Shock Heir For The Crown Prince

‘That’s your counsel?’

‘Or you could bring her here,’ Rudolpho said finally. ‘And do your best to protect her.’

Temper soared. ‘You think I can’t?’ Never mind that Casimir had been the one to leave his sister unprotected in the first place. ‘You think I’m like him?’

‘I think...’ Rudolpho paused, as if choosing his words carefully. ‘I think this innocent bastard child looks like your sister reincarnated. She’d be a target for your enemies from the outset. Front page fodder for the press.’

Silence fell again, the deeply unsettling kind.

‘This stays between us for now,’ Casimir said finally.

Rudolpho met his gaze. ‘It can stay between us for ever, if that is your wish.’

Could he do it? Casimir glanced at the pictures strewn across his desk. Could he really shut her out the way he’d shut out all memory of his seven-year-old sister and too-weak-for-this-world mother? Pack all the pictures away and never look back?

Could he really continue on as if the girl simply didn’t exist?

The child was his blood. His responsibility. His to protect. ‘What’s her name?’ he asked gruffly.

‘Your Highness, the less you know the easier it’ll be to—

‘What’s her name?’

‘Sophia.’ Rudolpho sounded defeated. ‘Sophia Alexandra Douglas.’

A fitting name for the daughter of a king.

Had she known? Had Anastasia Douglas known who she was getting in bed with?

‘Your Highness—’

‘Enough!’ Whatever it was, he didn’t want to hear it.

‘Your Highness, please. Sleep on this. Think carefully before you expose the child to Byzenmaach, because there’s no coming back from that. They’ll take her and shape her into whatever they most desire, and you’ll have to protect her from that too.’

‘The way my father never did for me?’ Casimir asked, silky-soft and deadly.

Rudolpho remained silent. Never would he speak ill of the king he’d served for over forty years.

‘Are you asking if I can accept this child as a person in her own right—with strengths and flaws of her own making? Can I protect her from the expectations of others? Do I know how to be a father to a child who carries the expectations of a nation on her shoulders? Is that your concern?’

Rudolpho said nothing.

‘I was that child,’ he grated. ‘Who better to defend her exploitation than me?’

Casimir scowled and reached for his drink again. He knew exactly what his father would do with this information, and it would be as Rudolpho said. Use the girl to shore up a nation’s hope until legitimate heirs were produced, then cast her aside because she no longer fitted in the Byzenmaach monarch’s perfect world. She wouldn’t have it easy here. No child of Byzenmaach ever did.

The desk, this room and everything in it stank of duty and the weight that came with it. ‘You really think a part of me doesn’t realise that the kindest thing I can do for both of them is to leave them alone?’

All that, and still...

‘She’s mine,’ he said. ‘My child. My blood. My responsibility.’

The bottom line in all of this.

And yet.

And yet...

Could he really expose the child to the dangers that awaited her here in Byzenmaach?

‘There’s one more thing.’ Rudolpho eyed him warily. ‘We weren’t the only ones watching them. Anastasia Douglas and her daughter were already under surveillance. There was a team on the house, and another in place at the girl’s school. As far as we could ascertain, their focus was the girl rather than the mother.’

Dread turned his skin cold and clammy. ‘Who were they?’

‘We don’t know. They disappeared before we could deal with them. They’re good.’

Not good.

‘I’ve ordered a covert security team to watch and wait for additional orders,’ said Rudolpho. ‘I don’t think it wise to involve your father in any decision-making at this point.’

His father only had days to live. That was what Rudolpho meant. ‘I’ll handle it.’

‘If you need additional counsel—’

Casimir smiled bleakly. ‘I don’t.’

CHAPTER TWO (#u4feae8f2-952e-5547-9422-c9cc2670a329)

ANASTASIA DOUGLAS DIDN’T usually attend black-tie fundraising events at the director of the United Nations Secretariat’s request. She was a lowly interpreter, one of many, even if she did have a reputation for being extremely good at what she did. She commanded five languages instead of the average three and was conversationally fluent in half a dozen more. She could navigate diplomatic circles with ease, courtesy of the training she’d received at her Russian diplomat mother’s knee. She had an intimate understanding of world politics, and enough corporate mediation experience to be of use when conversation got heated. All good things for a career interpreter’s toolkit.

It still didn’t explain why she was here in Geneva’s fading Museum of Art and History, talking black tulips with the Minister for Transport’s wife. The ticket would be held for her at the door, the director had said. It was important for her to be there, he’d said. Someone wanted to meet her in person, in advance of securing her services.

It would help mightily, Ana thought grimly, if she knew who that person was.

Twenty more minutes and Ana would cut her losses and make her exit. She was drawing enough unwanted attention as it was—possibly because she’d put her hair up and was wearing the simple black gown her mother had bought her for Christmas. It had a discreet boat neckline, no sleeves, and clung to her curves like a lover’s hand. Very little skin was showing. The dress was more than appropriate for such an event, and yet...

It didn’t matter that she never particularly wanted to draw the male gaze, she drew it regardless. And the female gaze and the gaze of the security guard stationed at the door. Sex appeal, mystery, an air of worldliness—whatever it was, people always stared. Some envious, some dazzled, others covetous. No one was ever neutral around her.

When Ana had fallen pregnant at nineteen, with barely any knowledge of the father and no way to contact him again, her mother had been horrified. All those plans for Ana to make a powerfully advantageous marriage, gone. All Ana’s formidable allure spent on a man who didn’t want her.

Only he had wanted her.

For one glorious week Ana had been the centre of a laughing, passionate, attentive man’s world and she’d gloried in it. He’d smiled at her in a bar and she’d felt the warmth of it all the way to her toes. He’d put a hand to the small of her back and held the door open for her on their way out and she’d stumbled beneath the heat of it all.

Clumsy Ana, when she’d never been clumsy before. All lit up at the touch of his hand.

So young. So utterly confident that the pulsing connection between them would last for ever. For one unforgettable week she’d found heaven here on earth. And then he’d left without a word, no farewell and no forwarding address.