Royal Christmas: Royal Love-Child, Forbidden Marriage

‘You had me investigated?’ she demanded sharply.

‘Of course. That’s how Christian’s existence was discovered.’

‘Why—why would you do that?’ Phoebe asked in a whisper, thinking, if only he hadn’t …

‘I’m afraid when Anders died, he left a few skeletons in the cupboard that had to be dealt with. You were one of them.’

‘And now you’re dealing with me,’ Phoebe filled in. ‘Once again I’m an inconvenience.’

‘But an interesting one,’ Leo told her with a faint smile. ‘I learned, for instance, that you have your own business, designing jewellery.’

Phoebe nodded, a sense of pride burgeoning within her when she thought of what she’d accomplished. ‘Yes, I do. I have a small boutique on St Mark’s Place and a mailorder service as well.’

‘You’ve made a life for yourself,’ Leo observed, and Phoebe’s eyes flashed.

‘Despite my supposedly squalid apartment?’

His answering smile took the sting out of her remark. ‘I suppose your apartment could be seen as … adequate,’ he said with a heavy sigh that made a reluctant smile tug at Phoebe’s mouth. She could hardly believe she was sitting here, talking and laughing with Leo Christensen … almost as if they were friends.

Had he simply lulled her into a false sense of security, comfort? Or was this real?

She realised with a surprising pang of longing that she wanted it to be. Despite the fullness of her life, her business, her friends and family, she’d been without a man. A companion. With a son to raise and a growing business to manage there hadn’t been time, or, Phoebe acknowledged, much inclination. The wreck of her one-month marriage kept her wary and distant, although she’d had a few relationships—well, dates at least—over the years.

Leo leaned forward, his fingers reaching out to touch Phoebe’s throat, his fingers lightly caressing its hollow. ‘Is this one of your pieces?’

Phoebe swallowed, far too affected by Leo’s casual caress. His fingers were still brushing her skin as he touched the necklace, an uncut sliver of fiery agate encased in twisted gold wire.

‘Yes …’ Her voice came out in a shuddery hiss of breath. Leo looked up, and Phoebe was transfixed by his gaze, his eyes the same colour as the stone he caressed.

‘It’s beautiful. Unusual. I can see why you’ve been successful.’

‘Thank you.’ He was still touching her, and Phoebe knew she should withdraw, should demand he drop his hand. Yet she couldn’t. She was enjoying it too much, savouring the feel of his fingers against his skin, revelling in the desire that uncoiled and wound its way through her.

Why was she so helpless when it came to this man? And did it even matter why? It simply was.

Leo’s eyes met and clashed with hers, and after another heightened second he slowly—almost reluctantly—withdrew his hand. ‘How did you get started in jewellery?’ he asked. He leaned back in his chair, leaving Phoebe feeling stupidly, ridiculously, overwhelmingly bereft. She looked away, afraid Leo would see the disappointment in her eyes.

‘My mother is a potter, and so art was always part of my upbringing. We’d go to Long Island for summer every year, and I loved collecting stones on the beach. Pretty ones, different ones. I’d twist string around them to make necklaces and bracelets and things.’ She shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. ‘And that’s where my jewellery comes from, really. Childish crafts, but grown-up.’

‘Very grown-up,’ Leo murmured. ‘I can’t imagine it’s cheap to rent retail space in Manhattan.’

‘No, indeed,’ Phoebe agreed. ‘And apartments aren’t cheap, either.’

‘Touché.’ Leo grinned, his eyes lightening to amber, his teeth strong and white. He raised his glass in a mock-toast. ‘You’re not going to forgive that one remark, are you?’

‘Not any time soon,’ Phoebe retorted, trying to be flippant although she felt far from it. Leo’s full-fledged grin had had a devastating effect on her; she’d never seen him smile properly before, without irony or contempt or derision. She looked away, taking a slug of wine, willing her heart rate to slow. She couldn’t keep on like this, every sense on high alert, responsive to his every gesture. Craving more.

One of the consulate’s staff slipped in quietly to clear the remains of their meal. The fire snapped and crackled, and Phoebe knew she should go. Even more importantly, she should want to go. Yet somehow she didn’t. Somehow she wanted to stay in this warm, comfortable room, with the fire casting leaping shadows along the panelled walls, and the glow of Leo’s smile starting a fire in her soul. In her body, too, for her throat still burned where he’d touched her all too briefly.

Stop it. Phoebe closed her eyes in private supplication. Please. Wanting Leo was such a bad idea. It would cloud her judgement, make her weak …

She had to think of what was best for Christian, not her own unsatisfied body. She had to keep them both safe.

