His Majesty's Child Read Online Free PDF

imperative that she held her nerve. She had come this far and she would not be fobbed off with a member of his entourage. ‘That’s between me and the King. I wish to speak privately with him.’
    â€˜Then you will approach His Majesty with more caution.’ Orso’s heavily accented voice was harsh with disapproval. ‘Unless you wish for a posse of his armed guards to spring on you and to throw you in the jail house at Ghalazamba?’
    â€˜Of c-course I don’t,’ she stumbled, some of her nerve deserting her.
    â€˜Then walk with me,’ instructed Orso tersely.
    He led her by a circuitous route to the long dais where Casimiro sat along with the other exulted guests. Melissa stood looking at the backs of them all—at the women’s jewel-encrusted necklaces and priceless earrings which dangled down to their naked shoulders—and there was a moment when she wondered if he’d forgotten she was there. Until suddenly he turned, fastening her in the amber snare of his eyes—the faintest inclination of his dark head the only outward sign that he was summoning her towards him.
    Heart crashing, she approached him. Had anyonenoticed that she wasn’t busying herself on the side lines with Stephen—helping deal with every little crisis as it arose? Which was what she should have been doing. But Melissa didn’t care. It didn’t even matter if her job was on the line. She could always find another job—but never find another father for her son.
    â€˜You are very impertinent,’ Casimiro mused as she grew close enough to hear the whispered disapproval in his voice. ‘To stare at me as the hyena regards the glistening flesh.’
    Had she come over as predatory ? ‘I don’t mean to be, Your Majesty.’
    Again, he detected the faint drift of lilac as she leaned towards him. The sense of something tantalisingly close—like a wave which washed against the shore line before retreating again. He frowned, his interest unexpectedly awakened. ‘Do you always behave this way at functions?’
    She wanted to say no—but hadn’t she been pretty unprofessional the last time she’d met him? Yet he had been the one who had driven it, she reminded herself. Who had started this whole thing between them. And was she really so invisible—so inconsequential—that he couldn’t remember a single thing about her or any thing they’d done together?
    â€˜This is not the way I normally behave, no. Perhaps…perhaps it’s the effect you have on me, Your Majesty.’
    â€˜I beg your pardon?’
    â€˜You don’t remember, do you?’ she whispered.
    Sabre-sharp, her words sliced through him as she found his Achilles heel and Casimiro stilled. ‘Remember what ?’ he bit out.
    Was she going to have to spell it out for him? Was she really so unforgettable that he still didn’t remember their affair? Staring at the august presence in front of her, Melissa allowed herself the bittersweet luxury of recall, remembering the night she’d first laid eyes on him.
    It had been when London’s biggest museum had exhibited the fabulous statues excavated during an archaeological dig on the island of Zaffirinthos. The after-show party had been held at the house of a minor British royal—a magnificent mansion which had over looked Green Park itself.
    What had made the evening stand out had been the presence of the King of Zaffirinthos, who had flown in especially to witness the first stage of the international tour of the statues. And he had turned out to be an attraction who had proved even more newsworthy than the precious arte facts. An outrageously gorgeous man in his early thirties, he was quickly dubbed by the press: “The Most Eligible Man In Europe.”
    Melissa’s first glimpse of the royal had certainly borne out all the hype. As he’d been shown around the museum for a private view of