Chapter Four #2
Every argument she’d thrown up had disintegrated beneath the weight of the one hurdle she couldn’t overcome.
What was best for her son.
It had driven her into pacing in the guest room while Max slept in a new, exquisite cot, complete with dramatic muslin netting, until the need for fresh air and clarity had drawn her to the terrace. There she’d been bombarded with the sights and sounds of Las Vegas, the most decadent city in the world.
The last place she’d dreamed of raising a family.
Which begged the question: why was she hesitating to take the silver platter offered?
She knew why…
Crown Prince Azar Domene. Even his title was melodramatic. Like an overwhelming piece of theatre just waiting to sweep the unsuspecting off their feet.
Beside remaining a force of nature, and she deemed it imperative to keep him from gaining an inch because it would be the surest way to get flattened by him, she also sensed that he despised her. Something had happened in those weeks in Arizona. Something that kept this formidable wall of resentment between them.
For an instant she regretted calling Dr Ramsey. Maybe without that express deterrent against delving deep into her memories Azar would’ve been more forthcoming. Although his own expression suggested it wasn’t a time he relished revisiting.
The idea that she’d behaved in any way like her mother caused waves of horror to wash through her. Landing a rich, ageing Hollywood studio executive had been a trigger for her mother’s dreams of fame and fortune, only for her to be scarred for life when she was left high, dry and pregnant.
Being told by her father never to contact him again had left a teenage Eden with an impression of men that had unfortunately been affirmed by the men she’d met in her mother’s desperation for companionship.
That one disastrous episode had led her mother to search for an easy way out of the tribulations of her life. Her resulting career as a barely-scraping-by lounge singer had triggered a series of disastrous relationships that had earned her deplorable labels and slurs even her seven-year-old daughter had understood and been ashamed of.
Could she look beyond this Crown Prince’s tarnished view of her—whatever it was—to do what was best for her son?
She held that question at arm’s length now, and asked the question activated by something he’d said. ‘You said your father isn’t well. What’s wrong with him?’
Shadows drifted across his face. He didn’t answer for several seconds, and when he did she suspected he’d weighed the value of telling her and somehow worked her son more than her curiosity into the equation. She suspected ‘in the interest of Max’ would heavily feature in how Prince Azar dealt with her henceforth.
Eden told herself she didn’t care, but the cold pang throbbing in her middle reminding her that yet again she was alone in this, wouldn’t be so easily dismissed.
‘He was diagnosed with heart disease several months ago. A serious case that needs careful monitoring. Unfortunately, he also recently contracted pneumonia, which doesn’t help his weakened immune system. Everyone who visits must be carefully vetted by his doctors. So you see why this precaution is necessary?’
‘Yes,’ she said—and then realised she was half accepting that she would be travelling to Cartana with Max and his father. While her stomach churned at the very thought, she asked herself if she had a choice that didn’t include a full-blown fight with the heir apparent to a powerful kingdom?
And, as he’d pointed out, what was she fighting for? The right to keep worrying and working herself into the ground just to keep a roof over her son’s head? When his destiny was already set in concrete?
Eden put her cutlery down, started to reach for her mineral water, and stopped because her hand was shaking too much.
Tucking both into her lap, she forced her gaze to meet his. ‘We’ll come with you to Paris. And then to Cartana. But just for a visit.’
The tiniest gentling of his features went much further than she wanted to admit in soothing her. Which, again, was absurd. Because he was the enemy. Wasn’t he?
‘A half-step is admirable. And I get that this has been a shock. But you’re only delaying the inevitable. Max is my heir and he will inherit the throne one day. Having me chase you around the globe to assert my rights as his father will not stand. So let’s make the transition scandal-free, shall we?’
‘You’re accustomed to a life of duty and protocol. What makes you think I’ll fit in?’
Her father was Hollywood royalty, and even he, living in a land of make-believe, hedonism and wall-to-wall scandals, had been repulsed by the idea of an illegitimate child.
A hard light ignited in his eyes and Eden suspected he wasn’t thinking about her in that moment, but reliving a memory.
‘Ultimately, how much or how little you do and what you devote your time to is entirely up to you. But be warned that the Domene Palace is a living, breathing entity that operates its own hierarchy and ecosystem. Loyalty will be rewarded. Non-compliance will be…unfortunate.’
‘That sounds like a melodramatic threat.’
A cynical smile curved his lips. ‘There are those who like to promote melodrama within the palace. I suggest you don’t emulate them.’
She opened his mouth to ask what he meant, but steady footsteps stopped her. She glanced behind her to see Azar’s private secretary, Gaspar, standing a respectful distance away.
‘The young Prince is awake, Your Highness,’ he said.
Eden’s breath caught. It was the first time she’d heard her son referred to by his inevitable title.
Again, Azar’s regard morphed, turning almost pityingly gentle before it hardened again. ‘Stay with him for a moment, Gaspar. We will be in shortly.’
He remained silent after Gaspar retreated. And she knew she’d run out of time.
Max. She was doing this for Max. Ensuring she would always be there to protect him from the abandonment she’d suffered.
But…marriage. Being the mother of the heir to the throne. Palace life. Being the wife of a crown prince.
Eventual queen.
Her mouth dried as the titles fell like anvils on her shoulders, threatening to sink her. There should be lightning and fireworks in the sky to mark the screeching turn her life was taking. And yet there was only heavy silence. And her…stuck with only one answer to give.
‘Yes. If you’re…’
Sure , she wanted to say. But resolute affirmation blazed in his eyes, making her question redundant.
