The Royal Baby Bargain

Goaded, she retorted, ‘I needed the money, and it was only for half of each day.’

He shrugged dismissively, the swift movement reminding her of his Latin heritage. ‘A nanny would provide more stability, and I can certainly make sure he never has to worry about feeling cold in winter.’

Abby stared at him, defiance crumbling under guilt and fear. She took refuge in sarcasm. ‘Of course, you know so much about small boys.’

‘I was one once.’

She snorted. ‘I don’t believe that. You were born six feet four tall and breathing fire.’

Amazingly, his hard mouth quirked. ‘If so, my mother never told me.’ The momentary amusement disappeared instantly, replaced by chilling hauteur. ‘Stop fencing. I asked you before—how much do you want to get out of his life?’

‘And I told you that I won’t sell him,’ she retorted furiously.

A faint stain of colour along his high, magnificent cheekbones told her she’d hit a nerve. The raw note in his voice hardened into intimidating confidence. ‘I’m not buying the child—I’m buying you off.’

His narrowed gaze sent shivers of sensation along every nerve in her body. Her breath stopped in her throat, and something stark and merciless and fierce linked them for a charged moment, until she saw the glint of satisfaction in his cold eyes.

He knew, she thought in wretched embarrassment. Of course he did—he’d been chased by women since his teens; what he knew about them would probably fill an encyclopaedia. He certainly realised her treacherous body had its own agenda, and it amused him to see her struggle against it.

Abby took an involuntary step backwards—a mistake, she realised instantly, and tried to cover it with a swift, proud retort. ‘You don’t have enough money—no one in the whole wide world has enough money—to buy Michael from me, so forget about it right now.’

His broad shoulders moved in a slight shrug that told her just how much this meant to him: nothing. ‘Judging by all accounts you have done a good job with the boy. I’m offering some recompense.’

She stated, ‘I’m not going to abandon him to a loveless life.’ And wished she’d put it some other way because it sounded so prissy.

‘I intend to love him.’ His tone was glacial, as though she’d forced some shameful secret from him.

She said urgently, ‘You can’t fake emotion. It doesn’t work like that. You, of all people, should know. Gemma said that you and she had been taught in a hard school that love is a weakness.’

‘Trust Gemma to pile on the melodrama. Yes, my father was notoriously besotted with his second wife, and losing her to another man shattered him. That doesn’t mean that I don’t know how to love a child.’

Abby made a swift, rapidly controlled gesture, then froze as the quiet hum of an expensive engine broke into the tense silence.

The prince said crisply, ‘It’s a hire car. I’m going to the airport in Queenstown and my nephew is coming with me. Try to stop me, and I’ll call the police.’

His tone—level, impervious, relentless—echoed in the silent room. The car drew up outside the house and the driver switched off the engine, although Abby could see the round circles of the headlights through the curtains.

Bitter pain stopped any words from escaping her lips. Wringing her hands together in futile agony, she could only look pleadingly at Caelan’s inflexible face.

He glanced down at the sheet of paper in his hands and appeared to come to some decision. ‘All right. I believe that it would be exceedingly bad to put him through the trauma of waking up and finding you gone.’ He lifted his head to pin her with cool detachment. ‘You can come with us, but on my terms.’

Elusive, defiant hope flickered like a candle in a draught. Tautly she demanded, ‘Which are?’

‘That you accept I’ve got a right to know my nephew.’

Too afraid to be cautious, she accepted bitter defeat. ‘I—yes.’ Indeed, it had always worried her that Michael was being deprived of what was left of his family.

Caelan nodded. ‘We can negotiate everything else when you’re a little less emotional,’ he said, his mouth compressing into a straight line. When she didn’t answer or move he said, ‘Make up your mind, Abby. Are you coming with me, or staying here?’

CHAPTER THREE

NUMBLY Abby stared at Caelan, reading his ruthless will in his face, in the uncompromising authority of his tone. Anger was defeated by desolation; she didn’t dare trust him, but what other choice did she have?

Impatiently the prince broke into her racing thoughts. ‘I’m offering you a chance to stay in Michael’s life. Turn it down and I won’t give you another.’

‘You can’t do that,’ she croaked. ‘I’ve looked after him since he was a baby. Any court in New Zealand would grant me custody—’

‘It is a remote possibility,’ he conceded crisply. ‘But would the justice system also protect him from any criminal who might see him as money in the bank?’

He paused to let that sink in. Her powerlessness burned like fire inside her, eating away at her will-power and courage. ‘I can’t believe that that sort of thing would happen here.’

‘He won’t always be in New Zealand. I have to travel; he’ll come with me.’

‘But—’

‘I thought you despised my father for allowing Gemma to be banished to her nursery?’

Pain sliced through her. ‘I—yes.’

With cool dispassion, Caelan inclined his black head. ‘The simplest way to deal with this is for you both to come to live with me.’

Stunned, unable to believe that she’d heard him correctly, she stared at him. ‘I don’t want to live with you and I’m certain you don’t want me anywhere around you.’

‘True, but I’m a pragmatic man.’ His voice was textured by unfaltering confidence. ‘It’s not negotiable, Abby. That is, if you want to be with Michael.’

Pride brought up her chin, veiled her eyes with thick lashes to hide the bleak shock of his blunt statement. Fighting to salvage what she could from her surrender, she said, ‘We don’t need to share a house. We—Michael and I—could live in Auckland, and I wouldn’t deny you access to him. Michael needs a man in his life.’

The prince surveyed her with a narrow smile. ‘How do I know you won’t pack your bags and sneak off?’

‘If I gave you my word—’

‘Why should I trust you?’

The words rang in her ears like iron on stone, cold and hard and relentless. Thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets he sauntered over to the window and looked out at the night. Against the pale luminosity of starshine he was a lean, dominant silhouette.

Abby dragged in a slow, difficult breath, aching with a sense of loss, of defeat and pain, with the knowledge of wasted years that were gone for ever and a future that would never happen. She had no other choice; losing Michael would tear her heart to shreds, and for his sake she had to endure whatever this cold, judgmental aristocrat decided to dish out.

Over his shoulder, he said, ‘You’ve got ten seconds to make up your mind.’

Anger revived her, giving her a spurious energy that helped her say woodenly, ‘It won’t work.’

‘Don’t look at me with those huge, horrified eyes,’ he said, his negligent tone as much an insult as his careless survey of her. ‘You’ll be quite safe.’

Colour burned up through her skin. He thought she was afraid for her virtue, and his tone made it clear that she didn’t attract him in the least. Humiliated, she snapped, ‘I suppose if we move into your house you’ll insist on a nanny, and after Michael’s got accustomed to her you’ll force me to leave.’

‘You sound like an actor in a Victorian melodrama. There won’t be a nanny unless you want one.’ Mockery laced his voice as he turned and examined her, his smile as lethal as a sword-blade. When she remained silent he added, ‘I assume you do want the best for Michael?’

‘You know I do,’ she whispered, frightened by the forbidden excitement that gripped her. ‘But not if it means living in the same house as you.’