Читать книгу Royal Love-Child, Forbidden Marriage - Кейт Хьюит, Kate Hewitt - Страница 9

PHOEBE followed Sven up the thickly carpeted stairs, the long velvet curtains drawn against the night. Everything was silent and still, hushed and muted, so she could hear the relentless drumming of her own heart, loud in her ears.

Sven came to the end of an upstairs corridor and opened the door.

‘Mommy!’ Christian sprang up from where he’d been sitting with a scattered pile of Lego.

‘Having fun?’ Phoebe asked lightly, even as her arms ached to clasp her son to her in a tight hug and never let him go. Dash out of the consulate and run from the evergrasping claws of the royal family, with their power and their ruthless arrogance.

‘Yes…’ Christian admitted a bit grudgingly. Looking around the room, Phoebe could see that was indeed the case. The sumptuous carpet was scattered with Lego and action heroes, and a pile of Christian’s favorite DVDs rested by the large-screen plasma TV.

‘Can we go?’ Christian asked, and Phoebe saw him chew nervously on his lip. ‘I’m hungry.’

‘You can have dinner here,’ Phoebe suggested. ‘I’m sure they’ll let you order whatever you like. You can have that pizza you wanted.’

‘Of course,’ Nora murmured.

‘But I want to go now…’

So do I, Phoebe thought grimly, but she simply rested a hand lightly on Christian’s head, resisting yet again the urge to grab him and run. ‘Soon, I promise. Why don’t you watch a DVD?’ She gestured towards the huge television. ‘You’ve been asking for one of those for ages.’

‘I don’t want to watch a DVD,’ Christian said at his most obstinate, and Phoebe sighed, crouching down so she was at eye-level. ‘Christian, I’m sorry, but we have to stay a bit longer. I told you I had some business to take care of, and it will be finished—soon. I need to talk to—to Prince Leopold for a few more minutes—’

‘Prince?’ Christian repeated, his voice sharpening with curiosity and then, worse, realisation. ‘Like the prince on TV? The one who died?’

Phoebe silently cursed her son’s mental agility. ‘Ye-es,’ she agreed reluctantly, adding a caveat, ‘sort of.’

‘You know a prince,’ Christian said, sounding impressed, and then he actually puffed out his chest. ‘And so do I.’

‘A prince with a big-screen TV,’ Phoebe reminded him, desperate for a diversion. ‘I’ll just be a few more minutes, OK?’

‘OK.’ Christian nodded slowly, won over by the promise of pizza and a DVD.

Phoebe straightened, smiling in relief, even as she steeled herself for another round with Leo. Yet at that moment all she could remember was that dark look of compassion in his eyes, and the way his fingers had burned through her coat.

Sven took her back downstairs, but instead of returning to the large reception room at the front of the consuate he led her to a smaller, more private room at the back.

He opened a door and ushered her inside, retreating and closing the door softly behind him before Phoebe even had a chance to register where she was.

‘What is this?’ she demanded, and Leo turned to her and smiled.

‘Dinner, of course.’

But it wasn’t just dinner, Phoebe acknowledged with a fluttering of panic she knew she shouldn’t feel. It looked—and felt—like some kind of seduction.

The room was dimly lit by a few small table lamps, and a table for two had been laid by the marble fireplace, set with a creamy damask cloth, delicate porcelain and the finest crystal, glinting in the light. The flames of the fire cast leaping shadows over the room, and half of Leo’s face was in shadow, so she could only see the faint curling of his mouth in what she supposed was a smile.

He looked far too confident, Phoebe thought as the panic rose, far too powerful, too predatory. Too sensual. For there could be no denying that Leo Christensen was a completely sensual being.

He’d taken off his tie and undone the top two buttons of his shirt so that Phoebe’s gaze was instinctively drawn—as it had been six years ago—to the strong column of his throat. She jerked her gaze upwards, felt herself flush as she saw how Leo had been watching her. Knowing.

