The Royal Wedding Collection

CHAPTER FIVE

ABBY’S jaw dropped. ‘We—what?’ she said faintly, her brain empty of anything but shock. Blinking fiercely to stop Caelan’s dark, sardonic face wavering in front of her dazed eyes, she croaked, ‘What did you say?’

‘You heard.’ The cynical amusement in his tone rubbed her nerves raw. ‘It’s the most sensible thing to do.’

Stunned, Abby stared at him, her emotions spinning in endless free fall. ‘The most sensible thing to do?’ she parroted, sounding both feeble and incredulous, heart thudding sickly as though she stood on the brink of a precipice.

‘For Michael,’ Caelan agreed courteously, although the amusement in his voice rubbed her pride raw. ‘For everyone, in fact.’

Her teeth snapped shut on an unwise retort. Disgusted with the treacherous heat that surged through her, she dragged in a jagged breath. ‘I’d sacrifice a lot for Michael,’ she said, her voice a brittle thread in the silence, ‘but I won’t marry you for him. The idea is outrageous.’

‘Only if you view it emotionally.’ His deep voice was so completely empty of feeling that she shivered.

‘Any way you view it.’

He shrugged, every angle and plane of his hard face radiating tough self-assurance. ‘Michael is a Bagaton. I want his status regularised. Gemma was proud of her heritage—she’d want it too.’

Abby bit her lip. Oh, he knew where to aim his arrows!

Before she could formulate the objections buzzing around her brain Caelan said, ‘I’ve taken legal opinion on this. The simplest way to achieve his correct surname is for us to marry.’

Suspiciously she asked, ‘That’s all?’

‘Not quite. We then apply to adopt him.’

‘Surely you do the applying,’ she returned swiftly, her suspicion growing. ‘He’s already registered as my son.’

‘That doesn’t count. As the law in New Zealand stands, both of us need to adopt him.’ When she was silent he said indifferently, ‘I’ll find a decent lawyer for you to consult if you don’t believe me.’

Almost she said that it didn’t matter, but perhaps that was the reaction he was hoping for. ‘That’s an excellent idea,’ she said tonelessly.

‘We’ll need to convince the welfare authorities that we’ll be good parents, but I doubt there’ll be any difficulty about that. Naturally the main criterion will be a solid, loving home life for him.’ He paused, before adding deliberately, ‘Once the adoptions are formalised, you won’t have to face the prospect of losing him, and I won’t worry about him ending up in the clutches of the social welfare system.’

Abby flashed a swift, startled glance at him. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘There’s the small matter of you claiming him as your child. As you acknowledged, forging documents can earn you a prison offence.’

She went white. ‘Are you threatening me?’

‘No.’ He went on in a pragmatic tone that iced her blood. ‘But any writer ferreting around in Palaweyo is almost certain to discover that Michael is Gemma’s child, so your actions could come to the notice of the authorities in New Zealand. The sooner we get married and set the wheels in motion for adoption, the better, because an adoption can’t be negated.’

Trying to think clearly, Abby said numbly, ‘I—yes, I see.’ Shattered, she dragged breath into her compressed lungs. ‘You’re sure of all this?’

His eyes met hers, cold, completely level, utterly convincing. ‘Yes.’

Oddly enough she believed him. She pushed a shaky hand through her hair and wondered how he could sound so casual when he was suggesting such a complete disruption to his life. And hers.

The thought of being married to him made her quake inside. She’d tried so hard to do what Gemma had asked, and it seemed it was all for nothing—but at least this way she’d be there to look after Michael.

If she didn’t end up in prison.

Even if that happened, she thought painfully, there were worse things than being looked after by a nanny—being lost in the welfare system, for one, as Caelan had pointed out.

The silence grew, backgrounded by the slow hum of traffic and music drifting up from somewhere in the hotel. Slow, moody, erotically charged, it brushed across her skin, tightening it and alerting her senses to the overpoweringly male presence of the man watching her.

In the end she said wearily, ‘If it safeguards Michael then I’ll—I’ll marry you.’

