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Perplexed, Casimiro stared at the bawling baby whose eyes were tightly squeezed shut and who seemed to be building up to a crescendo of tears while Melissa just stood there, chewing at her lips and looking completely powerless to stop him. He didn’t know what made him do it but suddenly he expelled a low but surprisingly piercing whistle—the kind he had used to summon his beloved horse before he’d had the damned accident.
Suddenly, the child quietened. Opened his tear-filled eyes with a mixture of surprise and alarm and stared straight into Casimiro’s face.
And Casimiro found himself looking into amber eyes a shade lighter than his own.
A shiver travelled up the entire length of his spine. A tiptoeing of some emotion he couldn’t have described with any word from his extensive and multilingual vocabulary. Perhaps shock was there. Yes, definitely shock. And recognition, too. For Casimiro might have been described by his enemies as stubborn and arrogant—but he was not a fool. And instantly he recognised the amber eye colour which had run through his aristocratic family tree since his ancestors had first settled on the idyllic Mediterranean island of Zaffirinthos.
Melissa found herself regarding the profile of the man who dominated her small sitting room while unable to stop a sense of hope from fizzing through her veins as she saw his body suddenly tense.
‘What…what do you think?’ she questioned anxiously.
Casimiro turned to her. And as the possible consequences of his discovery began to dawn on him his sense of bitter frustration increased. Could this…this sturdy little scrap of humanity really be his? And yet, given the evidence of his eyes—could he belong to anyone but him? He saw the eagerness which had crumpled Melissa’s lips and he thought that she looked like a stall-holder at the end of an unprofitable market day—who sensed that they were about to make their biggest sale of all.
‘Perhaps you could be a little more specific?’ he said tightly.
The tone didn’t sound hopeful—but Melissa refused to quieten the small prayer which was running through her mind.
‘About…’ She didn’t want to say ‘your son’—not now, not when he was here. It seemed a little presumptuous, under the circumstances. ‘About Ben,’ she finished, with a quick, apprehensive smile.
Ignoring the unfamiliar ache in his heart as he looked down at the wet-haired baby who wore nothing but a nappy, Casimiro dealt with the question on an entirely superficial level as kings could do almost better than anyone. ‘Is this how he always greets guests?’
Hiding her hurt, she drew her shoulders back defensively. ‘I told you—he tipped yoghurt over himself.’
Glancing around the shabby room, he returned his gaze to her face, but his voice was filled with concern rather than censure. ‘And is this any way to bring up a child who you claim is heir to my throne?’
‘We haven’t a lot of choice,’ she said defensively—too proud to spell out in detail her precarious f
inancial state. ‘And anyway—he’s happy.’
‘Is he?’
Dark brows were elevated in disbelief and Melissa realised that it was a stupid thing to say under the circumstances since Ben had only just stopped crying. And looking at the scruffy room through Casimiro’s privileged eyes—could she really blame him for thinking otherwise?
‘Yes! Yes, of course he’s happy!’
But Ben had now started squirming and rubbing his fist into each eye in the way he always did when he was tired. And even though she longed to put him down in his cot—some sense of foreboding made her want to keep him up for as long as possible.
To act as a buffer between her and Casimiro? she wondered guiltily.
Ben gave another wriggle and Melissa sighed as she gave into the inevitable. ‘I’ll have to go and put him to bed.’ She hesitated as she was overwhelmed by a terrible and slightly hysterical urge to ask him in a sing-song voice if he wanted ‘to say goodnight to Daddy’? But common sense prevailed and she turned on her heel and went to get her son ready for bed, aware that Casimiro didn’t follow her. So there was to be no touching fairy-tale scene where the King’s hard heart melted over a bedtime story.
Somehow, she carried on with her usual routine. She wound up the brightly coloured plastic mobile above his bed which played ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’ and she joined in with the nursery rhyme the way she always did. Smoothing her fingers through the silken tumble of his curls, she ran a gentle and loving palm down the side of his peachy-soft skin.
‘Goodnight, darling Ben,’ she whispered as she turned on the night light.
She had taken so long to settle him that, when she returned to the sitting room, Melissa half hoped that Casimiro might have grown bored with waiting and gone away—knowing that such a hope was foolish and irrational considering all the trouble she’d gone to in order to get him here. But, no, he was still there—a captive if unwilling audience—and it was up to her to make him realise that she was telling the truth.
It had been a fortnight since she’d seen him—when she’d stupidly let him seduce her on his island of Zaffirinthos. He had left her lying naked and confused on the sofa—his back turned to her as he had dressed in stony silence—and then suddenly agreed to travel to England to meet Ben for himself.
In those two weeks she had thought about him—actually, she’d thought about little else. Not just as a prospective father, but as a lover. He had been…what? Melissa bit her lip. He had been technically perfect yet emotionally cold during that swift coupling. Like a block of ice. Almost as if he’d enjoyed the power of bringing her to orgasm so quickly. Watching her shudder and gasp with an arrogant and triumphant look on his mockingly handsome face. And then distancing himself afterwards as if he couldn’t wait to get away from her.
Well, she wasn’t going to be such easy prey today—that was for sure.
‘Can I offer you coffee?’ she questioned politely.
‘I haven’t come here to endure pointless social niceties.’
‘So I’ll take that as a no?’
