Royal Christmas: Royal Love-Child, Forbidden Marriage

Leo’s face was utterly impassive. ‘Perhaps he will be satisfied,’ he said. ‘This might be no more than a passing fancy.’

‘And that should make me feel better, I suppose,’ Phoebe tossed back. ‘I’m sure Christian will be happy to have served his purpose and then be thrown away like rubbish!’

Annoyance flashed across Leo’s face like a streak of lightning. ‘You are being melodramatic. There is no reason why a two-week trip to a beautiful country should be nothing but a lovely holiday for both you and your son. You look exhausted,’ he continued bluntly, ‘and I’m sure you could use some relaxation.’

‘I’m hardly going to relax—’

‘You might try,’ Leo cut her off. ‘It would certainly make the trip more pleasant for you.’ His voice was sharp with impatience, and Phoebe knew he was done with her objections. Her fate, and her child’s, had been decided. And there wasn’t a single thing she could do about it.

She saw that now, starkly, understanding once again the kind of people—the kind of power—she was dealing with. She couldn’t face a royal family in the courts. She couldn’t face the tabloids and the paparazzi that would swarm over her little family like greedy vultures when they caught wind of this story.

‘Come, why don’t you eat?’ Leo said mildly, sitting down again. Phoebe shook her head.

‘Now I’ve really lost my appetite.’

‘Suit yourself. But just because you don’t like the state of affairs doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy yourself in the meantime.’

Phoebe glanced around the sumptuous room flickering with firelight, their decadent meal spread on the table. She thought of what she’d seen of Leo in the papers, years before, and wondered how many meals like this he’d enjoyed with the models and starlets he liked to have on his arm … and no doubt in his bed. A resentment she didn’t quite understand spiked her voice as she said, ‘Like you do, I suppose.’

There was a second’s hesitation before Leo shrugged and poured them both more wine, even though Phoebe’s glass was still mostly full. ‘Of course.’

Phoebe took a breath, opened her mouth and prepared for a fight. Yet suddenly, looking at the magnificently laid table and the remains of her delicious meal, she felt all the fight—all the anger and outrage and self-righteous fury—trickle out of her. Leo was right, even if she didn’t want him to be. She had to accept this. The problems her refusal could cause were too dire to consider.

Two weeks in Amarnes, and then they could return home, to the life she’d built for them both here in New York. Two weeks in Amarnes, and Christian could get to know his father’s side of the family. Perhaps she could even see the positive side of things, make it an adventure …

And in the meantime, she would eat and enjoy this meal. Resolutely she returned to the table and raised her wine glass to Leo in an ironic toast, earning her a faint smile. ‘Very well,’ she said stiffly. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers,’ Leo murmured, and they both drank in silence. Phoebe fought the temptation to drain her glass.

‘So,’ she said when they’d both finished drinking and she’d picked up her fork, toying with a bit of beef. ‘What’s happened in Amarnes these last six years?’

‘More of the same, really,’ Leo replied in a deliberate drawl. ‘Nothing much happens in these tiny little countries, you know, although we like to think it does.’

Phoebe choked back a surprised laugh. ‘I suppose Anders’s abdication was the news of the century, then.’

‘Just about.’

‘And it made you king.’

‘Heir,’ Leo corrected, his tone light although his expression had hardened. ‘King Nicholas is still alive, as far as I know.’

Phoebe took another sip of wine. ‘The Playboy Prince will become the Playboy King one day,’ she quipped a bit sardonically, and Leo’s mouth tightened, his eyes darkening to a deep umber. She wondered if she’d actually offended him. ‘Your reputation is well-known, you know. At least it was when I—’

‘Yes, I’m aware,’ he said in a bored voice. ‘Although in that regard, I suppose some things have changed in Amarnes.’

Phoebe regarded him curiously. Was he actually trying to say he’d changed? Yet he seemed so much the same—even as that thought took hold of her, another realisation swept through her. He had changed. Gone were the rumpled curls, as if he’d just risen from bed—from being with a lover. His hair was cut short, and more grey streaked his temples. And even though he’d treated her with the same lazy arrogance as he had six years ago, Phoebe sensed something new—something harder—in him now, a resolute sense of purpose that had been lacking before—or was she simply being fanciful? Imagining things, rewriting history, the man she’d known?

