Kitabı oku: «The Royal Wedding Collection», sayfa 12

CHAPTER THREE

NUMBLY Abby stared at Caelan, reading his ruthless will in his face, in the uncompromising authority of his tone. Anger was defeated by desolation; she didn’t dare trust him, but what other choice did she have?

Impatiently the prince broke into her racing thoughts. ‘I’m offering you a chance to stay in Michael’s life. Turn it down and I won’t give you another.’

‘You can’t do that,’ she croaked. ‘I’ve looked after him since he was a baby. Any court in New Zealand would grant me custody—’

‘It is a remote possibility,’ he conceded crisply. ‘But would the justice system also protect him from any criminal who might see him as money in the bank?’

He paused to let that sink in. Her powerlessness burned like fire inside her, eating away at her will-power and courage. ‘I can’t believe that that sort of thing would happen here.’

‘He won’t always be in New Zealand. I have to travel; he’ll come with me.’

‘But—’

‘I thought you despised my father for allowing Gemma to be banished to her nursery?’

Pain sliced through her. ‘I—yes.’

With cool dispassion, Caelan inclined his black head. ‘The simplest way to deal with this is for you both to come to live with me.’

Stunned, unable to believe that she’d heard him correctly, she stared at him. ‘I don’t want to live with you and I’m certain you don’t want me anywhere around you.’

‘True, but I’m a pragmatic man.’ His voice was textured by unfaltering confidence. ‘It’s not negotiable, Abby. That is, if you want to be with Michael.’

Pride brought up her chin, veiled her eyes with thick lashes to hide the bleak shock of his blunt statement. Fighting to salvage what she could from her surrender, she said, ‘We don’t need to share a house. We—Michael and I—could live in Auckland, and I wouldn’t deny you access to him. Michael needs a man in his life.’

The prince surveyed her with a narrow smile. ‘How do I know you won’t pack your bags and sneak off?’

‘If I gave you my word—’

‘Why should I trust you?’

The words rang in her ears like iron on stone, cold and hard and relentless. Thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets he sauntered over to the window and looked out at the night. Against the pale luminosity of starshine he was a lean, dominant silhouette.

Abby dragged in a slow, difficult breath, aching with a sense of loss, of defeat and pain, with the knowledge of wasted years that were gone for ever and a future that would never happen. She had no other choice; losing Michael would tear her heart to shreds, and for his sake she had to endure whatever this cold, judgmental aristocrat decided to dish out.

Over his shoulder, he said, ‘You’ve got ten seconds to make up your mind.’

Anger revived her, giving her a spurious energy that helped her say woodenly, ‘It won’t work.’

‘Don’t look at me with those huge, horrified eyes,’ he said, his negligent tone as much an insult as his careless survey of her. ‘You’ll be quite safe.’

Colour burned up through her skin. He thought she was afraid for her virtue, and his tone made it clear that she didn’t attract him in the least. Humiliated, she snapped, ‘I suppose if we move into your house you’ll insist on a nanny, and after Michael’s got accustomed to her you’ll force me to leave.’

‘You sound like an actor in a Victorian melodrama. There won’t be a nanny unless you want one.’ Mockery laced his voice as he turned and examined her, his smile as lethal as a sword-blade. When she remained silent he added, ‘I assume you do want the best for Michael?’

‘You know I do,’ she whispered, frightened by the forbidden excitement that gripped her. ‘But not if it means living in the same house as you.’

He shrugged negligently, obviously not in the least affected by her swift, harsh rejection. ‘But you’ll do it—for his sake.’ He watched her white face with cruel detachment. ‘We’ll make it legal with a cast-iron contract, and if you behave yourself and concentrate on Michael’s welfare, there’ll even be a cut-off date—say, when he finishes secondary education. In return I’ll pay an allowance that will keep you in clothes that suit you and let you grow out your hair. Dying it must have been the ultimate sacrifice.’

‘It didn’t worry me in the least,’ she said flatly.

Clearly he didn’t believe her, because her words produced another cold, enigmatic smile. ‘Hard to believe, Abby. And you might as well take off those spectacles too. I know they’re not necessary.’

Slowly Abby removed the rimless frames, blinking as the light burned into her eyes. She felt stripped of everything she’d tried to hide, nakedly exposed to Caelan Bagaton’s hard, penetrating gaze.