‘I’m not hungry,’ Phoebe said, taking a step towards the door.

‘Aren’t you?’ Leo murmured, and Phoebe’s flush intensified as though her whole body was burning. Burning not just with awareness, but with shame, for something about Leo invoked a helpless response in her that she hated.

Desire.

She felt it stretch and spiral between them, sleepy, seductive and far too powerful. No, Phoebe corrected fiercely, not desire. Fascination. It was like a child’s fascination with fire, fingers aching to touch the flickering flame, so forbidden and dangerous. It didn’t mean anything. It wouldn’t, of course it wouldn’t. She didn’t even like Leo. As long as she remembered that and kept herself well away from the flames, she’d be all right. Safe.

Except now the source of heat and danger was walking right towards her with that long, easy stride, smiling with sleepy sensuality as he held out a glass of wine he’d just poured while she’d been standing here, her mouth hanging open and her eyes as wide as a child’s, or worse, a lovesick girl’s.

‘Here.’ He handed her the glass of wine, which Phoebe accepted before she could think better of it, her nerveless fingers curling around the fragile stem.

‘You’ve gone to rather a lot of effort,’ she finally said. Leo merely raised his eyebrows.

‘I must admit I did little more than bark a few orders, but I thought we’d both be more comfortable having eaten something.’

‘Did you?’ Phoebe mumbled, taking a sip of wine, wishing she didn’t feel this helpless fascination. Already she couldn’t keep her eyes from wandering up and down the length of him, the long legs, trim hips and broad shoulders, finally resting on those full, sculpted lips, wondering how—

Stop. This was ridiculous. Dangerous.

‘Yes, I did,’ Leo replied, amusement gleaming in those golden, hooded eyes, eyes like an eagle’s, the eagles that were stamped on every piece of priceless porcelain on the table, reminding her just who she was dealing with, what—

Phoebe put her glass down with an unsteady clatter. ‘I appreciate your effort,’ she said, forcing herself to meet Leo’s gaze directly, ‘but I’d really like to finish things here and go—’

‘Home. Yes, I know. However, I’m afraid it’s not going to be that simple or quick. And I, for one, am starving, having travelled across the Atlantic this afternoon with very little to eat.’ He went to the table and began to remove the covers from several silver chafing dishes.

Leo began serving them both food, fragrant offerings that made Phoebe’s stomach clench and rumble despite her protestations that she wasn’t hungry. ‘Come, sit down,’ he said mildly. ‘There’s no reason to refuse to eat, is there?’

‘I’m not—’

‘Hungry? Yes, you are. I can hear your stomach rumbling from here. And if you’re worried about Christian, I had Nora order pizza. He doesn’t have any food allergies, I trust.’ He spoke with such confidence Phoebe knew he’d already checked. Yet despite his knowing arrogance, she was touched that he had thought to consider Christian’s needs. It was a small detail, irrelevant really, yet it still, strangely, meant something.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured, still somewhat grudgingly. ‘Christian loves pizza.’

‘Come.’ He beckoned her, holding aloft a dish that was steaming and fragrant. ‘You know you want to.’

Phoebe almost resisted simply for the principle of it. She didn’t want to be seduced by Leo, not even by the food he offered. He was toying with her, she knew, teasing her because he knew he affected her, knew that there was something basic and primal that she responded to, helplessly, hopelessly.

She’d felt it back then, a little spark leaping to life deep inside her, and now she felt that spark flame to life once more, licking at her insides, threatening to burgeon into a full-grown inferno of need.

‘Fine.’ Phoebe moved over to the table and sat down, accepting the plate of boeuf Bourguignonne in its rich red wine sauce that Leo handed her. It smelled and looked delicious. ‘And now you can tell me what this is all about.’

‘Of course.’ Leo took a sip of wine, watching her over the rim of his glass. ‘Tell me, when was the last time you saw Anders?’