The Royal Wedding Collection

CHAPTER FOUR

ABBY glanced across the aisle, straight into Caelan’s cool, guarded eyes. Hiding her trepidation, she met them with all the composure she could summon, and asked, ‘How much longer?’

‘About half an hour. Why?’

She inclined her head slightly sideways. ‘Energy needs to be expended.’

‘He’ll have to wait.’ Even as she bristled he reached into his narrow leather briefcase and drew out a book she recognised. ‘Does he know this?’

‘Yes,’ she said, truly grateful. ‘But we’ve always had to get it from the library so he’ll be more than happy to hear it now.’

How did Caelan know that Michael adored the iconic adventures of a small New Zealand dog? Surely, she thought, going cold, he couldn’t have had them investigated that intensively?

Of course he had; a man who thought nothing of infiltrating a child-care centre with an operative to get DNA samples would have insisted on a complete dossier. How else would the stewardess have known that Michael loved peaches?

The thought of such close surveillance sent chills down her spine. Hastily, she opened the book and began to read to an enthralled Michael.

Although the witty, clever exploits of Hairy Maclary and his canine friends did the trick, Abby gave a silent sigh of relief when they finally touched down at the airport in Auckland.

As they made their way to the car park the crowds and the noise and the unfamiliar bustle silenced Michael; wide-eyed, he trailed along between her and the prince, clinging to her hand while he gazed around.

Abby saw a middle-aged woman watching them. Heat stung her skin; she knew what the woman was thinking, just as she recognised the barely concealed interest in other women’s eyes when they’d noticed the man beside her. His powerful physical presence demanded instant respect.

Then their eyes swung to her, and envy was replaced by astonishment. They were wondering what on earth a woman like her was doing with a man like Caelan Bagaton.

She wanted to say out loud, ‘We’re not a family! This is just a sham.’ A tormenting sham, one she’d been forced into by the man who’d ruthlessly shattered her life.

Instead, she gave the woman a half-smile and walked on by, her heart contracting into a solid ball in her chest.

‘The car’s over here,’ the prince said brusquely.

The big vehicle had a child’s car seat already installed in the rear seat. Naturally, she thought, bristling. Caelan didn’t accept defeat.

Stop going over and over and over this, she commanded herself. It’s finished—dead as a doornail, or a dodo, or the Dead Sea. All of them, actually.

At first Michael was too interested in the traffic—especially, Abby noted with wry amusement, extremely large trucks—to get bored. However, by the time the car left the motorway for inner-city streets he demanded in a voice that came too close to a whine, ‘Where we going, Abby? Are we nearly there?’

‘Five minutes,’ Caelan said calmly.

So he wasn’t taking them to the beach house, where he’d kissed her.

She fought a humiliating let-down; he probably didn’t even remember that kiss. After all, he’d had at least one long-term relationship since he’d broken up with the then-current lover. And Gemma had told her of the constant stream of hopefuls he fended off. The kiss they’d shared probably no longer registered on his radar—if it ever had.

Pinning a steady smile to her lips, she said to Michael, ‘There you go—we’re almost at Uncle Caelan’s house.’

‘It’s an apartment,’ Caelan informed her.

‘An apartment?’ Abby shot a swift glance at his unyielding profile. In a neutral voice she said, ‘Children need easy access to grass and trees, and a place where they can run and jump and roll.’

‘All highly desirable, but not as necessary as decent food and clothes and security,’ Caelan returned, his urbane tone not hiding the whiplash of scorn in his words. ‘The apartment is central and convenient, but if it doesn’t work out we’ll move to somewhere more suitable for a family.’ Skilfully he eased the car past a courier van.

She frowned to hide a suddenly thudding heartbeat. A family…

In spite of her effort to be reasonable, anticipation warmed her from the inside, curling through her like warm honey shot with fire. To quell it she asked more aggressively than she intended, ‘But you told Michael on the flight that you have a pool.’ And then she remembered an article she’d seen about a very up-market apartment complex in Auckland. ‘Oh, is there a gym there?’

‘There’s a lap pool on the terrace.’

