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With decisive determination she turned the TV off, the words of the French commentator fading away into silence.
‘Crown Prince of Amarnes…inebriated…reckless driving…his companion, a French model, died instantly along with him…’
‘Come on, scout,’ she said lightly. ‘Pizza time.’
They’d almost reached the door, almost missed them completely, Phoebe thought later, when she heard the knock.
Christian’s eyes widened and they stared at each other, the only sound the awful, silent reverberation of the knock. Strange, Phoebe thought, how they both knew that knock was different. Three short, hard raps on the door, so unlike the flurry of light taps their neighbour, old Mrs Simpson, would give, along with a cheery hello.
Those short, sharp knocks which felt like a warning, a herald of nothing good, and somehow they both knew it. Phoebe felt that knowledge settle coldly in her bones, even as she wondered who—what—why. Just like Christian, she was filled with questions.
‘Who could that be?’ she murmured, trying to smile. Christian raced towards the door.
‘I’ll get it—’
‘No.’ Phoebe pushed past her son, flinging one arm out to bar Christian’s way. ‘Never answer to strangers, Christian.’
Taking a deep breath, Phoebe opened the door, and her heart sank at the two dark-suited men standing there. They had the bland good looks and ominously neutral expressions of government agents. In fact, it was men just like these who had summoned her to the palace all those years ago, ushered her into the room with Leo and his abominable offer of a pay-off.
‘How about fifty?’
Phoebe pushed the memory away and stared at the two men filling up her doorway, trying to frame a thought. A rebuke.
‘Madame Christensen?’
It was a name Phoebe hadn’t heard in a long while; she’d reverted to her maiden name when she separated from Anders. Yet the presence of these men and the sound of her married name made the years fall away and suddenly she was back in Amarnes, facing Leo…
‘Are you so sure about that?’
Even now she could remember—feel—how Leo had trailed his finger along her cheek, then lower to the V between her breasts, and she’d let him. Even now, across all the years, she remembered the inescapable fascination she’d had with him in those few brief moments, her body betraying her so quickly and easily.
Phoebe lifted her chin and met the blank face of one of the men. ‘Actually my name is Ms Wells.’
The man stuck out his hand, which Phoebe took after a second’s hesitation and then dropped almost immediately; her own hand was clammy and cold. ‘My name is Erik Jensen. We are representatives of His Majesty, King Nicholas of Amarnes. Would you please come with us?’
‘Mommy…’ Christian’s voice sounded strangled, and when Phoebe glanced back she saw her son’s face was bleached white, his eyes huge and shocked. She felt the mirror of that expression on her own face, remembering how men like this had showed up in her grotty hostel, said nearly the exact same words. Six years ago she’d been too young, too bewildered and overwhelmed to do anything but acquiesce. Now she was older, harder, tougher. She knew better.
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
Something flickered in the agent’s face and Phoebe thought for a second it looked like pity. Fear crawled along her spine and up her throat.
‘Madame Christensen—’
‘Who is that?’ Christian’s voice sounded petulant and afraid, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. ‘Why are you calling my mom that name?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Erik Jensen smiled briefly at the boy. ‘Ms Wells.’ He turned back to Phoebe. ‘It would be better,’ he said quietly, ‘if you came. There is a representative waiting at the Amarnesian Consulate, to discuss—’
‘I hardly think there is anything to discuss,’ Phoebe replied coolly. ‘In fact,’ she continued, her voice a little stronger now, ‘I think any necessary discussions were concluded six years ago.’ When she and Anders had left the palace in a shroud of disapproval. He’d signed the papers of abdication, releasing him from the burden of the throne. Not one family member had said a word or seen them out. They’d slipped like shadows from the palace, unseen, forgotten. Except, perhaps, by Leo, with his cold, unwavering stare that still chilled her all these years later.
‘Matters have changed,’ Erik replied in that same neutral yet implacable tone. ‘A discussion is necessary.’
Coldness seeped through her, swirled through her brain. Matters have changed. Such an innocuous yet ominous phrase. She felt Christian inch closer to her, his fingers curling around her leg. She felt his fear like a palpable force, and it angered her that these men could just come in here and in a matter of minutes—seconds—try to change her life. Order it around. ‘Just a minute,’ she told the agents stiffly, and turned back to the kitchen, Christian at her side.
‘Mommy—’ Christian tugged at her leg ‘—who are those men? Why are they so…’ he paused, his voice trembling ‘…so scary?’
