Читать книгу Royal Christmas: Royal Love-Child, Forbidden Marriage - Кейт Хьюит - Страница 7

Six years later

IT WAS raining in Paris, a needling grey drizzle that blanketed the royal mourners in grey, and made the images on the television screen blurry and virtually unrecognisable.

Not, Phoebe acknowledged, that she’d met any of Anders’s family besides his cousin. Leo. Even now his name made her skin prickle, made her recall that terrible, cold look he’d given Anders as they’d left the Amarnesian palace. That was the last time either she or Anders had seen any of his family, or even stepped foot in his native country.

Six years ago … a lifetime, or two. Certainly more than one life had been affected—formed, changed—in the last half-decade.

‘Mommy?’ Christian stood behind the sofa where Phoebe had curled up, watching the funeral on one of those obscure cable channels. Now she turned to smile at her five-year-old son, who was gazing at the television with a faint frown. ‘What are you watching?’

‘Just …’ Phoebe shrugged, reaching to turn off the television. How to explain to Christian that his father—the father he hadn’t ever even seen—had died? It would be meaningless to Christian, who had long ago accepted the fact that he didn’t have a daddy. He didn’t need one, had been happy with the life Phoebe had provided, with friends and relatives and school here in New York.

‘Just what?’ Christian put his hands on his hips, his expression halfway between a pout and a mischievous grin. He was all boy, curious about everything, always asking what, why, who.

‘Watching something,’ Phoebe murmured. She rose from the sofa, giving her son a quick one-armed hug. ‘Isn’t it time for dinner?’ Smiling, she pulled him along, tousling his hair, into the kitchen of their Greenwich Village apartment. Outside the sunlight slanted across Washington Square, filling the space with golden light.

Yet as she pulled pots and pans from the cupboards, mindlessly listening to Christian talk about his latest craze—some kind of superhero, or were they super-robots? Pheobe could never keep them straight—her mind slipped back to the blurry image of the funeral on television.

Anders, her husband of exactly one month, was dead. She shook her head, unable to summon more than a sense of sorrowful pity for a man who had swept into her life and out again with equal abruptness. It hadn’t taken very long for Anders to realise Phoebe had been nothing more than a passing fancy, and Phoebe had understood with equal speed how shallow and spoiled Anders really was. Yet at least that brief period of folly had given her something wonderful … Christian.

‘I like the green ones best …’ Christian tugged on her sleeve. ‘Mom, are you listening?’

‘Sorry, honey.’ Phoebe smiled down at Christian in apology even as she noticed that she’d let the water for the pasta boil dry. She had to get her mind out of the past. She hadn’t thought about Anders for years, and sometimes it felt as though that short, regrettable episode had never occurred. Yet his death had brought old memories to the surface—namely, that horrible interview at the palace. Even now Pheobe remembered the look in Leo Christensen’s eyes, the way he’d touched her … and the way she’d responded.

With a jolt Phoebe realised she was remembering Leo, not Anders. Anders had receded into her memory as nothing more than a faded, blurry image, like an old photograph, yet Leo … Leo she remembered as sharply and clearly as if he were standing right in front of her.

She glanced around the sunny kitchenette of her modest but comfortable apartment, almost as if she would see Leo standing darkly in the shadows. She gave a little laugh at her own ridiculous behaviour. Leo Christensen—all the Christensens, that entire life—was thousands of miles away. She and Anders had quietly separated just months after Leo had offered her fifty thousand dollars to leave him, and she’d never seen any of them again. She’d moved to New York with Christian, started over with the support of friends and family, and relegated the incident to a dark, unswept corner of her mind … that now felt the bright, glaring light of day.

Abruptly Phoebe turned off the stove. ‘How about pizza?’ she asked Christian brightly, who responded with a delighted smile.

‘Angelo’s?’ he asked hopefully, naming their favourite neighbourhood pizza joint, and Phoebe nodded.

‘Absolutely.’

Phoebe went to get their coats, only to stop in uneasy surprise at the sight of Christian in front of the television once more. He’d turned it back on and was watching the funeral procession, tracking the coffin’s progression down one of Paris’s main thoroughfares, the flag’s twin eagles with their austere, noble profiles visible even in the gloom. ‘Is that man dead?’

Phoebe swallowed, a pang of sorrow for Anders’s wasted life piercing her. ‘Yes, it’s a funeral.’

‘Why is it on television?’ Christian asked with his usual wide-eyed curiosity.

‘Because he was a prince.’

‘A prince?’ Christian sounded moderately impressed. As a New Yorker, he encountered people of all walks of life every day. ‘A real one?’ he asked with a faint note of scepticism.

Phoebe almost smiled. ‘Yes, a real one.’ She wasn’t about to explain to Christian about Anders’s abdication or exile, or the fact that he was his father. She’d always intended for Christian to know the truth of his birth, but not like this, with a grainy image of a funeral on TV. Besides, Christian knew what was important: that Phoebe had wanted him and loved him. Nothing else needed matter.

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.