He said tersely, ‘Gemma might have been right when she told you that I don’t do love well, but I do understand how to protect my own. Although I failed to save Gemma, I can make sure that her son doesn’t die before his time.’

Abby hesitated, but something about his tone in the final sentence made her say with quiet intensity, ‘No one could have saved Gemma, not even you. The cyclone wasn’t supposed to come anywhere near Palaweyo, but at the last moment it turned and roared down on us out of a cloudless sky. We didn’t have time to get out—in fact, we only just had time to gather everyone in the hospital. Gemma wouldn’t want you to feel that you’d failed her.’

‘She died before her time; that sounds like failure to me. So what’s your decision?’ His voice was icily detached. ‘I don’t intend to spend all night in this cold, musty room while you dither. Either accept my terms and live in my house with Michael, or forget about him and get on with your life.’

In an agony of indecision, Abby bit her lip. Chilly air seeped across her skin, and the soft noises of the old cottage settling down for the night, usually familiar and comforting, had become tinged with menace.

With the prince’s harsh words echoing in her ears, she accepted she had no choice. While surrender was bitter, accepting his ultimatum would afford Michael more security than she could ever offer him.

From behind her Caelan said in a voice edged with cynicism, ‘After all, it’s a win/win situation. I get my nephew. Michael will be with the only mother he knows. And you can emerge from the melodramatic shadows you’ve been skulking in, wash the dye out of your hair and buy a whole new wardrobe in the right colours. The Abby I remember dressed to play up her hair and eyes and skin, but the outfit you’re wearing now makes you look as though you’ve got acute jaundice.’

That stung, even though her clothes had been carefully selected to strip the colour from her skin. Bought from the cheapest racks, they couldn’t have been more different from the tailored trousers that showed off Caelan’s long, heavily muscled legs, or the jersey he wore, its lustrous shine revealing that it was made from merino wool.

‘And what’s in it for you?’ she asked bluntly.

He gave her an ironic glance. ‘The knowledge that my nephew isn’t hungry and has the position and all the advantages he deserves. Most of all, the knowledge that he’s safe.’

Nothing about love there! According to Gemma and the newspapers, Caelan was the consummate sophisticate; he’d soon get bored with the antics of a three-year-old.

Her heart clenched painfully. Even if he couldn’t be the sort of father a child needed, she’d be there to provide love and understanding for Michael, and to fight for him whenever it became necessary.

Yet self-protection forced her to search for a less dangerous compromise. ‘I still think it would be easier for us all if Michael and I had our own place. You could see him whenever you want to.’

But even as she said the words she knew they weren’t going to change Caelan’s mind.

‘You’ll live with me, so I can keep a close watch on you. From now on, wherever Michael goes, either I—or someone I employ—will be half a step behind.’ He spoke with the cold, raw impact of a punch in the face, his tone implacable.

‘All right,’ she said at last, the acrid taste of defeat in her mouth. She had no room to manoeuvre, and he knew it. Apprehension shivered through her, setting her nerves jumping.

‘Then let’s go,’ he said without expression. ‘Do you want me to carry the child out to the car?’

‘No,’ she said too quickly.

Ignoring her, he strode out of the room and opened the front door, giving crisp, low-voiced orders to whoever had driven the car up to the cottage.

Abby walked back into Michael’s room, but once there she fixed her gaze painfully on his beloved face. Even when Caelan came back in she didn’t move.

He interrupted her darting thoughts with an impatient command. ‘Forget the past—it’s not relevant—and think of Michael’s well-being; at the moment he needs both of us—me for the security which, believe it or not, Gemma would have considered to be just as important as the love you dispense.’ After a tense pause he drawled, ‘Or is it too big a sacrifice for you to make for him?’

‘Damn you,’ she whispered, torn on the rack of her ambivalence, disillusion and pain warring with the ignominy of her own helplessness.

A sobbing sigh from the bed broke the thick web of tension between them. Nerves taut and brittle as spun toffee, she sat down on the edge when Michael rubbed his eyes and began to hiccup.

‘Hush, darling, it’s all right,’ she crooned, lifting his solid, warm body against her. ‘Did you have a bad dream?’

He murmured something and clung, cuddling into her, so utterly dear that her heart clenched in a tight, hard ball.

Abby kissed his tousled hair and pressed her cheek against it, looking across to where Caelan stood.

