His Majesty's Child (2 page)

He frowned. All his life had been steeped in protocol—it was as much a part of his existence as breathing itself. Often he professed himself bored with such etiquette and railed against its restrictions—but its absence was enough to ensure his frosty disapproval. Placing his gold fountain pen down on the desk, he fixed her with a look of chilly censure.

‘And you are…?' he questioned coldly.

Melissa's smile slipped by a fraction and she was taken aback by his unfriendliness. Was this some kind of joke? She met amber eyes—but amber was supposed to be warm and glowing, wasn't it? Not like the glance which was searing its way through her. This was cold, impenetrable—hard and unwelcoming. Heart thundering, she searched his aristocratic features for some kind of recognition. Some vague stirring of memory. Some acknowledgement that this was a woman he had made love to over and over again.

But there was nothing on his face other than a faintly dismissive stare and, slowly, the unbelievable began to dawn on her protesting mind.

He doesn't know who you are!

For a moment she didn't believe it. Thought that he might be playing some kind of cruel game with her—but his demeanour remained hard and obdurate, and surely nobody could be
that
good an actor?

Yes, their affair had lasted only a few short days—but surely she wasn't completely forgettable? In fact, hadn't he told her that he would always remember their
passionate encounter? Had he been lying when he'd said that—or was it just a line he'd spun to countless women, despite having had the ability to make her feel so intensely special at the time?

Eyes blinking rapidly, Melissa tried to put her jumbled thoughts into some semblance of order. Forcing herself not to do something crazy, that afterwards she might regret. Like blurting something out. Something along the lines of:
Your Royal Highness, I can see my son's face in your features. Or I have a miniature version of you back home, Casimiro—an heir you aren't even aware of.

But she couldn't possibly do that. Not right out of the blue. Not when she'd already decided that she was going to have to choose her moment to tell him very carefully. And standing beneath the near-contemptuous gaze of a man who was regarding her as if she'd tumbled down from space and were burning an unwelcome hole in his priceless silk rug would never be described as ideal, not in anyone's eyes.

‘I'm Melissa,' she said, hoping against hope that the sound of her Christian name might stir something in his memory. Didn't he once say that it made him think of honey?

‘Melissa?'

‘Melissa Maguire.'

He flicked her a look of barely restrained boredom. ‘I'm none the wiser.'

What could she say which might jog his memory? Some half-forgotten fragment of conversation which might have stayed alive in his mind even if the memory of her eager love-making didn't. Hadn't he told her that
the afternoon when they'd sneaked out on the little river boat had been one of the best of his life? Swallowing down her hurt, she wobbled him a smile. ‘I live…I live just outside London in a place called Walton-on-Thames. Not far from the river, where you can hire rowing boats. You might—'

‘I might be in danger of falling asleep any minute now if you continue with your dull little monologue.' Amber eyes iced through her as he cut into her faltering words. ‘I didn't ask for your life story. I asked what you're doing here, waltzing into my private rooms with a complete and utter lack of regard.' He paused as all the frustration and uncertainty of the past months now found a legitimate outlet for his intense irritation. ‘Because I'm assuming that you know who
I
am—even though you have made no suitable acknowledegment of the fact.'

‘Of course I know who you are,' she said quickly. ‘You are the King of Zaffirinthos.'

‘And yet you greet me as you would a casual friend. You do not lower your eyes in deference? Nor attempt the curtsey which my title merits?'

Melissa heard the silky barbs which spiked his icy request and shakily she at tempted to comply—but it felt like a form of humiliation as she crossed one ankle behind the other and awkwardly dipped her knees, like some sort of ado les cent frog. Inside she felt upset and angry—his sardonic comments coming hot on the heels of the realisation that he didn't recognise her. Why
should
she have to bow and scrape to him—when she was the mother of his child?

Yet now was probably not the best time to exhibit rebellion and so she executed the most graceful curtsey
she could manage—which wasn't easy given that she was now feeling hot and flustered and her linen dress didn't allow for much movement. ‘Forgive me, Your Highness,' she said.

