly after that. What was it, three days—or four? I hardly think our few hours of snatched sex would qualify as a grand romance, do you?’