by the stone-like feeling deep in his heart. ‘I wish to make a speech myself,’ he said heavily. ‘Before my brother.’
Melissa sat up in alarm. ‘But, Your Majesty—’
His eyes glittered dangerously. ‘What?’
She thought about the foreign royal families, the dignitaries and the glitterati who were arriving from mainland Europe and from the United States, the security services who were already working to the tightest of schedules, and she drew a deep breath. Surely he couldn’t spring something like this on her at the last minute which would throw all her plans out? ‘The timetable has been worked out down to the last second.’
‘Then damned well unwork it,’ he drawled unhelpfully. ‘Isn’t that what you’re being paid for?’
Again, his cutting words drummed in her lack of status—but somehow Melissa kept the hurt from registering on her face.
‘Very well, Your Majesty—if…if you can let me know how long you need to say your piece, then I’ll work it into the schedule and inform everybody of the change. It can…it can all be sorted out, I’m sure.’
Aware that her words were stumbling out of her lips like some sort of plea, she searched his face in a lastditch attempt to strike a chord of recognition. Remember me, she urged him silently as she leaned forward by a fraction. Remember who I am. Remember you said I was sweeter than honey. That my skin was softer than a cloud. Don’t you remember the way that you buried your mouth against my neck and moaned out your pleasure while you were deep inside me?
Casimiro frowned at her reaction as something intangible seemed to shimmer through the air towards him. Her green eyes had suddenly grown as dark as the lunar eclipse and her lips had parted in a way which made them look almost kissable. Very kissable, in fact. And suddenly he caught a drift of her perfume as she moved. Some subtle scent of lilac which seemed to pervade the very air with its delicacy—and for a moment he stilled, as if somebody had turned him to stone.
He felt something nudging insistently at the corners of his mind—what the hell had that smell reminded him of? But then, like a delicious dream disturbed by a loud noise, it was gone, and no amount of concentration could get it back again.
Silently, he cursed as he stared at her and glimpsed the faint gleam of her tongue through her half-opened mouth. And inexplicably, he felt a swift, sharp hardening at his groin—a tumescent ridge which was heating his blood and making his senses start fizzing with desire. So that for one insane moment he thought about pulling her into his arms—of raking his fingers through that thick brown hair and tilting up her face before ravishing those quivering lips of hers.
Angrily, he gave a little click of irritation. What the hell was he thinking of? This was some itinerant little worker from England—not a woman worthy of his desire. And, yes, it was an age since he had lost himself in the incomparable pleasures of sex—not since before his accident, that was for sure. Was he so frustrated that he was allowing desperation to cloud his judgement—he who could have any woman he wanted? And would have, he vowed silently.
At tonight’s ball, there would be a surplus of women just longing for him to notice them—among them would-be brides from all the most aristocratic families in the world. But he was not looking for a bride. He was looking for a lover—a lover who would take whatever he was prepared to offer.
There would be plenty of those kinds of women there too, he thought—with a grim kind of satisfaction. The most beautiful women which nature had to offer would be eying him with predatory eyes and eager bodies. Casimiro’s mouth hardened as he willed his unwanted erection to subside.
It was time to break his self-imposed sexual drought—and to lose himself in the mindless pleasures of the body before he embarked on his self-imposed exile. And when he did—when he surrendered to sex again—it would be with someone far more worthy of his affections than this tall Englishwoman with her strangely intense attitude. The sooner he could start choosing his own company—instead of having it forced upon him by his position—the better.
He realised that she was still sitting there, staring at him as if she had every right to linger in the King’s private offices. ‘I think we’ve covered everything, don’t you?’ he said.
His curt words were clearly a dismissal—but just in case she hadn’t got the message the double-doors opened at precisely that moment. He must have rung some kind of secret bell—or maybe she had just used up her allotted time with him. And this time it wasn’t a footman who stood there, but one of his aides—a hard-faced man who flicked her a hostile glance which left her in no doubt that she had overstayed her welcome. ‘Majesty?’ the man said.
‘Ah, Orso,’ said Casimiro. ‘Signorina Maguire is just going. See her out, will you?’
‘Certo, Majesty.’ Orso gestured towards the door, giving Melissa no choice but to leave—her cheeks burning as she scrambled to her feet.
She glanced at the King but he was studying something on his desk—as though he’d forgotten she was there. As though she’d never been there at all. Self-consciously, she walked past the aide—realising that she’d thrown away the perfect opportunity to tell the King about his son.
And wondering when on earth she was going to get another one.
AFTER the Englishwoman had gone, Casimiro sat perfectly still for a moment before picking up the document which lay on the desk before him, detailing possibly the most important speech of his life. A speech which even Orso—his closest aide for many years—remained in complete ignorance of.
The speech which spelt out his abdication announcement.
Swallowing down the sudden wave of emotion which rose in his throat, he got to his feet and walked over to the huge windows, looking out at the palace gardens. What a view! Roses and oranges and cool, flowing fountains and, beyond that, the sea. He had known this view since boyhood—had been brought into this suite of offices from infancy—for his father had believed in his son and heir being schooled for the monarchy from the very outset. There were even photographs of him in the palace archives—as a little toddler crawling around beneath the enormous desk while his father had signed the Treaty Of Rhodes.
Then, when his beloved mother had succumbed to the brain haemorrhage which had eventually killed her, his father had devoted most of his time and energy to teaching his son about the responsibilities and the privileges of being King. Often Casimiro suspected that his brother Xaviero had felt left out—the neglected younger son badly missing the mother he had been so close to. Grief hadn’t really been discussed in those days—especially not among high-born royals—so that both boys had suffered essentially lonely childhoods.
But Casimiro had never questioned his destiny—indeed, he had seized it with enthusiastic and modernising hands. He had embraced all that he could do for his beloved Zaffirinthos—and joyfully set into motion a whole raft of reforms which had made the people of his Mediterranean island more prosperous and contented than ever before. Yet along with his success as ruler had come the bitter realisation of how much this job demanded. How it ate into the rest of your life and devoured it like an ever-hungry predator. Disillusion had begun to gnaw away at him and made him long to be free.
But there was another reason why he knew he must step down from the throne—for the accident which had almost felled him had left behind a dark legacy. Unknown to anyone, there was a small but terrifying gap in his memory as a result of his near-fatal fall. Fierce pride and a determination that a king should never show weakness in front of his court or his people had meant that Casimiro had successfully concealed the fact from the world. Not even his doctors had guessed—even though at times he felt as if he were walking on a knife-edge. At times he felt guilty at the subterfuge and at others he was overwhelmed with frustration by his lack of recall.
But