Michael must have sensed that someone else was in the room too; he turned his head, his eyes growing larger as he examined Caelan. Sobs dying, he said, ‘Abby?’

‘Hello, Michael, I’m your Uncle Caelan, and you’re coming to live with me.’ Caelan’s voice was deep and cool and utterly confident.

His nephew stared at him, clutching Abby tighter. ‘And Abby too?’ he said uncertainly.

Caelan looked at Abby. ‘Tell him,’ he commanded.

She dragged in a deep breath, praying fiercely that this was the right thing for Michael. ‘Of course, darling,’ she said simply. ‘You know I’ll always be with you.’

Michael looked up at her, brows drawing together in a frown that reminded her eerily of the man with them.

‘Give him to me,’ Caelan ordered.

When she hesitated, he said curtly, ‘I’m not a monster, Abby.’

But she handed Michael over with huge reluctance. Carrying the small boy easily, his uncle strode out of the room; swiftly Abby scooped up blankets and Michael’s stuffed elephant and the fire engine she’d made of wooden blocks and followed, panting slightly by the time she reached the big, waiting car.

Caelan was stooping, his voice level and reassuring as he lowered Michael into a child seat in the back. Another man stood some distance away—possibly the one who’d kept her under surveillance. A sudden shiver of foreboding tightened her skin.

She didn’t understand power at all, whereas Caelan Bagaton reeked of it. Very little of that inherent authority came from the title he rarely used and his heritage; if he’d been born plain Caelan Smith he’d have made his way in the world. He was a winner.

As soon as the restraints on the car seat were clipped home Michael peered anxiously at Abby, who hovered in the crisp air.

‘Sit beside him,’ Caelan ordered, straightening up so that she could drape the blankets around the child. ‘Give me your car keys first—’

‘Why?’

‘I assume the bag on the sofa isn’t the sum total of your belongings?’

‘No, but—’

He frowned, explaining with surprising patience, ‘We’ll transfer the rest of your luggage from your car to this one. Then someone will drive yours to Auckland.’

Feeling foolish, she muttered, ‘I was going to sell it in Christchurch,’ and rooted for the keys in her bag. She dropped them into his outstretched hand, noting that he wasn’t looking at her; his gaze was fixed on Michael.

She took Michael’s warm little hand and coaxed, ‘Go back to sleep, darling.’

Caelan stepped back and turned away. As she got in beside Michael and tucked the blankets around him more securely she was aware of the prince’s deep voice giving concise orders. The boot was opened, the bags put in and it slammed shut again, before the silence was punctuated by the sound of her car door closing. Its engine coughed into life and headlights probed the darkness as it turned down the drive in front of them.

Caelan slid in behind the wheel of the hire car. Turning so that he could see her, he said negligently, ‘Try to stay awake until we get to Queenstown. You can sleep on the plane; there’s a bed in it as well as a cot for Michael.’

In the dark cocoon that was the interior of the car she thought his eyes lingered on her face for a second before he turned back and the engine purred into life.

Hot blood stung her skin. What had she done, letting herself be ambushed and captured like this? The prince took no prisoners; what did he have in mind for her?

A tiredness more than physical, a weariness of the spirit, chilled her from the bones out. While Michael slid back into the sleep of the very young and secure, she stayed wide-eyed and tense until the luxurious car drove into the airport at Queenstown.

But he didn’t drive towards the darkened terminal building. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

‘There’s a private plane waiting on the runway.’

Well, of course, she thought wearily. As well as being cousin to the ruler of a principality, Caelan Bagaton was a tycoon, a billionaire, rich enough to afford his own country as well as a private jet.

Oh, you fool, she thought painfully, you’re so far out of your depth here you might as well drown now and get it over and done with.

They’d met when Gemma had almost run her over in one of Auckland’s summer storms, and, although her car was a miracle of design that Abby knew she’d never be able to aspire to, Gemma had insisted on taking her home.

Their friendship had ripened rapidly; they’d gone clubbing together and spent other nights talking and listening to music; Gemma had invited her up to the beach house, although she had said, ‘But Caelan won’t be there.’

Abby’s brows shot up. ‘So?’

‘Oh, just that quite a few of the girls I know try to use me to get to him. And even my friends fall in love with him and then get their hearts broken. He’s a big, bad wolf, my brother.’