She flushed. His casual words underlined again the huge difference between growing up on a Northland citrus orchard, and amongst the ranks of the hugely rich.

Expertly Caelan avoided three laughing teenagers who chose to dash across the road as the lights turned green. ‘And of course there’s the one at the beach.’

So he did still own it.

A wild, foolish second of elation was rapidly smothered by another cold splash of common sense. How pathetic was that—thinking that one kiss might have meant anything to him? Turning to Michael, she infused enthusiasm into her voice. ‘Just about there, darling.’

Very much there, in fact; the car stopped outside a gate that led to a basement car park. Absently Abby read a notice on the wall, then stiffened.

‘This is a hotel,’ she accused.

The gate rattled back and Caelan put the car into gear, easing it down into the well-lit basement. ‘An apartment hotel. I live in the penthouse.’

Michael asked with eager anticipation, ‘Can I go for a swim, Abby? Now?’

He adored the water; the day-care centre had a small paddling pool, but Abby had never been able to afford lessons for him in the school pool.

‘Sweetheart, I think it would be better if you left it until it’s warmer,’ she told him. Although nowhere near as cold as Nukuroa, Auckland’s spring wasn’t exactly balmy, and at the airport she’d noticed a brisk, cool wind.

His lower lip jutted, but Caelan cut short his objections. ‘The pool is heated, and sheltered from the wind. I’ll go in with him if you don’t want to.’

Well, yes, she thought cynically, of course it would be heated. Standard tycoon equipment!

The car came to a halt in a reserved slot. Abby tamped down a flare of anger; she’d been making decisions for Michael for three years, and Caelan had no right to query them.

In a toneless voice she answered, ‘If it’s heated, that’s fine. Unfortunately he’s absolutely fearless in the water, although he hasn’t got beyond the fundamentals yet. He needs careful supervision.’

‘Point taken. He’d better learn to swim as soon as possible.’ Caelan switched off the engine.

Abby examined the autocratic lines and curves of his profile as he said, ‘The pool is fenced off from the apartment, so he’ll be safe enough.’

Physically, yes. Emotionally? Ignoring a cold little worm of fear, she told herself sturdily that all she could hope to extract from this tensely disturbing situation was Michael’s happiness.

Inside the hotel lift, a warm little hand clutching hers, Abby stared blindly at the carpet, alienated by the atmosphere of sleek, elegant luxury. A faint scent permeated the air—a very exclusive, very expensive perfume; disliking its cloying sensuousness, Abby wrinkled her nose and tried to ignore an alarming needle of jealousy.

The atmosphere was compounded inside the penthouse apartment. Of course it was elegant and large, filled with reflected light from the harbour and the sky, and superbly decorated by a professional who hadn’t surrendered comfort for style.

The prince took them into a large, informal sitting room with a dining table and chairs at one end. It opened out onto a wide, partly covered terrace where potted plants flourished around a narrow swimming pool.

‘There’s another, more formal sitting room through that door, but I use it mainly for entertaining,’ he told her. ‘This one is more suitable for a child.’

‘It’s lovely,’ she murmured, walking across to a row of windows at the end. Startled, she looked straight into the harbour, as though they were on the bow of an ocean liner.

From behind Caelan said, ‘The hotel is built on one of the wharves.’

A fat ferry bumbled purposefully towards the North Shore; it reminded Abby of a beetle and she smiled involuntarily.

‘The kitchen is through that door,’ he said crisply. ‘Do you want a drink? No? Then I’ll show you your rooms.’

Michael’s was the first. Abby had expected an exercise in sleek minimalism, but this was a young boy’s dream, a circus fantasy with a tasselled tent top and a frieze of prancing animals.

Oh, Caelan had been utterly and completely confident that he’d be bringing Michael back with him! And why not? He held all the cards.

‘Your room is next door, you share a bathroom,’ he told Abby, indicating a door. He glanced at his watch and frowned. ‘I have to check out a few things, so I’ll leave you to explore by yourselves for ten minutes or so. Your luggage has arrived, so you’ll be able to change into your togs, Michael.’

