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 last time. ‘Majesty—’
‘Go,’ he ordered. ‘Go!’
Melissa was so shocked at his angry dismissal—at the fact that he could wave her away like a troublesome insect in the light of what she’d just told him—that she found herself following Orso from the dais as if she were on autopilot.
Feeling numb, she halted when they had reached one of the far alcoves and the aide turned to her, his eyes making no attempt to hide their hostility.
‘You will not attempt to contact the King again,’ he said coldly. ‘Ever. Do you understand?’
Part of her wanted to cry out that it was none of his business what she did, but Melissa had neither the strength nor the wherewithal to contradict him. Besides, what could she do? If she told Orso the reason for her insistence then he really would have her removed from the palace. If Casimiro himself didn’t believe her about Ben—then it stood to reason that nobody else would. She didn’t exactly fit the profile of a discarded royal mistress, did she?
Snatches of the King’s speech echoed through the hall as she bent to pick up a spray of roses which had fallen from one of the giant flower displays. She heard him commend the marriage of his brother and the subsequent birth of their son. She heard his deep, accented voice say words like ‘celebration’ and ‘new life’ and they seemed to only add to her inner pain, if that were possible.
‘…and so I ask you to raise your glasses to my dear brother, Xaviero, and his beautiful wife, Princess Catherine.’
Melissa glanced over at the beautiful, laughing blonde English Princess and felt a lump which felt suspiciously like envy rise in her throat.
Somehow she got through the remainder of the banquet and at midnight she begged Stephen if she could slip away—something she wouldn’t normally have dreamed of until the final guest had gone home. Maybe her face was white, or maybe something in her voice alarmed him, because he frowned and asked her if she was ill—and then told her to go straight to bed.
‘Don’t forget we’re leaving in the morning,’ he said.
As if she could forget something like that. She would never set foot on this island again—nor Ben grow to know his father as she had so hoped. Nobody could say she hadn’t tried—but one day she was going to have to have a painful conversation with her beloved son.
She walked back to the house they’d provided for her, which stood within the grounds of the vast palace complex, but she didn’t go straight to bed. She was so unsettled that even attempting to sleep would have been a complete waste of time. And although there was every state-of-the-art diversion you could think of, she couldn’t imagine summoning up any interest in a DVD or one of the books which took up an entire wall of the sumptuous sitting room.
She found herself missing Ben and wishing that she could ring him. But even if it hadn’t been so late—you couldn’t really speak to a thirteen-month-old baby on the phone, could you? She’d tried it when she arrived yesterday. According to her aunt, Ben had kept trying to snatch the handset and hurl it to the ground—and once he’d worked out that it was his mother at the other end of the line he had burst into noisy howls of rage.
Instead, Melissa packed her small suitcase—layering in her jeans and her tops and her work-clothes. Afterwards, she stripped off her clothes and took a shower—telling herself that tomorrow night she would be standing beneath the half-hearted splutter of tepid water in her tiny bathroom at home and to make the most of this unparalleled luxury while she had the chance.
But it was hard to be enthusiastic in such circumstances and the powerful jets of water and the lavish array of soaps and shampoos did little to distract her swirling thoughts. Plan A had been to tell Casimiro about Ben—and that had failed spectacularly. She didn’t even have a Plan B.
Towelling herself dry and raking a comb through the dark wet strands of her hair, Melissa pulled on the oversized T-shirt which had been given to her by one of her clients and which she now wore as a nightie. She’d just finished boiling the kettle to make herself a cup of herbal tea when there was a low but insistent knocking at the front door, and she glanced at her watch and frowned.