Shock Heir For The King

‘Indeed.’ He dipped his head forward and then, appealing to the sense of justice he knew ran through her passionate veins, ‘Will you come for dinner with me?’

Her refusal was imminent but he shook his head to forestall her. ‘To discuss our son. You must see how important that is?’

She was tense, her face rigid, her eyes untrusting. But finally she nodded. A tight shift of her head and an even tighter grimace of those cherry-stained lips. ‘Fine. But just a quick meal. I told Becky I’d be home by nine.’

‘Becky?’

‘My downstairs neighbour. She helps out with Leo when I’m working.’

He filed this detail away, and the image it created, of the mother of his child, the mother of the heir to the throne of Tolmirós, a child worth billions of euros, being minded by some random woman in the suburbs of New York.

‘A quick meal, then,’ he said, giving no indication he was second-guessing her child-minding arrangements.

‘Well?’ The owner of the gallery appeared from behind the desk, his eyes travelling from Frankie to Matthias. ‘Isn’t she talented?’

‘Exceptionally,’ Matthias agreed, and he’d always known that to be the case. ‘I will take all of the artworks against that wall.’ He gestured through the doorway, to the display that housed the portraits of his son.

‘You’ll what?’ Frankie startled as she looked up at him, though he couldn’t tell if she was surprised or annoyed.

He removed a card from his wallet. ‘If you call the number on this card, my valet will arrange payment and delivery.’ He nodded curtly and then put a hand in the small of Frankie’s back, guiding her towards the front door.

Shock, apparently, held her quiet. But once they emerged onto the Manhattan street, a sultry summer breeze warming the evening, she stopped walking, jerking out of his reach and spinning to face him.

‘Why did you do that?’

‘You think it strange that I should want paintings of my son?’

She bristled and he understood—she had yet to come to terms with the fact that he was also the boy’s parent, that she now had to share their son.

Not only that—he couldn’t have paintings of his child, the heir to his throne, for sale in some gallery in New York. It wasn’t how things were done.

‘No,’ she admitted grudgingly, and the emotion of this situation was taking its toll on her. The strength and defiance she carried in her eyes were draining from her. Wariness took their place.

‘Come on.’ He gestured towards the jet-black SUV that was parked in front of the gallery. Darkly tinted windows concealed his driver and security detail from sight but, as they approached, Zeno stepped out, opening the rear doors with a low bow.

Frankie caught it, her eyes narrowing at the gesture of deference. It was so much a part of Matthias’s day that he barely noticed the respect with which he was treated. Seeing it through Frankie’s eyes though, he understood. It was confronting and unusual.

‘You know, I never even had your surname,’ she murmured as she slid into the white leather interior of the car—her skin was so pale now it matched the seats.

There was so much he wanted to ask about that. Would she have given their child his name if she’d known it? The idea of his son being raised as anything other than a Vasilliás filled him with a dark frustration.

He wanted to ask her this, and so much more, but not even in front of his most trusted servants would he yet broach the subject of his heir.

With a single finger lifted to his mouth, he signalled silence and then settled back into the car himself, brooding over this turn of events and what they would mean for the marriage he had intended to make.

* * *

‘I presumed you meant dinner at a restaurant,’ she said as the car pulled up to a steel monolith on United Nations Plaza. The drive had been conducted in absolute silence, except for when the car drew to a stop and he’d spoken to his driver in that language of his, all husky and deep, so her pulse had fired up and her stomach had churned and feelings that deserved to stay buried deep in the past flashed in her gut, making her nerve-endings quiver and her pulse fire chaotically against the fine walls of her veins.

‘Restaurants are not private enough.’

‘You can’t speak quietly in a restaurant?’

‘Believe me, Frankie, this is better.’ His look was loaded with intensity and there was a plea in the depth of his gaze as well, begging her to simply agree with him on this occasion. There was a part of her, a childish, silly part, that wanted to refuse—to tell him it didn’t suit her. He’d disappeared into thin air and she’d tried so hard to find him, to tell him he was a father. And now? Everything was on his terms. She wanted to rebel against that, but loyalty to their son kept her quiet. All along, she’d wanted what was best for Leo. She’d spent all her life feeling rejected and unwanted by her biological parents, and she had wept for any idea that Leo might feel the same! That Leo might grow up believing his father hadn’t wanted him.

‘Fine,’ she agreed heavily. ‘But I really can’t stay long.’

‘This is not a conversation to be rushed.’ He stepped out of the car and she followed. He placed a hand on her elbow, guiding her through the building’s sliding glass doors. The lifts were waiting, a security guard to one side.

She hadn’t noticed this degree of staff with him back then. There hadn’t been anyone except a driver, and she’d never really questioned that. It was obvious that he had money—but this was a whole new degree of wealth.

‘Have you had some kind of death threat or something?’ she muttered as the doors of the lift snapped closed behind them.

The look he sent her was half-rueful, half-impatient; he said nothing. But when the lift doors opened into the foyer of what could only be described as a sky palace, he urged her into the space and then held a hand up to still the guard.

