Society Secrets. Sharon Kendrick
dispute the rarity of the shade nor its almost exclusive confinement to the ruling family of Zaffirinthos, but she was failing to see what for him was simply a fact of life.
‘Do you realise how many crazies we have to deal with every year?’ he questioned.
Melissa froze. ‘Crazies?’
‘It’s one of the drawbacks of the job, Melissa—it brings all kinds of people from out of the woodwork. Futurologists who want to warn me about an imminent death threat. Men who say they knew me when we were children. Women claiming…’
‘Women claiming that you’ve fathered their baby,’ guessed Melissa slowly and she lifted pained eyes to his face. ‘Is that what you think of me, then, Casimiro—that I’m some sort of “crazy”?’
For some reason her dignified little question made him feel a pang of misgiving—but he was not in a position to allow himself to listen to it. ‘No, actually I don’t,’ he said simply. ‘And none of this is about my thoughts or feelings, Melissa. It is about dealing with this matter to the best of my ability—and working out how best to present it to my people. I’ve examined my diary and the dates you indicated,’ he continued. ‘And you say the child is, how old?’
‘Thirteen months,’ she said dully.
He nodded. ‘Yes, the times tally. I was indeed in England during the period you’ve indicated.’
‘So if the times tally and he has the same rare eyes—then why must I have a DNA test?’ she whispered.
‘Because I am a king who is ruled by the constitution of my land,’ he said, and his words had a sudden bitter resonance. ‘And I do not have the freedoms which most men take for granted.’
It was an oddly brutal assessment of life at the top. Instead of all the riches and glory which came with his kingdom, Melissa suddenly caught a glimpse of an arid and rule-bound personal landscape and a feeling of foreboding began to feather her skin. Just what can of worms was she opening up for her beloved son?
‘Oh,’ she said quietly. ‘I see.’
He thought of his abdication speech and looked at her with renewed bitterness. ‘I cannot ask my people to accept a commoner’s word on a matter of such significance. Proof of paternity must be provided and a DNA test must and will be done. I have consulted with my advisors and they tell me there is no way round it.’
Melissa trembled at the sudden hard timbre of his words and the steely glint of resolution in his eyes. Hadn’t she wished above all else for Casimiro to acknowledge his son—and didn’t it seem as if that was exactly what he was about to do? Except that now she was going to have to go through the indignity of having to prove it.
Her future and Ben’s determined in some anonymous laboratory.
She bit her lip. What else was it that people sometimes said? Only unlike the playground taunt of sticks and stones breaking bones—this one was true. Oh, yes…
Be careful what you wish for—because it may just come true.
THE restaurant was discreet. Well, of course it was. When kings dined with commoners they didn’t want the world’s paparazzi jostling around outside, ready to capture the moment in all its unbelievable glory, did they?
‘We need to talk,’ Casimiro had announced tersely, when he’d rung her earlier that day to announce that he had the DNA results.
In a panic, Melissa had arranged for her aunt Mary to babysit—having fielded a lot of awkward questions about where she was going at such short notice. No, she wasn’t working and, no, it definitely wasn’t a date. She had seen her aunt’s face fall—for she loved her niece and was always telling her to find herself a ‘nice young man’ to take care of her and Ben.
As the limousine which Casimiro had provided drew up outside the softly lit restaurant Melissa wondered what her aunt Mary would say if she knew who she was really dining with. It might have been funny if it weren’t so serious—because ‘nice young man’ would be the last way you’d ever describe Casimiro.
The interior of the restaurant was like places she and Stephen had worked in countless times over the years—with the kind of no-cost-counted luxury which always managed to look so restrained. But this time she was here as a guest and it felt different—even if her mind hadn’t been racing with apprehension about the evening ahead. Melissa’s hands were clammy as she was shown to what looked like a cordoned-off section, where she could see Casimiro already seated at the table, with his back to her.
Did she imagine the expression of faint surprise on the face of the maître d’ as she gave her name? Did she look so out of place in such a luxurious setting, then, or was it simply that she was in a completely different league from the other guests?
She’d done her best to cobble together an outfit which wouldn’t make her stand out like a sore thumb—which shouldn’t have been too difficult since Casimiro had explicitly told her to dress as if they were having a business meeting. Which in a way they were—the business of their son’s future. She knew that.
So why had that simple request made her hackles rise? Was it because she felt as if he was very possibly ashamed of her? As if he wanted to send out the subliminal message to anyone who happened to see them eating together that she was the kind of woman who helped arrange parties but certainly not the kind of woman he ever associated with on a personal level.
Well, he had associated with her once upon a time, Melissa thought fiercely. Even if he couldn’t remember it.
Hoping that her fitted black dress and fake-pearl earrings fitted the bill, she felt almost dizzy as she approached him and even dizzier when he lifted his head and looked at her. He was wearing some kind of charcoal-grey suit, which fitted his muscular body to perfection, a soft ivory silk shirt and a tie in an understated shade of beaten-gold.
He didn’t get up—just gave a businesslike nod of his dark head in greeting and then a narrow-eyed glance at the maître d’ who instantly slipped away, as if that was what he had been briefed to do. You would never have thought that she and this golden-eyed man had been lovers, thought Melissa, with a sudden terrible wave of sadness.
‘Sit down,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’
Indicating the drinks which were already cluttering up the table, Casimiro raised his dark eyebrows in question. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering the food and wine. We need to talk and I don’t want to be disrupted by an endless series of sommeliers and waiters. I hope you don’t have any objections to that?’
She wondered what he’d do if she said yes. That she wanted nothing more than to hear a five-minute spiel about the ‘dish of the day’ or spend minutes in a glory of indecision while she made the impossible choice of what wonderful food to eat. But you didn’t object when a king chose your meal for you, did you? She doubted whether anyone had objected to anything in his whole privileged life. And her appetite had practically disappeared anyway.
‘That’s fine.’
‘You’d like some wine?’
She thought of the dangers of wine and the way it softened your perception of the world. The slow creep of intoxication and then the even greater danger of staring across the table into the deep golden gleam of his eyes and remembering the way he’d made love to her on the sofa…
She felt her cheeks redden. He didn’t make love to you—he had quick and emotionless sex with you, she reminded herself painfully. He made you feel worthless—and wine is the last thing in the world you need.
‘Just water for me, thanks,’ she said quietly, picking up the already poured glassful and swallowing some quickly—even