Prince's Revenge Baby: A Royal Romance

by Ana Adams

  “Wow.” She fingered the cloth napkin on top of her plate. “And when they called, did they provide a number I can call?”

  “Of course, I’m sure of it.” He swallowed a small surge of panic. “Why wouldn’t they? I’ll let my secretary know you’re eager to find it.”

  “Yes, very eager. Along with the names they provided.” She squinted at him. “I’ll need the number and the names.”

  “Of course.” He picked up his glass, taking a big gulp of water. This ruse had to work—but was it actually working? The woman made him question everything, except one very obvious thing: how badly he wanted her.

  “Well, that sounds great. And interesting. And unexpected.” She smiled but it looked forced. “So how has your day been going?”

  He sighed, relaxing into his chair. Things were in motion to restoring order to his life. “Very well. As always.”

  “Oh, you’re just the prince with the perfect life?”

  “Basically.” He flashed a smile at her. “It’s been mostly a work day. Which is what I do most. Just work and work and work.”

  “Ah.” She nodded, watching as a server entered carrying tray holding bowls of soup. Once both settings had a serving of golden squash soup, Rawnie continued. “You have a reputation that says otherwise.”

  “Do I?” He shrugged, swirling a spoon in the soup. “I didn’t realize. Nor do I care.”

  “Well that’s good.” She scooped up a spoonful of soup, blowing on it. “Good that you don’t care, I mean.”

  “Of course. Why should I care about the lies others tell?”

  “If I had believed those lies, I wouldn’t have come here.” Rawnie sipped at her spoonful of soup.

  Her words were a punch in the gut. He didn’t know how to respond.

  “It’s okay.” Her hand was on his wrist and his gaze soldered there. Heat rushed through him. He opened his mouth to respond but nothing came out. She was playing him; felt it down to his bones.

  “Let’s talk about something else.” He downed a spoonful of soup. “How is life back home?”

  She shrugged. “Perfect and amazing. Nothing much to tell.”

  “So why did you come here?”

  “To tell you that you have a son.”

  He stared at her, loving the brush of her eyelashes against her cheeks when she blinked. “Is that it?”

  “Yep, that’s it.”

  “You couldn’t have called?”

  “Would you have answered?”

  She had a point. “What about your childhood? Anything interesting?”

  “Normal as can be. Yours?”

  Her short answers were infuriating. Apparently her wordiness was only at her choosing. “Quite normal as well.”

  Rawnie snickered. “We’re both full of shit.”

  Anwar grinned against his will and stopped it up as soon as he could. He couldn’t be relating to her or connecting. Not any more than they’d done a year ago. If he started falling for her, his world would be over. And what would happen then?

  “You laughed,” she taunted. “I saw it.”

  “It’s time to eat.” He nodded toward her soup. “Go on.”

  “Okay, father.” She narrowed her eyes at him, slurping at the soup. Her pouty lips snagged his attention as she brought the spoon to her lips. He averted his eyes for what felt like the millionth time today; the woman was a delicious distraction, one he could barely stand to have in his breathing space anymore.

  He downed his soup in record time and then stood, placing his napkin on the table.

  “Leaving so soon?” She batted her eyes at him. “We hadn’t even gotten to the confessional portion of the lunch hour.”

  “Thank you for joining me.” He clenched his fists, the urge to grab her face in his hand and kiss her till he went blind overcoming him like a tidal wave. “I must return to my duties.”

  She nodded, looking a bit miffed. “I understand.”

  Without a word, he turned and hurried out of the room, his heart racing, pounding out a rhythm of desire he knew all too well.

  Anwar hadn’t spent any amount of his life saying no to that desire; but this was the one exception to the rule.

  He just doubted he’d be able to stick to it.

  ***

  “Fatin, can you come here?”

  Rawnie grunted as she scampered up the heavy curtains of her living room. At long last, they proved stable enough. But she wasn’t positive they wouldn’t come crashing down around her.

