Shock Heir For The King (Mills & Boon Modern) (Secret Heirs of Billionaires, Book 25)

by Clare Connelly

  Her smile dropped. Damn it, the words had sounded critical, his jealousy not something he was able to disguise.

  ‘But that’s a good thing?’

  His eyes narrowed. She poured herself a glass of water from the crystal decanter across the room and sipped it.

  ‘Yes,’ he said gruffly, finally, unable to take his eyes off her.

  She padded across the room, so graceful and lithe. It was a warm night and the windows were open, so the hint of the ocean’s fragrance was carried to them on the breeze. She climbed into bed, sitting up rather than lying down. His fingers itched to reach out and touch her—the smooth, tanned skin of her arms drew his gaze.

  ‘People are in awe of you,’ she observed, tilting her head to look at him.

  He shrugged lightly. ‘I’m their King.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ She seemed to be mulling that over. ‘And tonight you seemed like it.’

  ‘As opposed to?’

  ‘Being King is so much a part of you. I guess I still find it hard to understand why you didn’t tell me who you are. What you are. Three years ago. In New York,’ she added, as if he didn’t know exactly what she meant.

  ‘It was a novelty to meet someone who didn’t know,’ he said truthfully. ‘And I discovered I liked being treated like any other man.’

  ‘Not like any other man,’ she said, so softly the words were almost carried away towards the open window, then her ocean-green eyes latched onto his. Something pulled inside him. ‘You weren’t like any man I’d ever, ever met.’

  He dismissed the words, refusing to let them matter to him.

  ‘I mean it,’ she said softly, her words reaching deep into his chest. ‘You were so overwhelming.’

  Her eyes held his, studying him in that way she had, as though she were pulling him apart piece by piece, and weighing every fragment of him in her hands. ‘That’s lust,’ he dismissed. ‘Desire.’ And to prove his point he caught her hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a light kiss to her racing pulse point there. His eyes held hers as he moved his mouth to her palm and laid a kiss there, then to her thumb, which he nipped with his teeth. Her eyes fluttered shut and he felt her pulse kick up another notch beneath his fingertips.

  ‘It was more than that,’ she said throatily.

  Frustration sliced through him. ‘Desire is a powerful drug. Especially for someone who has no experience.’

  ‘I’d met men I liked before,’ she contradicted, dropping her gaze to the bed. He didn’t want her to hide herself from him. It frustrated him. ‘It wasn’t like I hadn’t ever been tempted by a guy. Or fantasised about what it might be like...’

  Jealousy again. It was as unwelcome now as it had been earlier.

  ‘But with you it was so different. It was as though everything I am was bound up in being with you. I felt like I needed you in the same way I need breath and water.’

  ‘That is what it should be like,’ he murmured, for it had been exactly like this for him, with Frankie.

  ‘Like what should be like?’

  ‘When you go to bed with someone, it should be because you want them with an intensity that almost fells you at the knees.’ He regarded her with all the need he felt in that moment—and it was more than strong enough to cut his body in two.

  Her cheeks flushed pink. ‘So you...feel that...have felt that before? Before me?’ She cleared her throat. ‘With other women?’

  So much was riding on that question—her hopes were so raw they hurt him. And so he lied, because it was the kindest thing for her. He lied because if he told her that he’d never felt desire like he’d known that night, like he’d known with Frankie, she would see something more in that—she would see a promise he would never give. ‘Yes.’ His eyes dropped to her lips and he thought about kissing her, he thought about showing her that nothing mattered more than their desire for one another. But she’d made her feelings clear and he had to respect them, even when it was practically killing him. ‘That’s what good sex is about.’

  * * *

  It was a dream he’d had hundreds of times. He was back in the car, the smell of burning hair and flesh, of smoke and smouldering metal all around him. Adrenalin raced through his veins as the limousine filled with flames. He was trapped. He knew this feeling well. He pushed at his belt; it didn’t move.

