My Forbidden Royal Fling by Clare Connelly

Author:Clare Connelly
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2021-04-12T14:47:01+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE SUN IS low in the sky, a golden orb blazing across the horizon spreading purple and peach colours into the heavens.

I know that we need to go back soon, that my security will be wondering where I am, worrying about me, and yet my limbs are heavy, filled with a reluctance to leave this sanctuary. If embassies are slices outside of a country’s borders then this yacht is like a fragment of life existing beyond my reality. Here time has stopped and, even though I know that’s not possible, I’m almost incapable of caring about the outside world right now.

‘I have a question for you.’

In the kitchen, Santiago pauses, looking at me through shuttered eyes before returning to the platter he’s arranging.

‘Go on.’ There’s hesitation in his voice and I dip my head to hide a smile. He can read me like a book yet he pushes me away at every opportunity. It’s frustrating and hurtful––yes, hurtful.

‘You’re...how old?’

Relief lightens his eyes. ‘Your question is to ask my age?’

‘I’m going somewhere with this,’ I warn.

‘I see.’ He sips his beer. ‘I turned thirty-one a few months back.’

I nod thoughtfully.

‘And?’ he prompts, lifting a wooden board off the kitchen bench and bringing it to the coffee table in front of me. The décor in the yacht is striking. Instead of the white leather and chrome I might have imagined, the interior is stylish and minimalistic, with light timber and cream fabrics. He takes a seat beside me on the lounge, so close our knees brush and, although we’ve spent the afternoon in bed, my pulse goes haywire at the innocent touch.

‘Well, the first time we slept together...’ my cheeks spread with warmth ‘...you said something about always taking precautions. That you don’t want children.’

He dips his head once in silent agreement but there’s an inherent tension to him. He’s instantly wary, as though my line of questioning is the last thing he wishes to discuss.

‘Why not?’ I reach for an olive. It’s plump, salty and juicy, and I have to bite back a moan of pleasure as I swallow the flesh.

‘You think it’s strange?’

‘Why are you answering my questions with a question?’

‘You ask a lot of questions.’

‘No, I think I’ve just asked one you don’t want to answer.’

He weighs that up, his lips compressed in a tight line, and I wonder if he’s just going to ignore me. Time drags. Tension grows inside me. Finally, he responds, the words curt. ‘I have never wanted children.’

His tone leaves me in little doubt that this matter is closed, at least so far as his willingness to answer my questions. I consider pushing him, but know it would be futile. I’ve hit a brick wall.

‘I’ve always known I would have to have children,’ I explain. The full force of his attention is on my face, his eyes studying me intently. ‘And more than one. I’m an only child and it’s put a lot of pressure on me—I’m the sole surviving heir to the throne.

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