  Fatin’s head poked through the doorway. Her eyes rounded into saucers as she spotted Rawnie near the ceiling. “Miss, what on earth are you doing?”

  “Just spot me,” she said. “And help save me if this rod breaks and I fall. And tell my son I love him if I die.”

  Fatin’s face paled, and Rawnie laughed. “I’m kidding—I won’t die. Not yet, at least. I’m a performer, this is my job.”

  “Miss Rawnie, get down from there.”

  “Hang on.” She bent her knee around one end of the rod, slowly lowering herself backward. The rod held steady. On a burst of faith, she allowed herself to hang all the way downward, her hair falling toward the floor.

  Fatin gasped, covering her mouth. “How do you do this?”

  “I’ve practiced a lot.” Using the fullest strength of her abs, she pulled herself up, hooking an arm around the rod and allowing her body to lower toward the ground. “But I’m a little out of practice. That’s why I’m using the furniture now.”

  Fatin looked enchanted. “I couldn’t do that in a million years.”

  “I bet you could, in a million.” Rawnie winked, pulling her hair back into a pony tail. “Do you know anywhere else I could find something like this to use?”

  Fatin’s face scrunched up in thought. “Perhaps. But I’d have to ask the prince for permission.”

  Rawnie rolled her eyes. “I bet I can tell you his answer.”

  From the other room, Anwar Jr. began to fuss. Rawnie raced to his crib, peering down at her precious son. Gathering him to her chest, he immediately sought her nipple. While he nursed, she wandered the living room, watching the sweet contours of his face as he ate.

  “He is such a doll,” Fatin murmured, folding towels at the side of the room. “He looks so much like the prince.”

  “He does—it’s almost funny.”

  Someone cleared his throat. Rawnie turned around—Anwar stood there, his broad, trim frame filling the doorway. Her heart leapt into her mouth—ever since lunch the day before, she’d been wondering when he might make an appearance again. Finally.

  Fatin gasped. “Prince Anwar, did you call for me? I’m so sorry—I didn’t hear it.”

  “No, Fatin, I didn’t.” He entered the room cautiously, eyes on the boy. “I had some business in this wing and thought I’d drop in.”

  Rawnie smiled at him, not bothering to cover her exposed breast as her son continued nursing. “In the mood for another lunch date today? There’s enough for two here.”

  Anwar’s gaze lingered on her. “I’ll leave that for the child, thank you.”

  Fatin bit back a smile, stacking folded towels on a chair nearby.

  “Have you brought updates and news?” Rawnie slipped her breast back beneath her shirt, pleased by the ruddiness in Anwar’s cheeks. She’d never imagined she’d come to see her breasts as a tool for nourishing a human being, but she supposed they could be worshipped once more by a sexy man. Something that hadn’t happened in far too long. Not since the night that had created her son.

  “I have.” Anwar strode to an arm chair and sat down, crossing a foot over his knee. When Rawnie didn’t move, he gestured to the other chair. “Will you sit?”

  “Do I have to?”

  Anwar faltered. “Not necessarily. But it’s somehow…I don’t know…appropriate.”

  “Well you already think I’m quite inappropriate, don’t you?” Rawnie grinned, patting her baby’s back, slinging a burp rag over her shoulder. “So this is just par f
or the course.”

  “You should have seen her, sir. She was hanging from the curtains!” Fatin pointed to the window, eyes bright like a child’s.

  Anwar glowered. “Fatin, thank you. You may go.” He set his jaw, adding, “And take the child.”

  Fatin reached for the baby and disappeared into the adjoining room.

  “So do you have the information about my family?” Rawnie slid into the armchair across from him, poised and prim. If he wanted her to play debonair, she’d try as long as she could. Until the circus freak in her couldn’t take anymore.

  “Not yet. For some reason, my secretary is having trouble locating the information she wrote down when they called.”