  His eyes were scratchy—the smoke, he knew now. His parents were dead, in the front of the car. His chest heaved as he looked towards them, saw his mother’s beautiful face frozen still, horror on her features, almost as though she’d fallen asleep in the midst of a nightmare.

  He turned to Spiro, bracing himself, wishing he could wake up, wishing he could reach back through time, into this dream, into the reality that had spawned it, and do something. But there was nothing—he was forced to relive this event again and again, the moment in which he had become truly alone.

  Only Spiro wasn’t there! Beside him, their faces bloodied, were Frankie and Leo.

  He tasted vomit in his mouth and he stretched the belt, but it wouldn’t move. His broken arm was an encumbrance he had no time for. With a curse, he called her name, but she didn’t move. Leo was still, like a mannequin, so tiny, so frail.

  He reached out and his fingertips curled around her fine blonde hair, clumped with blood, and blood filled his nostrils and eyes, vomit rushed through him. ‘Frankie!’ He called her name, urgently now, desperately, pushing at the seat belt again.

  Nothing.

  He was weak—powerless to help her.

  Desperation tore him apart. ‘Frankie!’

  She lifted her head and looked at him, only her eyes were not green now, they were dark like Spiro’s had been, like Leo’s were. ‘You can’t save us,’ she murmured, rejection in her features. ‘Just let us go. Let me go.’

  He woke then, his forehead beaded in perspiration, his skin white. He turned towards Frankie on autopilot and almost cried out at the sight of her, fast asleep. But the dream was too real, the memory of it fractured and splintering into this time and life. ‘Frankie.’ He reached over and shook her arm.

  She made a small noise then blinked her eyes open, looking at him.

  ‘Matt?’ In that tired, half-fogged state, she called him by the name he’d given her in New York. ‘Is it Leo? What’s wrong?’

  Slowly, his breathing returned to normal. He looked at her for several seconds, reassuring himself that she was fine, and then he shook his head. ‘Go back to sleep, Frankie. Everything’s fine.’

  * * *

  Frankie stared at the little white bandage on her son’s arm with a growing sense of rage and impotence. ‘Liana—’ she spoke slowly, in contrast to the way her temper was firing out of control ‘—what’s this?’

  Liana’s eyes didn’t quite meet Frankie’s. ‘From the doctor.’

  ‘I see.’ Frankie nodded, her chest heaving. She was getting married in the morning, and the last week had been both exhausting and distracting. She’d had less time for Leo than she would have liked, but she’d promised herself it would all go back to normal after the wedding. A new kind of normal, but normal nonetheless.

  ‘Ouchie,’ Leo said, looking up at his mother with big grey eyes and pointing to his arm. ‘Big ouchie.’

  Frankie’s heart cracked. ‘Yes, I’ll bet.’ She bent down and kissed her son on his cheek. He returned to his drawing. Frankie straightened and looked at Liana. ‘Excuse me.’

  She spun away from the older woman, striding out of the room and moving until she reached a guard. ‘Where is Matthias? Where is the King?’

  The guard looked somewhat surprised; she suspected her temper was showing.

  ‘Ah, he is...occupied,’ the guard apologised.

  She pulled herself up to her full, not very imposing height and stared down her nose at him. ‘Where. Is. My. Fiancé?’

  The guard flinched an
d spoke into the little device at his wrist. Crackly words came back and then he nodded. ‘He is in the west garden. I’ll show you.’

  Frankie didn’t smile. She was seething. How dared Matthias take Leo’s blood without so much as telling her? How dared he take her son’s blood at all? Damn him and his DNA test!

  Her anger seethed the entire way, through the palace and out of enormous glass doors, into a garden that was overgrown with oak trees and flowers. It was very beautiful. At the bottom there was a tennis court and Matthias stood down one end, hitting balls that were being served to him by a machine. As she approached, her eyes swept the surroundings—she had become adept at seeking out security guards now.

  ‘Have us left in privacy,’ she said curtly, not much caring who heard her dress down the King, but knowing on some level that the words she wanted to spit at him would be more satisfying if she could give full vent to her rage and that spectators would hold her back. Slightly.