‘Majesty,' he corrected silkily—although the irony of his statement did not escape him. Not His Majesty for very much longer, he thought—with a heart which grew heavy at the thought of what lay ahead. Soon he would be free of all the accoutrements which had turned his life into a gilded cage. When he made his dramatic announcement at the ball that night, it would put an end at last to all the speculation about his future.

But as he studied the top of the Englishwoman's bent head Casimiro's intuition was alerted—something that had not been lost as a result of his accident, although he had been robbed of much else. There was something about her behaviour which didn't add up—something about her attitude which didn't make sense—though he couldn't for the life of him put his finger on what it could be.

‘Get up,' he ordered impatiently.

Feeling the hot prickle of sweat between her breasts, Melissa rose and lifted her eyes to his. ‘Yes, Your Majesty.'

‘Why are you here?' he demanded softly.

‘You sent for me.'

Had he? In truth, his mind had been so caught up with the enormous step he was about to take. The new journey he was about to embark on had preoccupied so much of his thinking that he had barely given a thought to the running of the palace. He glanced down quickly at the papers on his desk, straightening them into a neat
pile before fixing her with a cool stare. ‘Very well—then justify my command. Remind me who you are and what you do.'

It was possibly the most insulting way he could have reinforced her lack of status, but Melissa was determined that he would not see how much it had hurt. What good would
that
do? Make him see you as a person, rather than a hindrance. Give him the facts. The facts behind your
real
motive for being here. From somewhere, she found the glimmer of a professional smile.

‘I work for Stephen Woods, the party planner, Your Majesty. I've been helping to arrange the ball from back in England. I arrived yesterday to help with the finishing touches and he told me…Stephen, that is…that I was to give you a brief itinerary of tonight's events.' She hesitated. He had also said that the King wanted to thank her—but somehow she didn't think that was going to happen.

‘Did he?' Casimiro's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘Well, in that case—you'd better go ahead. Sit down,' he ordered carelessly.

‘Thank you.' Praying for her breathing to return to something approaching normality, Melissa slid into the delicate-looking gilt chair he had indicated on the other side of his desk.

‘So,' he drawled. ‘Talk me through it.'

With the tip of her tongue, Melissa moistened her dry lips, trying not to feel self-conscious—though she was acutely aware of his moody and handsome face as the dark golden gaze arrowed into her. How the hell was he going to react when she told him? And just when
was
she going to tell him?

She gave herself a moment's grace. Everyone's life was measured by moments, she realised—but maybe this was an important one, too. Maybe this was the time to impress him with her efficiency and work-ethic rather than come right out and tell him he was a daddy.

‘The ball will start at eight—with your entrance, Your Majesty. That will be followed by the arrival of your brother—the Prince Xaviero, his wife, Princess Catherine—and their baby son, the Prince Cosimo.'

‘Is it not too late for the infant Prince to be awake?' he bit out.

‘Well, maybe just a little.' She cleared her throat. ‘It's just…well, we thought that this might be a good opportunity to allow for a photo opportunity, Your Majesty. Since this is a belated wedding party and christening celebration all rolled into one, we've been inundated with requests for shots of the new Prince with his mother and father.' She paused. ‘And if you give the press their shots, afterwards they'll hopefully leave you alone.'

He narrowed his eyes as he listened to her, knowing that she was only expressing the fundamental truth of the situation. Along with his own people, the world was already half in love with his little nephew—for a royal baby captured the collective imagination as little else did. In truth, he couldn't blame them—not just because the child was cute, but because his lusty new life promised so much.

Didn't the infant Cosimo symbolise hope for the future—and the continuity of one of the oldest royal blood lines in Europe? And hadn't his birth increased the pressure on Casimiro to find himself a bride and to produce a child of his own?