Well, he’d turned up at the beach, and Abby had found out for herself the truth of that assessment! Fortunately her year abroad working for a volunteer organisation was due to start the week after, so she hadn’t had time to brood about Gemma’s fabulous, arrogant, incredibly sexy brother.

When she’d left for the Pacific Gemma had wept a little and promised to visit. Abby hadn’t expected her to; Palaweyo was a poor atoll, only the bounty of its huge lagoon saving it from third-world status, and few tourists came within a thousand miles. But months later Gemma had arrived, tense and oddly desperate, and during the long hot nights she’d confided a few details of her passionate affair with a gangly, laconic Australian mountain-climber, and his heroic death. Before she’d had time to grieve, she’d discovered that she was pregnant.

Eerily, as though he could read her thoughts, Caelan said, ‘I believe Michael’s father was another Michael—Moncrieff, the mountaineer who died rescuing stranded climbers on Mount Everest.’

Stunned, Abby swallowed. ‘Yes,’ she said thinly.

‘A decent man, but not her usual sort. Didn’t it occur to you that his relatives might have wanted to have contact with their grandchild?’

‘Gemma said he had none; he’d grown up in care.’

Something about Caelan’s nod made her realise that he knew this. Of course he’d have had Gemma’s lover investigated. Suddenly loathing him and everything he stood for, she finished curtly, ‘Gemma said he was genuine gold all through.’

Surprisingly Caelan didn’t dig further. ‘Why does Michael call you Abby? It would have been less obvious if he’d called you his mother.’

‘But I’m not his mother,’ she said quietly. ‘He knows his parents are dead. He doesn’t know what that means, of course, but he’s entitled to know who he is.’

‘But not about his mother’s family.’

The lash of his sarcasm flicked across her skin like a whip; she was glad when he eased the car to a stop beside the sleek executive plane.

Once in the aircraft, with Michael asleep in the luxurious bedroom, and the prince going through papers in a leather-upholstered armchair that somehow didn’t look incongruous with a seat belt, Abby stared through a window until the sky began to turn grey towards the east. Thoughts churned in her mind, going over and over old ground while she tried to work out how she could have avoided this.

In the end she gave up; against the prince’s iron-clad determination she had no defence.

The stark volcanic landscape of the central North Island unrolled beneath the plane as the sun tinted the distant clouds a radiant pink that swiftly turned to gold.

Foolish to let an everyday miracle lift her heart, yet she wondered if the sunrise was some sort of omen, a pointer of hope. Perhaps she and the prince could work together for Michael’s sake; perhaps Caelan could find it in his cold heart to learn to love a small child.

And perhaps not, she thought grimly, but staying with Michael was all she asked at the moment.

As though her thoughts had woken him, she saw Michael peep cautiously through the door of the bedroom. He beamed at her before turning to examine his uncle.

Caelan had noticed, of course; he put his papers down and said, ‘Good morning, Michael.’

For a moment Michael looked apprehensive, but he was a friendly child and he essayed a tentative grin. Abby’s breath locked in her throat; she watched the formidable assurance of Caelan’s expression relax into a rare, compelling smile.

Deep inside her something twisted, and a pang of excitement—hot and feverish and piercing—seized her so fiercely she almost gasped under its impact.

‘Do you want to go to the bathroom?’ his uncle asked.

Michael thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes. With Abby.’

‘Of course.’ An ice-blue, enigmatic gaze roamed Abby’s face. ‘When you’ve finished, breakfast will be ready.’

Eyes wide and incredulous, Michael stared around the plane and demanded, ‘Where are we, Abby?’

‘We’re in an aeroplane, darling, up in the sky.’ Warily conscious of Caelan’s presence, Abby tried to resurrect her brisk common sense. ‘When you’ve been to the bathroom you can look out of the window and you’ll see the sea a long way underneath us.’

Bubbling with excitement, Michael shot questions at her on the way to the bathroom and all the way back, falling silent only when he at last saw the sea, a gleaming bow against the craggy bulk of the land.

Caelan said, ‘Everything you packed into your car is on the plane; I thought it best for him to have as many familiar things around him as possible.’

‘Thank you,’ she said in a stilted voice.

‘It was nothing.’

And indeed, for him, it wasn’t. All he had to do was command, and people hurried to do his bidding. Travelling with the prince was nothing like the normal hassle; leg-room wasn’t a problem and luggage didn’t need to be monitored. Money made things easy in so many ways, and of course his heritage meant that he took such things for granted.

