Shock Heir For The King (Secret Heirs 0f Billionaires)

by Clare Connelly

  ‘Then why ask the question?’ Her words were snapped out but he understood now, and he frowned, wanting to relieve her tension and knowing only one way to do so.

  Leo looked from one to the other and Frankie dredged up a smile for his benefit but it was weak, watery.

  ‘Okay?’ Leo asked, his little hand curving on top of Frankie’s. Matthias watched the gesture with a heart that was strangely heavy.

  ‘Fine,’ she said, her smile for their child’s benefit.

  The door was pulled open and Matthias sat for another beat of time, looking at the woman who would be his wife, and his child. She was nervous, but there was nothing for it. They had to do this. ‘Let’s go then.’

  * * *

  Three simple words but oh, how much they meant! Because it wasn’t as simple as stepping out of a car—this was like crossing an invisible border, one which she could never cross back. When she stepped out of the car, she’d cease to be a private individual. She would no longer be an up-and-coming artist on the New York scene. She’d be a royal fiancée, Matthias’s bride, the up-and-coming Queen, the mother of the royal heir. She would belong to this life, to Matthias, and so would Leo.

  There was nothing for it though. He’d described himself as a realist, and Frankie had a degree of realism deep in her as well. Or perhaps it was better described as fatalism, she thought, watching as Matthias stepped from the car. His staff stood still, none looking at him. He reached into the car, his arms extended, and she understood what he wanted.

  Leo.

  Her mouth was dry, her throat parched, her pulse racing. There was no sense in refusing him—it would be easier for her to step out of the car if she weren’t holding a heavy toddler in her arms. Besides, with Matthias holding their baby, no one would be looking at her, would they?

  ‘Go with Matthias—Daddy,’ she said stiffly, kissing Leo’s curls before passing him towards the door. Matthias’s hands curved around Leo’s midsection and then Frankie shuffled closer. Curious glances slid sideways. The servants were, perhaps, not supposed to look, and yet how could they resist?

  This was their future King, arriving home as a two-year-old boy. Curiosity was only natural.

  ‘Mama?’

  ‘I’m coming. I’m right behind you,’ she promised. And she was—she had to be. There was no way on earth Matthias would ever let Leo go. She could see that as clearly as she could the brilliant blue of the sky overhead. If she wanted to be a part of her son’s life, she had to accept Matthias as a part of hers.

  With nerves that were jangling in her body, schooling her features into a mask of what she hoped would pass as calm, she stepped from the vehicle.

  Eyes that had been resolutely focused ahead all turned now, and it was like being in the glare of a thousand spotlights. Everyone looked at her, everyone saw her, and she knew what they must be thinking.

  Why her?

  With a sinking heart and regret that she’d refused to allow herself to be restyled as some sort of queen-in-waiting, she brazened it out. Shoulders squared, smile on her face, as though this was a happy day for her. As though she wasn’t absolutely terrified.

  His arm around her waist caught her off guard and for a second—a brief second—her smile dropped. Her gaze flew to his face and she saw a warning there. A warning, and a look of triumph. ‘Welcome home, deliciae.’

  Home.

  She had only a second to process the word. A second to wonder what the lovely-sounding deliciae might mean. And then his head dropped and his lips pressed to hers, and she was dropping out of that present moment and crashing into the past, when she had—briefly—lived for this exact feeling. When his kisses alone had been her reason for breathing.

  It was too much—her nerves were already stretched to breaking point and his kiss was a torture and a relief, an agony and an ecstasy.

  Her body, of its own accord, swayed towards him as though drunk, demanding more contact, more closeness, more everything. It was a brief kiss—chaste in comparison to how they had kissed in the past, and yet it was enough. More than enough to rekindle everything. Flames that she had hoped extinguished flared to life and she had no idea how to put them out again this time.

  Damn him all to heck.

  He lifted his head, his eyes mocking when they met hers. Embarrassment warmed her cheeks.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ she demanded, lifting shaking fingertips to her lips, feeling the strength of his passion even now, seconds after he’d ended it.

