The Royal Baby Bargain

In the dark cocoon that was the interior of the car she thought his eyes lingered on her face for a second before he turned back and the engine purred into life.

Hot blood stung her skin. What had she done, letting herself be ambushed and captured like this? The prince took no prisoners; what did he have in mind for her?

A tiredness more than physical, a weariness of the spirit, chilled her from the bones out. While Michael slid back into the sleep of the very young and secure, she stayed wide-eyed and tense until the luxurious car drove into the airport at Queenstown.

But he didn’t drive towards the darkened terminal building. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

‘There’s a private plane waiting on the runway.’

Well, of course, she thought wearily. As well as being cousin to the ruler of a principality, Caelan Bagaton was a tycoon, a billionaire, rich enough to afford his own country as well as a private jet.

Oh, you fool, she thought painfully, you’re so far out of your depth here you might as well drown now and get it over and done with.

They’d met when Gemma had almost run her over in one of Auckland’s summer storms, and, although her car was a miracle of design that Abby knew she’d never be able to aspire to, Gemma had insisted on taking her home.

Their friendship had ripened rapidly; they’d gone clubbing together and spent other nights talking and listening to music; Gemma had invited her up to the beach house, although she had said, ‘But Caelan won’t be there.’

Abby’s brows shot up. ‘So?’

‘Oh, just that quite a few of the girls I know try to use me to get to him. And even my friends fall in love with him and then get their hearts broken. He’s a big, bad wolf, my brother.’

Well, he’d turned up at the beach, and Abby had found out for herself the truth of that assessment! Fortunately her year abroad working for a volunteer organisation was due to start the week after, so she hadn’t had time to brood about Gemma’s fabulous, arrogant, incredibly sexy brother.

When she’d left for the Pacific Gemma had wept a little and promised to visit. Abby hadn’t expected her to; Palaweyo was a poor atoll, only the bounty of its huge lagoon saving it from third-world status, and few tourists came within a thousand miles. But months later Gemma had arrived, tense and oddly desperate, and during the long hot nights she’d confided a few details of her passionate affair with a gangly, laconic Australian mountain-climber, and his heroic death. Before she’d had time to grieve, she’d discovered that she was pregnant.

Eerily, as though he could read her thoughts, Caelan said, ‘I believe Michael’s father was another Michael—Moncrieff, the mountaineer who died rescuing stranded climbers on Mount Everest.’

Stunned, Abby swallowed. ‘Yes,’ she said thinly.

‘A decent man, but not her usual sort. Didn’t it occur to you that his relatives might have wanted to have contact with their grandchild?’

‘Gemma said he had none; he’d grown up in care.’

Something about Caelan’s nod made her realise that he knew this. Of course he’d have had Gemma’s lover investigated. Suddenly loathing him and everything he stood for, she finished curtly, ‘Gemma said he was genuine gold all through.’

Surprisingly Caelan didn’t dig further. ‘Why does Michael call you Abby? It would have been less obvious if he’d called you his mother.’

‘But I’m not his mother,’ she said quietly. ‘He knows his parents are dead. He doesn’t know what that means, of course, but he’s entitled to know who he is.’