So she cleared her clogged throat and gave an affirmation of her own. ‘Yes.’
* * *
She’d suspected Azar was only waiting for her response to set things in motion, but she’d imagined it would be at freight train speed. Not the unstoppable rocket force it turned out to be.
Gaspar’s return to Max’s room, where she and the Crown Prince—who seemed determined to insert himself into every corner of his son’s life—had been watching him gleefully tear into the batch of expensive toys that had just arrived, had been to ask for her apartment keys. It had stopped her in her tracks.
Azar had coolly informed her that there was a team waiting to pack up her entire life and ship it to Cartana.
He’d told her that Ramon was already in the process of arranging Max’s expedited diplomatic travel papers via the Cartanian Embassy, and it was barely mid-afternoon!
Before she could fully compute that, another knock heralded the arrival of a chicly dressed woman and a younger man, wheeling in a sleek garment rail.
‘I thought a change of attire for tonight and tomorrow might be in order,’ Azar said.
It was an evenly paced statement with an explicit directive underlying it. One not worth fighting, considering she’d already agreed to the wardrobe stopover in Paris.
But her gaze shifted to her son.
‘Go. We’ll be fine,’ Azar said firmly.
Max looked up, a smile breaking out as he held up a red toy train which had already become a firm favourite.
As much as her heart squeezed at leaving him, Eden knew that thus far one thing was true. Azar Domene was obsessed with the son he hadn’t known about until this morning. And if there was a fierce fire burning in her heart to ensure Max was not emotionally harmed, then a fiercer one burned in Azar—for unknown reasons of his own.
Reasons she intended to keep a keen eye on.
She went with the woman and the young man.
And, after struggling not to ogle the luxurious brands so casually offered, and settling on a pair of silk palazzo pants and an asymmetric batwing top firmly recommended for travel, with shoes to match, she gave in and allowed the male assistant to perform the quick make-up session he heavily hinted she needed.
A full hour later than she’d expected to be, she walked into the living room, stingingly aware of the brush of silk warming her skin, the smoky eyeshadow emphasising her eyes, even the arch of her feet in the new four-inch heels.
It was a predicament made even more pronounced when both Azar Domene and his private secretary froze after one look at her.
For tense seconds they stared. Then, slanting a narrow-eyed look at Gaspar, the Crown Prince said something sharply in Spanish that startled the other man, turning the tops of his ears red, before he executed a shallow bow and made himself scarce.
‘Is something wrong?’ she asked, hating the hesitancy in her voice.
Sardonic amusement tilted Azar’s lips before his gaze moved over her, slightly more heated than she remembered.
‘Not at all. Although having fair warning might prove to be a useful thing.’
She blinked. ‘Fair warning of what?’
‘Your effect on unsuspecting victims.’
His hard-edged tone drew a shiver from her.
‘What—? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
The magnificent Crown Prince stared at her for a long stretch, and then, casting a glance in his son’s direction, to make sure he was still happily playing, he prowled towards her.
‘The innocent waif act may work with men like my private secretary, but you should know that as long as you keep it harmless your life will be as smooth as you wish it. Stray beyond that and there will be consequences. Understood?’
* * *
He knew he’d given far too much away when her eyes rounded—even more alluring now, after whatever magic the damn stylists had created. She blinked again, and he stifled a breath as her long lashes batted against the top of her cheeks.
Dios mio , when had he ever noted the sexiness of a woman’s eyelashes?
It’s a good thing you’re marrying her, no?
Was it, though? When his primary reason for doing so was to keep her in position when it came to his son’s wellbeing and nothing else? Hadn’t he warned himself against raking over disagreeable emotions? Yet here he was, already snapping at Gaspar for staring at her too long, and feeling his manhood thicken at the sight of her face and the seductive sway of her hips.
‘Are you warning me against… cheating on you?’
The word fell from her glossy lips with such contempt he would’ve thought he was dealing with someone else entirely had he not known first-hand what this siren was capable of.
But, while his friend Nick had been many things—rabidly competitive, shockingly obstinate and borderline obsessed with one-upmanship—he’d never outright lied to Azar.
In his darkest nights, Nick’s accusations rang through his nightmares.
‘I saw her first. Just like you to slide in and take what’s mine, isn’t it? You should be thankful that she returned to my bed last night. She spent all night apologising. For the sake of our friendship, I suggest you stay away from her, though. She’s mine now.’
Except things hadn’t remained as cut and dried as that.
Crown Prince Azar of Cartana, a man renowned for his integrity and his tough but fair dealings with heads of state and unruly family members, had succumbed to temptation again.
And again.
Because this woman had played this same act and seduced him. And, yes, he knew the hypocrisy of blaming the woman. Knew and accepted that a large swathe of blame lay with him.
He’d succumbed to lust and desire. Rowed with his best friend over a woman. Watched that same woman choose his friend over him.
Hours later, Nick had been dead.
Sorrow and fury congealed into a hard ball in his gut, effectively slaying his blazing arousal.
Frustration cannoned through him at the reminder that she didn’t even remember any of it.
‘I’m advising that only your most exemplary behaviour will ensure a smooth transition for our son. We owe it to him to play a straight bat.’
Her lips parted, but he was done with this conversation.
Turning, he strode to Max and picked him up, revelling in the faint baby smell he’d grown so ragingly addicted to in just half a day.
This was safe.
This was less mind-bending.
And if there was the tiniest bit of cowardice in the act…who would dare accuse the King-in-waiting of such a thing?