Royals: For Their Royal Heir: An Heir Fit for a King / The Pregnant Princess / The Prince's Secret Baby

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 page 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.

She glared at Alix. ‘You lied too. You lied about the fact that you were poised to take control of your throne again and just using me as a smokescreen.’

Alix appeared to choose to ignore that. He folded his arms. Eyes narrowed on her. ‘Why did you lie about your father?’

Leila turned away from him again, feeling like a pinned insect under his judgemental gaze. He came alongside her. She bit her lip. He was silent, waiting.

Reluctantly she said, ‘It was my mother. It was what she always said. “He’s dead to us, Leila. He didn’t want me or you. And he only wanted me to prostitute myself for him. If anyone asks, he’s dead.”’

Alix stayed silent.

‘I was aware of who he was—his perfect life and family. His rise to political fame. Why would I ever admit that he was my father? I was ashamed for him. And for myself. It’s one thing to be rejected by a parent who has known you all your life, but another to be rejected before they’ve even met you.’

She and her mother had seen both sides of that coin.

Alix’s tone was arctic, he oozed disapproval of her messy past. ‘We found out that the press sat on the story of your identity in order to dig into your past and see if they could find anything juicy. And they did. Your father is already doing his best to limit the damage, claiming these reports are spurious—an attempt to thwart his chances in the election.’

Leila hated it, but she felt hurt. Another rejection—and public this time. ‘I’m not surprised,’ she said dully. And in front of Alix. Could this day get any worse?

Apparently it could. From beside her he said briskly, ‘The press conference will be taking place in an hour’s time. I’ve arranged for a stylist and her team to come and get you ready.’

Leila turned to look at Alix. ‘Press conference? Stylist? What for?’

Alix turned to face her. His expression brooked no argument. ‘A press conference to announce our engagement, Leila. After which you’ll be leaving with me to come back to Isle Saint Croix.’

For some reason Leila seized on the most innocuous word. ‘Back? But I’ve never been...’ Her brain felt sluggish, words too unwieldy to say.

A sharp pinging noise came out of nowhere and Alix extracted a sleek phone from his pocket, holding it up to his ear. He took it away momentarily to say to Leila, ‘Wait here for the stylist. I’ll be back shortly.’

And he was walking out of the room before she could react.

When she did react, Leila felt red-hot lava flow through her veins. The sheer arrogance of the man! To assume she’d meekly roll over and agree to his bidding just because he had a King Kong complex!

Leila stormed off after Alix, going down seemingly endless corridors that ended in various plush bedrooms and sitting rooms, and a dining room that looked as if it could seat a hundred.

She eventually heard low voices from behind a closed door and without knocking threw the door open. ‘Now, look here—what part of I don’t want to marry you didn’t you understand the first time I said it?’

Leila came to an abrupt halt when about a dozen faces turned to look at her. There were two women in the group, scarily coiffed and besuited. Alix was in the middle, looking stern, and they were all watching something on the television.

A man around Alix’s age detached himself from the group and came over to Leila, holding out a hand. ‘Miss Verughese—a pleasure to meet you. I’m Andres Balsak, King Alix’s chief of staff.’

Leila let him take her hand, feeling completely exposed.

Andres let her hand go and urged her in with a hand on her elbow. ‘We’re watching a news report.’

The crowd parted and Leila was aware of their intense scrutiny. She avoided looking at Alix’s no doubt furious expression.

The news report was featuring a very pretty town full of brightly coloured houses near a busy harbour. An imposing castle stood on a lushly wooded hill behind the town.

A reporter was saying, ‘Will King Alix be able to weather this scandalous storm so early into his reign? We will just have to wait and see. Back to you—’

The TV was shut off. Alix said, ‘Everyone out. Now.’

The room cleared quickly.

The reality of seeing that report, as short as it had been, brought home to Leila the stark magnitude of what she was facing.

She turned to Alix. ‘What exactly is it that you’re proposing with this press conference and by bringing me to Isle Saint Croix?’

Alix looked at Leila. She could have passed for eighteen. She was pale and even more beautiful than he remembered. Had her eyes always been that big? The moment he’d seen her standing in the foyer, his blood had leapt as if injected by currents of pure electricity.

And when she’d passed him, her scent had reminded him of too much. How easily he’d let her in. How much he still wanted her. How much he’d trusted her. Would she even have come to him to let him know about the baby? He had a feeling that she wouldn’t, and his blood boiled.

Damn her. And damn that sense of protectiveness he’d felt when she’d revealed the truth about her father. He couldn’t think of that now.

‘You’ll come because you’re carrying my heir and the whole world knows it now.’

Leila looked hunted, her arms crossed tightly over her chest again, pushing the swells of those luscious breasts up. They looked bigger. Because of the pregnancy? The thought of Leila’s body ripening with his seed, his child, gave him another shockingly sudden jolt of lust. A memory blasted—of taking a nipple into his mouth, rolling it with his tongue, tasting her sharp sweetness—he brutally clamped down on the image.

Leila was pacing now. ‘What is the solution here? There has to be a solution...’ She stopped and faced him again. ‘I mean, it’s not as if you’re really intending to marry me. The engagement is just for show, until things die down again...’

She looked so hopeful Alix almost felt sorry for her. Almost. Her reluctance to marry him caught at him somewhere very primal and possessive.

‘No, Leila. We will be getting married. In two weeks. It’s traditional in Isle Saint Croix to have short engagements.’

Leila squeaked, ‘Two weeks?’ She found a chair and sat down heavily. She looked bewildered. ‘But that’s ridiculous!’

Alix shook his head. ‘It’s fate, Leila. Our fate and our baby’s. The child you’re carrying is destined to be the future King or Queen of Isle Saint Croix. It will have a huge legacy behind it and ahead of it. Would you deny it that?’