  ‘Ah, yes, madam.’ The guard bowed and spoke into his wrist once more. Two guards stepped out of the periphery of the tennis court, moving towards their location.

  Here, in the inner sanctum of the palace, security was lessened. No one could reach these parts without high-level clearance.

  Frankie waited until the guards had moved back to the palace and then she closed her eyes and saw her son’s little arm, imagined a needle going into his flesh, sucking blood into vials for the purpose of confirming something that any idiot with eyes in their head could easily see. And rage flooded her once more. She stormed across the lawn and slammed open the wire gate to the tennis court.

  A tennis ball flew from the machine and Matthias whacked it hard, landing it with speed in the opposing side’s corner.

  ‘I need a word with you,’ she snapped, crossing to the machine and staring at it. ‘How do I turn this damned thing off?’ She looked towards him expectantly. His eyes were watchful, his expression bland. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small device and pressed a button. The machine went quiet.

  ‘Yes?’ he asked, still so damned calm; she wanted to shake that nonchalance from his shoulders.

  ‘You had my son’s blood taken without even telling me?’

  He walked across the tennis court, his stride lithe, wearing only a pair of white shorts and a white shirt that clung to his broadly muscled chest. He was perspiring, the heat of the day intense, the tennis court in the full baking sun.

  ‘I did tell you,’ he said as he placed the racket down against the net and then came to stand in front of Frankie. His eyes skimmed her face, then dropped lower, before lifting to her eyes once more.

  ‘When? When did you tell me you were going to get some doctor to do something so—so—invasive?’

  His frown was infinitesimal. ‘It is not invasive. Just a prick of a needle. The skin was numbed first and Liana was with him the whole time. She said he felt not a thing...’

  ‘My God!’ She stared at him as though he were some kind of alien. ‘You didn’t even go with him?’

  His laugh was a short bark. ‘My schedule is rather busy, deliciae.’

  ‘That’s your son!’ she shouted, and rage pummelled her insides so she lifted her palms and pushed at his chest. His body was like steel, not moving, not so much as an inch. She made a guttural sound and pushed harder. Her rage grew.

  ‘I am aware of that.’ He spoke slowly. Calmly. ‘I explained why the blood test was necessary.’

  ‘But you didn’t tell me when and I had no idea! I’m his mom! That boy has never had a single procedure in his life that I haven’t been there for.’ Hurt spun like a web in her chest. ‘Every headache, every nose bleed, earache and injection, I have held his hand for. How dare you keep this from me?’

  ‘Calm down, Frankie,’ he said quietly. ‘This is not a big deal.’

  ‘Not a big deal?’ She glared at him and hands that had been pushing him formed fists and she pummeled his chest. He watched her, his expression impossible to interpret, and then, he caught her wrists and held them still. But her anger couldn’t be stemmed. She stomped her feet and her fingers formed claws and she tried to break out of his grip but he held her completely still. She charged her body at his and he caught her then, wrapping his arms around her, holding her body tight to his.

  ‘Let me go!’ she screamed. ‘I can’t believe you did this. I can’t believe you took his blood! I can’t believe you think you had any right...’

  ‘He is my son,’ he said into her ear. ‘And you understood why the paternity test was necessary...’

  ‘He’s not your son!’ The words had the effect of surprising Matthias sufficiently that he loosened his grip on her. She jerked out of his grip and pushed at his chest once more for good measure. Her breathing was rushed, coming in fits and spurts. ‘How can he be, when you can speak of him with such callous disregard? You organised for a doctor to do something to a little boy that would have been terrifying and you didn’t even go along yourself? Or tell his mother? What a heartless, unfeeling lump you are!’

  A muscle jerked in his jaw. He stared at her without moving.

  ‘You don’t feel a damned thing, do you?’ she demanded again, glaring at him, and emotions, feelings, needs pushed through her, surging inside her. Whatever sentimentality he lacked, she more than made up for. ‘God, what an idiot I am to think you could ever change.’ She stared at him with a falling heart.

