was a Bagaton too, but it didn’t make her happy. She wanted me to look after him.’ When he raised his brows she cried, ‘I’ve got a letter to prove it.’
She stooped to her bag, holding her shoulders stiffly and her spine so rigid she thought it might splinter. With trembling fingers she unzipped an inner pocket in one suitcase and took out an envelope.
Thrusting it at the man who watched her with eyes as translucent and cold as polar ice, she said, ‘Here.’
He took it, but didn’t look at it. His startlingly good-looking face was set in lines of such formidable determination that she flinched, yet a melting heat in the pit of her stomach astonished and frightened her. It was one thing to acknowledge that he had a primitive physical power over her; it would be shameful to let her body’s treachery weaken her.
‘Read it,’ she said desperately. ‘It will make any judge think about his decision.’
Frowning, the prince examined the single sheet of notepaper.
Abby waited tensely, mentally going over the words she knew by heart.
Dearest Abby, If you’re reading this I’m dead. See, I told you I could foretell things! Take Michael to New Zealand, but make sure neither Caelan nor my mother find you—or him. I know you love my baby, and I know you’ll take care of him. And thanks for being my wise, sensible friend. Don’t grieve too much. Just keep on loving Michael, and look after him.
In a voice without the slightest trace of emotion, Caelan said, ‘It certainly looks as though Gemma wrote it—I recognise the aura of drama and doom.’ His long fingers tightened on the sheet of paper and he looked at her from half-closed eyes, his mouth twisting. ‘You’re too trusting, Abby. What’s to stop me tearing it to shreds and lying about seeing it?’
Oddly enough, it hadn’t occurred to her. His reputation for fair dealing matched the one for ruthlessness. Her mouth tightened. ‘It’s a copy; the real one is in a solicitor’s office,’ she said steadily.
The hard, uncompromising determination stamped on Caelan’s lean, bronze face was replaced by a gleam of humour.
Her susceptible heart missed a beat. Although Gemma had told her that he despised people who used their charm to dazzle others, he possessed an inordinate amount of it himself. His smile was a weapon, a dangerously disturbing challenge that had penetrated stronger defences than hers.
Lazily he said, ‘I’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t made sure of that. But this means nothing; I can produce evidence to show that Gemma was a fragile, emotionally unstable woman, incapable of knowing what was best for her child.’
Abby opened her mouth, but honesty stopped the fierce words that threatened to spill out. Yes, Gemma had been fragile, as well as funny and delightful, but she’d been absolutely determined Michael wouldn’t grow up without love and attention.
Caelan looked around the small room furnished with cheap, shabby cast-offs. The harsh central light turned Abby’s skin sallow and robbed her hair of highlights or any depth of colour. It was, he thought with cool cynicism, a sin to hide that glorious mane of red-gold hair.
And an even greater one to cover her slender body with a loose black T-shirt and pair of dust-coloured corduroy trousers.
He banished tantalising memories of the figure beneath the shapeless clothes, sleek and lithe and strong, her exquisite skin an instant temptation…
And her mouth, soft and hot and delicious beneath his, opening to him with an eagerness that still affected him.
Abby had strayed into his life, a glowing, sensuous girl who seemed unaware of her sexual power. Not that he believed in her innocence; Gemma chose friends who tended to be sophisticated and spoilt.
Already in a very satisfying relationship with another woman, he’d put Abby resolutely from his mind. Yet he hadn’t been able to prevent himself from kissing her—a kiss that had led directly to the termination of his affair. And when Gemma told him the fey, strangely tempting health worker had gone to some backwater Pacific island for a year on a volunteer basis, he’d been taken aback by an odd sense of loss.
Then all hell had broken loose in a far-flung part of the business; he’d spent months unravelling the mess while Gemma had stayed with her mother in Australia. Caelan didn’t like his stepmother, but he kept in touch with his sister, and when she’d written to say she was on Palaweyo spending time with Abby, he’d decided to call in and re-acquaint himself with the alabaster-skinned girl, discover if the provocation in her inviting mouth and tilted eyes was genuine or a cynical come-on.
But the cyclone had intervened, and by the time he’d got to Palaweyo, Gemma was dead and buried and Abby had vanished with her child.
Abby swung to face him, her movements graceful in spite of her tension. ‘Do you honestly believe Michael might be in danger?’
‘It’s always a possibility,’ he said, but she broke in, colour returning in a soft flood to her skin with the heat of her response.
‘I want the truth.’ She paused, searching for words, then forced herself to say unevenly, ‘I know that someone in your position might be seen as a target, but Michael has nothing.’
He said ironically, ‘He has a very rich uncle and a large trust fund.’
Stunned, she stared at him, realising the implications of this. No wonder he was suspicious—did he believe she had her eye on that rich trust fund? ‘I didn’t know,’ she said, knowing he wouldn’t believe her.
He gave her a look that should have frozen the words on her lips. ‘Come on, Abby! I’m sure Gemma spent a lot of time complaining about the cruel brother who kept such a tight grip on the purse strings, but you knew she didn’t have to work.’
‘I thought—I thought you made her an allowance.’
Looking down the arrogant blade of his nose, he said with forbidding restraint, ‘My father made sure she was provided for.’
If anything had been needed to point up the difference between them, his casual words did it. In the prince’s world children were set up with trust funds, whereas Abby had grown up on an orchard. Although her parents had worked hard, when they’d died they’d left little for her—just enough for her to pay her way for a year on Palaweyo to help the community with their health needs.
He said forcefully, ‘I didn’t approve of the way Gemma was relegated to the outer perimeter of her mother’s life. It won’t happen with her son.’ His tone edged each word with satire. ‘I don’t intend sending Michael to boarding school until he reaches secondary school. Not even then, if he doesn’t want it.’ He directed an ice-laden glance around the bleak room. ‘He’ll be much better off with me than with a woman who’s both a kidnapper and a liar, and who lives from hand to mouth in a rural slum.’
Abby forced back the bubble of hysteria that threatened to block her throat and her thought processes. ‘At least I love him!’
Dark brows lifted in taunting disbelief. ‘It’s an odd love that confines a child to a life in places like this. And this isn’t about you or me—this is about Michael, whose rights should be paramount. After all, it’s his future that’s on the line.’
‘He has all the security he needs,’ she retorted, trying hard to sound sensible and confident—and failing. The thought of Michael’s life at the hands of this flinty, uncompromising tyrant edged her tone with desperation. ‘What can you offer him? I’m sure that chasing yet another million to add to the pile you’ve already accumulated will take precedence over spending time with a little boy.’
His white teeth snapped together. After a taut few seconds he returned caustically, ‘At least he won’t have to worry where his next meal is coming from.’
‘He’s never gone hungry.’ Occasionally she had, but not Michael. ‘What do you know about children? He’s noisy and grubby and demanding, and he needs attention and