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Phoebe straightened, smiling in relief, even as she steeled herself for another round with Leo. Yet at that moment all she could remember was that dark look of compassion in his eyes, and the way his fingers had burned through her coat.
Sven took her back downstairs, but instead of returning to the large reception room at the front of the consulate he led her to a smaller, more private room at the back.
He opened a door and ushered her inside, retreating and closing the door softly behind him before Phoebe even had a chance to register where she was.
‘What is this?’ she demanded, and Leo turned to her and smiled.
‘Dinner, of course.’
But it wasn’t just dinner, Phoebe acknowledged with a fluttering of panic she knew she shouldn’t feel. It looked—and felt—like some kind of seduction.
The room was dimly lit by a few small table lamps, and a table for two had been laid by the marble fireplace, set with a creamy damask cloth, delicate porcelain and the finest crystal, glinting in the light. The flames of the fire cast leaping shadows over the room, and half of Leo’s face was in shadow, so she could only see the faint curling of his mouth in what she supposed was a smile.
He looked far too confident, Phoebe thought as the panic rose, far too powerful, too predatory. Too sensual. For there could be no denying that Leo Christensen was a completely sensual being.
He’d taken off his tie and undone the top two buttons of his shirt so that Phoebe’s gaze was instinctively drawn—as it had been six years ago—to the strong column of his throat. She jerked her gaze upwards, felt herself flush as she saw how Leo had been watching her. Knowing.
‘I’m not hungry,’ Phoebe said, taking a step towards the door.
‘Aren’t you?’ Leo murmured, and Phoebe’s flush intensified as though her whole body was burning. Burning not just with awareness, but with shame, for something about Leo invoked a helpless response in her that she hated.
Desire.
She felt it stretch and spiral between them, sleepy, seductive and far too powerful. No, Phoebe corrected fiercely, not desire. Fascination. It was like a child’s fascination with fire, fingers aching to touch the flickering flame, so forbidden and dangerous. It didn’t mean anything. It wouldn’t, of course it wouldn’t. She didn’t even like Leo. As long as she remembered that and kept herself well away from the flames, she’d be all right. Safe.
Except now the source of heat and danger was walking right towards her with that long, easy stride, smiling with sleepy sensuality as he held out a glass of wine he’d just poured while she’d been standing here, her mouth hanging open and her eyes as wide as a child’s, or worse, a lovesick girl’s.
‘Here.’ He handed her the glass of wine, which Phoebe accepted before she could think better of it, her nerveless fingers curling around the fragile stem.
‘You’ve gone to rather a lot of effort,’ she finally said. Leo merely raised his eyebrows.
‘I must admit I did little more than bark a few orders, but I thought we’d both be more comfortable having eaten something.’
‘Did you?’ Phoebe mumbled, taking a sip of wine, wishing she didn’t feel this helpless fascination. Already she couldn’t keep her eyes from wandering up and down the length of him, the long legs, trim hips and broad shoulders, finally resting on those full, sculpted lips, wondering how—
Stop. This was ridiculous. Dangerous.
‘Yes, I did,’ Leo replied, amusement gleaming in those golden, hooded eyes, eyes like an eagle’s, the eagles that were stamped on every piece of priceless porcelain on the table, reminding her just who she was dealing with, what—
Phoebe put her glass down with an unsteady clatter. ‘I appreciate your effort,’ she said, forcing herself to meet Leo’s gaze directly, ‘but I’d really like to finish things here and go—’
‘Home. Yes, I know. However, I’m afraid it’s not going to be that simple or quick. And I, for one, am starving, having travelled across the Atlantic this afternoon with very little to eat.’ He went to the table and began to remove the covers from several silver chafing dishes.
Leo began serving them both food, fragrant offerings that made Phoebe’s stomach clench and rumble despite her protestations that she wasn’t hungry. ‘Come, sit down,’ he said mildly. ‘There’s no reason to refuse to eat, is there?’
‘I’m not—’
‘Hungry? Yes, you are. I can hear your stomach rumbling from here. And if you’re worried about Christian, I had Nora order pizza. He doesn’t have any food allergies, I trust.’ He spoke with such confidence Phoebe knew he’d already checked. Yet despite his knowing arrogance, she was touched that he had thought to consider Christian’s needs. It was a small detail, irrelevant really, yet it still, strangely, meant something.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, still somewhat grudgingly. ‘Christian loves pizza.’