Left alone with a silent, fascinated Michael, Abby admired a magnificently prancing rocking-horse. At the back of her mind she wondered how many women had come to this penthouse and been swept off their feet by their host’s potent sexuality.

Droves, she thought savagely. A small voice insisting on being taken to the bathroom put a welcome end to her thoughts. She gave Michael a swift hug and showed him where it was.

Then they explored the room next door, furnished in restful, sophisticated shades of sand with a throw rug of deep rust lending richness to the neutral scheme. A chair and a desk against one wall were set out for writing; a daybed in the window suggested long afternoons of reading. Abby’s gaze lingered on a vase of orchids, exquisite fly-away things in shades of caramel, rust and golden-green.

Had Caelan chosen them? Highly unlikely, she decided. No doubt a florist kept each of the rooms in this luxurious place filled with blooms that matched the décor as perfectly as those orchids did.

Well, she’d far rather have a handful of dandelions picked from the paddock and given to her in a chubby little hand.

‘Where does Uncle Caelan sleep?’ Michael asked, looking around.

‘I don’t know,’ Abby said crisply. Not at this end of the penthouse, anyway. Possibly he had a suite well away from his guest rooms. ‘Come on, we’d better find your swimming togs.’

Ten minutes later, Caelan knocked on the door. Made exuberant by excitement, Michael rushed across to open it.

Abby’s stomach lurched and that treacherous flow of anticipation turned into sharp, painful awareness. In swimming shorts, a large towel draped over one copper-bronze, sleekly muscled shoulder, Caelan’s compelling physicality cut through centuries of civilised conditioning. In spite of every barrier she’d constructed, the primitive instinct to mate with the most alpha male flamed into life within her.

‘Do you have a towel?’ he asked, smiling as his nephew jumped around him like a puppy.

Michael grabbed it up from the bed and went off without a backwards glance, chattering and animated. Feeling resentfully like an unwanted extra, Abby followed them out onto a wide terrace overlooking the harbour and the North Shore.

She sat down in a lounger beneath a sail that kept the hot northern sun from her head, and watched intently as the two men now in her life stopped by the gate into the pool enclosure. The light in this sub-tropical part of New Zealand was softer, more humid than in the south, smoothing over Caelan’s torso to delineate every coiled muscle as he stooped to speak to his nephew. Broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped and with the innate grace of a leopard, he looked dangerous and dynamic and fascinating.

Furious at the slow burn of desire in the pit of her stomach, she thought acidly that Mediterranean heritage had a lot to answer for. No doubt the splash of Celtic blood that had given him his name and his ice-blue eyes had provided the long, powerful legs, but his formidable confidence and authority were his own.

She must never allow herself to forget that Caelan used his tough tenacity and ruthless intelligence—and his charisma—like weapons. He was a warrior, gathering the fruits of war.

In which quest it probably helped that he didn’t have a heart. In fact, it surprised her that he had enough glimmerings of conscience to feel responsible for Gemma’s son.

No, that was unfair; even Gemma had admitted that her half-brother was meticulous in fulfilling his obligations. In fact, it had been one of the reasons she’d demanded Abby’s promise.

‘I don’t want Michael to be a duty like I was,’ she’d said flatly. ‘He’d be just another project to see through to completion. Oh, Caelan would do his best for him, but it’s not enough to know you’re no more than a responsibility.’

The early death of his father had pitched Caelan into the cut-throat arena of international business in his mid-twenties, and, to most people’s astonishment, he’d succeeded wildly. At the same time he’d taken charge of his impulsive, wilful sister.

His best hadn’t been good enough for Gemma; she’d make sure he dealt better with Michael, Abby decided, her gaze following them into the pool enclosure. Excitement raised Michael’s voice higher than usual against his uncle’s deeper tones. The elusive resemblance between them tugged at her heartstrings.

Oh, Gemma, she thought forlornly, I’ll look after him whatever happens, but I feel very outgunned right now!

And then she stiffened her spine in a determination that masked a deep, abiding dread. There was much more than her happiness at stake; weigh her wary, reluctant attraction against a child’s future, and that feverish tug at her senses meant very little.

