The Royal Wedding Collection. Robyn Donald

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.’

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