More words, spoken in his own tongue, and then the guard bowed low and slipped back into the lift, leaving them alone.

She swallowed at that thought—being alone with him—distracting herself by studying the over-the-top luxury of this penthouse. It wasn’t just the polished timber floors, double height ceilings, expensive designer furnishings and crystal chandeliers that created the impression of total glamour. It was the views of the Manhattan skyline—the Chrysler Building, the Empire State, Central Park—it all spread before her like a pop-up book of New York city.

Large sliding glass doors opened out onto a deck, beyond which there was a pool, set against a glass rail. She imagined swimming in it would feel a little like floating, high above the city.

The contrasts between her own modest apartment in Queens and this insanely beautiful penthouse were too ridiculous to enumerate.

‘Matt,’ she sighed, turning to face him, not even sure what she wanted to say. He was watching her with a look of dark concentration.

‘My name,’ he said quietly, ‘is Matthias Vasilliás.’

It was perfect for this man—as soon as he gave her the full version of his name it resonated inside her, like the banging of a drum. Matt was too pedestrian for someone like him. He was exotic and unusual.

‘Fine.’ She nodded curtly, pleased when the word sounded vaguely dismissive. ‘Matthias.’

At this, his eyes flashed with something she couldn’t comprehend. ‘You have not heard of me?’

Something like an alarm bell began to ring inside Frankie’s mind. ‘Should I have?’

His lips twisted in a sardonic smile. ‘No.’

But it sounded like judgement rather than offence, and she bristled. ‘So? What gives?’ Her frown deepened. ‘What’s with all the security?’

He sighed heavily. ‘This is a light protection detail.’ He shrugged. ‘At home, there are many more guards.’

‘Why? I don’t get it. Are you some kind of celebrity or something?’

‘You could say that.’

He moved into the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of wine. Her stomach rolled at the memories of the wine they’d shared that night—only a few sips, but it had been the nicest she’d ever tasted. He poured her a glass and walked around to her; she took it on autopilot.

‘What’s going on, Matt—Matthias?’

His eyes narrowed and she wondered if the sound of his full name on her lips was as strange for him as it was for her. Matt had suited him, but Matthias suited him better. She liked the taste of those exotic syllables on the tip of her tongue.

‘My family was killed in an accident many years ago. When I was a boy of fifteen.’ He spoke matter-of-factly, so it was impossible for Frankie to know how those deaths had affected him. She could imagine, though.

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured crisply, wishing she didn’t feel sympathy for him. Wishing she didn’t feel anything for him.

His lips twisted in acknowledgement. ‘It was a long time ago.’

‘I’m sure it still hurts.’

‘I have become used to being alone.’ He brushed her concern aside. ‘My father’s brother took on many of the responsibilities of my father. At fifteen, I was too young.’

‘What responsibilities?’ she asked.

‘Shortly after their deaths, it was decided that on my thirtieth birthday I would assume my role.’ He pinpointed her with his gaze, but he was obviously back in time, reflecting on the past. ‘One week before I turned thirty, I met you. I was only in New York for the weekend. One of my last chances to travel as myself, without this degree of...company.’ His expression shifted.

‘What did your parents do?’

But this wasn’t a conversation with questions and answers. It was a monologue. An unburdening of himself, and it was an explanation she’d wanted for such a long time that she didn’t even particularly mind.

‘I shouldn’t have got involved with you, but you were so... I cannot explain it. I saw you, and I wanted you.’ He stared at her, his eyes glinting like steel, and her heart was ice in her chest. It had been that simple for him. He’d seen her. He’d wanted her. And so he’d had her.

‘I knew it would only ever be a brief affair.’

Her throat constricted with those words, damning what they’d been to such a cynical seduction. ‘Yet you did it anyway?’

He was quiet.

‘Did you think about how I’d feel?’

‘No.’ He swept his eyes shut. ‘I told myself you were just like me—looking for a weekend of pleasure. Casual, easy sex.’

‘I think the term “casual sex” is oxymoronic,’ she said stiffly, turning away from him so she didn’t see the way his expression shifted, the way a fierce blade of possession pressed into him.

‘If I had known you were a virgin...’

‘I didn’t lie to you intentionally,’ she muttered. ‘I just got caught up in how I felt. It was all so overwhelming.’

He dipped his head forward in silent concession. ‘It is in the past,’ he said. ‘What I’m interested in dealing with is our future.’

And here it was. The custody discussion she’d been dreading. And as the days had turned into months and her status as a single mother had been firmly established, she’d come to accept that it was a conversation she’d never need to have. Now, though, faced with the father of her baby, she had no interest in denying him his right to see their child. To be a part of his life. Even when his admission that he’d gone into their affair expecting it to be ‘casual sex’ had cut her deep inside.

‘After I left you, I went back to Tolmirós and took up the position that was my birthright.’

She frowned. ‘Just what kind of family business are you in?’

His smile was more like a grimace. ‘It is not a business, Frankie. My name is Matthias Vasilliás and I am the King of Tolmirós.’