‘They don’t mean to be,’ Phoebe said before she thought I’ll be damned if I apologise for them. ‘Anyway, I’m not scared of them.’ She tried to smile, although like her son she felt the fear, crawling, insidious.
Why were those men here? What did they want?
She took a deep breath, forcing herself to think calmly. Coolly. Undoubtedly they wanted her to sign some paper, relinquishing her rights to Anders’s money. He’d obviously had a lot of it, even though in their few weeks together he’d squandered his stipend with shocking ease. His father, King Nicholas, had insisted on his son’s abdication, yet he’d still kept him well provided for with what mattered—champagne and women.
There was no reason to panic, to be afraid. Yet even as Phoebe told herself this, she felt the fear creep in and wind around her heart. She knew how much power the royal family had. Or, rather, she didn’t know, couldn’t fathom it, and that was what scared her. They were capable of so much. She’d seen it in the way they’d cut Anders out of the royal family as ruthlessly as if wielding scissors. She’d felt it in Leo’s cold stare.
‘Mommy—’
‘I can’t explain it all now, Christian.’ Phoebe smiled down at her son, ‘but I don’t want you to be afraid. These men have a little business with me, and I need to deal with it. You can stay with Mrs Simpson for a little while, can’t you?’
Christian wrinkled his nose. ‘Her place smells like cats. And I want to stay with you.’
‘I know, but…’ Mindlessly Phoebe stroked Christian’s hair, still soft as a baby’s. Like the little boy he was, he jerked and squirmed away. ‘All right,’ she relented. Perhaps it was better if Christian stayed with her. ‘You can come.’ She tried to smile again, and managed it better. She felt her calm return, her sense of perspective. She didn’t need to panic or fear. She’d built a life for herself here, felt it shining and strong all around her, and took courage from that knowledge. The past receded once more, as it was meant to do, as she needed it to.
A few minutes, perhaps an hour at the Amarnesian Consulate, and this would all be forgotten. Her life would go on as planned.
She linked hands with Christian, and it was a sign of his nervousness that he let her. Resolutely she turned back to the government agents standing in the doorway like overgrown crows.
‘I’ll just gather a few things, and then we can be on our way.’ She took another breath, injected a certain firmness into her voice. ‘I’d like to resolve whatever discussion is necessary as soon as possible, and be home for dinner.’
Their silence, Phoebe reflected, was both ominous and eloquent.
It only took a few minutes to pack a bag with a few snacks and toys for Christian, and then she followed the men down the narrow stairs to the street. Mrs Simpson, in a frayed dressing gown and carpet slippers, poked her head out as they descended, her expression curious and a little worried.
‘Phoebe, is everything all right?’ she called, and Phoebe’s voice sounded rusty as she cleared her throat and replied as cheerfully as she could,
‘Yes, fine.’ She tried a smile, but felt it slide right off her face. She turned away, clutching Christian to her, and willed her racing heart to slow.
A sedan that screamed discretion with its tinted windows and government plates idled at the kerb, and another dark-suited agent exited the car with smooth assurance and ushered Phoebe and Christian into the back.
As she slid into the soft leather interior and heard the door’s lock click into place, she wondered if she was making the biggest mistake of her life, or just being melodramatic.
She’d sign a paper, she’d relinquish whatever rights to money that they wanted, and then she’d go home, she repeated to herself in a desperate litany. And, Phoebe added grimly, forget this had ever happened.
The sun was setting, sending long, golden rays over the mellow brick townhouses and tenements of Greenwich Village as the sedan purred through the neighbourhood’s narrow streets, the pavement cafÉs and funky boutiques possessing only a scattering of patrons on this chilly November day.
Christian sat close to her side, his expression closed yet alert. Phoebe felt a sharp pang of pride at the way he composed himself. He knew she was feeling as afraid as she was…except she was determined not to be afraid.
That time had passed.
She turned towards the window and watched as the narrow streets of the Village gave way to the wider stretch of Broadway, and then, as they headed uptown on First Avenue, to the broad expanse of the United Nations concourse. Finally the sedan pulled onto a narrow side street wreathed with the flags of various consulates, stopping in front of an elegant townhouse with steep stairs and a wrought-iron railing.