The prince didn’t gloat. Instead he said, ‘I’ll ring my cousin tonight.’

She stared blankly at him. ‘What?’

One black brow rose. ‘My cousin Luka rules Dacia. We’ll be married there.’

‘In Dacia?’ she said foolishly, panic surging up to kick her in the stomach. ‘Surely a quiet private wedding here…’ Her voice trailed away.

‘We’ll do that before we leave for Dacia so that we can set the adoption in motion immediately.’

She pushed a shaking hand across her forehead. ‘Two marriages?’ she said thinly. ‘It seems overkill.’

‘For Michael’s sake we need to make a statement to the world.’ His face hardened when her lips formed a silent negative. Ruthlessly overriding her objections he stated, ‘It’s a family tradition to marry in Dacia, and, looked at from a purely practical point of view, my cousin can control the media there. My family will want to meet you, and there will be a series of celebrations. The Dacians are a warm-hearted people, and they enjoy weddings.’

Desperately she broke in. ‘I can cope with this—with anything—in New Zealand, but I’m not the sort of person you should marry, and you know it. I’d be out of my element with your relatives, and they’d have every right to wonder what on earth you’re doing bringing me into the family.’

‘They wouldn’t dare,’ he said forcefully. ‘Anyway, that’s not their style. You’re not out of your element with me, are you?’

Oh, if only he knew! She flung the truth at him. ‘Of course I am!’

His eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘Rubbish. And you dealt with Gemma. If you can cope with us, you can cope with anyone else you might meet.’

Abby picked up her glass and took a large sip of wine. ‘This is just a nightmare, right?’ she said hopefully when she could speak again. ‘We’re really going to get married quietly at the beach house with two witnesses, and I’ll never have to meet any of your family.’

He gave a swift mirthless smile. ‘The beach house part, yes—three days from now, in fact. The family—you don’t know the Bagatons if you think they’ll be content to ignore my marriage.’

Turmoil churned inside her, a mixture of scared apprehension salted with a hot excitement she despised. She swivelled away and stared out across the harbour. High above them a thin moon curled against the depthless sky; Rangitoto loomed to the east, still and dark and silent, as though it had never filled the sky with fire. If she turned her head she could see a number of other small dark hills, their conical shapes all proclaiming their violent origins.

She said on a long, harsh sigh, ‘That’s the point, surely? I don’t know the Bagatons—in fact, apart from you and Gemma, I’ve never met anyone with a drop of royal blood.’

‘You’re almost certainly wrong there,’ he said, more cool amusement grating across her nerves like emery paper. ‘It’s far more common than you think. You probably have more than a drop yourself.’

‘If so, it’s from the wrong side of the blanket.’ She muttered hopelessly, ‘I don’t believe this.’

His voice hardened. ‘Believe it. And just to make sure that no rumours reach the welfare agencies here, we need to convince everyone we meet that this is a love match.’

By now too numb to react, she asked, ‘Why?’

He shrugged, broad shoulders cutting out the lights of Harbour Bridge. ‘We’re sacrificing our freedom to provide Michael with the stability and love he needs. I don’t see us being able to reassure a social worker that we’ve got a good marriage while you and I are circling each other like wolves on the prowl.’

Heart jolting, Abby took a step backwards, but Caelan’s lean fingers snaked around her wrist, pulling her towards him with a smile that blended desire and calculation.

Abby’s senses rioted, savouring his unique aroma, an erotic mixture of heat and masculinity. She searched his face, eyes widening at the glitter of desire firing ice-blue eyes, the predatory curve of his bold mouth. Oh, God, he was going to kiss her, and if he did—what hope did she have of standing against him?

A wild mixture of searing anticipation and terror almost silenced her, but she managed to protest, ‘No!’

‘Then we might as well call a halt to this right now.’

His aloof, studied tone set her stomach roiling, almost banishing the excitement of his nearness. He had to feel the betraying turmoil in her pulse, because one lean, tanned finger was stroking across the fine blue veins in her wrist. Her will-power wavered and dissolved under a wave of desire so intense she could feel it scorching away every sensible thought.