But he had considered Michael’s feelings; it seemed a good omen. Fortified by that hopeful thought, Abby leaned back in the seat, remembering how startled she’d been when she’d discovered that he and Gemma were distant cousins of the ruler of Dacia.

Gemma had said, ‘One of these days I’ll take you to see the crown jewels there. They’re a magnificent collection of the world’s most perfect emeralds.’ She’d peered into Abby’s face and then sat back, pronouncing, ‘In fact, some are exactly the same colour as your eyes. And you’d like the Bagaton cousins. The men are totally, over-the-top gorgeous, and there’s a Kiwi connection too. Several—including Prince Luka, the reigning monarch—have married New Zealanders.’

Don’t go there! Abby commanded, relieved when Caelan interrupted her memories.

‘If you agree, your car can be sold today.’

Her lips tightened. Resentment at being taken over, forced into a situation she couldn’t escape, scraped across her nerves. ‘I suppose so,’ she said colourlessly.

‘Yes or no?’

‘Yes,’ she said between her teeth, and leaned away to point out another, smaller plane beneath them to Michael.

Who crowed with delight before turning a radiant face to the prince to shout, ‘Uncle Caelan, look!’

Caelan got to his feet and bent over them to look through the window; Abby caught a faint, masculine scent, and a merciless sexual awareness dazzled her. Her body tightened and her head swam.

Fortunately he straightened up almost immediately, looking down at her with burnished silver-blue eyes, unreadable and hard. ‘Breakfast should be ready. I’ll go and see.’

Her breath hissed out as he walked to the back of the plane, his lithe gait a challenge in itself. No wonder he turned up frequently in the gossip columns; he packed a powerful physical charge that overrode all the cautious warnings of her mind.

But at least Gemma had told her what he was—utterly intolerant, quick to judge and incapable of trust. And she’d found out for herself that he was able to effortlessly control his sexual appetite.

It took all of her powers of persuasion to coax Michael back into his seat and buckle him in; his vigorous objections were only halted by the appearance of a middle-aged stewardess carrying a tray. Entranced by this, and the promise of fruit to follow, he settled down to demolish a boiled egg with his usual gusto.

Too strung-up to eat, Abby refused anything apart from a cup of coffee. But it arrived accompanied by thin, crisp toast and several little pots containing a variety of spreads.

‘Mr Bagaton said you should have something,’ the stewardess explained with a smile.

Abby quelled a frisson of foolish pleasure. His thoughtfulness warmed some small part of her she’d thought permanently frozen.

She looked up as he came back down the aisle, an inchoate smile freezing on her lips when she met a long, watchful inspection that made her acutely aware of the signs of her sleepless night in her face—shadowed eyes, pale skin, and hair like string. Even after combing, it looked the way she’d wanted it to—dull, mousy, boring.

And she didn’t—couldn’t—allow herself to care what Caelan Bagaton thought of her. Her lips straightened and defiance glittered beneath her lashes as she lifted the coffee-cup to her lips.

No matter what it took, she had to kill this painful awareness, so intense it had only taken one glance at him to roar into life. In spite of its power and primal force it was meaningless.

Yet, oh, so dangerous.

Caelan transferred his attention to Michael, his mouth curving. ‘Are you enjoying your breakfast?’

Trying to ignore the painful twist to her heart, Abby thought cynically that that smile had to be one of the world’s great weapons. Michael was no more able to resist it than she was.

A wide grin split Michael’s face. ‘I had a negg.’

‘Was it good?’ Caelan lowered his big frame to his seat.

‘Yes. And some peaches,’ Michael informed him gleefully, and went back to emptying his plate.

But once the tray had been cleared, he began to find the confinement of the seat belt irritating. Abby changed places with him so he could again see out of the window. Obediently he gazed at the lush green countryside that had replaced the stark central plateau beneath, but his interest didn’t last long.

Caelan got to his feet, opened the overhead locker and took down the bag she’d packed for just such a moment, but Michael resisted all his favourites with every appearance of loathing.

Not now, she thought wearily. It was too much to expect him to accept the huge change of circumstances without any response, but it would be so much easier if he’d kept the inevitable reaction for later.

Preferably after she’d had a good night’s sleep, and with the prince well out of the way!