by Abby Green
Darkness reared up inside him. She’d used him. Just as he’d been used before. He’d vowed never to let it happen again. Yet he had. The evidence of such weakness made him feel bilious. He’d been prepared to woo her into becoming his bride. He’d been prepared to take her into his life, parade her as his Queen. Prepared for her to bear his children. The heirs of Isle Saint Croix.
One thing broke through his mounting rage. ‘You could be pregnant.’
The thought was repugnant to him now, when a couple of hours ago he’d thought it might be something used to persuade her to agree to marriage.
Leila went a little paler, but then her chin lifted. ‘I’m not.’
Alix wanted there to be no doubt. None. ‘How do you know?’
‘I got my period this morning.’
Alix smiled humourlessly. ‘And I suppose you’d have me believe that if you were pregnant you wouldn’t come after me for everything you could?’
Alix was aware of her arms dropping and her hands fisting at her sides. He felt nothing, though. Only a desire to lash out.
‘Your cynicism really knows no bounds. And now I have that train to catch. Please leave.’
Alix took a step back and forced himself to be civil when he wanted to swipe a hand across the nearest glittering shelf covered in glass bottles and bring them all crashing to the ground. To crush Leila under the burning anger in his gut, forcing her out of this hard obduracy. Force her to be soft and pliant again.
The desire made him feel disgusted with himself.
He turned and walked out of the shop.
It wasn’t until Alix reached his suite in the hotel that his brain cleared of its dark haze.
He couldn’t even accuse Leila of avariciousness. There were a million other women who would have heard that conversation and used it to inveigle their way into his life, take everything he offered and more. But not her.
The dark irony mocked Alix.
He saw the rumpled sheets on the bed out of the corner of his eye—and something else. He strode into his bedroom and picked up the House of Leila perfume bottle, containing his signature scent.
An image came to him of Leila in the bath, after they’d made love for the first time. He saw it as clearly as if she was in the room right now. The small sensual smile that had played around her mouth, her hand on her breast, a nipple trapped between her fingers. That smile scored his insides now like a knife. She’d looked satisfied. Mission accomplished. I used you.
Acting on a rising tide of rage, Alix lifted his arm and hurled the bottle at the nearest wall, where it smashed into a million tiny shards and scattered golden liquid everywhere. And that smell reached into his gut and clenched hard.
He lifted the phone and gave curt instructions that he and his entire team were to be moved to another hotel. And just after that call he got another one from Andres. The man was excited.
‘The polls are in and they’re all suggesting a landslide victory. The government is panicking but it’s too late. This is it, Alix. It’s almost time to go home. When you return with Leila on your arm—’
Alix cut him off coldly. ‘Do not mention her name again. Ever.’
There was silence on the other end of the phone before the man recovered with professional aplomb and went on as if nothing had happened.
Alix listened with a grim expression.
When the conversation was finished, staff appeared, scurrying to do his bidding. Alix cursed himself for overreacting. Leila Verughese was just a woman. A beautiful woman. And it had been lust that had clouded his judgment. Just lust. Nothing more. If anything, it was a timely and valuable lesson.
By the time Alix was getting out of his car and entering his new temporary home, Leila Verughese wasn’t a recent or even a distant memory. She had been excised from his mind with the kind of clinical precision Alix had used for years to excise anything he didn’t want to think about. Women...the death of his brother.
His destiny was about to be resurrected from the ashes like a phoenix, and that was the most important thing in the world.
* * *
It was only when the train had left Paris far behind that Leila felt some of the rigid tension seep out of her locked muscles. Her jaw unclenched. The ache in her throat eased slightly.
She sent up silent thanks for the old friend of her mother’s who would let her stay for a while with her in Grasse. There was no meeting about sharing factory space, but it would get her out of Paris until Alix was gone.
And then the pain started to seep in from where she’d been blocking it out. The pain that told her it had taken more strength than she’d thought she had to stand in front of Alix and pretend he’d meant nothing to her. That she’d used him.
He’d used her. Thank God the press hadn’t discovered her identity.
Her naivety made her want to be sick. And that reminded her of the slightly nauseous feeling she’d had for the last few days—not strong enough to cause concern, but there in the background. She’d put it down to Matilde’s rich food.
She’d lied to him about her period. It hadn’t come yet. But she’d wanted him gone. If he’d thought there was the slightest chance... Horror swept through her at the prospect.
She put her hand on her belly now and told herself fiercely that she wouldn’t be pregnant, because the universe wouldn’t be so cruel as to inflict the sins of the mother on the daughter. It couldn’t.
If she was pregnant she didn’t want to contemplate Alix Saint Croix’s reaction. After their last conversation he would advocate only one thing to protect his precious ascent to power: termination. Because Leila Verughese had just comprehensively ruled herself out of the suitable bride stakes.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Seven weeks later
ALIX LOOKED OUT over the view from where his office was situated in the fortress castle of Isle Saint Croix. It was at the back, where the insurmountable wall of the castle dropped precipitously to the sea and the rocks below. The most secure room.