But she had to corral the thoughts blundering around her brain. He had money and influence, and she had none. He was offering a settled life for Michael, his rightful place in the world and security.

And parents, a family…

Nevertheless, she pushed a lock of hair back from her forehead and said hoarsely, ‘Caelan, it won’t work.’

He looked at her with a cool irony that hurt far more than his contempt. ‘Frustration makes people unreasonable and stupid. You want me, as I want you. Whatever else has changed, that hasn’t. Four years ago the kiss we exchanged told me we’d be good together.’ His voice deepened, a raw note appearing beneath the words. ‘And you knew it too. It’s still there, so why should we deny ourselves?’

And then he pulled her into his arms and his mouth came down on hers in a kiss that was more than erotic; it registered a primal claim, fundamental and exhilarating and utterly compelling.

Abby melted, wild hunger shutting down everything but the delight of Caelan’s mouth on hers, effortlessly working a dark enchantment that fogged her brain and loosened the reins of her will-power.

When her mouth opened to his demand he took instant possession of its depths, exploring with a carnal, leisurely expertise that sent a current of delicious hunger through every cell. He tasted so good, she thought exultantly, a slow, dangerous pulse flowering deep in her pelvis. After the long, empty years she was where she belonged, with Caelan.

Without volition, her free hand lifted, coming to rest over his heart; it beat heavily, unsteadily, driving into her palm with a clamorous force. Sensation stormed through her, sweet as honey, potent as wine, fierce as a bushfire.

But apart from his lips and the loop of fingers around her wrist he wasn’t touching her. Desperately she jerked her head free and stared up into his eyes, and the heat in her body congealed into chilly emptiness. Silence stretched between them, jagged with unspoken thoughts and emotions.

‘No,’ she grated, scarcely aware of what she was refusing.

He’d set out to prove that he wielded a sorcerer’s power over her, and she’d just delivered the proof, signed, sealed and gift-wrapped. Despising herself, she twisted away, humiliated afresh when he let her go as though it had meant nothing to him.

His next words astonished her. ‘Still the same flash-fire of passion,’ he said in a voice that couldn’t hide the intensity of the words. ‘Sex has a lot to answer for. Did I hurt your wrist?’

‘What?’ She looked down, flushing when she realised she was massaging the fragile skin there. Dropping both hands to her sides, she said through lips that were tender and full, branded by his kiss, ‘No, it’s all right.’ Pride drove her to articulate the next words with cold clarity in spite of the bitter turmoil inside her. ‘I’m not in the market for an exorcism, Caelan.’

The heat in his eyes was swallowed by darkness. ‘Is that what it would be?’ he said. ‘Somehow I don’t believe it’s going to be that easy. Or even necessary.’

With the flimsy safety of a few feet between them, Abby closed her eyes and took a deep breath, calling on anger to replace the sensual chains of desire.

‘I refuse to be your legal mistress.’ Everything that made marriage special—love, trust, determination to make it work, emotional commitment—would be absent, and all they’d have in common was that flash-fire of passion, as he’d called it. But really it was lust.

‘That’s a different way of looking at marriage.’ His voice deepened into a sexy rumble. ‘I can promise you that any pleasure will be mutual.’

Oh, God, she was so tempted to give into desire, to forget everything but this need pulsing through her, a wanton hunger that sliced through the fabric of her fragile composure, highlighting promised sexual delights with the emphasis of memory…

You’re forgetting Michael, her mind prompted her.

She had to clamp her mouth shut to keep the words of surrender unsaid. When her lashes lifted she saw Caelan smile—all hard derision, but the blue heat she remembered so well still gleamed in the depths of his eyes.

‘Mutual pleasure?’ She managed to produce some sort of scorn in her tone.

‘However much you despise yourself for wanting that pleasure, it means that with our common concern for Michael we can build some sort of life together.’