  His laugh was soft and sent electric shocks down her spine.

  ‘Because you were nervous,’ he said quietly. ‘And I could think of only one way to calm you down.’

  Her stomach swooped with his insightfulness, but the ease with which he could turn her blood to lava spiked her pride. With a hint of insurgency, she murmured quietly, so only he could hear, ‘And what if I don’t want you to kiss me?’

  He laughed softly.

  ‘Why is that funny?’

  ‘You shouldn’t issue challenges you don’t wish to lose.’

  ‘What does that even mean?’

  ‘It means—’ he leaned forward once more, his intent obvious, and yet she still didn’t step back, even when she had ample opportunity to put some space between them ‘—I’m going to enjoy making you eat those words.’ And he crushed his mouth to hers once again, his kiss a possession and a promise. A promise she knew she should fight and somehow, frustratingly, wasn’t sure she wanted to...

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘AND THIS IS the private residence, madam.’ A middle-aged man dipped his head deferentially, allowing Frankie to walk past. Her mind was already spinning, and she’d only been in the palace an hour. Exhaustion had begun to sink into her skin, making thought and attention almost impossible. Where Leo had slept on the plane, she hadn’t—not a jot—and she couldn’t even do the maths in that moment to work out what time it was in New York.

  Late, though. Or early in the morning. No wonder she felt so wrecked.

  The Private Residence was, in fact, more like a penthouse apartment. Where the rest of the palace was steeped in a sense of ancient tradition, with historic balustrades, paintings, old tapestries and glorious wallpaper giving it a sense of living history, this apartment felt completely modern.

  ‘It was redecorated at the turn of the century,’ the servant said. ‘All of the wiring was renewed in this suite.’ He moved deeper into the apartment. ‘Would you like a tour, madam?’

  ‘Oh, no, thank you.’ What Frankie wanted more than anything was a strong coffee and to be left alone. To soften her refusal, she smiled. ‘I’ll find my way around just fine, I’m sure.’

  ‘Certainly. There has not been time to properly complete Master Leo’s rooms, but a start has been made,’ the servant offered, gesturing down the hallway. Frankie moved in that direction as if being pulled by magic, her trained artist’s eye making note of small details as she went. Here the walls were crisp white, but not perfect white—there was a warmth to them, almost as though they’d been mixed with gold or pearl. Flower arrangements were modern and fragrant, pictures were simple black and white, portraits and photographs. Artistic and interesting.

  Undoubtedly the work of some palace designer or other, she thought with a twist of her lips.

  ‘The blue door, madam,’ the servant offered.

  With a frown, Frankie curved her fingers around the brass door knob and turned it, pushing the door inwards. The room opened up before her and her heart sank.

  How could she have contemplated turning Matthias down for even a moment? This room was every little boy’s fantasy, she thought, stepping inside and turning a full circle. Leo followed behind her and he was as struck dumb at the scene as she was.

  ‘Mine?’

  Frankie couldn’t form a response. She looked at him then back to the room, doubt and certainty warring inside h
er. ‘Yes,’ she acknowledged finally, moving to the small bed. Like something out of a movie, it was a pale cream, glossy, with sumptuous blue bedding, big European pillows—almost the size of Leo—and toy-soldier cushions, as if brought to life from The Nutcracker. A bay window overlooked a beautiful garden—‘The chef’s potager,’ the servant advised with more than a touch of pride in his tone.

  Though the room was filled with toys and books, they were all good quality: wooden, old-fashioned, simple. Frankie surveyed them, begrudgingly approving of their selection, their appropriateness for Leo’s age and stage indisputable.

  ‘Mine?’ he asked again, lifting a set of blocks off the shelf.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed once more.

  ‘There you are.’

  The heavily accented voice had Frankie turning and when she saw Liana smiling as she approached, it was natural for Frankie to return the gesture. She liked this woman, though she knew so little about her. There was a warmth and openness that Frankie needed—an ally in the midst of all that was new and frightening. Not to mention the fact she’d kicked off her shoes at some stage and now wore bright pink socks beneath sensible trousers—high recommendation indeed.