‘Come.’ He beckoned her, holding aloft a dish that was steaming and fragrant. ‘You know you want to.’
Phoebe almost resisted simply for the principle of it. She didn’t want to be seduced by Leo, not even by the food he offered. He was toying with her, she knew, teasing her because he knew he affected her, knew that there was something basic and primal that she responded to, helplessly, hopelessly.
She’d felt it back then, a little spark leaping to life deep inside her, and now she felt that spark flame to life once more, licking at her insides, threatening to burgeon into a full-grown inferno of need.
‘Fine.’ Phoebe moved over to the table and sat down, accepting the plate of boeuf Bourguignonne in its rich red wine sauce that Leo handed her. It smelled and looked delicious. ‘And now you can tell me what this is all about.’
‘Of course.’ Leo took a sip of wine, watching her over the rim of his glass. ‘Tell me, when was the last time you saw Anders?’
‘That’s hardly relevant,’ Phoebe snapped. She shifted in her seat, uneasy at this line of questioning and where it might lead.
‘I’m curious.’
‘Too bad.’ She took a bite of beef, barely registering the rich gravy or succulent meat. Her heart was thudding with heavy, hectic beats and her hands felt clammy. And all because of Leo. Why did she let him affect her this much?
‘Did Anders ever meet his son?’
Phoebe pressed her lips together. ‘Let’s just say,’ she said tightly, ‘that he wasn’t interested.’
‘I see.’ Leo gazed at her with a shrewd compassion Phoebe didn’t like. She didn’t want to be pitied or even understood. She just wanted to be left alone. ‘All right, Phoebe,’ Leo said. ‘It’s really rather simple. King Nicholas regrets his separation from Anders. He was furious six years ago, as you probably know—he’d already arranged Anders’s marriage with a minor European royal when he announced his relationship with you. It would have been a good match.’
Phoebe’s fingers clenched around the heavy sterling-silver fork. ‘Maybe so, but Anders obviously thought differently.’
‘Perhaps,’ Leo replied, and Phoebe felt it as an insult, even though in essence it was true. Anders had felt differently … for about a month.
‘I already know the king regrets his separation,’ Phoebe said, and heard the impatience fraying her tone. ‘You’ve made that abundantly clear. I just don’t see what it has to do with me—’
‘Nothing to do with you,’ Leo replied blandly, ‘but everything to do with Christian.’ He smiled, that sensual mouth curving, curling, making Phoebe want to shiver. ‘The king,’ he told her, ‘wishes to see his grandchild.’
Phoebe said nothing. Again, she found she wasn’t surprised. Horrified, but not surprised. Wasn’t this what she’d been waiting for, secretly, silently dreading? A claim on her child, no matter how small. A claim that could become stronger than her own. She opened her mouth, groping for words, for a cutting rebuttal, yet nothing came. Her mind was spinning in horrible circles, looking for an escape, some way out of this mess—
‘In Amarnes,’ Leo clarified in a terribly implacable tone. He paused. ‘You’re welcome to accompany him, of course.’
Outrage finally gave her voice. ‘Of course I’ll accompany him! That is, if he was going anywhere—which he’s not.’
Leo gazed at her, rotating the stem of his wine glass between long, lean fingers. ‘Phoebe,’ he said finally, his voice surprisingly, strangely gentle, ‘do you really think you can make such a statement?’
‘I just did—’
‘And back it up?’ Leo cut her off, his voice still soft yet with a chilling knowledge that made Phoebe blink. And blink again.
‘He’s my child. I don’t need to back anything up,’ she finally said, but even to her own ears her voice sounded uncertain. Afraid.
‘And my uncle is the king of a small but wealthy and well-connected country,’ Leo told her. ‘What he wishes, he gets. And frankly there isn’t a court in the world that would rule in your favour. My uncle would make sure of it.’
‘A court?’ Phoebe repeated blankly, and a second later the single word caused a host of unpleasant connotations and images to tumble through her mind: trials and lawsuits, custody battles—all things she couldn’t afford, not emotionally or financially. ‘Your uncle would take me to court?’