Bitterly, she answered, ‘There’s a lot more to marriage than sex. What about trust?’

His lashes hooded his eyes. ‘Trust is an entirely different thing,’ he said indifferently. ‘It has to be earned.’

Temper, hot and reviving, flared into action, temporarily masking the dangerous flare of passion. ‘So I’m on probation? For the rest of my life, I suppose.’

He shrugged negligently. ‘Once Michael’s grown up you can do what you like.’ But there was nothing negligent about his next words. They echoed with cold menace. ‘Keep in mind that I don’t share. If you stray, I’ll make your life so unpleasant that you’ll beg to be free of me—even if it means leaving Michael.’

White-lipped, she flung back, ‘You just don’t understand, do you? Nothing would make me abandon him—nothing.’ Sheer temper spurred her on. ‘When I make promises I keep them. And while we’re living together, I’ll expect you to be faithful too. When you kissed me at the beach you were another woman’s lover.’

Colour burned along his magnificent cheekbones. ‘I broke it off the next day,’ he grated. ‘I intend to remain faithful.’

‘Why should I believe you?’ She whirled around and stalked across to the balustrade, staring down at the lights shimmering across the water for taut seconds before turning to say defiantly, ‘I don’t want to make love with you. Not now, not at some later date—not ever.’

‘You do, but you’re not ready to admit it yet,’ he said with an unruffled detachment that made her feel over-emotional and foolish.

At her disbelieving snort he said flatly, ‘I feel that way too—like a lesser person because I seem to be unable to control this hunger.’ His voice turned flinty. ‘I’m no monster, Abby. I can wait until you’re ready.’

Until you surrender, he meant.

Aching as though she’d been defeated in a physical fight, she said numbly, ‘I don’t want any dinner. I’ll go to bed.’

Caelan glanced at his watch. ‘Run away by all means—but your meal will be here in ten minutes. I’ll bring it to your room. And you’d better eat it—starving yourself won’t win you any sympathy from me.’

He waited until she got to the door before saying, ‘Before you go—’

Abby paused, but fixed her gaze on the door handle.

‘Two things—wash that damned dye out of your hair.’

Rebellion churned through her, but she asked distantly, ‘And the second order?’

‘Don’t try to leave,’ he advised. ‘You won’t get far. And if you do, all bargains are off.’

‘As you’ve pointed out, I don’t have any choice, do I?’ she said starkly, burning with resentment.

He waited long enough to tighten her every nerve with unbearable tension before saying with an indifference that cut her as much as his contempt, ‘No. Everyone has to live with the results of the choices they’ve made.’

Silently she walked out and closed the door behind her.

But once inside her alien, luxurious room her shoulders slumped. Tears aching behind her eyes, she wondered why she felt so desolated.

Why had she flung down that ridiculous gauntlet about not wanting to make love with him? He must know she had no defences against her overwhelming need for him.

Four years ago, dazzled and unwary, she’d been intrigued by him. Only too aware of his reputation, she’d fought her craving.

At least his kiss had jolted her out of that! Terrified by her capacity for feeling, she’d panicked, but for months on Palaweyo she’d dreamed that he’d followed her. Fortunately—and inevitably—he hadn’t. Instead, he’d found a new love—an enormously talented writer notorious for her fascinating, sensual poetry and unrestrained enjoyment of life.

Mouth turned down at the corners, Abby strode into the bathroom. How stupidly innocent she’d been. And how ridiculous she was being now!

OK, so she’d been sure she was over him. Naturally, when she discovered that in less than twenty-four hours that violent, mindless attraction had rekindled, she was concerned.

Stopping in front of the mirror she stared at her reflection with smoky, dazed eyes. Unwittingly she touched her lips, soft and red and still trembling from Caelan’s kiss.

Concerned, she taunted silently—what sort of word was that? She wasn’t concerned—she was terrified. How could he shatter her defences with just one kiss?

