Claiming His Secret Royal Heir

Marcus’s dark blue eyes met his as he resumed pacing. ‘So weeks after this publicity stunt she disappeared off the modelling scene? That doesn’t make sense.’

It didn’t. But it had nothing to do with him. Two years ago Sunita had affected him in ways he didn’t want to remember. He’d missed her once she’d gone—an unheard-of weakness he’d knocked on the head and buried. Easy come, easy go. That was the Playboy Prince’s motto. Sunita had gone—he’d accepted it. And then, mere months after her departure, Axel had died and his life had changed for ever.

‘I’ll look into it,’ Marcus said. ‘But right now you need to focus on this list. Potential brides. A princess, a lady and a marquesa. Take your pick.’

Frederick accepted the piece of paper but didn’t so much as glance down. ‘What do you mean, “look into it”?’

‘If there is any chance of potential scandal we need to shut it down now. So I plan to find Sunita before April Fotherington or any other reporter does.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then I’ll send someone to talk to her. Or go myself.’

‘No!’ The refusal came with a vehemence that surprised him. However it had ended, his time with Sunita had marked something—his last moments of joy before catastrophe occurred, perhaps. He didn’t want her life tainted...didn’t want Marcus or his minions to find her if she didn’t want to be found.

‘It needs to be done.’ Marcus leant forward, his hands on the edge of the desk. ‘I understand you don’t like it, but you can’t take even the smallest risk that there is a scandal floating around out there. The crown is at stake. The throne is rocking, Frederick, and if it topples it will be a Humpty Dumpty scenario.’

Great! A Humpty Dumpty scenario—exactly what he needed. Of course he could choose to ignore the warning, but that would be foolish. Marcus knew his stuff. The sensible option would be to allow Marcus to go ahead, investigate and deal with any problem. But for some reason every fibre of his being cavilled—dammit, stupid though it sounded, it wasn’t the honourable thing to do.

A small mocking smile tilted his lips as he faced his chief advisor. Frederick of Lycander—man of honour. Axel would be proud of him. ‘Fine. I’ll check out Sunita.’

Marcus’s blue eyes narrowed. ‘With all due respect, that’s nuts and you know it. The press will jump on it.’

‘Then let them jump. I’m the boss and this is what’s going to happen.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s the right thing to do.’ And for once he’d like to stand on a tiny wedge of the moral high ground. ‘What would Axel have done? Sent you in to spy on a woman he’d dated?’

‘Axel would never have got himself into a position where it was necessary.’

‘Touché. But I have and I will deal with it.’ His brain whirred as he thought it through. ‘I can schedule a trip to Mumbai—I’d like to follow up on how the Schools for All project is rolling out anyway.’

It was a project set up by Axel, but Frederick had taken it over and had every intention of making it into a success.

‘I’ll locate Sunita, confirm there is no scandal, and then I’ll come back and find a wife from your shortlist. No argument.’ A mirthless smile touched his lips. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be discreet.’

August 17th, Mumbai

Sunita stared down at the screen and reread the article for approximately the millionth time in three days as a mini-tornado of panic whirled and soared around her tummy.

She told herself that she was climbing the heights of irrationality. April Fotherington hadn’t found her—she was safe here in this spacious, anonymous Mumbai apartment, surrounded by cool white walls and the hustle and bustle of a city she’d come to love. Soon enough the flicker of interest the article might ignite would die out. No one had discovered her secret thus far—there was no reason to believe they would now. She was safe. They were safe.

But she couldn’t help the sudden lurch of fear as she gazed round the living room and the evidence of the life she’d created. Signs of her baby son were everywhere—a wooden toy box in the corner, the cheerful play mat by the sofa, board books, beakers... She knew all too well how quickly life could change, be upended and destroyed.

Stop. No one would take Amil away. Alphonse of Lycander was dead, and he had been the greatest threat—a man who had fought virulent custody battles for four of his children and used his position and wealth to win them all. She had no doubt he would have done the same for his grandchild—would have used the might and power of his sovereignty to win Amil.

Just as Frederick still might.

The peal of the doorbell jolted her from her thoughts and a scud of panic skittered through her. It couldn’t be her grandmother and Amil—they had only left a little while before. Chill. They could have forgotten something, it could be a neighbour, or a delivery or—

Only one way to find out.

Holding her breath, she peered through the peephole.

Shock dizzied her—she blinked and prayed the man at her door was a figment of her overheated imagination, brought on by reading the article so many times. The alternative was too ghastly to contemplate. But, however many times she blinked, Prince Frederick of Lycander was still right there.

What to do? What to do? Ignore him?

But what if he waited outside? What if he was still there when Amil came back? Or what if he went away and returned when Amil was here? What if he was here to take Amil?

Enough. She had not got this far to give up now. She was no longer that ten-year-old girl, reeling from her mother’s death, powerless to stop the father she had never known from taking her. No longer that eleven, twelve, thirteen-year-old girl at the mercy of her stepmother and sisters who had graduated with honours from Cinderella school.

She’d escaped them without the help of a handsome prince and left that feeling of powerlessness far behind. No way was she going back there—especially now, when her son was at stake.

Adrenalin surged through her body as she did what life had taught her—moved forward to face up to whatever was about to be thrown at her. She might dodge it, catch it, or punch it, but she would confront it on her own terms.

True to her motto, she pulled the door open and raised her eyebrows in aloof surprise. ‘Your Highness,’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’

Stepping out into the communal hall, she closed the door behind her, searching his gaze for a sign that he knew about Amil.

‘I came to see you. April Fotherington wrote an article saying you’d vanished.’

Sunita forced herself not to lean back against the wall in relief. Instead, she maintained her façade of reserve as they stood and studied each other. Against her will, her stomach nosedived and her hormones cartwheeled. Memories of the totally wrong sort streamed through her mind and fizzed through her veins as she drank him in. The same corn-blond hair, the same hazel eyes...

No, not the same. His eyes were now haunted by shadows and his lips no longer turned upward in insouciance. Prince Frederick looked like a man who hadn’t smiled in a while. Little wonder after the loss of his brother and his father, followed by a troubled ascent to the throne.

Instinctively she stepped closer, wanting to offer comfort. ‘I saw the article. But before we discuss that, I’m sorry for your losses. I wanted to send condolences but...’

It had been too risky, and it had seemed wrong somehow—to send condolences whilst pregnant with his baby, whom she intended to keep secret from him.

‘Why didn’t you?’

The seemingly casual question held an edge and she tensed.

‘If all your girlfriends had done that you’d still be reading them now. I didn’t feel our brief relationship gave me the right.’

Disingenuous, but there was some truth there. For a second she could almost taste the bitter disappointment with herself for succumbing to the Playboy Prince’s charms and falling into bed with him. Hell—she might as well have carved the notch on his four-poster bed herself.

She’d woken the morning after and known what she had to do—the only way forward to salvage some pride and dignity. End it on her terms, before he did. It had been the only option, but even as she had done it there had been a tiny part of her that had hoped he’d stop her, ask her to stay. But of course he hadn’t. The Playboy Prince wouldn’t change. People didn’t change—Sunita knew that.

Anyway this was history. Over and done with.

‘I am offering condolences now.’

‘Thank you. But, as I said, that’s not why I am here.’

‘The article?’