The Royal Wedding Collection. Robyn Donald
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!
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.’