  ‘’Ello, Frankie.’ Liana nodded, and Frankie liked her even more for using her name rather than any silly title or ‘madam’. ‘You like his room?’

  ‘Oh, yes, it’s perfect,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how but someone’s managed to fill it with all of the things Leo would have chosen himself, if given half a chance.’

  ‘Ah, it is not so long since Matthias and Spiro were boys. I remember.’ She tapped a knobbly finger to the side of her head and nodded sagely.

  Frankie’s curiosity was stirred to life. ‘Spiro?’

  Liana’s eyes narrowed but she didn’t answer. ‘You go, you go,’ she said. ‘I get to know.’ She pointed to Leo and when he looked at her she clapped her hands together and held them out to him.

  To Frankie’s surprise, rather than ignoring Liana and staying with the shelves of new toys and distractions, Leo pushed to his sturdy little legs and padded over to Liana. He smiled up at the older woman, dimples dug deep in both cheeks.

  ‘He likes you,’ Frankie said, the words punctuated with the heaviness of her heart.

  ‘And I like him.’ She grinned. ‘We are going to be great friends, little master Leo. No?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He nodded enthusiastically.

  Liana turned back to Frankie. ‘You go, relax. I keep him happy.’

  Frankie was torn between a desire never to let Leo out of her sight again and a need to be alone, to have a bath, to get to grips with all that had happened. In the end, it was seeing Liana and Leo playing happily together, walking around the room and exploring it, holding hands, that made Frankie’s decision for her. She turned to leave, but at the door spun back.

  ‘Liana?’ The nanny looked up, her face patient. ‘Thank you. For this.’ She nodded towards Leo. ‘And for this,’ and she gestured around the room.

  ‘It is my pleasure,’ Liana promised after a beat of silence had passed. ‘It is good to have a child in the palace again, vasillisa.’

  The servant who’d brought her to the apartment had left, so Frankie was free to explore on her own. She did so quickly, perfunctorily, looking upon the rooms as she might appraise a new subject she was painting. It helped her not to focus on the disparity in her own private situation and this degree of wealth and privilege if she saw it as an outsider rather than as one who’d been suddenly and unceremoniously sucked into these lofty ranks.

  There was the small anteroom, into which they’d entered. The corridor that came this way branched off into Leo’s bedroom, and another room beside it, with sofas, a small dining table and glass doors that led to a small balcony. A children’s sitting room, she surmised, the décor clearly childlike yet lovely.

  Another door showed a lovely bathroom—white tiles, deep tub, a separate shower and two toilets: one regular size and one lower to the ground. The last door revealed a separate bedroom and at first she thought it would be just perfect for her—and to hell with whatever form Matthias thought their marriage would take! But a longer look showed Liana’s shoes tucked neatly under the bed and her jacket hung on a hook near the door.

  So this was to be the nanny’s accommodation?

  At least that meant they wouldn’t be alone in this residence! Feeling ridiculously smug, given Matthias had no doubt approved the arrangements himself, Frankie moved down the corridor and into another sitting room, this one incredibly grand. Burgundy and gold damask sofas and armchairs formed a set for six, with a marble coffee table between them, and the dining table could easily accommodate ten. It was walnut, polished, imposing, and dark. There was a bar in the corner, beside heavy oak bookshelves, and glass doors led to yet another balcony.

  She moved through the room quickly, feeling out of place, like an interloper. It was impossible to imagine she’d ever feel ‘at home’ here.

  The next room offered some improvement. A study, with modern computers, paperback books and an armchair that at least looked as if it had been made this century.

  The following room was another improvement! A kitchen and an adjoining sitting room, this was far more homely, despite the large glass doors that showed an exquisite pool beyond. She imagined Matthias swimming in it, his body on display as he powerfully pulled through the water, and her throat was dry.