The window was open, allowing the mildly warm sea breeze to come in, bringing with it all the scents of his childhood that he’d never forgotten: earth, sea, wild flowers. And the more exotic scents of spices and herbs that always managed to infiltrate the air were coming from the main town’s market.
It had been a tumultuous few weeks, to say the least, but he was still here and that was something.
Leila. She was a constant ghost in his mind. Haunting him. Tormenting him. As soon as he’d returned to Isle Saint Croix on a wave of triumph the perfume of the island had reminded him indelibly of her. Of the perfume she’d made for him.
Was she sitting in a luxurious hotel suite right now, with her potions arrayed before her? Smiling at some hapless man? Enthralling him? Witch.
He still couldn’t believe she’d turned her back on the opportunity to become his Queen. Or that her rejection had smarted so badly. He told himself it was a purely ego-based blow. He’d chosen Leila because he’d genuinely believed she had the necessary attributes. Plus he’d had the evidence that they got on well, and he’d felt she had integrity and that he could trust her.
Not to mention the insane chemistry between them.
And all along she’d had her own agenda.
An abrupt knock at the door interrupted his brooding and made him scowl. ‘Come in.’
It was Andres, looking worried. Holding a tablet in his hand. When he got to Alix’s desk he was grim. ‘There’s something you need to see.’
He turned the device around and Alix looked down to see rolling news footage. It took a second to compute what he was looking at, but when he did his entire body tensed and a wave of heat hit him in the solar plexus.
It was a picture of him and Leila, arguing in the street that day seven weeks ago. He had his hand on her arm and she looked angry. And beautiful. Even now it took his breath away.
The headline read: ‘Want to meet the very fragrant mystery lover of the new King of Isle Saint Croix? Turn to pag
e six...’
Alix looked at Andres. ‘Do it.’
Andres scrolled through and stopped. Alix read, but couldn’t really take it in. Words jumped out at him:
Illegitimate secret daughter of Alain Bastineau...next President of France?
Pregnancy test...positive...royal heir?
Does King Alix know if he’s the father?
Scandal and controversy don’t seem to want to leave this new King in peace...
* * *
Leila was still in shock. It hadn’t left her system yet even though she’d had since yesterday to come to terms with the news. She’d had it confirmed, after weeks of trying to deny the possibility when one period hadn’t materialised and then the next one. She was pregnant— approximately eight weeks, according to the doctor she’d gone to see after doing three home tests: positive, positive, positive.
Pregnant and without the father. Just like her mother.
A sense of shame and futility washed over her. It was genetic. She’d proved no less susceptible to a gorgeous man intent on seduction. The only difference being that this time around the father would have been quite content to marry the mother of his child.
Leila smiled, but it was mirthless. Perhaps that was progress? Maybe by the next generation her child would manage not to get pregnant and would avoid dealing with the prospect of rejection and/or a convenient marriage?
Oh, God. Leila clutched her belly. Her child. A son or daughter. With this legacy in its past. How pathetic. Bitter tears made her eyes prickle.
A furious pounding on the door of the shop downstairs made her jerk suddenly upright. She heard a clamour of voices. She was late opening up, but her clientele hardly arrived in droves, so desperate to get into the shop that they’d pound on the door like that.
Momentarily distracted out of her circling thoughts, Leila hurried down to the shop, thinking that perhaps an accident had happened.
More banging on the door...urgent voices. Leila fumbled with the lock and swung the door wide—only to be met with a barrage of flashing lights, shouting voices and people pushing towards her.
It was so shocking and unexpected it took a moment for what they were saying to sink in, and then she heard it.
‘Is it true you’re pregnant with Alix Saint Croix’s baby?’
‘Are you getting back together?’
‘How long have you been seeing him?’
‘Why did you fight?’
‘Are you in touch?’
‘Does he know about the baby?’
The voices morphed into one and Leila finally had the presence of mind to slam the door shut again before someone got their foot in the door. Just before she closed it, though, someone threw in a newspaper and it landed at her feet.
She bent down to pick it up. Emblazoned across the front page was a picture of her and Alix arguing in the street that day all those weeks ago, his hand on her arm, her face tilted up to his: angry. Hurt, humiliated. She cringed now to see her emotions laid so bare. So much for believing she’d been in control.
And the headline: ‘Leila Verughese, secret lover of Alix Saint Croix and the even more secret daughter that Alain Bastineau never wanted you to discover.’
They knew about her father.
Leila’s back hit the door and she slid down it as her legs turned to jelly. She barely noticed the pounding on the door, the shouting outside. She just knew that however bad she’d believed things to be just minutes before...when she’d known she was pregnant and it had still been her secret...they were about to get exponentially worse.
From somewhere came a persistent and non-stop buzzing noise. Leila dimly recognised that it was the phone. On hands and knees she crawled over to where the device sat under the counter. She picked it up.
Somehow she wasn’t surprised to hear the familiar authoritative male voice. It caused her no emotion, though. She was numb with shock.
It told her that in one hour Ricardo would be at the back lane entrance of her property with a decoy. She was to let him in. In the meantime she was to pack a bag, and then leave with him when instructed.
