Prince's Revenge Baby: A Royal Romance

by Ana Adams

  Nestling Anwar Jr. against her bosom, she straightened her back, drawing a determined breath. Anwar wanted to see her? She’d make sure he saw all of her.

  She pulled open the door to the receiving room outside her bedchamber. Fatin spun on her heels, bright eyes landing on the baby. “Can I take him while you meet with the prince?”

  “Doesn’t he want to see him?”

  “I think for now he wants only you.” Fatin lifted her brows, reaching for the baby. “Please join him. He’s just outside.”

  Rawnie handed over Anwar Jr., kissing his soft forehead before she headed through the next door to the small living room. She opened the door and found Anwar stationed at the window, looking out over the grounds of the castle, hands clasped behind his back.

  “You wanted to see me?” She shut the door behind her.

  Anwar turned to face her, his face betraying his surprise. “Good morning.” He paused, moving his gaze to the floor, studying something incomprehensible on the ground. “Have you been sleeping well?”

  “Like a dream.” She moved her hair off her neck and over the top of her shoulder; suddenly she was so hot she could melt. “And you?”

  “Similar.” Anwar smiled briefly then gestured to the armchairs in the center of the room. “Shall we?”

  Rawnie eased into the chair, draping herself over the armrest, utilizing the different levels to stretch her body as it warmed up to the day. Anwar’s gaze snagged on her body, sending thrills through her. Damn this man and his eyes; even after how coldly he’d treated her, she still craved him. Desperately.

  “So.” Anwar cleared his throat, adjusting a dark suit vest over a crisp, white button-up.

  “You look mighty formal.” She grinned lazily, liking the way his tension steadily climbed. “Are you attending some sort of fancy event today?”

  “No, I…” He met her gaze for a moment; electricity shot through the air. He yanked his eyes away. “This is how the prince dresses. How I dress.”

  “Right. Understood.” She fingered a lock of her hair, swinging her leg over the edge of the chair. “So what can I help you with?”

  He shifted in the chair, looking everywhere but at her. “We need to discuss the matter of…the child.”

  “Your son.”

  He grimaced. “There are tests still pending, as you’re aware. But I’d like to go over a few scenarios.”

  “Go for it.” She spun a long dark tendril of hair around her finger.

  “Let’s say this child is mine. Which, I should add, I hesitate to believe—”

  “Why?” She creased her brow. “You were the only person I had sex with for six months before or after that night.”

  “Again, if I could explain to you how any women came forward stating this same thing, looking for money and benefits—”

  “I’m not looking for that.” She sat up, pulling her leg underneath her. “I just want you to know.”

  He paused. “Right. Well, as I’ve stated, there is an inordinate number of women looking for handouts from the country monarchy. It is my best interest to investigate each and every claim to the fullest, most profound extent.” He grimaced again. “I must admit, this process is exceedingly lengthy. It could be years until a formal conclusion is reached, which means that in the interim…you don’t qualify for anything.”

  She narrowed her eyes. This might as well be a standard rejection letter. “So I have to wait around for years to receive proof of something that is as plain as just looking into the eyes of my son?”

  “I’m afraid so.” He steepled his fingers in front of him. “You see, this is complex, monarchy law. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

  “Oh?” She leaned forward. “Is it because I’m Roma?”

  He reeled back. “Of course not. It’s because you’re not from here. Why should you be familiar with our laws?”

  “Or is it because I’m just some woman you fucked in the back hallway of your daddy’s castle? I probably don’t have any brains or wit, right?”

  His gaze darkened. “I never said that.”

  “Then don’t belittle me.”

  A tense silence emerged. She leaned back into the chair, oddly satisfied yet itching to keep the fight going.

  “It’s very clear to me that you have brains and wit,” Anwar said, his voice sounding forced. “Perhaps too much.”

  “More than what you’re accustomed to?”

  “I don’t remember you being so mouthy.”

  “So you remember me.”

  Anwar’s face went pale and Rawnie couldn’t help but smile. Their rapport the night they met had been what led them to the back hallway; endless banter and jokes and poking that felt as natural and easy as a cup of tea in the morning.

  She draped herself across the chair, tossing her legs over the arm rest once more, allowing her hair to fall over the opposite arm rest. She welcomed the cool air at the nape of her neck; all the tension in the room was making her sweat. And not in the way she liked.

  Anwar cleared his throat and shifted his position in the chair. “Could you please, uh…”

  “What?”

  “Could you please change positions?”

  She creased her brow, tossing her head back over the arm rest, seeing the upside-down version of Anwar. “Is this better?”

  His face grew stern. “Don’t play around.”

  “But I’m a trapeze artist.” She lifted her hips in the air, toes pointed toward the ceiling. The white shift crumpled to her hips, exposing the full length of her legs. “That’s what I do.”

  He cleared his throat again, hand moving discreetly to adjust his pants. Maybe he’d gotten hard, watching her writhe around in the chair as she struggled to stretch and practice the only way possible given the circumstances. The thought sparked mischief and delight inside her. If this was the only way to make him squirm, then so be it.

  “It’s inappropriate.”