Except, Phoebe thought, she’d never really known Leo. She’d met him for ten minutes and read about him in the tabloids. That was all, and it occurred to her how very little it was. Now, suddenly—stupidly, perhaps—she found herself wondering just what kind of man he was. What kind of man he’d been, and then, more intriguingly, how he might have changed.

‘So what have you been doing, then?’ she finally asked. She took a bit of beef and chewed slowly, watching him. Swallowing, she continued. ‘How have you been keeping yourself?’

Leo shrugged. ‘A bit of this, a bit of that.’

‘That’s hardly an answer.’

‘I’m sure a more specific answer would bore you. Do you really want to know the monotonous details of royal duty?’

‘You’re not a playboy any more?’ Phoebe pressed.

Leo smiled, the sleepy, sensual smile Phoebe remembered, and as awareness coiled in her belly and raced through her veins she knew one thing that hadn’t changed: her response to him.

‘You know what they say. You can take the man out of the country, but you can’t—’

‘You mean,’ Phoebe cut him off, ‘you haven’t changed?’

Leo shrugged. ‘Judge for yourself. But …’ he leaned forward, his eyes glinting into hers ‘ … enough about the boring, sordid details of my own life. I want to know about you.’

Phoebe raised her brows, a strange, surprising smile lurking inside her, quirking her mouth. ‘Can something be sordid and boring?’

‘Most definitely.’ He dismissed the topic with a shrug of one powerful shoulder. ‘Now, I know a bit about how you’ve been keeping yourself—’

‘How?’

Leo smiled. ‘Phoebe, I always do my research.’

‘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.

Yet what was his plan? Leo mused. He would bring them both to Amarnes, even though Nicholas would be furious. Perhaps the old man would grow bored and let them go, as Phoebe so obviously hoped, yet Leo doubted it. And what would Phoebe do then? Leo rubbed his face tiredly. He had no answers, not yet, but at least he’d done his duty. He always did his duty. He was bringing the boy back, and Phoebe—for the moment at least—was proving to be biddable. The rest, he decided, would have to wait.

CHAPTER FIVE

PALE sunshine slanted through the gauzy curtains of Phoebe’s bedroom as she slowly swung her legs over the side of her bed and rested her head in her hands. It had only taken a second of consciousness for the comforting veil of sleep to be ripped away, replaced by the clamorous memories of last night.

Leo. Leo was here in New York, and would be coming to fetch them to take them to Amarnes in—she looked at the clock and felt a lurch of panic. In less than two hours. Quickly Phoebe rose from the bed, showered and dressed before Christian woke up and demanded his breakfast. She peeked in on Christian, and saw him sprawled across his sheets.

When she’d taken him home from the consulate he’d been bubbling over, fear so easily replaced by excitement. Phoebe had told him they were going to Amarnes for two weeks, preparing herself for questions, demands, even tears. But Christian’s eyes had simply widened and he’d breathed one word: ‘Cool.’ Five-year-olds, even ones as precocious as her son, were easily appeased.

She’d also had to break the news to her mother, Amelia, in Brooklyn. She’d called her mother after Christian was asleep, her heart aching slightly at the sound of her cheerful hello.

‘What’s up?’

‘A lot, actually,’ Phoebe had said, trying for a laugh, but her mother, as always, heard the concern and worry underneath.

‘Phoebe, what’s wrong?’

Phoebe knuckled her forehead and closed her eyes, fighting a sudden, overwhelming wave of weariness. ‘Two government agents from Amarnes showed up at my door a few hours ago.’

‘What?’ Her mother’s breath came out in a hiss of surprise. She knew everything about Phoebe’s hasty marriage to Anders; she’d been waiting at the airport with a hug and a smile when Phoebe arrived, weary and heart-sore, with a three-month-old Christian in her arms. ‘Why?’

Phoebe pressed her lips together before she said shortly, ‘Christian.’

Her mother was silent. ‘They don’t …’

‘No,’ Phoebe said quickly. ‘They don’t. And they won’t know if I can help it.’

‘Oh, Phoebe.’ Phoebe nearly buckled under her mother’s compassion. She was just about holding it together, making herself see this as the little adventure she’d promised Christian it was, but hearing the sorrow and worry in her mother’s tone made Phoebe want to cry and confess all her fears.

What if they want him? What if they keep him? What if there are custody battles and lawsuits and horrible things I can’t control? I’m so afraid.