And as she clearly wasn’t necessary here, she should really go and unpack Michael’s clothes.

Instead, she leaned back into the sleek, luxuriously comfortable lounger to watch. Against the shimmer of the water in the bright spring sun, Caelan crouched by his nephew and began to talk. Abby watched Michael’s face, solemn and intent as he nodded.

Straining her ears, she heard Caelan say, ‘And no jumping in.’

‘No jumping,’ Michael repeated, a little disappointed but resigned.

‘Only if I’m there to catch you. Wait until I’m in the water, and I’ll tell you when to jump.’

After another serious nod Michael gave a great beaming smile, twisting Abby’s heart. Both were feeling their way; Michael was prepared to like the man who’d appeared out of the darkness, and so far Caelan had settled for treating his nephew like a small adult.

An attitude that made Michael blossom, she noted with another despicable stab of jealousy.

Glass panels sheltered both pool and terrace from the cool breeze that trailed in off the harbour. When the two swimmers got into the water her heart—foolish organ!—contracted even more tightly as Michael imitated everything the prince did. She kept a close eye on them, only relaxing when she saw that Caelan was always near enough to rescue his nephew from any risky exploits.

Their laughter blended, and a great weariness weighed down her eyelids. She’d cope, but first she had to accept that her life had changed irrevocably. From now on it wouldn’t be just her and Michael against the world; Caelan had altered the balance, and nothing would ever be the same.

Michael had someone else to rely on, and she’d just have to accept it.

Too soon, so swiftly she wasn’t aware of what was happening, Abby’s wakeful night caught up with her and she slid into darkness.

Michael’s voice woke her, soft and urgent in her ear. ‘Abby, Abby, wake up now.’

After a prodigious yawn, she said, ‘What’s the time, darling—?’

And remembered where she was.

Her eyelids jerked up, but she was no longer lying in the lounger by the pool; instead, she was curled up on the bed in the room Caelan had given her, the rust-red wrap covering her.

Fully dressed in T-shirt and shorts, his hair dry, Michael stood beside it, and behind him loomed Caelan—who must have carried her in and put her there. She could see the knowledge in his expression, a subtle tension and awareness that stoked her own mindless response to him.

Head whirling, she got up on her elbow and swung her legs onto the floor. ‘What time is it?’ she asked thinly.

She sounded slack, almost drugged. Caelan scrutinised her face, but the colour flooded back into her skin as she straightened. He tried to ignore the sensuous memory of her sleek body in his arms, her breathing when she’d snuggled her cheek against his chest. Yet other images prowled his brain, images snatched from barely remembered dreams in which she’d lain beneath him, soft and warm and silken, of little gasping cries as she climaxed around him, the scent of her skin and the perfumed cloud of her hair, the way her voice changed from crisp confidence to an enchanting husky shyness when he’d made love to her, the way she laughed—

How the hell could one kiss four years ago light the need and hunger that still burned like a fire underground?

He’d never stopped wanting her, he admitted, and never stopped resenting the power she wielded over him.

So he should do something about sating this damned inconvenient desire.

She was watching him, her face guarded and stubborn, but in spite of her prickly demeanour he was too experienced not to recognise the unwanted tug of attraction. Everything pointed to it—her careful avoidance of his touch, the soft flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat whenever he came near her, and the colour that came and went in her silky, seductive skin.

A plan that had occurred to him as they’d flown up solidified in his mind.

In spite of his best attempt at control, his voice was rough when he told her, ‘Almost one o’clock. I wouldn’t have woken you, but I have an appointment shortly.’

‘One o’clock?’ She pushed back a tumbling lock of hair and asked swiftly, ‘Has Michael had his lunch?’

‘Yes. Peanut butter sandwiches,’ Caelan returned with a faint smile.

She hid another yawn behind her hand. ‘His staple food,’ she said in a wry voice.

‘He also had half an orange and a glass of milk.’

Abby nodded. ‘Give me five minutes. I need to wash my face.’