  “But you like it.” She did the splits in the air, pointing her right foot toward his head. His eyes snagged on the V between her legs.

  “You certainly seem to have talents.”

  “You already know how talented I am.” She twisted her legs together, something in her lumbar popping into place. She shuddered with relief. “You’ve seen me perform.”

  “I have.” His voice came out lower, less like a stodgy formal address this time. “You’re amazing.”

  “Thank you.” She nudged her legs into a cross-legged position then brought her knees down to touch her forehead. “I’ve been practicing since I was three.”

  He smiled briefly, then wiped the expression away. “Come, now, you must sit up.”

  “Why?” She brought her legs over her head, launching her torso toward the ground. Just as she flipped over the arm rest of the couch in a backward somersault, she undid her legs, landing on her feet just in time.

  His eyes widened. “God, you’re good.” He blinked dumbly at her for a moment, then furrowed his brow. “Stop distracting me.”

  “I’m not. This is just how I wake up.” She glided toward the window, dragging her hands over the curtains. She yanked hard, giving them a test. She could scamper up them if necessary, but it wasn’t ideal. The rod looked like it might bend under the weight.

  When she turned to face him again, his gaze sizzled on her. Despite the stunning clarity of his eyes, there was something dark and desirous there. Shivers coursed up and down her spine. This is what led to your son.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt your morning routine.” Anwar crossed a foot over his knee. “Though you must get up late.”

  “Not at all. I was up twice before seven a.m. to feed our son.” She smiled tightly at him. “He breastfeeds exclusively. I’m the milk maker, after all.”

  Anwar averted his eyes. “You just can’t help but be inappropriate.”

  “Physical facts are not inappropriate.” She cupped her left breast, wincing. “And another physical fact is that Anwar Jr. did not feed enough fr
om this side.”

  His eyes widened, color creeping up his neck. “You…you named him Anwar Jr.?”

  She nodded, easing back into the chair. “Of course. After his father.”

  His thumb and forefinger found the bridge of his nose; his eyes fluttered shut and she took the chance to admire him—the tawny hues of his closely cropped pompadour, the sharp angle of his jaw. The prince was fatally handsome, if not also a total asshole.

  Anwar set his jaw, watching her with fire in his eyes. “I came here to tell you that you may remain on the premises until the results of the paternity test come in. However, if this child is truly mine, then the legal processes begin, which can take years, as I mentioned. It would be completely understandable if you were to want to reside elsewhere in the interim. You are under no obligation to stay and wait. At all.”

  She swallowed a knot in her throat. “Understood. Thank you for the information.”

  “And perhaps you shouldn’t wait.” Anwar watched her, unblinking, his gaze like a whip cracking over her skin. “Enjoy your day.” He stood suddenly and stormed toward the door, pulling it open, leaving it gaping in his wake. As soon as he was gone, she felt deflated, like the air gone out of a balloon.

  No matter how little sense it made, after seeing him and being near him again, she wanted more of him. Even though he was resistant, even though he pretended like he didn’t remember her, even though he’d dropped her like an unwanted toy after their steamy night the year before. There was something addictive and potent between them, a connection that had plagued her since the moment they met, urging her back to his lands.

  Now their son had brought her back to his lands, but deep inside, she knew she’d have come of her own volition as well. Even if the Anwar Jr. seed hadn’t been planted.

  Something in the mysterious depths of his eyes spoke to her, begged her to learn more.

  Like a tune she just couldn’t shake from her head.

  Chapter Three

  Anwar stormed through the halls of the castle, nearly blind with tension. Anger and lust made sickening swirls inside him; he’d been mere seconds away from ripping the shift off Rawnie’s body and having his way with her. She couldn’t have minded; she was tempting him at every turn in there, beckoning him to break the act.

  Because she knew it was an act. And the fact that he knew that she knew was scary; it betrayed the strange closeness they’d forged in only a night, over a year ago—something so ridiculous and powerful and rare that he willed it to be fake, to disappear into nothingness so that he could take the easy road and continue his life as he knew it.

  But dammit, Rawnie was inexplicably gorgeous. She was like an angel teetering on the ledge of temptation, flitting around with the lightness and grace of a deity, constantly with an evil spark in her eye. Nearly everything she said turned him on. This was not how this was supposed to go.

  He rounded the corner, heading for the study to resume the morning’s email reviewal. As he burst through the doors, Diaab turned to greet him.

  “There you are.” He nodded his way and then sunk into an armchair. “Have you met with your fiancée?”

  “She’s not my fiancée.” He spat out the word. “I’m convincing her to leave. This is the only way.”

  “Oh, you think you are, but you have no idea.” Diaab drummed his fingers on the wooden desk nearby. “She very well might live here for her entire life. And then what?”

  “Trust me—I’m very convincing.” Anwar adjusted his vest as he sat down, pulling up his email client. “She’ll be here for a bit then on her way.”

  Diaab chuckled. “I doubt it. Just face the facts—you’re marrying her.”

  “I’m not. She’s leaving.”

  “Sure, sure. Just like you’re cutting back on partying since all those years ago, or focusing more on your princely duties, or taking an interest in national affairs?” Diaab nodded. “I understand completely.”

