The Royal Wedding Collection. Robyn Donald

masked a deep, abiding dread. There was much more than her happiness at stake; weigh her wary, reluctant attraction against a child’s future, and that feverish tug at her senses meant very little.

      And as she clearly wasn’t necessary here, she should really go and unpack Michael’s clothes.

      Instead, she leaned back into the sleek, luxuriously comfortable lounger to watch. Against the shimmer of the water in the bright spring sun, Caelan crouched by his nephew and began to talk. Abby watched Michael’s face, solemn and intent as he nodded.

      Straining her ears, she heard Caelan say, ‘And no jumping in.’

      ‘No jumping,’ Michael repeated, a little disappointed but resigned.

      ‘Only if I’m there to catch you. Wait until I’m in the water, and I’ll tell you when to jump.’

      After another serious nod Michael gave a great beaming smile, twisting Abby’s heart. Both were feeling their way; Michael was prepared to like the man who’d appeared out of the darkness, and so far Caelan had settled for treating his nephew like a small adult.

      An attitude that made Michael blossom, she noted with another despicable stab of jealousy.

      Glass panels sheltered both pool and terrace from the cool breeze that trailed in off the harbour. When the two swimmers got into the water her heart—foolish organ!—contracted even more tightly as Michael imitated everything the prince did. She kept a close eye on them, only relaxing when she saw that Caelan was always near enough to rescue his nephew from any risky exploits.

      Their laughter blended, and a great weariness weighed down her eyelids. She’d cope, but first she had to accept that her life had changed irrevocably. From now on it wouldn’t be just her and Michael against the world; Caelan had altered the balance, and nothing would ever be the same.

      Michael had someone else to rely on, and she’d just have to accept it.

      Too soon, so swiftly she wasn’t aware of what was happening, Abby’s wakeful night caught up with her and she slid into darkness.

      Michael’s voice woke her, soft and urgent in her ear. ‘Abby, Abby, wake up now.’

      After a prodigious yawn, she said, ‘What’s the time, darling—?’

      And remembered where she was.

      Her eyelids jerked up, but she was no longer lying in the lounger by the pool; instead, she was curled up on the bed in the room Caelan had given her, the rust-red wrap covering her.

      Fully dressed in T-shirt and shorts, his hair dry, Michael stood beside it, and behind him loomed Caelan—who must have carried her in and put her there. She could see the knowledge in his expression, a subtle tension and awareness that stoked her own mindless response to him.

      Head whirling, she got up on her elbow and swung her legs onto the floor. ‘What time is it?’ she asked thinly.

      She sounded slack, almost drugged. Caelan scrutinised her face, but the colour flooded back into her skin as she straightened. He tried to ignore the sensuous memory of her sleek body in his arms, her breathing when she’d snuggled her cheek against his chest. Yet other images prowled his brain, images snatched from barely remembered dreams in which she’d lain beneath him, soft and warm and silken, of little gasping cries as she climaxed around him, the scent of her skin and the perfumed cloud of her hair, the way her voice changed from crisp confidence to an enchanting husky shyness when he’d made love to her, the way she laughed—

      How the hell could one kiss four years ago light the need and hunger that still burned like a fire underground?

      He’d never stopped wanting her, he admitted, and never stopped resenting the power she wielded over him.

      So he should do something about sating this damned inconvenient desire.

      She was watching him, her face guarded and stubborn, but in spite of her prickly demeanour he was too experienced not to recognise the unwanted tug of attraction. Everything pointed to it—her careful avoidance of his touch, the soft flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat whenever he came near her, and the colour that came and went in her silky, seductive skin.

      A plan that had occurred to him as they’d flown up solidified in his mind.

      In spite of his best attempt at control, his voice was rough when he told her, ‘Almost one o’clock. I wouldn’t have woken you, but I have an appointment shortly.’

      ‘One o’clock?’ She pushed back a tumbling lock of hair and asked swiftly, ‘Has Michael had his lunch?’

      ‘Yes. Peanut butter sandwiches,’ Caelan returned with a faint smile.

      She hid another yawn behind her hand. ‘His staple food,’ she said in a wry voice.

      ‘He also had half an orange and a glass of milk.’

      Abby nodded. ‘Give me five minutes. I need to wash my face.’

      It took a little longer than that, because she had a rapid shower in the sybaritic bathroom, all glass and tiled walls with equipment that looked as though it fitted out a spaceship. Spirits marginally boosted by a change of clothes, she closed the bedroom door behind her and followed the sound of voices to the living room off the kitchen.

      She’d almost got there when Caelan laughed, for once without the undernote of cynicism she’d always heard.

      But when she came into the room all humour vanished from his strong face. He said aloofly, ‘I’ll be back around six this evening. Don’t worry about dinner; we can order from the hotel menu.’

      ‘What about Michael?’ she said steadily. ‘I don’t imagine the hotel kitchen caters to children his age.’

      ‘It can, but check out the fridge.’ He ruffled Michael’s hair, smiled down into his face and looked up to assess Abby with hard blue eyes. Very casually, he finished, ‘Don’t try leaving the apartment.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘You both need time to get your bearings.’ He paused before saying deliberately, ‘It would be inconvenient if I had to go out looking for you.’

      The warning was no less intimidating for being implied rather than stated forcefully. Her stomach a tight, apprehensive knot, she watched him leave, grateful when a question from Michael broke into her thoughts.

      ‘Abby, can we swim again now?’

      ‘After you’ve had your nap,’ she said automatically, and concealed her furious resentment by opening the refrigerator.

      Of course it was filled with eminently suitable food for a hungry three-year-old. After a molten survey of the interior, Abby almost slammed the enormous door shut. Whatever else he was—or wasn’t—Caelan was a superb organiser. No doubt if she tried to leave the apartment someone would stop her, or accompany her.

      She didn’t need the humiliation.

      Still fuming, she spent the hour of Michael’s nap unpacking, grimacing at the pathetic show her few dreary clothes made in a wardrobe almost as big as Michael’s bedroom in the cottage. They were so out of context they looked ludicrous.

      Growing up she’d known comfort and security, but the luxury Caelan took for granted was completely alien to her.

      ‘That’s what you get for getting in the way of a dominant alpha male,’ she told herself. Money and power had helped forge his intimidating inner confidence, but mix with a brilliant mind and loads of disturbing male magnetism, spice the whole mix with a soupçon of princely blood, season with a hint of Latin—and you had Caelan Bagaton, one on his own.

      Once Michael woke, they explored his room, discovering a box of toys to go with the rocking-horse, and a whole new library of books. Abby thought of the tattered, much-read volumes she’d packed, and wondered whether Michael would want to read them again.

      They spent the rest of the lazy afternoon