The shock kept Leila cocooned from thinking too much about these instructions, or the baying mob outside. And in just over an hour she let Ricardo in, with a girl who looked disconcertingly like her... Leila didn’t think twice about letting them borrow one of her coats for the girl, nor about the fact that he sent the girl out through the front. The baying mob reached fever pitch and then suddenly died down again as she heard vague shouts of, ‘She’s getting away!’
Ricardo was saying urgently, ‘It won’t be long, Miss Verughese, before they realise she’s not you. Where is your bag? We need to lock up and go—now.’
And then Leila was being escorted into the back of a car with blackened windows and they were racing through the streets of Paris. At one point Ricardo must have been concerned by her shocked compliance and pallor as he asked if she was okay. She caught his eye in the mirror and said numbly, ‘Yes, thank you, Ricardo.’
The shock finally started dissipating when they pulled up outside one of Paris’s most iconic and exclusive hotels. It seemed as if a veritable swarm of black-suited men appeared around the car, and one of them was opening her door.
Leila looked at Ricardo, who’d turned around to face her.
‘It’s okay, Miss Verughese, they’re the King’s security staff. They have instructions to bring you straight to him.’
The King. He was a king now. Leila blanched. ‘He’s here?’
Ricardo nodded. ‘He flew in straight away. He’s waiting for you.’
The man almost looked sympathetic now, and that galvanised Leila. No way was she going to be made to feel that she was in the wrong here. Her life had just been torn to pieces and it was all his fault.
The wave of righteous indignation lasted until she was standing outside imposing doors on one of the top floors of the luxurious hotel and the bodyguard escorting her was knocking on the polished wood.
Indignation was fast being replaced with nerves and trepidation and nausea. She was going to see him again.
She wanted to turn and run. She wasn’t ready—
A voice came from inside the suite, deep and cold and imperious. ‘Come.’
The bodyguard opened the door with a card and ushered her in. Leila all but fell over the threshold to find herself in a marbled lobby that would have put a town house to shame.
It was circular, and doors led off in various directions. For a second she wanted to giggle. She felt like Alice in Wonderland.
And then a tall, broad shape darkened one of the doorways. Alix. He looked even bigger than before, dressed in a three-piece suit. His hair was severely short and he was clean shaven. Leila immediately felt weak and hated herself for it.
She fought it back and lifted her chin. ‘You summoned me, Your Majesty?’
Alix’s face darkened. A muscle pulsed in his jaw. He didn’t rise to her bait, though, just stood aside and said, ‘We need to talk—please come in.’
Leila moved forward and swept past him with all the confidence she could muster, quickly moving into the enormous room with its huge windows looking out over the Place de la Concorde, with the Eiffel Tower just visible in the distance.
She’d tried not to breathe his scent as she passed, but it was futile. She found herself drinking it in...it seemed to cling to her...but she couldn’t find any of the notes she’d made for him. It was the scent he’d had before. She felt a pang of hurt. He wasn’t wearing her scent any more...
She looked out of the window and folded her arms over her chest, wishing she felt more presentable. Wishing she wasn’t wearing the same old dark trousers, white shirt, flat shoes. Hair up in a neat ponytail for work. No make-up.
‘Is it true? Are you pregnant?’
Leila fought the urge to bring a hand down to cover her belly protectively, as if she could protect the foetus from hearing this conversation.
‘Yes, it’s true,’ she said tightly.
‘And it’s mine?’
She sucked in a breath and turned around. ‘Of course it’s yours—how dare you imply—?’
Alix held up a hand. He looked cold and remote. She’d never seen him like this apart from at that last meeting.
‘I imply because I come with quite a considerable dowry.’
Leila bit out, ‘Well, if you remember, you have come to me—not the other way around.’
Alix dug his hands into his pockets. ‘And would you have come to me?’
Leila opened her mouth and shut it again, a little blindsided. But she knew that her fear of how Alix would have reacted would have inhibited her from telling him—at least straight away.
She avoided answering directly. ‘I’ve only just found out for sure. I haven’t had much time to take it in myself.’
That was the truth.
Alix looked so obdurate right then that it sent a prickle of fear down Leila’s spine. ‘I’m not getting rid of it just because I’m not suitable wife material any more.’
He frowned. ‘Who said anything about getting rid of it?’ His frown deepened and then an expression came over his face—something like disgust. ‘You suspected you might be pregnant that day, didn’t you?’
Leila’s face got hot. She glanced down at the floor, feeling guilty. ‘I hadn’t got my period.’ She looked up again. ‘But I didn’t want to say anything. I had no reason to believe it wasn’t just late, and I was hoping that...’ She stopped.
‘That there would be no consequences?’ Alix filled in, with a twist to his mouth.
Leila nodded.
‘Well, there are. And rather far-reaching ones.’
More than fear trickled down her spine now. But before she could ask him to clarify what he meant he moved towards her. He stopped—too close. She could smell him, imagined she could feel his heat. She wanted to step back, but wouldn’t.
‘You lied to me.’
Leila frowned. ‘But I only just found—’
‘About your father. You said he was dead.’
Leila felt weak again. She’d conveniently let that little time bomb slide to the back of her head while dealing with this.