Phoebe slipped out of the car, still holding Christian’s hand, and followed the agents into the Armanesian Consulate. Inside it felt like a home, an upscale one, with silk curtains at the windows and priceless, polished antiques decorating the foyer. Phoebe’s footsteps were silenced by the thick Aubusson carpet.
As they entered, a woman in a dark suit—was it actually a uniform for these people?—her blonde hair cut in a professional bob, started forward.
‘Madame Christensen,’ she murmured. ‘You are expected.’ She glanced at Christian, who clenched Phoebe’s hand more tightly. ‘I can take the child—’
Phoebe stiffened at the words. ‘No one is taking my son.’
The woman flushed, embarrassed and confused, and glanced at Erik Jensen, who hovered at Phoebe’s shoulder.
‘There is a room upstairs, with every comfort,’ he said quietly. ‘Toys, books, a television.’ He paused diplomatically. ‘Perhaps it would be better…’
Phoebe bit her lip. She should have insisted on leaving Christian with Mrs. Simpson and spared him this. Yet she hadn’t wanted to be parted with him then, and she didn’t now. Even more so she didn’t want Christian to witness any unpleasant altercations with some palace official determined on making sure she received nothing from Anders’s death.
‘All right,’ she relented, ‘but I want him brought back down to me in fifteen minutes.’
Jensen gave a little shrug of assent, and Phoebe turned to Christian. ‘Will you be…?’
Her little boy straightened, throwing his shoulders back. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he said, and his bravery made her eyes sting.
She watched as he followed the dark-suited woman up the ornately curving stairs before turning resolutely to follow Jensen into one of the consulate private reception rooms.
‘You may wait here,’ he told her as Phoebe prowled through the elegantly appointed room, taking in the gloomy portraits, the polished furniture, the Amarnesian insignia on everything from the coasters to the curtains. ‘Would you like a coffee? Tea?’
‘No, thank you,’ she said, resisting the urge to wrap her arms around herself even though the room wasn’t cold. Far from it—it was stuffy, hot. Oppressive. ‘I’d just like to get on with it, please, and go home.’
Jensen nodded and withdrew, and Phoebe was alone.
She glanced around the room, a gilded prison. This was so much like the last time she’d been summoned to the royal family—had she learned nothing in six years? She’d let herself be bullied then; she wouldn’t now. She didn’t want Anders’s money, she didn’t want anything from him that he hadn’t been prepared to give her when he was alive, and she acknowledged grimly just how much that had been: nothing.
Nothing then, nothing now. And that was fine, because she was fine. She’d sign their damn paper and go home.
She registered the soft click of the door opening and stiffened, suddenly afraid to turn around and face the person waiting for her there.
For in that moment she knew—just as she had known when she’d heard those three short raps on the door of her apartment—her life was about to change. Impossibly, irrevocably. For ever.
For she knew from the coldness in her bones, the leaden weight of her numbed heart, that a fussy palace official or consulate pencil-pusher was not waiting for her across ten yards of opulence. She knew, even before turning, who was waiting. Who had been sent to deal with her—an inconvenience, an embarrassment—again.
She turned slowly, her heart beginning a slow yet relentless hammering, a distant part of her still hoping that he wouldn’t be there—that after all these years it couldn’t be him—
But it was. Of course it was. Standing in the doorway, a faint, sardonic smile on his face and glittering in his eyes, was Leo Christensen.
CHAPTER THREE
‘WHAT…?’ The single word came out involuntarily, a gasp of shock and fear as the sight of Leo standing there so calm and assured brought the memories flooding back. Phoebe threw her shoulders back and lifted her chin. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked in a calmer voice.
Leo arched an eyebrow as he strolled into the room, closing the door softly behind him. ‘Is this not the Amarnesian Consulate?’ he asked, and Phoebe was conscious of how effortlessly he made her feel like an interloper. An ignorant one.
‘Then I suppose the question to ask,’ she replied coldly, ‘is why I am here.’
‘Indeed, that is an interesting question,’ Leo murmured, his voice as soft and dangerous as it had been six years ago. Phoebe felt it wrap around her with its seductive chill and tried not to shiver.
He was the same, she thought numbly, the same as he’d always been. The same sleepy, bedroom eyes, the same aura of confident sensuality even dressed as he was in a dark suit, undoubtedly coming as he did from Anders’s funeral, although there was no sign of grief in his saturnine features.
‘How did you get here?’ Phoebe blurted. ‘You were in Paris, at the funeral—’
‘I was this morning,’ Leo agreed blandly. ‘Then I flew here.’
