Society Secrets. Sharon Kendrick

the moment she’d said it she realised just who he was and stared up at him in horror.

      He looked as if he hadn’t quite decided to be irritated or bemused—as if he wasn’t used to people saying that to him. And then his eyes drifted over her and Melissa wondered how vile she must look with her shiny red nose and blotchy skin.

      ‘You’ve been crying,’ he observed, with the air of a man who was never cried in front of.

      Ten out of ten for observation, she thought miserably—hating feeling so vulnerable and so awful in front of someone like him. ‘Yes, I have,’ she said, in a small voice, wondering why he wasn’t upstairs drinking his champagne with the rest of the privileged gathering.

      ‘Why?’

      ‘It doesn’t matter.’

      ‘Oh, but it does—because I want to know. Don’t you realise that I am a king?’ His amber eyes glittered, his lips curving into a mocking smile. ‘And that everything I command is always granted?’

      For a moment she thought he was joking—and maybe he was, just a little. But she could also see that he expected an answer from her and so, with a sudden mulishness, Melissa decided to tell him. Then let him be sorry he had asked.

      ‘It’s the anniversary of my mother’s death.’

      There was a pause. ‘Oh.’

      She could see the sudden tightening of his face. Could hear the sudden chatter of conversation as a distant door was opened and the dull background patter of rain as it lashed against one of the basement doors. Perhaps he heard it too for she caught him looking down at her cheap shoes, and frowning—as if it had suddenly occurred to him that they might let in water.

      ‘You want a ride home?’ he questioned.

      ‘From you?’

      ‘Who else? You have a car waiting? A boyfriend perhaps?’

      Suspiciously, she screwed up her eyes as if to check that he wasn’t being sarcastic. ‘No. I don’t.’

      ‘Then how were you planning on getting home?’

      ‘On the underground.’

      ‘Well, don’t. I’ll be outside. Don’t keep me waiting.’

      He walked off, leaving Melissa staring at him as if she’d seen a ghost. A ghost that looked and sounded like a king and had offered her a ride home. As she gave the kitchen a last minute check and changed from her black working dress into a pair of jeans and a raincoat she kept wondering whether she’d imagined the whole thing.

      But she hadn’t. A dark-tinted limousine was sitting a little way down the road and as her steps slowed uncertainly a chauffeur suddenly got out and opened the door for her.

      Briefly, it occurred to her that this was the kind of action those real-life crime programmes you saw on TV always advised you against taking. She could see Casimiro sitting in the back seat and when Melissa hesitated, this seemed to amuse him.

      ‘So, are you getting in—or staying there and getting wet?’

      Still she hesitated.

      ‘Or perhaps you think I will leap on you? That you are completely irresistible to me?’

      Melissa swallowed. Now he was being sarcastic. And suddenly she didn’t care—not about whether it was right or wrong or the fact that he was a king. When compared to the bigger picture of mortality and the fact that she would never see her mother again—this was about as important as chicken-feed.

      ‘Why are you doing this?’ she questioned as she climbed into the back of the car and into his world of luxury and soft leather. ‘Because you feel sorry for me?”

      There was a pause, and then a fierce look came over his face—a look so dark and so bleak that Melissa felt as if she was intruding just by witnessing it. As if she had glimpsed into some dark corner of his soul.

      ‘Because I know how hard it can be,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘To lose a mother.’

      And that had been it, really. Two people brought together by a rainy night and a moment of empathy. Something had fused between them—bringing together a pair of lives which couldn’t have been more disparate. Against all the odds, they had become lovers.

      With lazy amusement, Casimiro told her that his usual aide was not accompanying him—and it seemed to amuse him to give the others the slip as often as possible. For five days he played hide-and-seek with them—ensuring just enough freedom to snatch at a life which could never be his, while reassuring the people who guarded him that he was safe. It seemed that everything the King did, he did well—if recklessly—and he embraced his new-found anonymity with a skill which would have made the finest actor turn green with envy.

      In Melissa’s tiny bedsit he—a man who had been fed every delicacy since birth—sampled beans on toast for the first time in his life. He drank cheap wine and made tea in a mug. The two of them hired a little boat on the river and he rode on the top deck of a red London bus without anyone knowing it was him. And they spent afternoons in bed, listening to the distant hum of traffic and the sound of their own heartbeats. He told her that she smelt of summer flowers and that her eyes were like emerald stars—and hadn’t she just revelled in those lazy compliments?

      Of course, it was over almost as 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