  He grunted something, words she didn’t catch, and then he moved to her, pulling her around her waist towards his body and holding her there. He stared down at her and, before she could guess his intention, he’d dropped his mouth to hers, kissing her, punishing her, tasting her, tormenting her.

  She groaned, but it was an angry groan, and then she was kissing him back, harder, punishing him right back, wanting to hurt him with the intensity of her kiss. Her hands ripped at his shirt, pushing at him impatiently. Anger seemed to have been the straw breaking the camel’s back and all the feelings she had worked so hard to hold off flooded through her.

  She was furious! She was so furious! But desire was lurching inside her and she didn’t want to ignore it. She wanted to use it to silence her rage!

  ‘I hate you,’ she said and in that moment she did. He stilled momentarily, then leaned down and lifted her, wrapping her legs around his waist. The power of his arousal did something to her body, weakening her, tempting her. ‘I hate you,’ she said again, but her mouth dropped to his shoulder, kissing his naked flesh even as her throat was raw with the ferocity of her anger.

  ‘Good,’ he said darkly, and she was so angry she didn’t hear the resigned acceptance in his voice. ‘So you should.’

  She tasted his emotions; she felt them in every desperate lashing of his tongue, in the intensity of his grip around her waist, in the strength of his arousal. He felt—he just didn’t know what to do with those feelings.

  And she didn’t care.

  Thought had been put aside. Sense and reason were nowhere in evidence. All Frankie could do was feel and want.

  She pushed at his chest and, with frustration, wriggled out of his arms; he guided her back to the ground, his eyes seeking hers for a moment. She ignored his look. She ignored everything. Her fingertips found his shorts and pushed at them; he stepped out of his shorts and shoes and then he pushed at her underpants, jerking them down her legs with impatience and desperation. She kicked them off but before her hands could find the zip of her skirt he’d lifted her once more, his eyes hunting hers with a question.

  Her doubts had evaporated. She had only room for anger and need. She swore under her breath and nodded, biting down on her lower lip. ‘Yes,’ she groaned, as he moved her over his arousal and pushed inside her.

  Her groan grew louder as pleasures so long denied moved through her body, and she remembered this. The intensity of his possession—the perfection of melding their two bodies into one.r />
  He thrust into her, one hand on the back of her head, fingers pushing through her hair, dislodging it from the elegant style it had been put into that morning, the other hand clamped around her bottom, holding her where she was.

  But it wasn’t enough; she wanted so much more. With a grating cry she pushed at his chest and he stared at her for a moment, lost and confused. ‘Lie down,’ she commanded, and he did, pulling out of her for one devastating moment before they were one again, on the ground of the tennis court, the grass scratchy beneath her knees as she took him deep inside and rolled her hips, the power of this something she couldn’t—wouldn’t—ever forget. Beneath her, she saw his face grow pale and his breathing rushed, she saw desperate need fire in his veins and triumph was her companion.

  Except there was no triumph in this—because she had lost. He had won. Sex was sex—there was no love in this.

  She ignored the thought; the emotions it brought clawed at her throat and they were useless and unwelcome. She stared down at him, stilling slightly. ‘Tell me this is meaningless,’ she challenged, the gamble one she hadn’t even known she was going to make. ‘Tell me this means nothing.’

  His eyes flared when they latched onto hers.

  ‘Tell me while you’re inside of me that this means nothing. That I mean nothing.’ She felt tears slide down her cheeks, hot and fat. He caught her wrists and rolled her, flipping her onto her back and holding her still.

  He moved inside her, gently at first, and then he kissed her slowly, trapping her beneath his body. Grief was equal to her desire. When would it not be?

  He was skilled. Experienced. Despite the raging emotions in her chest, pleasure was inevitable. He rolled his hips and a wave began to build inside her, driving her to the edges of sanity, tipping her over it. She gripped his shoulders and he moved deeper. She cried his name out, over and over, as she fell apart.

  But there was no recovery. No time to process what had happened. He kissed her lower, on her throat, and then his hands moved to the waistband of her shirt, pushing under it and finding the lace cups of her bra.