Her Prince's Secret Son. Linda Goodnight
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Aleks seemed mercilessly unaware of her distress as he thrust her into a gleaming brass-and-mirrored elevator. The door pinged shut and he loosened his grip to push a number.
She’d dreamed of him for so long and now here he was, in the flesh. But oh, that flesh was hard and unyielding, not warm and loving as she remembered.
He loathed her. That much was evident. But why? He was the one who’d abandoned her.
She longed to ask, but right now she was still in shock and if she admitted it, more than a little unnerved. Something was very wrong here and until she understood, she would play her hand very close to the vest.
During the entire elevator ride, Aleks stared straight ahead at the closed doors, avoiding eye contact, and said not a word. He was as stiff and cold as an icicle but still as handsome and dynamic as ever.
But the years had altered him. Where he’d been a charming, carefree college student, engrossed in getting his master’s degree while embracing sports and cars and the American college life, today he was a solemn man with hard eyes.
He was so near, this man who’d broken her heart that she could feel the tension in his frame and smell the fabric of his navy blue jacket. But he was also as far away as her bookstore.
She should be demanding her release, filing a kidnapping complaint, or at the least, slapping his royal face. But here she was noticing the added lines around his mouth, his beautiful, dark skin, and remembering the time he’d buried them in autumn leaves and they’d kissed and cuddled in their leafy hideaway, content to be together and so completely in love.
Or at least, she had been.
“I never knew you at all, did I?” she whispered, surprised that she had spoken aloud.
Aleks slowly turned his head and stared at her with those icy eyes. “Ours was a brief romance. A fling I think you Americans call it.”
A fling. The word seared her heart like a hot iron against tender flesh. She’d given him everything she had to give. And he called their love a fling.
How could she have fallen for a man who had deceived her so badly? He had not only walked out with little explanation but he’d never been honest with her from the beginning.
He was a royal prince, but she was a royal fool.
The elevator eased to a stop and the doors slid open. Aleks stepped aside, holding the door with one hand while motioning with the other for her to exit. She did so, her mind reeling.
Who could he possibly want her to meet? Why was she here? And why didn’t he just tell her what was going on?
The floor they stepped out on was similar to the one where her suite of rooms was situated. A long, carpeted hallway lit by sconces and new lighting—a fascinating mix of old and modern—was guarded by a pair of uniformed men. Stunning murals graced the vaulted ceilings. Tapestry and gilded paintings lined the walls above elegant furniture groupings. At one end an arched window looked out at the sunlit day. Sara had never seen a place of such over-the-top wealth and splendor.
Aleks seemed impervious to it all as he reclaimed her elbow.
Two people, a man and a woman both dressed in white uniforms, sat outside a closed door but quickly stood to attention when they saw Aleks approach. They turned curious gazes in Sara’s direction.
Aleks glanced toward the closed door. The cold mask slipped from his face. For the briefest moment, Sara was certain she saw tenderness…and fear.
“How is he?”
Something in his voice gave Sara pause. She stared at the side of his face, trying to comprehend the undercurrent flowing between him and the others.
“He’s sleeping, Your Majesty.”
The news seemed to bring relief to Aleks. Some of the tension flowed out of him.
“Excellent.” He occasioned a glance at Sara. The frosty glare was back. “We will go inside.”
Whoever resided inside that room held special meaning to the Prince of Carvainia. But what did this have to do with her?
“Who—” she started, but Aleks shot her a warning glance as if daring her to make a noise and wake the sleeper. Sara fell silent.
He pushed the door open. Sara’s pulse rate elevated with an inexplicable nervousness as they tiptoed inside.
Sara’s first impression was a smell. Though the overriding scent was antiseptic, another odor that she couldn’t quite place lingered, too. This was a medical ward, not a bedroom.
The large room was semidarkened with enough light to see and work by but not enough to disturb the sleeper. An array of medical equipment looked out of place next to a stunning iron bed canopied in blood-red draperies trimmed in gold and black. The quiet was broken only by the shoosh and burr of those machines.
At the sight of Aleks, the attendants hovering near the bed bowed and backed silently away, but not before their eyes flicked over Sara, all with the same identical and troubling expression. Sara’s nervousness increased. Her palms began to sweat.
Following Aleks’s lead, she approached the enormous, raised bed.
A handsome little boy rested against the pillows, his long eyelashes startling black against his pale cheeks. He was thin and his skin color was an odd gold-over-olive. The scent she’d noticed rose from the bed, the odor of fever.
“Is he sick?” she whispered.
A muscle jerked in Aleks’s cheek. “Very.”
“Poor little child. I’m so sorry.”
Aleks gave her a strange look. “As am I.”
They stood in silence, staring down at the sleeping child. Looking at the small boy was a powerful reminder and Sara ached both for him and for herself. Her child would have been near the age of this little boy. She prayed that wherever he was, her son was well and that no sickness ever befell him.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“A virus has attacked his liver.”
“Will he be all right?”
Aleks glared at her, his expression so bewildering and strange that she grew afraid.
“We will know soon.”
A sense of silent anticipation hovered in the room as if the people standing in the shadows held their collective breath.
“Who is he?” she whispered.
The mask of coldness seemed to slip for a moment, and Sara could have sworn he was hurting. “He is my son.”
“Your…son?” The words nearly choked her.
She placed a hand over her womb. She felt so empty. Aleks had moved on without a backward glance, marrying and producing a son. He had a child. She had nothing but an empty ache.
Did her little boy, wherever he was, look like this? Did he have Aleks’s black eyelashes and aristocratic nose?
Against the lump of regret and longing that clogged her throat, she said, “Your son is very beautiful. He deserves to be well.”
Aleks took both her elbows and turned her to face him. He stared at her long and hard and without mercy. She swallowed, the sound loud in a room where only the breath of a small boy and his incessant machinery broke the silence.
His fingers tightened. “So does yours.”
She frowned, puzzled. An erratic beat of something she couldn’t name started deep inside, shouting a warning that she did not comprehend.
“My son?” she asked, voice trembling with dread. “What do you mean?” And how did he know? How could he possibly know about her son? About their son?
Aleks’s black eyes held hers as if peering into