And that was exactly what he did—despite Melissa’s reservations about whether or not Ben would deign to be carried for such a long walk. Or, indeed, whether Casimiro might flag beneath the child’s sturdy and sustained weight. As it happened, neither of these eventualities occurred and the day went perfectly. So did the next—and the one after that. At least, that was what she kept telling herself. Trying to convince herself that it was true when deep down she knew that something was different and she couldn’t put her finger on what it was.
To the outsider, Melissa knew they would appear to be having as perfect a honeymoon as was possible, given the unusual circumstances. She had seen the quick smiles of approval from the staff when the King lifted his baby son high onto his shoulders or coaxed him to eat a piece of watermelon at breakfast. She also knew that no new bride could possibly complain about what took place in their marital bed every night. Because even Melissa—with her complete lack of experience of any other lover—realised that Casimiro was a textbook lover. Maybe that was the problem. A textbook lover wasn’t a real lover, was he? You could go through every permutation of sex possible and you could make a woman shudder in your arms again and again and again, but…
Melissa stared out at the sapphire of the distant sea. Somehow she couldn’t stop herself comparing the man Casimiro had been in the past to the man he was now. She tried telling herself that the person who held her night after night was far more real than the lover who had drifted in and out of her life during that rainy summer.
So why didn’t it feel that way? Why did their snatched affair feel more real than this honeymoon—and more honest? Was it because back then he had been there by choice, rather than necessity, as now? She wondered if she was imagining the distance which seemed to be growing between them—had she done something to offend him? But when she asked him he gave her a cool and faintly surprised look—as if he didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. Leaving Melissa to wonder what life was going to be like when they returned to their royal life back at the palace.
Their last dinner at the villa was delicious and they drank champagne the colour of honey which tasted as dry as a bone. And afterwards, Casimiro dismissed the staff and carried her upstairs to the vast bed where they had shared so many intimate moments over the last fortnight.
‘Our last night,’ he murmured as his lips whispered a soft path over one soft cheek. ‘That’s right.’
He kissed away the faint frown at her brow. ‘You are sad at leaving?’
She wanted to tell him that the only thing making her sad was his refusal to let her get close—but wouldn’t that spoil their last night? ‘A little,’ she conceded diplomatically. ‘It’s been…it’s been a wonderful honeymoon, hasn’t it, Casimiro?’
‘Of course.’
She stared at him, her heart beating fast. ‘I’m just a bit nervous about what’s going to happen when we get back. I mean, how the hell do I go about being your Queen?’
His hand found the silken mound of her small breast. ‘You will have plenty of help, cara.’
‘From…oh, Casimiro!’ She swallowed, trying desperately hard to concentrate, but it wasn’t easy when he was flicking his finger against her nipple like that. ‘From you?’
He gave an impatient little click. ‘Not from me, no. There will be a whole host of people to advise you, Melissa—but let’s not talk of it now, mmm? Not when there are so many more satisfying things we could do in bed.’
She succumbed to his lips and his fingers and the irresistible thrust of his body because it seemed that was what she was programmed to do. And she waited for words of love which never came—and consequently bit back her own.
When they arrived back at the palace, Casimiro went off for a meeting with his staff while Melissa tried to settle Ben into his nursery after a dinner which ended up mostly over him and on the floor. But he grizzled all through bath-time and couldn’t even be placated with a tune from his old plastic mobile which she’d brought with them from England—even though it looked slightly shabby and out of place in his smart new palace bedroom.
She waited for Casimiro to appear, but there was no sign of him and she didn’t want to go looking around the still-unfamiliar palace or asking one of the many staff where she should be. Or where dinner was. But there was no way she was going to sit in a formal dining room eating on her own while her husband was nowhere to be seen.
She supposed she could lift the phone and ring to ask for something to be sent to their rooms—like room service in a posh hotel. But she wasn’t really that hungry and, besid
es, what could she order? She didn’t even know what the national dish of Zaffirinthos was! Well, to morrow she would hit the Internet and the library and start learning all about her new home and life. As Casimiro had said—there were plenty of people to teach her.
And tonight?
Tonight she would put away all her stupid and nameless fears and prepare to greet her husband in the most traditional way known to all new brides…
Drenched in perfumed oils, she splashed around in the deep, sunken bath in her huge bathroom and afterwards slid on a green silk night gown with a matching peignoir which felt as fine as gossamer against her scented skin. And then, picking up a novel whose world seemed infinitely less absorbing than her own did right now, she settled down to wait for Casimiro.
She waited until ten before wandering into the smaller of their three sitting rooms—where she turned on the television in an attempt to feel normal. But the array of films held as little allure as her book and watching the news bulletins from the rest of the world only increased her feelings of isolation.
At ten-thirty she tried his cell phone—but it was switched off.
By eleven she had fallen into a fitful sleep and when eventually she felt his naked body slip into bed beside her, she opened her eyes to see that the luminous dial on the face of the clock read almost midnight.
‘Where have you been?’ she questioned sleepily as his hand moved round to cover her silk-covered breast.
‘Shh.’
‘Casimiro—’
But he was now rucking up her silk night gown and cupping the globes of her bottom—his skin cool against her bed-warmed flesh as he skated his palms over them with a skill which soon had her trembling with anticipation. Pushing her hair aside to kiss the nape of her neck, he blatantly pressed his hard body into hers so that she was left in no doubt about how much he wanted her.
His silent and sensual onslaught continued to filter through her still-dreamy state and she just let the feelings grow. His fingers found her honeyed slickness and touched her there until she was gasping his name out loud in frustration and need. And only then did he turn her over and pull her towards him and wordlessly thrust deep inside her as his lips found hers.
She came almost immediately—already her body was growing accustomed to the pleasure he could give her—and his fingers tightened around her breasts as she made a soft little cry against his shoulder. She heard the escalation of his breathing—the sudden urgency of his movements and then that distinctive little moan which shuddered on and on.