  Rawnie nodded, feigning understanding. He’d been lying about her parents calling—they wouldn’t have, not for the next decade, at least. When they’d kicked her out of the house, it was for good. There was only one offense grave enough to demand permanent exile, and Rawnie’s non-Romani son was it. Anwar was spitting bullshit, but she wasn’t ready to let on that she knew.

  “I would like to speak with them,” Rawnie said.

  “Don’t you have their number?”

  She shook her head. “Oh, no. They haven’t used a telephone in years.”

  Anwar’s eyebrows shot up. “Why not?”

  “How can we? We’re always traveling.”

  “Cell phones exist.”

  “I was the one who handled bookings. Until I left…”

  Anwar shifted in his seat, reaching for his phone. “I’ll see to it that we find the information. And we’re still waiting on the paternity test results. It might not be for a few more days.”

  “Great. Anything else?” She crossed her legs, smiling as sweetly as she could.

  “Let’s say the child is mine. What do you want from me?”

  “Honestly, I just want you to be in his life. A little bit. I want you to know and I want him to know.”

  Anwar squinted at her. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Well, it’s the truth. Give us money or don’t. I’ll find a way regardless. But it would be nice if I could find something around town…” She looked out the window, focusing on the tiny roofs of the buildings in the distance. “That way, he could be close to you…maybe you could put in a good word for me.”

  He sat in stony silence, jaw flinching. “I doubt that will remain the story for long.”

  His words pierced her like knives; she could see why he’d be distrustful, but the fact that it was true made it hurt even more. “Believe what you want. You’ll see when the test comes back.”

  “Will we?”

  “Absolutely.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You don’t know me, but you should know one thing—I don’t lie. I’ve seen the world, and I know how to fend for myself. If I could have avoided coming here, I would have. I have no reason except this one to mingle with people like you.”

  “People like me?” Anwar sneered. “I could say the same.”

  Heat pulsed through her. She didn’t know if it was anger or the wish that he’d pin her to the wall and fuck her senseless. Either was likely.

  “I know you want me gone.” Rawnie’s voice came out small. “But I’m telling you—this boy is yours.”

  He let a terse sigh, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together as he watched her. “We’ll see about that. I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

  Anwar stood and exited the room, leaving a trail of fine cologne and confusion behind him. As she sat in the silence, pondering what the next days would be like, a sickening realization washed over her: he’d fake the results. The prince had that kind of power. He’d make the genetic test come back negative. Bribe the scientist, trash the results—whatever he needed to do.

  She’d never get his support. And her son would never know his father.

  ***

  Anwar paced the wall of bookshelves in the study, gnawing at his lip as he awaited the scheduled phone call. The lab had said they’d call precisely at two p.m., and the waiting was making his gut hurt.

  He’d lied when he told Rawnie it would take days to get the results. The technician had promised him a next-day answer after receiving the samples. He just needed the time to gather himself and his approach. Not just with Rawnie, but with Diaab. His uncle had pressed for the formal genetic test, but still didn’t know that Anwar had secretly orchestrated it. He wanted—needed—to know without wondering if his uncle had tampered with the results.

  Though he counseled himself for a negative match, deep inside, his gut knew the boy was his. And if Diaab found out, he might do something unpredictable in order to protect the royal family, especially if he’d already suggested murder as a casual option.

  So the test had to be a secret; Anwar would be the only one to know, for now.

  He paused in his pacing to grab his head and scream, then picked up his frantic struts around the room. This was agony—the worst sort of agony he’d ever experienced. How had life changed from carefree to this in an instant?

  The handle to the study turned, the door opening partway; Anwar froze in his spot. “Do not enter!”

  The door closed, and all was quiet again. He couldn’t have people interrupting this, overhearing, or distracting him. He could barely even walk straight, much less interact with another human being. He’d been a mess since waking up, and seeing Rawnie nurse that baby this morning had nearly made him sick.

  It had been a bizarre collision of things he’d never expected to feel. The purity of the bond stole his breath; the beauty of her face as she watched her son made him want to immortalize the moment forever; the strange way his heart twisted made him think that offspring wasn’t the death sentence he’d always envisioned; and the sexiness. Lord, the sexiness. He’d never imagined watching a woman breastfeed could make him hard. And in that moment, he’d wanted to run. Again.