It took a little longer than that, because she had a rapid shower in the sybaritic bathroom, all glass and tiled walls with equipment that looked as though it fitted out a spaceship. Spirits marginally boosted by a change of clothes, she closed the bedroom door behind her and followed the sound of voices to the living room off the kitchen.

She’d almost got there when Caelan laughed, for once without the undernote of cynicism she’d always heard.

But when she came into the room all humour vanished from his strong face. He said aloofly, ‘I’ll be back around six this evening. Don’t worry about dinner; we can order from the hotel menu.’

‘What about Michael?’ she said steadily. ‘I don’t imagine the hotel kitchen caters to children his age.’

‘It can, but check out the fridge.’ He ruffled Michael’s hair, smiled down into his face and looked up to assess Abby with hard blue eyes. Very casually, he finished, ‘Don’t try leaving the apartment.’

‘Why?’

‘You both need time to get your bearings.’ He paused before saying deliberately, ‘It would be inconvenient if I had to go out looking for you.’

The warning was no less intimidating for being implied rather than stated forcefully. Her stomach a tight, apprehensive knot, she watched him leave, grateful when a question from Michael broke into her thoughts.

‘Abby, can we swim again now?’

‘After you’ve had your nap,’ she said automatically, and concealed her furious resentment by opening the refrigerator.

Of course it was filled with eminently suitable food for a hungry three-year-old. After a molten survey of the interior, Abby almost slammed the enormous door shut. Whatever else he was—or wasn’t—Caelan was a superb organiser. No doubt if she tried to leave the apartment someone would stop her, or accompany her.

She didn’t need the humiliation.

Still fuming, she spent the hour of Michael’s nap unpacking, grimacing at the pathetic show her few dreary clothes made in a wardrobe almost as big as Michael’s bedroom in the cottage. They were so out of context they looked ludicrous.

Growing up she’d known comfort and security, but the luxury Caelan took for granted was completely alien to her.

‘That’s what you get for getting in the way of a dominant alpha male,’ she told herself. Money and power had helped forge his intimidating inner confidence, but mix with a brilliant mind and loads of disturbing male magnetism, spice the whole mix with a soupçon of princely blood, season with a hint of Latin—and you had Caelan Bagaton, one on his own.

Once Michael woke, they explored his room, discovering a box of toys to go with the rocking-horse, and a whole new library of books. Abby thought of the tattered, much-read volumes she’d packed, and wondered whether Michael would want to read them again.

They spent the rest of the lazy afternoon out on the terrace with books, blocks and crayons until, when the sun began its slow slide down towards the west, she braved the unknown terrors of the impressive stove in the kitchen.

She was bathing Michael when Caelan arrived. To her astonishment he came into the bathroom as though he were accustomed to such familiar rituals, not even grimacing when Michael slipped as he was getting out and sent a tidal wave of water onto his uncle’s superbly cut shirt and trousers.

‘Careful,’ Abby said, more sharply than she’d intended.

Horrified, Michael flushed and screwed up his face. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.’

Caelan said mildly, ‘I know that.’ And was rewarded with a shy smile.

A pang of dislocation and guilt hit Abby. She dried Michael down, stuffed him into his pyjamas and tried hard not to feel left out when Michael asked that Caelan read his bedtime story. At least he’d chosen one of his old favourites, not the glossy new ones Caelan had provided. As she heard Caelan provide a spirited rendition of an old fairy tale she decided that he must have been practising…

Then he bent his head for Michael’s goodnight kiss as though he’d been doing it all his life.

At last, leaving Michael safely tucked up in bed and supervised by a brand new state-of-the-art monitor, Caelan escorted her into the living room.

‘I’ll get you a drink,’ he said. ‘Is it still white wine?’

She nodded, although it had been four years since she’d tasted any.

As he poured he said levelly, ‘You look triste. What is it?’

She shut down her emotions, hoping her face was a composed mask. ‘Just thinking.’

Apart from the child sleeping in his bed, they were alone in the apartment. That dangerous, mindless excitement was stirring in her body, basic and inescapable as the breath in her lungs and the blood that raced through her veins.

Handing her the glass, Caelan said, ‘I’ve already ordered dinner; it arrives in half an hour. Until then, try to relax.’

