Claiming His Secret Royal Heir

‘Then my work here is done.’

Yet an odd reluctance pulled at him as he rose from the chair and looked down at her, sure now that there was more than a hint of trouble in her eyes. Not his business. She’d made a promise and he believed her. He had a country to run, a destiny to fulfil...

‘I wish you well, Sunita. I’m glad you’ve found happiness.’

‘I wish you well too.’

In one lithe movement she stood and stretched out a hand, caught his sleeve, stood on tiptoe and brushed his cheek with her lips. Memory slammed into him—her scent, the silken touch of her hair against his skin—and it took all his powers of self-control not to tug her into his arms. Instead, he forced his body to remain still, to accept the kiss in the spirit it was being given—whatever that might be—though he was pretty damn sure from the heat that touched her cheeks that she wasn’t sure either.

‘I...goodbye.’ Once again her hands twisted together as she watched him.

‘Goodbye, Sunita.’

He headed for the door, stopped at her audible intake of breath, half turned as she said his name.

‘Yes?’

‘It...it doesn’t matter. It was good to see you again.’

That only confirmed that she had intended to say something else, but before he could respond Sam entered and glanced at them both. ‘All OK?’

‘Everything is fine.’ Sunita’s voice was over-bright now. ‘Frederick is just leaving.’

Minutes later he was in a taxi, headed back to the hotel. But as the journey progressed doubts hustled and bustled and crowded his brain. Something was wrong. He had no idea what, and it most likely had nothing to do with him. Quite possibly he had the wrong end of the stick. Undoubtedly wisdom dictated that he should not get involved. Sunita was more than capable of looking out for herself, and she had Sam to turn to. But what if Sam was the problem?

Hell.

Leaning forward, he gave the driver Sunita’s address.

* * *

Damn it all to hell and back! Sunita strode the length of her lounge and resisted the urge to kick a bright red bean bag across the room. Venting wouldn’t stem the onrush, the sheer onslaught of guilt, the veritable tsunami of distaste with herself.

Why, why, why had he turned up? Not telling Frederick for two years had been hard enough—lying directly to Frederick’s face was another ballgame altogether. Especially as it was a face that mirrored Amil’s—the angle of his cheekbone, the colour of his eyes, the subtle nuances that couldn’t be ignored.

The guilt kept rolling on in and her stride increased. Focus. Concentrate on all the sensible, logical justifications for her actions.

The decision to keep Amil a secret had been one of the toughest she had ever faced, but it was a decision she still believed to be right. She’d done her research: the Lycanders had a track record of winning custody of their children and hanging the mothers out to dry.

Frederick’s father, Prince Alphonse, had fathered five children by four wives; his first wife had died, but he’d fought and won vicious custody battles against all the other three.

Ah, pointed out her conscience, but Alphonse is dead, and in any case Frederick is Amil’s father.

But Frederick was also his father’s son, and who knew what he might do? The scandal of an illegitimate baby was the last thing Lycander’s Prince needed at this juncture, and she had no idea how he would react.

She didn’t like any of the possible scenarios—from a custody battle to show his people that he looked after his own, to an outright and public rejection of Amil. Well, damn it, the first would happen over her dead body and the second made her shudder—because she knew exactly how awful that rejection felt and she wouldn’t put Amil through it.

But the Frederick she’d seen today—would he be so callous?

She didn’t know. Her thoughts were muddled by the vortex of emotion his arrival had evoked. Because something had warmed inside her, triggering a whole rush of feelings. Memories had swooped and soared, smothering her skin in desire. Flashes of his touch, of their shared joy and passion...all of that had upended any hope of rational thought or perspective. Just like two years before.

When she’d first met Frederick she’d expected to thoroughly dislike him; his reputation as a cutthroat businessman-cum-playboy had seen to that. But when he’d asked her to dinner she’d agreed to it for the publicity. And at that dinner he’d surprised her. At the next he’d surprised her even more, and somehow, as time had gone on, they had forged a connection—one she had tried oh, so hard to tell herself was nothing more than temporary friendship.

Hah!

And then there had been that stupid tug of attraction, which had eventually prevailed and overridden every rule she’d set herself.

Well, not this time.

To her relief the doorbell rang. Amil’s arrival would put an end to all this.

She dashed to the door and pulled it open, a smile of welcome on her face. A smile that froze into a rictus of shock.

‘Frederick?’

She didn’t know why she’d posed it as a question, since it clearly was Frederick. Her brain scrambled for purchase and eventually found it as she moved to swing the door shut, to hustle him out.

Too late.

He stepped forward, glanced around the room, and she could almost see the penny begin to drop—slowly at first, as cursory curiosity morphed into deeper question.

‘You have a baby?’

His hazel eyes widened in puzzlement, and a small frown creased his brow as he took another step into her sanctum. His gaze rested on each and every item of Amil’s.

‘Yes.’ The word was a whisper—all she could manage as her tummy hollowed and she grasped the doorjamb with lifeless fingers.

‘How old?’

Each syllable was ice-cold, edged with glass, and she nearly flinched. No, she would not be intimidated. Not here. Not now. What was done was done, and—rightly or wrongly—she knew that even if she could turn back time she would make the same decision.

‘Fourteen months.’

‘Girl or boy?’

‘Boy.’

Each question, each answer, brought them closer and closer to the inevitable and her brain wouldn’t function. Instead, all she could focus on was his face, on the dawn of emotion—wonder, anger, fear and surely hope too?

That last was so unexpected that it jolted her into further words. ‘His name is Amil.’

‘Amil,’ he repeated.

He took another step forward and instinctively she moved as well, as if to protect the life she had built, putting herself between him and her home.

‘Is he mine?’

For an instant it was if the world went out of focus. She could almost see a line being drawn in the sands of time—this was the instant that separated ‘before’ and ‘after’. For one brief instant she nearly took the coward’s route, wondered if he would swallow the lie that Amil was Sam’s. Then she realised she could not, would not do that.