The Royal Wedding Collection. Robyn Donald

broken loose in a far-flung part of the business; he’d spent months unravelling the mess while Gemma had stayed with her mother in Australia. Caelan didn’t like his stepmother, but he kept in touch with his sister, and when she’d written to say she was on Palaweyo spending time with Abby, he’d decided to call in and re-acquaint himself with the alabaster-skinned girl, discover if the provocation in her inviting mouth and tilted eyes was genuine or a cynical come-on.

      But the cyclone had intervened, and by the time he’d got to Palaweyo, Gemma was dead and buried and Abby had vanished with her child.

      Abby swung to face him, her movements graceful in spite of her tension. ‘Do you honestly believe Michael might be in danger?’

      ‘It’s always a possibility,’ he said, but she broke in, colour returning in a soft flood to her skin with the heat of her response.

      ‘I want the truth.’ She paused, searching for words, then forced herself to say unevenly, ‘I know that someone in your position might be seen as a target, but Michael has nothing.’

      He said ironically, ‘He has a very rich uncle and a large trust fund.’

      Stunned, she stared at him, realising the implications of this. No wonder he was suspicious—did he believe she had her eye on that rich trust fund? ‘I didn’t know,’ she said, knowing he wouldn’t believe her.

      He gave her a look that should have frozen the words on her lips. ‘Come on, Abby! I’m sure Gemma spent a lot of time complaining about the cruel brother who kept such a tight grip on the purse strings, but you knew she didn’t have to work.’

      ‘I thought—I thought you made her an allowance.’

      Looking down the arrogant blade of his nose, he said with forbidding restraint, ‘My father made sure she was provided for.’

      If anything had been needed to point up the difference between them, his casual words did it. In the prince’s world children were set up with trust funds, whereas Abby had grown up on an orchard. Although her parents had worked hard, when they’d died they’d left little for her—just enough for her to pay her way for a year on Palaweyo to help the community with their health needs.

      He said forcefully, ‘I didn’t approve of the way Gemma was relegated to the outer perimeter of her mother’s life. It won’t happen with her son.’ His tone edged each word with satire. ‘I don’t intend sending Michael to boarding school until he reaches secondary school. Not even then, if he doesn’t want it.’ He directed an ice-laden glance around the bleak room. ‘He’ll be much better off with me than with a woman who’s both a kidnapper and a liar, and who lives from hand to mouth in a rural slum.’

      Abby forced back the bubble of hysteria that threatened to block her throat and her thought processes. ‘At least I love him!’

      Dark brows lifted in taunting disbelief. ‘It’s an odd love that confines a child to a life in places like this. And this isn’t about you or me—this is about Michael, whose rights should be paramount. After all, it’s his future that’s on the line.’

      ‘He has all the security he needs,’ she retorted, trying hard to sound sensible and confident—and failing. The thought of Michael’s life at the hands of this flinty, uncompromising tyrant edged her tone with desperation. ‘What can you offer him? I’m sure that chasing yet another million to add to the pile you’ve already accumulated will take precedence over spending time with a little boy.’

      His white teeth snapped together. After a taut few seconds he returned caustically, ‘At least he won’t have to worry where his next meal is coming from.’

      ‘He’s never gone hungry.’ Occasionally she had, but not Michael. ‘What do you know about children? He’s noisy and grubby and demanding, and he needs attention and love and the knowledge that he’s hugely important to at least one person in this world. Even more, he needs to know that that person will be there whenever he wants her, not just for an hour after work. All your money and royal links and social position mean nothing compared to that.’

      ‘So why did you send him to a child-care centre with constantly changing workers, most of them almost untrained?’

      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.