If she married him, inevitably she’d give in to that wildfire hunger. What then? Did he want children from her, or would Michael be enough? The thought of bearing Caelan’s child produced an odd pang somewhere in the region of her heart. Then there was the social thing—their marriage would stun his rarefied world of aristocrats and magnates, causing a firestorm of gossip.

She’d be the maverick in his select retinue of sophisticated, experienced, beautiful women, all of whom had been sensible enough not to expect love from him. Not that he was a playboy; in spite of her accusation, he’d been faithful to each of his mistresses—a serial monogamist, she thought, trying to soothe her jangling nerves with common sense.

‘What am I going to do?’ she whispered, seeking counsel from her reflection.

The woman in the mirror stared wildly, helplessly back until a firm tap on the bathroom door stopped the breath in her throat.

‘Your meal’s waiting,’ Caelan said. ‘Eat it.’

Battered by emotion, as though his kiss had stripped a protective skin away to leave her defenceless and naked, she swung around and waited until she was sure he’d left the room. Even then, she eased the door open.

Of course he’d gone.

After eating as much as she could of food that tasted like ashes, she had to force herself to take the tray into the kitchen. There was no sign of Caelan, although she could hear him speaking, his deep voice articulating with swift firmness. He was on the telephone, she realised, and thrust the remainders of the food into the fridge so she could flee back to her room before he finished the call.

Once in its sanctuary, she washed her hair, watching colour stream down the plug until the golden-amber of her own colouring shone through. Even wet, her hair still looked dull, its vibrant gloss banished by the dye. She picked up the conditioner in the shower, nodding when she saw the name.

Only the best for Prince Caelan Bagaton, she thought sardonically, and slathered the liquid on, letting hot, slow tears run down her cheeks.

Then she tried to shower the effects of his kiss from her sensitised body, staying in so long her fingers wrinkled.

Once out and in the oversized T-shirt she wore to bed, she checked Michael, blissfully asleep. She lingered a few moments, watching him before bending to kiss his cheek and heading back into her own room.

Exhausted, she wanted nothing more than to crawl beneath the covers and fall headlong into sleep, but she sat down on the side of the bed and stared sightlessly around the stylish, expensive room while memories replayed in her head and her body ached for a banished ecstasy.

So now Caelan knew—they both knew—that the sexual link between them was as compelling and intense as it had been four years before.

Abby straightened her shoulders. Obsessively going over and over what had happened years ago solved nothing; she had something much more contemporary to deal with.

Caelan had re-ignited a fire deep inside her, a fire she’d thought long dead, but the real danger wasn’t the untamed, elemental hunger in his eyes, the raw urgency of his kiss. No, the true peril lay in her fierce response.

She had so pathetically few defences against his passion.

‘So,’ she said aloud, trying to convince herself, ‘it must never happen again.’

The practical part of her mind scoffed.

Whatever price she had to pay, she thought defiantly, was worth it to keep Michael safe. Shivering, she crawled into bed, trying to empty her mind.

Eventually, after hours of listening to the night sounds of the city, devouring sleep replaced her darting, frightened thoughts with dreams.

Night should have brought some ease of mind. It didn’t; when she woke she felt as though her life had been dumped into a blender.

Until an eager little voice from the door asked interestedly, ‘You ’wake, Abby?’

And she was right side up again, because the only important thing in this huge mess was Michael. ‘Yes, darling, I’m awake! What time is it?’

‘Ha’-pas’ four,’ he said promptly and inaccurately, and ran across the room to give her a hug and good-morning kiss. Newly minted as the dawn, he was dressed in his favourite jeans and the sweatshirt with the dog on the front. ‘Uncle Caelan says you can have breakfast in bed if you like.’

She most emphatically did not like. ‘Tell him to give me ten minutes to wash my face and I’ll join you both.’

Giggling, and clearly on the best of terms with the world, he left on a shout of, ‘Uncle Caelan, Uncle Caelan, she’s getting up!’

Exactly ten minutes later Abby walked into the room off the kitchen, to find Michael perched on a cushion on one of the dining chairs, his shiny face eager as he watched his uncle approach with a packet of cereal.

