you.
His hands clenched into fists by the tensed shafts of his thighs as fury fizzed through his veins. Because nobody but her had guessed that a brief segment of time had been shaved from his memory. Nobody. So how could such a woman as this see through to the truth where all others had failed?
‘How the hell do you work that out?’ he demanded icily.
She noticed that he hadn’t denied it. Her eyes drifted to his temple, and despite his harshness towards her, she found herself biting her lip as she imagined him lying there, hurt. ‘When I saw that little…scar.’
Casimiro’s mouth hardened as he heard the emotional break in her voice—wondering if it was spontaneous or contrived. ‘You are cleverer than I imagined,’ he said. And probably just as manipulative, he reminded himself grimly. How delighted she would be to discover that she knew more about him than his courtiers or even his brother! And yet, in some crazy way—wasn’t it something of a relief to be able to share the burden of his amnesia with someone?
‘So you’re not denying that Ben could be your son?’ she questioned hopefully.
Ben. Casimiro frowned. Giving the child a name only added another layer of complexity to the affair.
‘I am conceding that it is a possibility.’
It was better than nothing and Melissa bit her lip, wanting to blurt out her gratitude and yet some instinct stopping her from doing anything more than silently nodding her head.
Casimiro studied her. He had been about to leave—to slam his way out and to make arrangements about a trip to England to see the child at some undetermined point in the future—while still nurturing the hope that she was a complete fantasist. But her perception had changed everything.
He felt a pulse beat at his temple—because what she had learned was dangerous. Would she try to use the knowledge she’d gained to secure a place for herself in his life? he wondered. Knowledge was power—everyone knew that—and maybe it was time for a little redistribution of that power. Why waste his energy on pointless rage, when there was a much more satisfactory outlet which would serve him better…?
Slowly, he let his gaze drift over her. At the fall of dark shiny hair which was now completely dry and shimmering around her narrow shoulders. At the bare legs and the unvarnished toenails. Beneath that hideous garment, she was completely naked; he knew that for himself. And once again—despite his avowal of her unsuitability—he felt the hot, hard shimmering of desire.
‘Come over here,’ he said silkily.
Melissa blinked. She had been expecting anger—especially when she’d seen the shadowed expression on his face. But his face wasn’t looking in the least bit threatening now. On the contrary. She narrowed her eyes, wondering if she was misreading it. Seeing something there that she wanted to see rather than what really was.
But no.
His expression looked…inviting. Vital. The lips had softened—as if they were illustrating just how kissable they really were. And his eyes were dark—really dark—with that opaque kind of blackness which even someone with Melissa’s scant experience knew meant that he wanted her.
‘Why?’ she whispered, her heart beginning to pound.
‘Don’t let’s play games—not now. You know exactly why.’
‘But you just, just—’
‘Pushed you away?’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe I’ve realised what a fool I was being. Or maybe I just needed time for my body to make its protest known. And it is—believe me, it is—very loud and very clear.’ Glancing down with a rueful expression, he shrugged. ‘So come over here, Melissa.’
‘No,’ she said, in a small voice.
‘No? You refuse your King?’
‘You are not my King and, yes, I am refusing you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because…’ Because you’ve already made a fool of me. Because you could break my heart into a million pieces. ‘Because I’m here to discuss my son—and it’s not
His hands clenched into fists by the tensed shafts of his thighs as fury fizzed through his veins. Because nobody but her had guessed that a brief segment of time had been shaved from his memory. Nobody. So how could such a woman as this see through to the truth where all others had failed?
‘How the hell do you work that out?’ he demanded icily.
She noticed that he hadn’t denied it. Her eyes drifted to his temple, and despite his harshness towards her, she found herself biting her lip as she imagined him lying there, hurt. ‘When I saw that little…scar.’
Casimiro’s mouth hardened as he heard the emotional break in her voice—wondering if it was spontaneous or contrived. ‘You are cleverer than I imagined,’ he said. And probably just as manipulative, he reminded himself grimly. How delighted she would be to discover that she knew more about him than his courtiers or even his brother! And yet, in some crazy way—wasn’t it something of a relief to be able to share the burden of his amnesia with someone?
‘So you’re not denying that Ben could be your son?’ she questioned hopefully.
Ben. Casimiro frowned. Giving the child a name only added another layer of complexity to the affair.
‘I am conceding that it is a possibility.’
It was better than nothing and Melissa bit her lip, wanting to blurt out her gratitude and yet some instinct stopping her from doing anything more than silently nodding her head.
Casimiro studied her. He had been about to leave—to slam his way out and to make arrangements about a trip to England to see the child at some undetermined point in the future—while still nurturing the hope that she was a complete fantasist. But her perception had changed everything.
He felt a pulse beat at his temple—because what she had learned was dangerous. Would she try to use the knowledge she’d gained to secure a place for herself in his life? he wondered. Knowledge was power—everyone knew that—and maybe it was time for a little redistribution of that power. Why waste his energy on pointless rage, when there was a much more satisfactory outlet which would serve him better…?
Slowly, he let his gaze drift over her. At the fall of dark shiny hair which was now completely dry and shimmering around her narrow shoulders. At the bare legs and the unvarnished toenails. Beneath that hideous garment, she was completely naked; he knew that for himself. And once again—despite his avowal of her unsuitability—he felt the hot, hard shimmering of desire.
‘Come over here,’ he said silkily.
Melissa blinked. She had been expecting anger—especially when she’d seen the shadowed expression on his face. But his face wasn’t looking in the least bit threatening now. On the contrary. She narrowed her eyes, wondering if she was misreading it. Seeing something there that she wanted to see rather than what really was.
But no.
His expression looked…inviting. Vital. The lips had softened—as if they were illustrating just how kissable they really were. And his eyes were dark—really dark—with that opaque kind of blackness which even someone with Melissa’s scant experience knew meant that he wanted her.
‘Why?’ she whispered, her heart beginning to pound.
‘Don’t let’s play games—not now. You know exactly why.’
‘But you just, just—’
‘Pushed you away?’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe I’ve realised what a fool I was being. Or maybe I just needed time for my body to make its protest known. And it is—believe me, it is—very loud and very clear.’ Glancing down with a rueful expression, he shrugged. ‘So come over here, Melissa.’
‘No,’ she said, in a small voice.
‘No? You refuse your King?’
‘You are not my King and, yes, I am refusing you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because…’ Because you’ve already made a fool of me. Because you could break my heart into a million pieces. ‘Because I’m here to discuss my son—and it’s not
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