His Majesty's Child by Sharon Kendrick

of each of them—and a basket of warm bread offered. She shook her head and waited until the waiter had gone before staring at Casimiro.
    â€˜What do you mean, “do”?’
    His eyes narrowed. ‘What did you think would happen next? When it was proved that I was the child’s father?’
    â€˜Ben,’ she said hotly. ‘His name is Ben.’
    â€˜ What did you think would happen? ’ he repeated.
    Melissa stared down at the feathery little bits of dill which were decorating her plate before looking up at him again, steeling herself against the accusation sparking from his golden eyes. ‘I thought you’d want to see him from time to time.’
    He gave a short and bitter laugh. ‘What, just slot in and out of his life occasionally? And no doubt write you a big fat cheque so you could up your standard of living.’
    â€˜I told you in the beginning that I wasn’t motivated by money and I meant every word of it. What is more, I don’t have to stay and listen to your insults, Casimiro.’
    â€˜Oh, but I’m afraid that you do,’ he demurred, in a low, silky voice. ‘Try throwing a scene in here and you will regret it. The restaurant is owned by a friend of mine and the car in which you travelled is at my disposal. They won’t take you anywhere without my instructions, and it’s a long way to walk back to that…’ he seemedto struggle with a word to describe it ‘…apartment you live in.’
    The subtle dig about her home was the last straw—because didn’t he realise how difficult it had been for her to manage on a salary like hers? No, he probably didn’t realise and even if he did—he probably wouldn’t care.
    For a moment she felt like defying him. Like jumping up and running out and flagging down a car to take her home as fast as possible. But she couldn’t do that. She was a mother and responsible, not only for her own safety—but for that of her child. And besides, you couldn’t run away from things just because they made you feel uncomfortable. You had to stand your ground and face them—no matter how arrogant and unfeeling the person you were dealing with.
    â€˜Is that why you brought me here?’ she demanded. ‘So that I would be a captive audience?’
    â€˜Partly, yes.’ But there had been other reasons. The risk of him being seen visiting her apartment twice in one week was too great. Someone wanting to earn themselves some extra money could easily tip off one of the tabloids. Yes, the car he had travelled in had been unmarked, but the presence of body guards always alerted the general public to someone of money and sub stance.
    And hadn’t he wanted to see her in a setting somewhere outside his home—or hers? Somewhere neutral. To view her objectively, as it were. To see how she might fit in if she was outside her comfort zone. His eyes skated over her consideringly, acknowledging that she didn’t look too bad despite the fake jewellery and the unremarkable dress. But then she did have magnificentlythick hair, he conceded—as well as a pair of remarkably green eyes.
    â€˜What do you suggest we do?’ she questioned, wishing that he wouldn’t look at her like that—in that cool and calculating way—and wishing even more that her body wouldn’t prickle with response to his lazy assessment.
    â€˜We will have to marry,’ he said flatly.
    â€˜ Marry? ’
    The heavy silver fork with which she had just been about to attack the fish—more in a polite gesture to the chef than because she had really wanted it—fell to her plate with a loud clatter and as if by magic a waiter suddenly appeared, his face wreathed in concern. But Casimiro waved him away impatiently, his face darkening with fury because her reaction did not bode well. Hadn’t he expected—wanted—some kind of fawning gratitude from