  Because he knew.

  The phone rang, startling him out of his thoughts. The clock read 1:59 p.m. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat, barely able to produce a voice. “Hello?”

  “Prince Anwar.” The jolly voice of the lab technician calmed him for a moment. “We have the results.”

  “Dear God, tell me.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Is he mine?”

  The technician paused. “Well, that’s up to you.”

  He opened his eyes. “What?”

  “I’m the only one handling this case, per your request. There are no other technicians who have seen these results.”

  His stomach knotted. “For fuck’s sake, tell me what the test said.”

  “The child is yours.”

  The phone slipped from his hand but he caught it against his belly. When he pressed it to his face, the technician was speaking. “…but we can manipulate the evidence. Whatever your highness requires. I’m at your command.”

  Anwar’s vision closed in. “Show no one. I’ll speak with you later.” He hung up the phone, grabbing the edge of the desk for support. His heart hammered in his throat. Decisions would be made—but the final truth of the matter was nearly crippling.

  He had a son.

  Rawnie was the mother.

  His offspring was inside the castle walls. How could he ever expect to make a rational decision about this?

  Fresh air would do him good—and he needed a whole country’s worth of it.

  He pocketed his phone and stormed out of the study, heading for the stables. He’d mount his horse and get lost in the countryside; the disconnect always did him good.

  And now more than ever, he needed to disconnect and figure out how the hell he’d manage this sticky situation. If Rawnie wouldn’t leave by gentle prodding, then maybe he could convince her by lying about the test.

  But that felt wrong to him, even though he desperately wished this situation would just wither and disappear. Despite the irritation and inconvenience of it all…there was something thrilling about the idea of having a son.

  His own flesh and blood. Alive. Breathing. Nurs
ing. And from such a glorious breast.

  The open air and the clatter of hooves would help clear his head. Until then, all he could do was fester in indecision…and the very real urge to show Rawnie what the father of her son could make her feel, all over again, even a year later.

  Chapter Four

  Day four behind castle walls and Rawnie already had herself a little circus show.

  In the gardens nearest her bedroom, Fatin had helped clear an area where Rawnie could spin hula hoops and staffs, which had been brought in by a sympathetic night guard. From the branch of a thick tree, one of the gardeners helped tie up a makeshift trapeze bar, which Rawnie had tested enough to make sure it was safe. From a different branch hung a set of silks, which was a newer art that Rawnie had been attempting to master prior to her son’s birth.

  “I know you are a professional,” Fatin said, “but you make me nervous.”

  Rawnie scampered up the length of the silks, grinning down at Fatin. “I suppose it wouldn’t be a live show without a bit of nervousness, right?”

  Fatin nodded, eyes glazing over as she watched Rawnie perform. Grabbing the other silk tied to the branch, she wrapped it around her arm and ankle and practiced dipping backward into an exaggerated curve. She held the position until her muscles screamed, then loosened her feet from the silks and executed a mid-air somersault, arms still firmly wrapped.

  She practiced swinging and dipping, slowly making her way down the silks, until someone started clapping in the distance. She looked toward the noise. Anwar appeared from behind the bushes, a sexy smile on his face.

  “You are remarkable.” He approached her, hands clasped behind his back. Something about him seemed as genuine as the night she met him; maybe it was dusky hue of the late-evening air, or the way his eyes seemed to twinkle as he looked at her.

  “Thank you.” She let herself slide down the length of the silks, body forming an X as she did so. “This is my newest art.”

  “And what an artist you are.” He bowed slightly, which made her throat tighten. This man wasn’t the Anwar she’d known the past several days, but he was certainly the Anwar she’d met that night at the castle during her family’s tour.

  “Would you like to try?” She nodded toward the trapeze bar on the other branch. “You’ve got a good build for this. With a little training, we could have you performing by next month.”