She tried for a laugh. ‘Am I that important?’
‘No,’ Leo replied, and turned from her to move to a small table equipped with a few crystal decanters and glasses. ‘May I offer you a drink? Sherry, brandy?’
‘I don’t want a drink,’ Phoebe replied through gritted teeth. ‘I want to know why I’m here and then go home.’
‘Home,’ Leo repeated musingly. He poured a snifter of brandy, the liquid glinting gold in the lamplight. ‘And where is that, precisely?’
‘My apartment—’
‘A one-bedroom in a rather run-down tenement—’
Phoebe stiffened, thinking of the rather astronomical rent she paid for an apartment most people would think more than adequate. ‘Obviously your opinion of what constitutes run-down differs from mine.’ She met his gaze directly, refusing to flinch. ‘I’m not sure what the point of this is,’ she continued. ‘I assume I was summoned here for a purpose, to sign some paper—’
‘A paper?’ Leo asked. He sounded politely curious. ‘What kind of paper?’ He smiled slightly, and that faint little gesture chilled her all the more. Leo’s smiles were worse than his scowls or sneers; there was something cold and feral about them, and it made her think—remember—that he was capable of anything. She’d read it in the tabloids’ smear stories; she’d felt it the last time she’d stood across from him and listened to him try to bribe her, and she’d seen it in the cold, cold look he’d given Anders.
‘Some kind of paper,’ she repeated with a defensive shrug. ‘Signing away any rights to Anders’s money—’
‘Anders’s money?’ Leo sounded almost amused now. ‘Had he any money?’
‘He certainly seemed to spend it.’ Phoebe heard the ring of bitterness in her voice and flinched at what it revealed.
‘Ah. Yes. He spent money, but it wasn’t his. It belonged to his father, King Nicholas.’ Leo took a sip of his brandy. ‘Actually, Anders hadn’t a euro or cent or whatever currency you prefer to his name. He was really quite, quite broke.’
His words seemed to fall into the empty space of the room, reverberate in the oppressive silence. ‘I see,’ Phoebe finally managed, but sadly, scarily, she didn’t. If Anders didn’t have any money…then why was she here? ‘Then is it about the Press?’ she asked. Hoped. ‘A gagging order or some such? So I don’t write some sort of embarrassing memoir?’
Leo’s smile widened; he really was genuinely amused now, and it made Phoebe feel ignorant again. Stupid. ‘Have you memoirs?’ he queried. ‘And would they be so…embarrassing?’
Phoebe felt herself flush, and she shrugged, angry now. Angry and afraid. Not a good combination. ‘Then just tell me why I am here…Your Grace.’
The smile vanished from Leo’s face before he corrected with lethal softness, ‘Actually, my title is now Your Highness. Since Anders abdicated, I am the country’s heir.’
Phoebe stilled, the realisation trickling coldly through her. She hadn’t realised Leo was now the crown prince, although of course she should have known. She knew there was no one else. Anders and Leo were both only children, which was why they’d been raised like brothers.
For a second the old myth flashed through Phoebe’s mind as it had the last time she’d seen Leo: Hod and Baldur. Twins, one dark, one light. One good, one evil. Except she knew Anders’s true colours now, and he was far from being good or light. Not evil perhaps, but silly, shallow, selfish and vain. She shook her head, banishing the memories. ‘Your Highness, then. What do you want with me? Because I’d prefer to get to the point and go home. My son is waiting upstairs and he’s hungry.’ Brave words, she knew. Strong words, but she didn’t feel particularly brave or strong. The longer she remained in Leo’s company, bearing the weight of his silence, the more she felt her strength being tested. Sapped. ‘Well?’ she snapped, hating the way he was toying with her, sipping his brandy and watching her over the rim of his glass as if she was an object of amusement or worse, pity.
‘I don’t want anything with you in particular,’ Leo replied coolly. ‘However, my uncle, King Nicholas, hasn’t been well, and he has suffered great regret over what happened with Anders—’
‘You mean forcing his son to abdicate? To leave his country in disgrace?’ Phoebe filled in.
Leo smiled over the rim of his glass. ‘As I recall, you told me Anders didn’t even want to be king.’
Phoebe coloured, discomfited that he remembered the particulars of their conversation six years ago…as did she.