His mouth hardened. Well, he would not play ball. Not any more. He had followed orders all his life and he would certainly not procreate to order. If the past months had taught him anything, it was that he could no longer continue with this way of living. He had all the trappings that most men lusted after, but they were called
trappings
for a reason—they tied you down and constrained you with their golden snare, and he wanted to break free from them once and for all.

Deep in his veins ran a restlessness which had been even more pronounced since the accident and a restless king could not be a good king. Casimiro's mouth tightened. And there was another reason behind his proposed plan. Something else which had haunted him ever since he had awoken from his coma…

‘Would you have any objections to that, Your Majesty?'

Her soft accent cut into his thoughts and he looked at her with his eyebrows raised. ‘What?'

‘A supervised photo-call with your brother and his family?' she continued smoothly.

‘Objections?' He gave a short and bitter laugh as her question broke into his troubled thoughts. ‘At least a hundred—and then a hundred more—but I can see the sense behind your words. Speak to my people about security,' he ordered. ‘And ensure they don't run over time—because they'll try their damnedest. Too much flash photography is not good for a small child. Not particularly good for adults either,' he added on a sardonic aside as he met her eyes with a look which was resigned, rather than interested. ‘What next?'

‘Dinner for two hundred. And your brother is making
a short speech afterwards to thank you for throwing the party. Then the fire works. After that—'

‘Wait.' His peremptory request silenced her and he was surprised by the stone-like feeling deep in his heart. ‘I wish to make a speech myself,' he said heavily. ‘Before my brother.'

Melissa sat up in alarm. ‘But, Your Majesty—'

His eyes glittered dangerously. ‘What?'

She thought about the foreign royal families, the dignitaries and the glitterati who were arriving from mainland Europe and from the United States, the security services who were already working to the tightest of schedules, and she drew a deep breath. Surely he couldn't spring something like this on her at the last minute which would throw all her plans out? ‘The time table has been worked out down to the last second.'

‘Then damned well
un
work it,' he drawled unhelpfully. ‘Isn't that what you're being paid for?'

Again, his cutting words drummed in her lack of status—but somehow Melissa kept the hurt from registering on her face.

‘Very well, Your Majesty—if…if you can let me know how long you need to say your piece, then I'll work it into the schedule and inform everybody of the change. It can…it can all be sorted out, I'm sure.'

Aware that her words were stumbling out of her lips like some sort of plea, she searched his face in a last-ditch attempt to strike a chord of recognition.
Remember me
, she urged him silently as she leaned for ward by a fraction.
Remember who I am. Remember you said I was sweeter than honey. That my skin was softer than a cloud. Don't you remember the way that you buried your
mouth against my neck and moaned out your pleasure while you were deep inside me?

Casimiro frowned at her reaction as something intangible seemed to shimmer through the air towards him. Her green eyes had suddenly grown as dark as the lunar eclipse and her lips had parted in a way which made them look almost kissable.
Very
kissable, in fact. And suddenly he caught a drift of her perfume as she moved. Some subtle scent of lilac which seemed to pervade the very air with its delicacy—and for a moment he stilled, as if somebody had turned him to stone.

He felt something nudging insistently at the corners of his mind—what the hell had that smell reminded him of? But then, like a delicious dream disturbed by a loud noise, it was gone, and no amount of concentration could get it back again.

Silently, he cursed as he stared at her and glimpsed the faint gleam of her tongue through her half-opened mouth. And in explicably, he felt a swift, sharp hardening at his groin—a tumescent ridge which was heating his blood and making his senses start fizzing with desire. So that for one insane moment he thought about pulling her into his arms—of raking his fingers through that thick brown hair and tilting up her face before ravishing those quivering lips of hers.

Angrily, he gave a little click of irritation. What the hell was he thinking of? This was some itinerant little worker from England—not a woman worthy of his desire. And, yes, it was an age since he had lost himself in the incomparable pleasures of sex—not since before his accident, that was for sure. Was he so frustrated that he was allowing desperation to cloud his judgement—he
who could have any woman he wanted? And
would
have, he vowed silently.