She didn’t give voice to any of these questions, merely continued in a rather flat voice, ‘We’re leaving tomorrow for Amarnes.’

‘No—’

‘For two weeks,’ Phoebe clarified. ‘Apparently the king wants to see his grandson. And then we’ll come home.’

‘Phoebe, don’t give in to them. Once you’re in Amarnes you’ll have very few resources, very little power—’

‘I have no choice, Mom,’ Phoebe said. ‘They’re royal. They have millions. Billions, probably, and if it came to a court case—’

‘Will it?’ her mother asked quickly and Phoebe closed her eyes once more.

‘I hope not. I pray not. But … I don’t know.’ Her hand felt slippery around the receiver. ‘If I go willingly now, it might … help me later.’

‘Or not,’ Amelia said darkly and Phoebe blew out an exasperated sigh.

‘Then what should I do?’

‘I have a friend, a human-rights lawyer …’ Phoebe could hear her mother scrabbling for one of the many business cards she kept stuck on her fridge with colourful magnets.

‘Oh, Mom, I can’t afford a lawyer. Not for the kind of court case we’re talking about, and I don’t want to drag Christian through that anyway.’ Besides, she added silently, she doubted one of her mother’s hippie friends, leftovers from the flower-power days of the sixties, would give her much credibility in court. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, keeping her voice firm, ‘I’ve been thinking that Nicholas should see Christian anyway. I always felt the way they cut Anders out of their lives was so unfair, and I’d be a hypocrite to do the same thing with Christian.’

‘Phoebe, these people don’t deserve your sympathy—’

‘Perhaps not,’ Phoebe agreed, ‘but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be like them.’ Strong words, she knew. She only wished she felt as strong and certain inside.

After speaking to her mother, she’d called her assistant, Josie, who had been more than happy to take over the boutique for two weeks.

It was, Phoebe thought, all too easy to arrange, almost as if it were meant to be. And perhaps it was. If she simply clung to the belief that this was for merely two weeks, she could be generous. She could allow the king access to her son, she could forgive them all for being so cold-hearted and bloody-minded, she could accept that Leo was simply doing what he had to do …

Leo. And, Phoebe asked herself with uncomfortable shrewdness, did any of this have to do with Leo, with the wellspring of desire he’d plumbed in her, with the memory of his brief touch still burning up her senses? Was all this magnanimity simply because she wanted a chance to see Leo again?

He’s a playboy, a rake, a reprobate, Phoebe lectured herself, but the words bounced off her heart meaninglessly. She didn’t know what Leo was any more. And this trip to Amarnes gave her a chance to find out.

Now, as morning broke, the Washington Square Arch bathed in the pink light of dawn, Phoebe steeled herself for the day ahead. She’d packed quickly last night, throwing in most of their clothes as well as a few of Christian’s books and toys. She dressed simply in grey wool trousers and a pale pink sweater and tried to ignore the flutter of nerves—or was it actually excitement?—in her stomach.

The next hour passed in a flurry as Christian awoke and Phoebe rushed to get breakfast and pack last-minute things. Harassed and her hair half-brushed, Phoebe watched in dismay as a limousine with tinted windows pulled up to the apartment building, idling at the kerb. Her heart leapt into her throat as she watched Leo, dressed superbly in a dark suit, a wool trenchcoat over one arm, exit the car and press the bell.

Leo’s dark gaze swept over the apartment building with its crumbling steps and soot-stained walls. It was charming, he supposed, in a slightly run-down way. His lips twitched as he imagined teasing Phoebe about it, before he clamped down on that thought. He couldn’t afford it, couldn’t allow Phoebe to matter at all. It would only hurt them both in the end.

Leo pressed the bell again, impatience biting at him. He knew this had to be difficult for Phoebe, knew it was the last thing she wanted, and who could blame her? The royal family had spat her out six years ago and now they wanted to chew her back up. Hardly an enticing proposition, yet one she would have to accept, just as he had.

He pictured her then, not as he remembered her six years ago with her still childishly rounded face and college student’s clothes of torn jeans and a T-shirt, but the woman she’d become. The woman he’d seen yesterday, whose hair was still curly and dark, whose slight figure still possessed improbably lush curves. He thought of how her wide grey eyes sparked defiance—and an irrepressible desire—when she looked at him.