  She swallowed, trying to push away the image, and moved into the kitchen. She almost cheered when she saw a familiar coffee machine. She searched drawers and doors until she located coffee grinds, loaded them into the basket and pressed the button. The aroma filled the room at once and she stood very still, allowing the fragrance to permeate her soul, to reassure her and relax her as only coffee could.

  The pretty cup filled, she wrapped both palms around it and continued her tour. Early afternoon sunlight filtered in through the windows as she moved to the next room, and the light was so dazzling, so perfectly a mix of milk and Naples Yellow, translucent and fragile. She stood in the light for a moment, her eyes sweeping shut, before a jolt of recognition had her opening them anew.

  The bed was enormous, and it sat right in the middle of the far wall. Where the wall itself was white, the bedlinen was steel-grey, with fluffy pillows and bedside tables that were devoid of anything personal. No photographs, no books, not even a newspaper.

  Her heart in her throat, she moved around the bed, giving it a wide berth, heading for another door. Hoping it might lead to a bedroom, she pushed the door inwards and saw only a bathroom—this one more palatial than Leo’s, with an enormous spa pressed against windows that seemed to overlook a fruit grove. No doubt if her friendly servant was nearby, he’d be able to tell her what fruit was growing there—she couldn’t see from a distance.

  The shower was one of those large walk-in scenarios, with two shower heads overhead and several on the walls. The controls looked like something out of a spaceship.

  She backed out of the bathroom as though she’d been stung, slamming her shoulder on the way and wincing from the pain. The last remaining door showed a wardrobe—as big as her bedroom back in Queens, but only half-filled. Suits, dozens of them, all undoubtedly hand-stitched to measure, hung neatly, arranged one by one. Then shirts, crisply ironed, many still with tags attached. There were casual clothes too, and they made her stomach clench because she could imagine Matthias as he’d been then. Before. In New York, when he’d been simply Matt.

  She sighed, propping her hips against the piece of furniture in the middle of the room. What even was it? Square-shaped, with drawer upon drawer. She pressed one out of curiosity and it sprung open. Watches! At least ten, and all very expensive-looking. She shook her head in disbelief and pushed it closed once more.

  The hint of a smile danced on her lips as she imagined for a moment the ludicrousness of her clothing in this imposing
space, the look of her costume jewellery next to his couture, and a laugh at that absurdity bubbled from deep inside. And if she’d been about to wonder how the heck she was even going to get her clothes, the answer presented itself in the form of a rather stylish-looking woman who introduced herself as Mathilde.

  ‘I take your measurements,’ she said, her accent French. ‘And organise your wardrobe.’

  ‘My wardrobe?’

  ‘You will need things very quickly, but this is not your worry. I know people.’

  Frankie thought longingly of the coffee she’d placed down in the immaculate bedroom next door, and the quiet time she’d been fantasising about disappeared. For, not long after Mathilde’s arrival, came Angelique and Sienna, hairdresser and beautician, who set up a beauty salon in the palatial bathroom. One worked on taming Frankie’s ‘mom’ hair, removing all traces of playdough and neglect while still managing to keep the length and natural blonde colour in place. The other waxed Frankie’s brows and did her nails—fingers and toes—both tasks Frankie had neglected for far too long.

  ‘I’m an artist,’ she found herself explaining apologetically as Sienna tried her hardest to buff a splash of oil paint from Frankie’s big toe nail. ‘And I like to paint barefoot,’ she added for good measure.

  Sienna’s smile was dubious and Frankie understood. How could she ever live up to this country’s expectations of its Queen?

  It took hours but when Frankie was at last alone once more she had to admit that the three women had worked some kind of miracle. She stared at herself in the reflection, unable to believe how...regal...she looked. Still dressed in the same clothes as New York, it no longer mattered. Her hair sat like a blonde cloud around her shoulders and she glistened all over.

  Exhaustion was a tidal wave coming towards her. She showered in an attempt to stave it off and was just in the process of pulling the same dress back in place when there was a knock at the bathroom door. With a little gasp, she grabbed the dress and simply held it across her front.