The Royal Baby Bargain. Robyn Donald
‘I knew that the child was Gemma’s before I decided to give the villagers their hospital,’ he told her casually. ‘They spoke quite freely about you and her—they have no reason not to tell anyone who asks. And no writer worth his salt is going to keep it quiet.’ His face hardened. ‘Inevitably you will be tracked down—’
‘How? It took you, with all your resources, three years to find us,’ she snapped, but he could see the fear in her eyes.
‘Writers have resources too.’ He waited while she absorbed the impact of that before adding forcefully, ‘Once he finds you, the resultant publicity will expose Michael’s existence—and his lack of protection—to anyone who wants a quick fortune. Didn’t you read about the de Courcy heiress?’
Colour drained from Abby’s face. The fourteen-year-old daughter of a billionaire had been snatched from her exclusive school, yet although her parents had paid the huge ransom, it had been too late. She’d been killed the day after she’d disappeared.
The cold, inflexible voice of the prince battered at her composure. ‘Whoever did that got away with five million euros, worth in New Zealand dollars about—’
‘I know how much it’s worth! You’re trying to frighten me,’ she said thinly, turning her head away from his intimidating gaze as though she could shut out the effect of his words.
‘Damn right I am! There are people out there who’d see Michael as a passport to easy money, a soft target. Are you willing to risk that?’
She went even paler and closed her eyes. He was manipulating her, but the thought of Michael in the clutches of some cold-hearted psychopath robbed her of speech and the ability to think.
A soft noise brought her head around sharply; Michael was stirring. And the prince was walking with long, noiseless strides towards the open door of the bedroom.
Panic hit her in a howling, destructive storm, propelling her after him into the tiny room. Caelan loomed over the bed. He didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge her presence at all, his whole attention bent on the child as though claiming him in some primal way.
Abby pushed desperately at his hard, lean body. She might as well have tried to move a granite pillar, except that his body heat reached out and blasted through the brittle shell of her self-control.
Her hands dropped, but she didn’t move. In a fierce voice pitched too low to disturb the restless child, she ordered, ‘Get out of here.’
Silently Caelan turned, but he waited at the doorway, a silent, threatening figure. After straightening the bed-clothes over Michael, Abby dragged in a juddering breath and left him.
‘We’ll go into the living room.’ She pushed open the door.
Once inside Caelan Bagaton said with cold distaste, ‘I don’t hurt children, Abby.’
‘All right, I overreacted,’ she returned shakily. ‘I don’t think you’d be cruel to him. I know you weren’t cruel to Gemma—she told me herself that she barely knew you because you were away so much. But can’t you see that the last thing she wanted was for her son to be banished to a nursery like an abandoned doll stuffed in a cupboard, cared for by nannies who come and go regularly?’
Caelan’s expression didn’t change at her inadvertent admission that the child was Gemma’s. His desire to see the boy had shattered Abby’s composure; she didn’t even realise she’d given herself away.
Instinct warned him to proceed with caution. He said neutrally, ‘Her mother wasn’t maternal, but she made sure Gemma had the best care available. And my father had duties he couldn’t avoid, as well as a corporation to run. He did his best for her.’
Hands clenching into fists at her side, Abby skewered him with an outraged glance and carried on in full, indignant fervour. ‘By sending her off to boarding school the minute she turned eight, where she was wretchedly, miserably unhappy? That was his best?’ With an elaborate dismissive shrug she finished scathingly, ‘In that case, I’m really, really glad to hear that he didn’t dislike her!’
‘That’s enough!’
Caelan’s harsh, deep voice drowned her in cold menace. Damn, she thought, mortified; don’t let emotion get the better of you! She could see contempt in his eyes, in the hard line of his mouth, the still tautness of his powerful body. No matter how angry he was, the prince remained in full control.
‘Admit that he’s Gemma’s child.’ At her obstinate silence, he said coolly, ‘You asked for proof that he’s not yours. Here it is.’
He drew a sheet of paper from the pocket of his casual, superbly cut jacket. When he offered it to her she took it and tried to read, but the words danced and blurred in front of her eyes. Blinking, she forced her brain to focus.
Couched in scientist’s prose, it was quite definite; there were enough points of similarity between tissue samples one and two for there to be a familial connection.
‘I don’t understand,’ she whispered, fighting off dark dread. The paper dropped from her nerveless fingers.
Watching her with unsparing eyes, the prince made no attempt to pick it up.
When she regained enough composure to be able to speak again, she said stiffly, ‘This could be anyone’s samples. There’s no way you could take a blood sample from Michael without my knowing, and I know you didn’t get one from me.’
His beautiful mouth relaxed into a sardonic smile. ‘Blood isn’t necessary for DNA testing—any tissue will serve.’ His inflexible tone warned her. Heart hammering, she listened as he went on. ‘And I didn’t need one from you. It was easy enough to send in a worker at the child-care centre; she stayed three weeks before deciding she didn’t like living in the backblocks, and she came away with saliva samples and blood from a grazed knee. The results prove that you’re not Michael’s mother—that you’re no relation to him.’
Blood roared through her head as outrage manhandled fear aside. She grabbed the back of the sofa and fought for control, finally grinding out, ‘How dare you? You had no right to—’
‘You had no right to steal my sister’s child,’ he cut in, his lethal tone quelling her anger as effectively as a douche of ice water. ‘Why did you do it? What satisfaction did it give you?’
‘Gemma asked me to take care of him.’
The strong bone structure of his face was very much in evidence. Dispassionately he said, ‘If she did, it was typically dramatic and thoughtless of her to demand that you put your life on hold for Michael, but that’s irrelevant now.’ He paused, his hooded eyes keen and watchful. ‘The next step is a court case, where the first thing any judge will do is order another DNA test. And we both know how that will turn out.’
An acceptance of defeat rose like bitter anguish inside Abby. She was going to lose Michael. But not, she thought grimly, until she’d made this arrogant prince fight to the last for his nephew.
Pride and disillusion gave her voice an acid edge when she said, ‘If all you’re planning for Michael is a lonely, loveless childhood like Gemma’s, why on earth do you want him?’
‘Because he is a Bagaton,’ he said coldly.
‘Gemma was a Bagaton too, but it didn’t make her happy. She wanted me to look after him.’ When he raised his brows she cried, ‘I’ve got a letter to prove it.’
She stooped to her bag, holding her shoulders stiffly and her spine so rigid she thought it might splinter. With trembling fingers she unzipped an inner pocket in one suitcase and took out an envelope.
Thrusting it at the man who watched her with eyes as translucent and cold as polar ice, she said, ‘Here.’
He took it, but didn’t look at it. His startlingly good-looking face was set in lines of such formidable determination that she flinched, yet a melting heat in the pit of her stomach astonished