Woods was her boss—she helped him plan his society parties, a job she’d stumbled on more by chance than by judgement. They’d met when Melissa had been temping in one of his offices—after she’d been forced to drop out of college due to a lack of funds when her mother had died. In the midst of her grief, Stephen had recognised her talent and made her feel as if she was worth something. Time and time again, the flamboyant caterer had told Melissa that her artistic eye was invaluable to him. That her talent for transforming the mundane into something extraordinary was what helped get his business talked about and her behind-the-scenes work was second to none. Which was why he valued her enough to let her choose her own hours and to work them around Ben—and she was so grateful to him for that.
Lost in thought, Melissa barely noticed the splendour and dimensions of the magnificent palace as she followed the footman along the wide marble corridors. The paintings on the walls seemed to all blur into one and the statues of ancient gods and goddesses bathed in sunlight were completely lost on her. She just kept thinking about Ben—and how his life was about to take on an entirely new direction. Very soon he would have a father at long last—a father he could grow to know and to love. Someone who would be able to enrich his young life with all kinds of benefits.
Eventually coming to a halt, the footman knocked loudly on an ornate pair of doors and she heard a single terse word emanating from within.
‘Sí?’
There wasn’t really time to register the throaty and sexy accent—which she knew spoke Greek as fluently as Italian—or the fact that she was seconds away from seeing him, because the doors were pushed open. Melissa’s hands were trembling as she was summoned inside—indeed it seemed as if her whole body was trembling. The thought that her most longed-for wish was about to come true was making her wonder whether her shaky legs would bear her weight—but she knew that she had to stay calm and focused. She had to.
And then she saw him.
Seated at his desk with an air of intense concentration as he scrutinised a sheaf of papers which were spread out in front of him, he seemed to have been carved from a piece of dark and glittering stone and was completely oblivious to her presence. For a moment, she just stood there—drinking him in. The ebony sheen of his hair and the powerful broad shoulders set her pulse racing. He might have been born to rule with untold riches at his clever fingertips, but to Melissa he had always been the most perfect man she’d ever seen, and, from this angle, that much hadn’t changed.
Suddenly, he looked up and her heart lurched with excited recognition as their eyes met—for, despite everything, she felt her heart turn over with longing. Because what woman wouldn’t feel moved by the sight of her ex-lover whose seed had grown inside her belly for nine long months? Time after time he’d preoccupied her thoughts—even if he’d never shown the slightest inclination to stay in touch with her. How long had it been since she’d seen him? she wondered dazedly. Getting on for two years. Nearly two whole years!
She stared into deep amber eyes fringed with jet-dark lashes, which made his gaze seem to pierce right through her. At hair the colour of a raven’s wing. At autocratic and proud features and a lean, muscular body, which was wearing some kind of uniform. Casimiro. It was Casimiro—but he seemed so different. His face seemed darker, harder—more forbidding than she remembered it. She swallowed. Cloaked in the unmistakable aura of royalty, he looked regal and imposing—and utterly, utterly inaccessible.
Yet once he had been accessible, hadn’t he? she reminded herself. Accessible enough to take you to his bed and to thrust his golden-dark body into yours over and over again. It was just seeing him now—sitting in his very own palace—that Melissa felt insecurity wash over her. Because even though you knew something intellectually, you couldn’t always accept it—not emotionally. But now, for the first time, she did. He really was a king. A king who ruled an exquisite island kingdom. Who was lord and master of all he surveyed. And the enormity of what lay before her seemed positively daunting.
But it was too late to back out now—the access she had longed for had finally been granted—and with a fast-thudding heart, Melissa smiled. Because he was the father of her child and—no matter what had happened in the past—surely they could be adult about the future?
She hadn’t exactly expected him to leap to his feet with pleasure and to pull her into his arms, but she had been expecting him to say something. To have registered some kind of emotion on his face—like shock or surprise, maybe even dismay, because she wasn’t naïve enough not to realise that his life would have moved on in all kinds of ways. But his countenance remained cold—as cold as ice—and maybe it was up to her to break it.
Fixing a hopeful look to her face, she attempted a smile. ‘H-hello,’ she said, even though the word felt like a pebble which had stuck in her throat.
For a moment, Casimiro did not respond to her greeting or to her soft English accent. He had been so deep in troubled thought that he could barely remember summoning anyone to his offices, and now he narrowed his eyes as he studied the woman who stood before him.
Her long, glossy hair was the colour of strong tea—the brown hair which was so widespread among Englishwomen—and her eyes were green. Skin so pale it was almost translucent showed a fine tracery of blue veins at her temples and she wore a dress whose only eye-catching feature was the fact that it drew his attention to a pair of long and very attractive legs.
He frowned. All his life had been steeped in protocol—it was as much a part of his existence as breathing itself. Often he professed himself bored with such etiquette and railed against its restrictions—but its absence was enough to ensure his frosty disapproval. Placing his gold fountain pen down on the desk, he fixed her with a look of chilly censure.
‘And you are…?’ he questioned coldly.
Melissa’s smile slipped by a fraction and she was taken aback by his unfriendliness. Was this some kind of joke? She met amber eyes—but amber was supposed to be warm and glowing, wasn’t it? Not like the glance which was searing its way through her. This was cold, impenetrable—hard and unwelcoming. Heart thundering, she searched his aristocratic features for some kind of recognition. Some vague stirring of memory. Some acknowledgement that this was a woman he had made love to over and over again.
But there was nothing on his face other than a faintly dismissive stare and, slowly, the unbelievable began to dawn on her protesting mind.
He doesn’t know who you are!
For a moment she didn’t believe it. Thought that he might be playing some kind of cruel game with her—but his demeanour remained hard and obdurate, and surely nobody could be that good an actor?
Yes, their affair had lasted only a few short days—but surely she wasn’t completely forgettable? In fact, hadn’t he told her that he would always remember their passionate encounter? Had he been lying when he’d said that—or was it just a line he’d spun to countless women, despite having had the ability to make her feel so intensely special at the time?
Eyes blinking rapidly, Melissa tried to put her jumbled thoughts into some semblance of order. Forcing herself not to do something crazy, that afterwards she might regret. Like blurting something out. Something along the lines of: Your Royal Highness, I can see my son’s face in your features. Or I have a miniature version of you back home, Casimiro—an heir you aren’t even aware of.
But she couldn’t possibly do that. Not right out of the blue. Not when she’d already decided that she was going to have to choose her moment to tell him very carefully. And standing beneath the nearcontemptuous gaze of a man who was regarding her as if she’d tumbled down from space and were burning an unwelcome hole in his priceless silk rug would never be described as ideal, not in anyone’s eyes.
‘I’m Melissa,’ she said, hoping against hope that the sound of her Christian name might stir something in his memory. Didn’t he once say that it made him think of honey?
‘Melissa?’
‘Melissa Maguire.’
He