Leila’s arms uncrossed and her hands went to her lap, twisting. Alix had to stop himself from going over and lacing his fingers through hers.

‘Well, of course not—but surely there’s a way—?’

‘And would you deny it the chance to grow up knowing its father? Surrounded by the security of a stable marriage? You of all people?’

Leila paled and stood up again. ‘That’s a low blow.’

Alix pressed on, ignoring the pang of his conscience again. ‘We have a child to think of now. Our concerns are secondary. If you choose to go against me on this I will not hesitate to use my full influence to make you comply.’

‘You bast—’

Alix spoke over her. ‘There’s not only our child to consider, but the people of Isle Saint Croix. Things have been precarious, to say the least, since I won back the throne. We are at a very delicate stage, and we desperately need to achieve stability and start getting the country back on its feet. Everything could descend into chaos again at a moment’s notice. This scandal is all my enemies need to tip the balance. Would you allow that to be on your conscience?’

Leila thought of the pictures she’d just seen on the TV of the pretty town, the idyllic-looking island.

She swallowed. ‘That’s not fair, Alix. I’m not responsible for what happens to your people.’

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘But I am, and I’m taking full responsibility for this situation.’

* * *

In the end it was the weight of inevitability and responsibility that got to Leila. And the realisation that she’d suspected all along that this might happen. Either this or Alix would have asked her to get rid of the baby. And the fact that he hadn’t...

She put her hand over her belly now, that newly familiar sense of protectiveness rising up. She’d felt it as soon as the doctor had confirmed her pregnancy beyond all question. Along with a welling of helpless love. So this was what her mother had gone through... It put a whole new perspective on her mother, and how brave she’d been to go it alone.

And Leila wasn’t even facing that. She was facing the opposite—a forced marriage to someone who pretty much despised her after she’d told him she’d used him. In a pathetic attempt to save face, to hide how hurt she’d been.

And now she’d have to live with that. But as long as she remembered Alix’s phone conversation she wouldn’t lose her way. He’d never intended this to be anything but a means to an end. And at least he hadn’t fooled her into thinking he’d fallen for her.

Her child would not suffer from the lack of a father as she had done. Feeling rejected. Abandoned. Unwanted. Alix might want this baby purely for what it represented: continuity. But it would be up to Leila to make sure it never, ever knew how ruthless its father was.

‘There, Miss Verughese, see what you think.’

Leila smiled absently at the stylist who’d been waiting with a rail of clothes when Alix had escorted her back through the suite like a recalcitrant child. Someone had also been there to do her hair and make-up.

She looked in the mirror now and sucked in a breath. She looked totally different. Elegant. She wore a fitted long-sleeved dress in soft, silky material. It was a deep green colour, almost dark enough to be blue. It was modest, in that it covered her chest to her throat, but it clung in such a way that made it not boring. It fell from her hips into an A-line shape, down to her knees.

Her hair was up in a chignon, showing off her neck. Her eyes and cheekbones seemed to stand out even more. She put it down to the artful make-up, and not the fact that her appetite had waned in the last month.

She was given a pair of matching high heels. And then Alix appeared. He’d changed suits and was now wearing one with a tie that had colours reflecting those in Leila’s dress. She reeled at the speed with which he’d reacted to the news and been prepared.

‘Please leave us.’

Once again the room emptied as if by magic. Alix’s cool grey gaze skated over Leila and she felt self-conscious. This man was a stranger to her. But a stranger who made her body thrum with awareness.

He held out a velvet box and opened it. Inside was a beautiful pair of dangling emerald and gold earrings. Ornate—almost Indian in their design.

She looked from them to him. ‘They’re beautiful.’

Alix said, ‘They’re part of the Crown Jewels. They were protected by loyalists to the crown while I was in exile. Put them on.’

Leila glared at him.

‘Please,’ he said.

She lifted them out, one by one, and put them on, feeling their heavy weight dangling near her jaw.

‘I have something else...’

Alix was holding out a smaller velvet box. Her heart thumped hard. She’d dreamed of this moment, even though she’d never have admitted it to herself—but not like this. Not with waves of resentment being directed at her.

Alix opened it and she almost felt dizzy for a moment. Inside was the most beautiful ring she’d ever seen.

Five emeralds—clearly very old. Set in a dark gold ring. It was slightly uneven, imperfect.

Leila reached out a finger and touched it reverently. ‘How old is this?’

Carelessly Alix said, ‘Around mid-seventeenth century.’

She looked at him, horrified. ‘I can’t accept this.’

Alix sounded curt. ‘It matches your eyes.’

Something traitorous moved inside her to think of him choosing jewellery because it matched her eyes. That he’d thought about it rather than just picking the first ring he saw.

Alix took the ring out of the box and took up Leila’s left hand.

Immediately her body reacted and she tensed. Alix shot her a look before sliding the ring onto her ring finger and Leila held her breath. It was as if the fates and the entire universe were conspiring against her, because it fitted her perfectly.

Alix’s hand was very dark next to her paler one, his fingers long and masculine. Hers looked tiny in comparison.

He didn’t let her go and she looked up, confused.

Alix’s expression was unreadable. ‘There’s one more thing.’

‘More jewellery? I really don’t need—’

But her words were cut off when Alix’s head lowered and his mouth slanted over hers. She was so shocked she didn’t react for a second, and that gave Alix the opportunity to coax open her mouth and deepen the kiss.

When Leila recovered her wits she tried to pull away, but Alix had a hand at the back of her head and stopped her from retreating. Everything sane in Leila was screaming at her to push him away, but her body was exulting in the kiss, drinking him in as if she’d been starved in a desert for weeks and had just found life-restoring water.