Reunited By The Royal Baby. Maisey Yates

soon as it began. Melissa had known that was going to happen—and Casimiro had never pretended that it was ever going to be otherwise. Five days could simultaneously feel like a moment or a lifetime, she discovered.

      “You knew that this was never destined to last, didn’t you?” he’d murmured on that last time in bed, his clever, seeking fingers trickling down over her belly to bury themselves in the soft fuzz of hair which lay at the fork of her thighs.

      “Of course I did!” she’d whispered, praying that her voice wouldn’t break down.

      That didn’t stop it hurting, of course, and the pain she felt was in direct proportion to her earlier joy—fierce and strong and almost unbearable. But somehow she managed to keep the tears at bay until they’d said their goodbyes—and once he’d gone she experienced an empty void, a kind of aching no-man’s-land, before her world was completely shattered…

      ‘Remember what?’

      Casimiro’s harsh question broke into her painful thoughts and Melissa felt her body jerk as the memories cleared and she found herself back in the present, standing beneath the imperious gaze of the man with the amber eyes in a banqueting hall full of the world’s movers and shakers. But this was no longer the anonymous lover who had kissed her so passionately in her little bedsit—but a distant and remote stranger sitting on his kingly dais.

      She met the icy question in his eyes. ‘We’ve…we’ve met before, Your Majesty.’

      ‘And?’

      Melissa blinked, confused now. ‘So you…you do remember?’

      Casimiro gave a little click of disapproval as he pulled his speech from his jacket pocket and prepared to wave her away.

      ‘Do you realise how many people I “meet” in the course of my working life?’ he demanded impatiently. ‘And while they will each remember every detail of our encounter, most of their faces are, to me, simply a blur. What was it? Some official line-up you were on? Some catering college I was visiting?’

      ‘No. You don’t understand.’ Shaking her head, Melissa could see the look of surprise in his eyes as she contradicted him, but she was fearless now. This was her last chance, she realised. Her very last chance.

      ‘What don’t I understand?’ he asked, dangerously.

      ‘This was different.’

      Casimiro tensed, half wondering if she was one of that thankfully rare breed of women who stalked famous men—and whether he had been foolish in granting her access. But something in the way she was looking at him made his eyes narrow and his heart began to pound. He glanced over to where Orso was clearly poised to terminate the conversation at his behest. At the guards who stood in the shadows and could be summoned at a moment’s notice. ‘Go on.’

      Melissa was aware that he was in full view of everyone in the banquet hall. And that there seemed something terribly wrong about disclosing something as big as this before the curious gaze of an international audience. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather go somewhere…a little more private.’

      ‘I don’t think so,’ he said softly. ‘You’ve already had more than enough concessions. You’ve got your opportunity—which is precisely two minutes—to tell me what all this damned mystery is about.’ His mouth hardened. ‘And it had better be good.’

      Her voice was trembling but somehow she got the words out. ‘Our meeting was very different from most you must encounter, Your Majesty—or, at least, I’m assuming it was. It was back in the summer nearly two years ago—in England—at a party during a tour of the Zaffirinthos marbles. In fact, we did more than meet. Much more. As it happens, we had a short affair and, as a consequence…’ She saw the disbelief and the anger which was beginning to blaze from his amber eyes ‘…as a consequence, I…I have a little son. Or, rather, we have a son. What I should say is…you have a son, Your Majesty.’

       CHAPTER THREE

      CASIMIRO stared into Melissa’s white face, his heart beginning to pound with fury at her outrageous claim. He, a father of her child? He would have liked to have taken her by her shoulders and to have shaken the admission from her that her words were nothing but a sham and a lie.

      But he knew that all eyes were upon him, just as they always were, for hadn’t he spent a lifetime being watched—like the human equivalent of a goldfish? Wasn’t he always seated at the top table or the raised dais for precisely that purpose? Kings were not permitted the freedom to express their feelings and therefore he could not indulge in the luxury of venting his anger towards this insolent Englishwoman. The only outward sign of his ire was the clenching of his fists beneath the table—and so great was his wrath that he barely noticed that he had crushed the heavy cream parchment of his abdication speech in the process.

      He leaned towards her by a fraction—as if he were about to engage in some pleasantry about the food. ‘Are you crazy?’ he said, his accusation so soft that nobody but Melissa could hear it. ‘One of those crazy women who go around pretending to have been impregnated by powerful men?’

      Melissa flinched—recoiling from the naked anger in his eyes. ‘No! No! Of course not. I’m telling the truth.’

      ‘And I don’t believe you.’

      ‘Why not?’ she whispered, shocked by his venom.

      ‘You want me to spell it out for you?’ He wanted to hurt her now—to lash back at her for daring to concoct such a wild fantasy. To show his extreme displeasure for daring to disrupt his plans. With the hand which wasn’t holding his crushed speech, he indicated the array of glitteringly beautiful women who sat at each sparkling and flower-festooned table gazing up at him with the adoration of teenagers at a boy-band concert.

      ‘You think that I can’t have any woman I want in my bed? You don’t think I’m spoilt for choice by all the females who daily throw themselves at me?’ His eyes became cold. ‘Do the maths, cara,’ he added icily. ‘If I could have my pick of the most beautiful women in the world, then why the hell would I choose someone like you?’

      Melissa swallowed, knowing there was no answer to this—because, deep down, wasn’t he simply echoing her own sentiments? Hadn’t she found it unbelievable at the time that such a man should have chosen to take someone like her as his lover? So she couldn’t really blame him for coming out and saying it now. She had no right to feel hurt by what was essentially the truth—but one thing still didn’t add up. One thing that was pretty painful to accept. ‘So you don’t even remember me?’ she said woodenly.

      At this, Casimiro felt his heart quicken and perhaps Orso recognised his disquiet, for his aide stepped forward at just that moment.

      ‘Majesty? Shall I conduct Miss Maguire back to the kitchens? The time for your speech approaches.’

      Casimiro let his gaze flick briefly over the abdication speech which now lay crumpled in his hand. How your life could change in one brief second, he thought bitterly. He should have been about to announce a major change in direction. A new freedom. But now…

      His gaze moved to the Englishwoman, staring at the determination in her green eyes, which was at odds with the trembling of her lips. He did not know if she was crazy, or if this was some kind of audacious blackmail scheme. But there was enough plucky defiance in her gaze to make him pause and something about her lilac-scented defiance which made him determined to delve a little deeper. He wondered how much she knew. Or guessed. And suddenly the certainty hit him. His plans were not ruined completely—but they must certainly be put on hold. At least until he established that she was simply a fantasist. And in the meantime—she must be given an indication that it was he who held the power. All the power.

      ‘Yes, take her away,’ he clipped out. ‘And I shall begin.’

      She tried one