His Majesty's Child (7 page)

Her cool challenge took him slightly off guard. ‘Meaning
what
, precisely?'

‘You can't deny the eyes.'

‘The eyes?'

He's deliberately misunderstanding me
, thought Melissa despairingly. ‘I've never seen eyes that colour on anyone else but you.'

He gave a short and bitter laugh. ‘You might have trouble standing that up as a valid argument in a court of law!'

‘C-court of law?'

Sensing her sudden uncertainty, he struck. ‘Of course. You must surely have thought through the fact that this is not an ordinary paternity claim?'

‘I don't…I don't understand.'

‘Don't you?' Casimiro saw her bewilderment and felt a rush of triumph. Let her have something else to fill her head with other than thoughts of his memory loss! ‘Did you really imagine that you could approach a
king
…' he paused, deliberately ‘…and announce that you had given birth to his son—and that he and all his people would rejoice at the news?'

‘I thought…I thought…'

‘What did you think, Melissa?'

‘That you might be—'

‘What?' he demanded. ‘Pleased? Delighted? The proud papa eager to introduce his off spring to the world?'

His cruel comments deflated her growing sense of defiance, but her mother-love could see nothing but joy in her little boy. ‘I thought that you would be pleased, yes—once the initial confusion had died down.'

‘Initial
confusion
?' he echoed furiously. ‘Are you out of your mind? Do you have
any idea
what this is going to mean?'

She stared at him, remembering his initial assessment of his son.
Is this how he always greets guests?
How callous was that as a reaction—when confronted for the first time by the delicious little scrap which was Ben? And suddenly, Melissa thought that maybe no father was better than
this
father—because what child deserved a man who seemed incapable of any kind of real feeling?

‘It needn't mean anything at all,' she said fiercely. ‘You're not happy about the news—fine! I've done my duty and told you—but we don't need you, Casimiro. We've managed without you up until now and we can manage without you again. Your wish is about to come true. You can go away from here now and forget about what I've told you and we will never bother you again.'

A grim smile hardened his mouth. He waited—because she was playing the inevitable game of the successful negotiator: the long, long pause before naming terms. ‘So how much?' he questioned softly.

‘How much?'

‘Do you want me to pay you?'

There was a moment when she really didn't understand what he was talking about. When he might as well have been speaking in Greek. Until she saw the cynical golden gleam from his eyes and then she cottoned on, her heart lurching in her chest.

‘You think I'm
blackmailing
you?'

‘That's a rather dramatic way of putting it, Melissa. I think that “buying your silence” is the generally more acceptable term in these circumstances.' Acceptable?
Acceptable?
Melissa found herself remembering the old childhood rhyme:
Sticks and stones can break your bones but words can never hurt you
. Who were they kidding? Words like the ones Casimiro was firing at her felt like poisoned arrows firing straight into her heart. ‘You think that I want money from you?'

‘Well, don't you?' he questioned coolly, his gaze flicking around the room in a disparaging assessment. ‘I think that if I were in your position, I would.'

Suddenly Melissa saw her home through his eyes. The tired furniture, which no amount of bright cushions could disguise. The too-low ceilings and the windows which had obviously been low-budget when they'd been put there—but which now badly needed replacing. It was cheap. Everything in the place was on the cheap—which was why she was living here. But what would this cold-hearted beast of a man know about poverty?

‘I don't want your money!' she said proudly. ‘I don't want anything from you!'

‘Well, we both know
that's
a lie,' he drawled.

The amber eyes gleamed at her in provocative taunt and Melissa felt colour flaring in her cheeks. How base of him to allude to that frantic coupling back on
Zaffirinthos—when she'd welcomed him into her body even though he clearly despised her and all she stood for.

‘Will you please go, Casimiro?'

‘But we haven't made any decisions yet.'

‘There are no decisions to be made. You obviously don't want to know your son and I don't want your money. End of story.'

‘Oh, but that is where you are wrong,
cara mia
.' Without warning, his hand snaked out and caught her—pulling her into the hard, muscular length of his body.

