Claimed: Secret Royal Son. Marion Lennox
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Название: Claimed: Secret Royal Son
Автор: Marion Lennox
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
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In the cradle behind her, Michales was stirring. Whimpering.
Michales.
He had a son.
He’d known for a week. But he needed more time to take it in. A year or so. More.
And into his jumble of emotions came Lily. She was aggressive and uncooperative. But underneath…
There was a reason he’d fallen for her, he thought. Beneath her anger she looked…vulnerable. And very, very desirable. Despite the overalls and the crazy cap. Despite the steel-toed boots.
She made him feel…
Yeah, that was what had got him into this mess in the first place, he told himself savagely. Leave feelings out of it. Find out facts.
Like why she hadn’t told him she was pregnant.
‘Did I deserve this?’ he asked slowly into the silence. ‘That you not tell me you were expecting my child?’
‘I tried to tell you.’ She sounded tired. Flat.
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I phoned. Three weeks after we’d…’
‘Had sex?’ he said crudely and she winced.
‘If you like,’ she managed. ‘Maybe that sums up our connection. Dumb, sordid sex.’
It had been more than that. They both knew it. That was what was messing with his head.
‘I tried to find you,’ he told her.
‘Like I believe that. You only had to ask Mia for my address.’
‘I did ask Mia. She told me to leave you alone—she was blunt and aggressive and gave no details. But I did end up here. Spiros has told you. And then you phoned.’
‘I did,’ she said coldly. ‘You can’t remember what you said?’
‘No. I…’
‘If you can’t, then I can. It’s the sort of conversation that sticks in a girl’s mind. You find out you’re pregnant. You’re sick and confused and scared, but finally you work up courage to contact the baby’s father. And his line is…“Lily. Great to hear from you. You’re not trying to slap a paternity suit on me as well, I hope.’”
He stilled.
He’d said it. God forgive him, he’d said it.
He remembered, all too clearly.
He was a prince, a bachelor, titled and eligible. He’d made a fortune himself, and as Giorgos’s heir he stood to inherit much, much more. As such, he’d endured the most blatant attempts to…get close.
The morning Lily had called he’d just fielded a call from the mother of a Hollywood starlet. Vitriolic and accusing.
‘You slept with my daughter and now she’s pregnant. You’ll marry her or you’ll pay millions.’
He’d never slept with the girl. He couldn’t remember even meeting her. But obviously the girl was pregnant, and she’d named him as the father.
It happened.
And about ten minutes after that, Lily had called.
He had slept with Lily. He’d been angry that she’d left, frustrated that he hadn’t been able to find her—and, despite his precautions, pregnancy was possible, though unlikely. So he’d come out with his glib, joking line…
‘You’re not trying to slap a paternity suit on me as well…’
She’d said…what was it? ‘Get lost.’ And cut the connection.
He remembered staring at the phone, feeling bad, thinking he should trace the call. And then thinking of Mia and how much he disliked her—how much he loathed Lily’s connection to royalty. And how much attachment hurt. How love ended in grief. How a sister of Mia’s could never be worth that hurt. And it had sounded as if she clearly didn’t want him anyway.
And he’d made the conscious decision, there and then, not to make any further attempt to contact her.
‘You could have tried again,’ he said, but her face was grim now, and drawn.
For over a year now he’d tagged this woman as just like her sister. He’d treated her accordingly. His response to her phone call had been glib and cruel, but if it had been Mia he’d been talking to, maybe it would have been justified.
She wasn’t Mia.
And now? She was expecting him to walk away. No, she was wanting him to walk away. With or without paternity payments, he thought. The fact that she wanted nothing to do with him was obvious.
Unbidden, he remembered Lily as he’d first seen her. Dressed simply in a little black dress. Very little make-up. Those glorious curls.
He’d said something sardonic about their surroundings—the glitz of the royal ballroom—and she’d chuckled her agreement. ‘I do like a bit of bling,’ she’d said. ‘Mind, these chandeliers are a disappointment. I’d prefer them in pink. Plain crystal is so yesterday’s fashion. Like stove-pipe pants and shoulder pads.’ She’d eyed him up and down—in his tuxedo. ‘And tuxedos,’ she’d said, and she’d said it like a challenge.
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