‘He didn’t,’ she mumbled, turning away to gaze unseeingly out of the embassy window. Outside, night had fallen, and a passing taxi washed the room in pale yellow light before streaming onwards into the darkness. Phoebe was suddenly conscious of how long she’d been in this room with Leo, and she turned around. ‘I want to see my son.’
Something flickered across his face—what?—but then he gave a tiny shrug. ‘Of course. He’s upstairs, quite happy, but I’ll have Nora bring him down as soon as we’ve concluded our conversation.’
‘And what more is there to say?’ Phoebe demanded. ‘I’m sorry King Nicholas regrets what happened, but the past is the past and can’t be changed. And frankly none of it has anything to do with me.’
‘Doesn’t it?’ Leo queried softly, so softly, and yet it felt as if he’d dropped a handful of ice cubes down her back, or even straight into her soul. Those two little words were spoken with such confidence, such arrogance and power and knowledge, and suddenly, desperately, Phoebe wished she’d never agreed to come to the consulate. Wished, almost, that she’d never met Anders—she’d certainly wished that before—except for the saving grace of Christian.
Still, even under the onslaught of Leo’s dark, knowing gaze, those sleepy, bedroom eyes with the long lashes and golden irises now flared with awareness, with knowledge, she forced herself to continue. ‘No, it doesn’t. In fact, you most likely know that I haven’t even seen Anders in years. We separated a month after we married, Your Highness, and were practically divorced—’
‘Practically?’ Leo interrupted. ‘Had you consulted with a solicitor? Filed papers?’
Phoebe felt yet another telltale blush staining her cheeks with damning colour even as an inexplicable dread settled coldly in her stomach. ‘No, I hadn’t, but…’ She stopped, suddenly, the silence worse than any words she could say, explanations—excuses—she could give.
‘But?’ Leo filled in, his eyes, nearly the same colour as the brandy in the glass he held, glittering for a moment with—what? Mockery? Contempt? Anger? ‘Couldn’t bear to make that final cut?’ he continued in that awful, soft voice. ‘Couldn’t stand to walk away from a man like Anders?’ He took a step closer to her and Phoebe found she couldn’t move. She was mesmerised, strangely drawn by his words and yet chilled too by that unfathomable darkness in his eyes and voice, that depth of some unknowable emotion she’d sensed in him at their first meeting. Leo took another step, and then another, so he was standing only a few inches away, and she was reminded forcefully of when he’d stood so close to her before, when his fingers had brushed her in that faint, damning caress and he’d asked her, ‘What would have happened…if you’d met me first?’ Now he asked another mocking question. ‘Were you hoping he’d come back to you, Phoebe?’
Phoebe blinked, forced herself to react. His assessment was so far from the truth, and yet the truth was something she could not bring herself to tell. She stepped away and drew a breath. ‘No, I most certainly was not. And whether Anders and I divorced or even considered divorcing is of no concern to you—’
‘Actually,’ Leo corrected, taking a sip of his brandy, ‘it is.’ He watched, smiling faintly, enjoying her shock and discomfiture. Phoebe felt her hands curl into fists, her nails biting into her palms. She knew Leo was waiting for her to ask why, and she didn’t want to. Didn’t want to know.
‘It wasn’t anyone’s concern whether we married or not,’ she finally said, striving to keep her voice cool, ‘so I hardly see why it matters if we divorced or not.’ She drew herself up, throwing her shoulders back. ‘Now frankly I’ve had enough of these power games, Your Highness. You may find it amusing to keep me here like a mouse with a cat, but my son is undoubtedly unsettled and afraid and I have nothing more to say to you or anyone from Amarnes. So—’
‘Oh, Phoebe.’ Leo shook his head, and for a moment Phoebe thought he genuinely felt sorry for her, and that realisation scared her more than anything else.
‘Don’t call me—’
‘Your name? But we are relatives, of a sort.’
‘Of a sort,’ Phoebe agreed coldly. ‘The sort that have nothing to do with each other.’
‘That,’ Leo informed her, setting his glass down in a careful, deliberate movement, ‘is about to change.’
He was trying to scare her, Phoebe decided. Hoped, even. It was about power, about Leo feeling as if he was in control, and she wouldn’t let him. He might be a prince, he might have all the money and power and knowledge, but she had her courage and her child. She had her memories, her own knowledge of how the last six years had shaped and strengthened her, and she wouldn’t back down now, especially not to Leo. He’d intimidated and bullied her before; she wouldn’t let him now.