Somewhere in the consulate a clock struck eight, low, sonorous chimes that reverberated through Phoebe and made her reluctantly stir. ‘I should go.’ Yet she didn’t move. ‘It’s late, and we can continue this discussion another day—’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Leo said, and he sounded genuinely regretful. ‘You see, the king is not very well at the moment and he wants to see Christian as soon as possible. We need to leave for Amarnes tomorrow.’ Phoebe’s mouth dropped open in soundless shock. Tomorrow …? ‘The arrangements have been made,’ Leo continued, ‘and I will fetch you and Christian at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.’

Her earlier stirrings of desire gave way to sheer outrage. ‘That’s impossible! I can’t arrange travel details so quickly. Christian is in school and I’m not even sure his passport is current—’

Leo shrugged. ‘Ring the school, and the passport is irrelevant. We will be travelling on a private jet, and—’ his smile glimmered briefly ‘—I think Customs will let him through, as a royal.’

As a royal. Phoebe wasn’t ready to process that statement or its frightening implications. She shook her head. ‘And what about my work?’

Leo’s expression didn’t even flicker. ‘Since you manage your own business, I’m quite certain you can arrange a leave of absence.’

‘I have orders to fill—’

‘And they can’t wait for two weeks?’ Leo raised his eyebrows. ‘Surely you have an assistant of some kind who can do what is necessary. If not, hire one and the Amarnesian government shall pay for it.’

‘Hire one by tomorrow morning?’ Phoebe demanded, and Leo simply shrugged again.

‘I do have an assistant,’ she admitted grudgingly, ‘but she’s part-time and I can hardly ask—’

‘Yes,’ Leo replied, his tone managing to be both friendly and implacable, ‘you can.’

Phoebe bit back yet another angry retort. She knew there was no point in arguing. Leo would meet each objection with that irritating indifference before reminding her once again of the royal family’s power and reach. She was beaten … for the moment.

‘Fine,’ she finally said, her teeth gritted, ‘but at the end of two weeks I’m returning home with Christian and I plan to never see any of you ever again.’ The words sounded petulant, she knew, and also a bit desperate. Could she guarantee such a thing?

Leo regarded her for a moment, his head tilted to one side, those amber eyes softened in what, once more, unsettlingly, looked like compassion. ‘Yes,’ he said, his voice carefully expressionless, ‘of course you are.’

The fire had died to a few embers in the grate, the moon a lonely silver sickle high above in the sky as Leo poured himself another brandy. Phoebe had left with Christian hours ago, and now he pictured her putting her little boy to bed in her apartment, sitting alone on the sofa, her knees drawn up to her chest as she contemplated her changed and uncertain future.

And she had no idea just how changed and uncertain it was. Leo smiled grimly. King Nicholas had not wanted Phoebe to come to Amarnes at all; he simply wanted the boy. Yet Leo knew that was an impossible task, and one he had no wish to perform. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—separate the boy from his mother, not when she was so obviously attached to him. He knew what that felt like, remembered his mother’s pale, stricken face as she left on the royal jet for her home country of Italy, while Leo, six years old and stoic, stood silently at the nursery window, trying not to cry.

From that moment his life had been consecrated to the crown, to serve it and yet never wear it. For the last six years he’d been considered the heir apparent, much to Nicholas’s fury. Leo knew Nicholas would rather have the monarchy crumble to nothing than have him as his successor, yet he had had no choice. And for the last six years Leo had been doing his damnedest to prove to Nicholas and to the people of Amarnes—to the whole world—that he was worthy of the crown.

‘Have you changed?’

Phoebe didn’t believe he had; she still saw him as a reckless playboy, cut from the same cloth as Anders. And perhaps he was. The old, familiar guilt, as corrosive as acid, roiled in his gut.

‘You don’t deserve it…you don’t deserve to be king.’

Yet he would be, deserving or not. He was his uncle’s only heir now, and nothing could change that. Anders’s abdication was absolute. So Leo would continue to serve his country and his sovereign, and do what was required of him … no matter what it meant for Phoebe.

He drained the last of his brandy and stood up, preparing for bed. He couldn’t afford to think about Phoebe, her feelings … or the way she’d felt when he touched her. For a moment he savoured the memory of the silkiness of her skin, how her grey eyes had darkened to slate, her lush body almost quivering with desire …

And he’d felt it too, a current running through him, hot and electric, needing an outlet. He still felt it now; his body was restless and unsated, yet Leo knew he would have to ignore it. Seducing Phoebe was not part of his plan. Couldn’t be.