  Anwar’s nostrils flared. “That’s not fair. Those are totally different issues—”

  “You don’t get to complain about fair. You were born into this position, so you must own it. Others would kill for your position, and you fling it around like it’s nothing.” Diaab slammed his fist on the table. “Are you man enough for it?”

  Anwar glared at his uncle. “I am. I always have been.”

  “Then prove it.”

  “She’s leaving.”

  Diaab scoffed, rising from the chair. “Fine. Have it your way. But let me know when it’s time to break the news to your father. I’ll need to be there to help soften the blow that his only son is marrying the foreign mother of his bastard son.”

  Diaab turned on his heel and stormed out of the study, leaving a wake of tension behind him. Anwar stared at the door, thoughts clanking together in his head. Diaab was such a mouthy jerk—the very trait that had led to him being permanently passed over for the throne. He was a top adviser and key consultant, but long ago he’d been written out of the royal succession. Ancient stuff between his father and uncle, but traces of that bitterness still found its way into modern day.

  Once he could focus on anything other than what he should have screamed in Diaab’s face, Anwar resumed attending to his emails. Hours slithered by, until his belly was rumbling and lunchtime was imminent.

  No lunch dates had been planned for that day—his father was at a medical appointment, and Ra’ees was off at a soccer tournament. Diaab always lunched at his desk. Reaching for his phone, he mulled over what he might order from the maid when a wily thought stopped him.

  Lunch with Rawnie.

  He’d been determined to keep his distance from her—that body and that mouth of hers made a dangerous combination—but suddenly, he was desperate to see her again. If only for a brief lunch.

  Dialing Fatin’s number, he ordered that Rawnie meet him in the dining room in twenty minutes for a light lunch, without the boy. He couldn’t handle seeing his own face. Not knowing whether those eyes really were a replica of his own made it even worse. Avoiding the irritating similarity, at least until the paternity test came back, was paramount to his sanity.

  He paced the study for almost ten minutes, practicing how he would treat Rawnie as they ate. Being near her required a certain level of preparation; she threw him off balance, like a gentle push from behind while he walked on a tight rope. Enough to totally topple him, make him fall face-first into the cement below.

  Sternness clearly didn’t work; she fed on that like grapes on sugar. So what would?

  Images from his dream returned to him, leaving strange aches in their wake. What he wouldn’t give to slip his hand under the fabric of that shift, to feel the fascinating slopes of her body, the taut experience of her muscles, the heat of her skin that he still remembered as clear as day.

  He squeezed his temples, willing the newest hard-on away. Just thinking about this woman made him tense with need.

  At one p.m. he made his way toward the dining room, throat tight with anxiety. When he strolled inside, Rawnie already sat at the head of the table. The other place setting was directly to the right of her.

  Ruffling feathers seemed to be her principal game.

  “May I ask what you’re doing?” He strolled to her side, clasping his hands behind his back and staring down at her. The lush slope of her breasts distracted him, made him falter.

  “Just here for lunch.” She shrugged. “Fatin told me to come.”

  Anwar glanced between the place settings. “You’re in my seat.”

  “What?” She creased her brow, looking around the table. “There were two place settings, so I just picked—”

  “The head of the table is reserved for the highest rank—the prince, unless my father were here.”

  Her mouth rounded. “Oh.” She moved to stand, then sat back down. “I don’t want to.”

  “Rawnie.”

  “Sit there.” She pointed at the other seat. “I’m already here. Why would you make a tired mother move? I�
��ve had such a long morning. I’m just dying to eat something.” She batted her eyes at him. “I might pass out if I move another inch.”

  He clenched his jaw. “You’re lying.”

  “Well, so are you. In my culture, the head of the table is reserved for the guest. What now?”

  Anwar held her gaze for a moment before sinking into the open seat. Rawnie’s pretty little grin would be endearing if it weren’t so smug. “Let’s just enjoy lunch. I’ve had enough trouble from you today.”

  “Then why did you invite me to lunch?”

  A good question indeed. “I thought it polite.”

  “Like offering the head of the table to the guest.”

  He smiled tightly. “Exactly.”

  They sat in a tense silence as Anwar spread his napkin over his lap. When the tension had grown unbearable, he spoke. “Some more information has come to my attention.”

  “What’s that?” She took a sip of water. The movement of her throat as she swallowed was the most beautiful distraction.

  “Your people.” He corrected the placement of the knife at his setting. “They’ve called for you.”

  Her face darkened. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Your parents, I presume. They’ve called for you. They’ve requested that you return home immediately.”

  She watched him, mouth agape. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Absolutely not.” His neck heated up. “They’re desperate to know that you’re okay. Of course, we told them you are. And the child too. But they’ve made arrangements to pick you up.”

  An unreadable expression crossed her face. “To pick me up and take me home?”

  “Yes. As early as tomorrow.”

  She clucked her tongue, gaze drifting across the room. “Unbelievable.”

  “So, this probably means we should get you packed up and ready to go.” He’d hire a cab if he had to, instruct the driver to drop her off anywhere three hundred miles from there, under a strict non-disclosure agreement.