‘Casimiro!' she gasped.

‘The story, you see, is only just beginning,' he continued resolutely, as if she hadn't spoken.

‘Wh-what are you talking about?'

‘You think that you just drop a bombshell like that and then walk away from the devastation you've wreaked?'

‘Devastation?'

‘
Sí
.' Leaning forward, he caught the tantalising drift of lilac mixed in with soap, and yoghurt—and he felt the lustful jerk of his body in response to this strange cocktail of scents. ‘If the boy—'

‘Ben.'

‘Ben,' he agreed reluctantly—because a sudden image of that angry little face swam uncomfortably into his mind. ‘If he
is
mine—then it is going to have all kinds of repercussions on his future.'
And on mine
, he thought grimly.

‘What kind of repercussions?'

His mind clearing, he looked down at her, at the wide-spaced eyes which today looked so incredibly
green—possibly because the light in her apartment was so dim. At the trembling lips and the skin which looked markedly translucent because she'd tied her hair back in a ponytail. She was tall for a woman and she wore jeans which emphasised those long, long legs—and suddenly he remembered them wrapped around his naked back. Remembered her little gasps of pleasure as he thrust into her. And his own delicious completion which had followed.

‘What kind?' she repeated.

Her eyes looked suddenly very bright and the soft lower cushion of her lips made him want to sink right into them. Surely there could be some
pleasurable
out-comes which could come out of this unholy mess. ‘This kind,' he ground out as he lowered his mouth down onto hers.

There were all kinds of kisses, Melissa realised as she felt that first warm brush of flesh. There were tentative first kisses and those deep kisses you drowned in during sex. And then there was this kind of kiss…

It did everything a kiss was supposed to do. It made her open her lips beneath his and her knees grow weak. It made her body begin to melt against his with a terrible pent-up longing. And yet its cold execution drove home with stark emphasis just how little he respected her as a person. Devoid of any affection or regard, the seeking skill of his lips made her feel worthless—as if he had taken a hammer and whittled away at her already low self-esteem.

And she couldn't afford to let him do that!

It took every shred of resolve she had, but somehow
Melissa tore her mouth away from his—even though her traitorous body screamed out its fury.

‘No!” she exclaimed—moving away from his dangerous proximity, over to the other side of the small room. Crossing her arms over her breasts as if to hide from him their prickling response, she tried to control the erratic gasping of her breath.

‘No?' he echoed incredulously.

‘Wh-what d-did you think was going to h-happen?' she demanded breathlessly. ‘That I'd just let you walk in here and have sex with me?'

‘Isn't that exactly what happened last time?' he questioned insultingly. ‘You didn't exactly put up a fight.'

‘And, of course, you can't remember the time before that, can you?' she said bitterly.

Casimiro's expression didn't alter. ‘Remind me—did I have to woo you with wine and roses before you'd succumb? Was it a long, hard battle to get you into my bed?' he mocked, and the hot colour which flooded into her cheeks gave him, not only his answer—but also the upper hand.

Melissa bit her lip. What a cold-hearted brute he was. ‘Well, nothing's going to happen this time. Apart from anything else—my son is asleep in the room next door!'

And in spite of his frustration Casimiro found her maternal prudishness oddly reassuring—since it suggested that she did not entertain a long line of lovers. ‘You will need to take a DNA test,' he said suddenly.

Melissa blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?'

‘You heard.'

‘Well, I'm not—'

‘Yes,' he cut through her protest with an imperious raise of his hand. ‘Yes, you are, Melissa—you have to. There is no alternative. That is, if the child is to be acknowledged as my heir.'

‘But you've
seen him
!' Melissa proclaimed. ‘You've seen how much he resembles you. My aunt says she's never seen eyes that colour before.'

Casimiro couldn't dispute the rarity of the shade nor its almost exclusive confinement to the ruling family of Zaffirinthos, but she was failing to see what for him was simply a fact of life.

‘Do you realise how many crazies we have to deal with every year?' he questioned.

Melissa froze. ‘Crazies?'