Relax? He had to be mad! She looked up, but his expression was coolly noncommittal, his eyes transparent and slightly amused.

Baffled and angry, she evaded the hidden tension by walking through the long glass doors onto the terrace.

The swift northern dusk had turned into night; beyond the safety-glass balustrade the harbour gleamed like black satin, and the North Shore suburbs sparkled against the bulk of Rangitoto, Auckland’s iconic island volcano. A small breeze carried the scent of the sea to her, ghosting over her sensitised skin. Feeling utterly forlorn, she shivered.

She didn’t belong to Caelan’s world of privilege and sophistication and wealth, of ancient aristocratic bloodlines and power. Responding to him in any way was not only stupid, it was humiliating and pathetic and embarrassing.

Her lips widened in a bleak, mirthless smile and she swung around to look at the Harbour Bridge, a shallow arc of lights reflected in the water.

She sipped some of the exquisitely fragrant wine. Just when she sensed that Caelan had followed her out she had no idea; the knowledge of his presence came as a feather of response down her spine, a slow conviction that escalated the turmoil inside her.

Heart jumping, tense as a stretched wire, she hurried into speech, choosing the most innocuous subject that came to mind. ‘What made you decide to live here?’

‘I travel a lot, so the chopper pad at Mechanic’s Bay is handy for quick trips to the airport.’

Moving slowly, she turned her head a few degrees to see him. Unwanted, unbidden, a memory surfaced. Once—in another lifetime—she’d ruffled his black hair, fascinated by its silken warmth. Her fingers tingled as though they’d been deprived, and her heart jolted in her breast. Breath came fast through her lips, and she shuddered at the seductive impact of the forgotten sensation.

And then she met his eyes, and every languorous memory disappeared; nothing could survive in the frigid wasteland of his gaze.

Angry with herself for her chagrin, she said, ‘Michael loved the toys and the books. Thank you.’ Even though she suspected that Caelan had consulted an expert, it had to be said.

‘And the horse?’

She said, ‘He’s most impressed, and is taking his time to get to know it.’

His broad shoulders lifted negligently. ‘It’s the one I had as a child. I had a craftsman in Northland repair and refurbish it. I’m glad another child will ride it.’

He was pointing out the difference between what she had given Michael, and what he could give. Meeting the subtle implication head-on, she said clearly, ‘Too many toys aren’t good for children. Michael hasn’t missed anything in his life except parents.’

He said coolly, ‘And his uncle. Why did you decide to leave Nukuroa?’

The eerie wail of a siren somewhere close by cut into the tense pause that followed Caelan’s words. Abby covered an uneasy movement with another sip of her drink.

In the end she admitted, ‘I felt—stalked. And I’ve learned to trust my instincts. How did you find us?’

‘I’ve had an investigator looking for you ever since you arrived in New Zealand with Michael,’ he said, adding abruptly, ‘He seems a happy, secure child, and for that I thank you.’

Made more uncomfortable by his rare softening than by his open contempt, she muttered, ‘You don’t need to thank me.’ And because she wanted to get things settled, she went on abruptly, ‘You said yesterday—was it yesterday?—that we’d work out some sort of arrangement for this situation when I was less emotional. Exactly what do you have in mind for this—for our lives?’

He set his glass down on a nearby table and examined her face, remote in the darkness, with eyes she couldn’t see. ‘Have you decided to stop resisting the inevitable?’

‘I—yes, I have.’ Although she was quaking inside, pride steadied her voice and gave an edge to her words. ‘As you pointed out so cogently, I don’t have any choice. You have power and money and I have none. And you could send me to prison if you press charges against me for claiming Michael as my son.’

He accepted that as the simple statement of fact it was. ‘You have power too. You’re the only mother Michael’s ever known. For his sake, I suggest we try to make this as normal a relationship as possible.’

What did he mean by that? A kind of panicky anticipation set her nerves sizzling. Avoiding his eyes, she said, ‘Explain normal.’

And relationship!

His mouth twisted mockingly. ‘It’s quite simple. We marry.’