Royal Babies: Claiming His Secret Royal Heir / Pregnant with a Royal Baby! / Secret Child, Royal Scandal. SUSAN MEIER
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who dressed to catch the eye. But it wasn’t only the dress with its bright red bodice and gently plumed skirt that showcased her trademark legs. The bright colour was toned down by contrasting black satin panels and silver stiletto heels. It was the way she wore it—she seemed to bring the dress alive. And vice versa. A buzz vibrated from her—an energy and sparkle that epitomised Sunita.
‘Wow!’ was the best he could do as he fought down visceral desire and the need to tug her into his arms and rekindle the spark that he knew with gut-wrenching certainty would burst into flame. To kiss her senseless...
What the hell was he thinking? More to the point, what part of himself was he thinking with?
Maybe he was more like his father than he knew. Alphonse had always put physical desire above all else. If he’d been attracted to a woman he’d acted on that attraction, regardless of marriage vows, fidelity or the tenets of plain, common decency. The last ruler of Lycander had believed that his desires were paramount, and it didn’t matter who got hurt in the process.
Frederick wouldn’t walk that road. He never had—that, at least, was one immoral path he’d avoided.
His business with Sunita was exactly that—business. He had an idea to propound, an idea he would not mix with the physical.
‘You look fantastic.’
‘Thank you. I know it sounds shallow, but it is awesome to dress up again.’
She smoothed her hand down the skirt and her smile caught at his chest.
‘You look pretty good yourself. Where did the suit come from?’
‘I had it delivered whilst I was waiting.’
‘Good thinking, Batman.’
Her voice was a little breathless, and he knew that she was as affected as he was by their proximity. Her scent teased him, her eyes met his, and what he saw in their deep brown depths made him almost groan aloud.
Enough.
Right now he had to focus on the most important factor, and that was Amil. Irritation scoured him that he could be letting physical attraction come into play.
He nodded to the door. ‘We’d better go.’
* * *
Sunita wanted, needed this journey to come to an end. Despite the spacious interior of the limo, Frederick was too...close.
Memories lingered in the air, and her body was on high alert, tuned in to his every move, and she loathed her own weakness as much now as she had two years before. She needed to distract herself, to focus on what was important—and that was Amil.
The day’s events had moved at warp speed and she was desperately trying to keep up. The truth was out, and it was imperative she kept control of a future that she could no longer reliably predict.
Frederick wanted to be a real part of Amil’s life—he had made that more than clear. But at this point she had no idea what that meant, and she knew she had to tread carefully.
The limo slowed down and she took a deep breath as it glided to a stop.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
‘Ready.’
With any luck she wouldn’t have lost her touch with the press. In truth, she’d always liked the paparazzi. Her mother had always told her that publicity was a means to measure success, part of the climb to fame and fortune and independence.
They stepped out into a crowd of reporters, the click of cameras and a fire of questions.
‘Are you back together?’
‘Friends or lovers?’
‘Does Kaitlin know?’
‘Where have you been, Sunita?’
Frederick showed no sign of tension. His posture and smile were relaxed, his whole attitude laid back.
‘At present we have no comment. But if you hold on I promise we will have an announcement to make after dinner.’
Next to him, Sunita smiled the smile that had shot her to catwalk fame. She directed a small finger-wave at a reporter who’d always given her positive press, a smile at a woman she’d always enjoyed a good relationship with, and a wink at a photographer renowned for his audacity.
Then they left the reporters behind and entered the restaurant, and despite the knowledge of how important the forthcoming conversation was a part of Sunita revelled in the attention she was gathering. The simple ability to walk with her own natural grace, to know it was OK to be recognised, her appreciation of the dress and the inner confidence it gave her—all of it was such a contrast to the past two years, during which she had lived in constant denial of her own identity, burdened by the fear of discovery.
The manager beamed at them as he led them past the busy tables, where patrons looked up from their food and a buzz immediately spread. Sunita kept her eyes ahead, noting the dark-stained English Oak screens and latticing that graced the room, the hustle and bustle from the open-plan kitchen where chefs raced round, the waiters weaving in and out, and the tantalising smells that drifted into the eating area.
‘As requested, we’ve seated you in a private dining area where you will be undisturbed. My head chef has arranged a buffet for you there, with samples of all our signature dishes, and there is, of course, champagne on ice—we are very happy to welcome you both here.’
He turned to Sunita.
‘I do not expect you to remember me, but when you were a child your mother brought you many, many times to the restaurant I worked in then. Your mother was a lovely lady.’
Memory tugged as she studied the manager’s face. ‘I do remember you. You’re Nikhil! You used to give me extra sweets and fortune cookies, and you would help me read the fortunes.’
His smile broadened. ‘That is correct—I am very happy to see you here, and I am very sorry about your mother. She was a good woman.’
‘Thank you. That means a lot to me. And it would have to her as well.’
It really would. So many people had looked down on Leela Baswani because she had been a single, unmarried mother, and a model and actress to boot. But her mother had refused to cower before them; she had lived her life and she’d loved every minute of it—even those terrible last few months. Months she didn’t want to remember, of watching her mother decline, knowing that soon she would be left alone in the world.
But those were not the memories Leela would have wanted her daughter to carry forth into life. Instead she would remember her as Nikhil did—as a good, brave, vibrant woman.
Nikhil showed them into the private dining room, where a beautifully decorated table laid with snowy white linen held fluted glassware, gleaming cutlery and a simple table decoration composed of an arrangement of glorious white roses.
Sunita looked at them, and then at Nikhil, and a lump formed in her throat. White roses had been her mother’s favourite flower—her trademark accessory—and as the scent reached her nostrils she closed her eyes for a second. ‘Thank you, Nikhil.’
The manager gave a small bow. ‘You are very welcome. Now, both of you enjoy the food. I believe our chef has excelled himself. And I guarantee you complete privacy.’
With one more beaming smile, he left, closing the door behind him.
‘I’m sorry about your mother,’ Frederick said.
‘Thank you.’
‘She isn’t mentioned in any articles about you except April’s most recent one. None of your family is.’
‘No. They aren’t.’
And that was the way it would stay—she would love to remember her mother more publicly, but to do that would risk questions about her father, and she’d severed her ties with him years before—the man