Caelan glanced at her astonished face. ‘I found this in your emergency pack,’ he said drily. ‘Do you eat it too?’

Abby shook her head. Emotions tumbled around her mind in chaotic disarray, but of course Caelan was in full control. ‘Toast, thank you,’ she said.

He nodded at a bowl on the table, saying laconically, ‘Stewed tamarillos. Help yourself,’ as he poured cereal into the bowl in front of Michael.

Who warmed her heart by politely thanking his uncle as he picked up his spoon. Abby sat down, wondering if Caelan had made sure there were tamarillos because his investigator had found out they were her favourite fruit.

Stop that right now, she commanded. Possibly she had told someone in Nukuroa that she loved tamarillos, but it meant nothing; part of the reason for Caelan’s formidable success was a brain like a calculator.

He sat down and shot her an assessing look, his brows drawing together. ‘I hope you slept well.’

Once she got to sleep she had, although she recalled waking several times in turmoil, her mind filled with images that brought sudden, shameful heat to her skin. ‘Very well, thank you,’ she told him, hoping that her tone was steady enough to hide her jumping pulse.

At least her hand didn’t tremble when she helped herself to the ruby-coloured fruit.

‘Coffee?’ His voice was courteous.

A touch of hysteria tightened her nerves. He was being the perfect host, she thought feverishly, but at least he wasn’t freezing the air around him with his special brand of killer contempt.

She responded in kind, and with Michael as buffer breakfast proceeded in a state of apparent civility, neither adult acknowledging the fierce undercurrents that ran through the calm, civilised, idiotic conversation.

Caelan said, ‘This morning I’ll lodge a notice of intended marriage with the registrar. I’ll need some information from you.’

Panic clutched her throat, but some time during the long night she’d accepted that this was going to happen. Stiffly she gave him the data he needed, watching as he wrote it down with swift, slashing strokes of his pen.

‘I’ll organise the wedding,’ he said, ‘but you’ll need to do some shopping. I’ll pick you up at two this afternoon.’ He made another note. ‘I’ll also organise an appointment with a solicitor so that you can go over a pre-nuptial agreement and the necessity for the adoption process.’

Astonished, she met his keen, impervious gaze. He waited, and when she said nothing he added quietly, ‘Be here.’

Abby’s head came up. She met his eyes with unflinching dignity. ‘We both know,’ she said, choosing her words with extreme care, ‘that sooner or later there will be an opportunity for your—new housemates—to leave. Imprisonment isn’t possible.’

His brows snapped together in a forbidding frown. ‘Your point is?’

Abby quelled a nervous flutter. ‘I’ve agreed to marry you. I won’t go back on my word.’

Caelan’s silence was a tangible force in the room, predatory, intimidating. He glanced at Michael, who was applying himself with gusto to the bowl of cereal.

His hard smile sent shivers of foreboding down her spine. ‘Very well,’ he said, and held out his hand. ‘Shall we shake on it?’

Reluctantly she extended hers. ‘Why would you trust a handshake?’

‘I trust it about as much as I trust you, but it’s the recognised thing,’ he said.

His grip was firm and impersonal, but she shivered when she looked into his narrowed analytical eyes. She knew what he was doing—proving to her again that the raw physical magic was as strong as ever, that her body sang when she saw him because every cell in it recognised him.

White-lipped, she jerked her hand free.

And then Michael slipped down from his chair and stuck out his hand. Abby said nothing, watching as Caelan stooped and took the small paw and shook it gently. Michael grinned. When Caelan smiled back something tight and hard and fiercely defended shattered inside Abby’s heart.

‘Very well,’ Caelan said. ‘It’s a deal.’

With a final keen look, he turned and the door closed behind him. Abby drew a deep breath, feeling as though she’d just come battered and bloody through a battle.

‘Come on, Michael,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Finish your breakfast. We’ve got things to do.’

In spite of the changes in their lives, she was going to make some sort of routine for him. And if she clung to the idea because she needed the reassurance of normality, then that was all right too.