‘It's one of the draw backs of the job, Melissa—it brings all kinds of people from out of the woodwork. Futurologists who want to warn me about an imminent death threat. Men who say they knew me when we were children. Women claiming…'

‘Women claiming that you've fathered their baby,' guessed Melissa slowly and she lifted pained eyes to his face. ‘Is that what you think of me, then, Casimiro—that I'm some sort of “crazy”?'

For some reason her dignified little question made him feel a pang of misgiving—but he was not in a position to allow himself to listen to it. ‘No, actually I don't,' he said simply. ‘And none of this is about my thoughts or feelings, Melissa. It is about dealing with this matter to the best of my ability—and working out how best to present it to my people. I've examined my diary and the dates you indicated,' he continued. ‘And you say the child is, how old?'

‘Thirteen months,' she said dully.

He nodded. ‘Yes, the times tally. I was indeed in England during the period you've indicated.'

‘So if the times tally and he has the same rare eyes—then why must I have a DNA test?' she whispered.

‘Because I am a
king
who is ruled by the constitution of my land,' he said, and his words had a sudden bitter resonance. ‘And I do not have the freedoms which most men take for granted.'

It was an oddly brutal assessment of life at the top. Instead of all the riches and glory which came with his kingdom, Melissa suddenly caught a glimpse of an arid and rule-bound personal landscape and a feeling of foreboding began to feather her skin. Just what can of worms was she opening up for her beloved son?

‘Oh,' she said quietly. ‘I see.'

He thought of his abdication speech and looked at her with renewed bitterness. ‘I cannot ask my people to accept a commoner's word on a matter of such significance. Proof of paternity must be provided and a DNA test must and
will
be done. I have consulted with my advisors and they tell me there is no way round it.'

Melissa trembled at the sudden hard timbre of his words and the steely glint of resolution in his eyes. Hadn't she wished above all else for Casimiro to acknowledge his son—and didn't it seem as if that was exactly what he was about to do? Except that now she was going to have to go through the indignity of having to prove it.

Her future and Ben's determined in some anonymous laboratory.

She bit her lip. What else was it that people some
times said? Only unlike the play ground taunt of sticks and stones breaking bones—this one was true.

Oh, yes…

Be careful what you wish for—because it may just come true
.

T
HE
restaurant was discreet. Well, of course it was. When kings dined with commoners they didn't want the world's paparazzi jostling around outside, ready to capture the moment in all its unbelievable glory, did they?

‘We need to talk,' Casimiro had announced tersely, when he'd rung her earlier that day to announce that he had the DNA results.

In a panic, Melissa had arranged for her aunt Mary to babysit—having fielded a lot of awkward questions about where she was going at such short notice. No, she wasn't working and, no, it definitely wasn't a date. She had seen her aunt's face fall—for she loved her niece and was always telling her to find herself a ‘nice young man' to take care of her and Ben.

As the limousine which Casimiro had provided drew up outside the softly lit restaurant Melissa wondered what her aunt Mary would say if she knew who she was really dining with. It might have been funny if it weren't so serious—because ‘nice young man' would be the last way you'd ever describe Casimiro.

The interior of the restaurant was like places she and Stephen had worked in countless times over the years—with the kind of no-cost-counted luxury which always
managed to look so restrained. But this time she was here as a guest and it felt different—even if her mind hadn't been racing with apprehension about the evening ahead. Melissa's hands were clammy as she was shown to what looked like a cordoned-off section, where she could see Casimiro already seated at the table, with his back to her.

Did she imagine the expression of faint surprise on the face of the maître d' as she gave her name? Did she look so out of place in such a luxurious setting, then, or was it simply that she was in a completely different league from the other guests?

She'd done her best to cobble together an outfit which wouldn't make her stand out like a sore thumb—which shouldn't have been too difficult since Casimiro had explicitly told her to dress as if they were having a business meeting. Which in a way they were—the business of their son's future. She knew that.

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 business like 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 in decision 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 percent 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 body guards always alerted the general public to someone of money and sub stance.

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 at tempted 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 blood line. 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 for bid den 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.