Leo shrugged. ‘If you refuse him this small request—’
‘And how is this request small?’ Phoebe demanded. She rose from the table, spinning away, her fists pressed to her eyes as if she could shut out Leo’s voice, the reality he was forcing upon her.
From behind her she heard Leo rise from the table and come to stand behind her; she could feel the heat emanating from him, and for one crazy moment she wanted to lean back against him, feel the strength and hardness of his chest, find some kind of comfort there.
With Leo? her mind mocked. She really was falling apart if she thought there was any comfort to be had from him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a tone that managed to be both compassionate and final, ‘but this is how it is, and you cannot change it.’ He paused. ‘Prepare for a holiday in Amarnes. You might even enjoy it.’
Phoebe whirled around. ‘For six years your family has completely ignored me. And now suddenly they want something from me? And think they can have it?’
Leo didn’t even blink. ‘Essentially, yes.’ His voice was flat, but she thought she saw a flicker of compassion in his eyes, and in desperation she appealed to that faint, frail hope.
‘Leo, please. It doesn’t make sense to drag Christian from the home he loves, the life he knows, and for what? To appease an old man’s sense of regret? It’s not fair to me or to Christian.’
Leo hesitated, and for a moment—a second—Phoebe thought she had a chance. Prayed that he understood, that he’d relent—then his face closed, like a fan snapping shut, and despair fell over Phoebe like a dank fog.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice flat, expressionless. ‘There is nothing I can do.’ He gave a little shrug, dismissing her pain and distress in so tiny, so indifferent a gesture. ‘It is only for a fortnight.’
Two weeks. Two weeks in Amarnes, facing the royal family, reliving that unwanted episode of her life. And would it end then? Phoebe wondered dully. Would King Nicholas be satisfied? Or would he just go on asking for—demanding—more, and more, and even more, until Phoebe and Christian’s lives were siphoned away in sacrifice to an old man’s selfish whims, drop by tiny drop, week by painful week.
She turned to Leo. ‘And it will end there? We’ll go home, and the king will never want to see us again?’ She let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. ‘You honestly expect me to believe that? That he won’t want—demand—more?’
Leo’s face was utterly impassive. ‘Perhaps he will be satisfied,’ he said. ‘This might be no more than a passing fancy.’
‘And that should make me feel better, I suppose,’ Phoebe tossed back. ‘I’m sure Christian will be happy to have served his purpose and then be thrown away like rubbish!’
Annoyance flashed across Leo’s face like a streak of lightning. ‘You are being melodramatic. There is no reason why a two-week trip to a beautiful country should be nothing but a lovely holiday for both you and your son. You look exhausted,’ he continued bluntly, ‘and I’m sure you could use some relaxation.’
‘I’m hardly going to relax—’
‘You might try,’ Leo cut her off. ‘It would certainly make the trip more pleasant for you.’ His voice was sharp with impatience, and Phoebe knew he was done with her objections. Her fate, and her child’s, had been decided. And there wasn’t a single thing she could do about it.
She saw that now, starkly, understanding once again the kind of people—the kind of power—she was dealing with. She couldn’t face a royal family in the courts. She couldn’t face the tabloids and the paparazzi that would swarm over her little family like greedy vultures when they caught wind of this story.
‘Come, why don’t you eat?’ Leo said mildly, sitting down again. Phoebe shook her head.
‘Now I’ve really lost my appetite.’
‘Suit yourself. But just because you don’t like the state of affairs doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy yourself in the meantime.’
Phoebe glanced around the sumptuous room flickering with firelight, their decadent meal spread on the table. She thought of what she’d seen of Leo in the papers, years before, and wondered how many meals like this he’d enjoyed with the models and starlets he liked to have on his arm … and no doubt in his bed. A resentment she didn’t quite understand spiked her voice as she said, ‘Like you do, I suppose.’
There was a second’s hesitation before Leo shrugged and poured them both more wine, even though Phoebe’s glass was still mostly full. ‘Of course.’
Phoebe took a breath, opened her mouth and prepared for a fight. Yet suddenly, looking at the magnificently laid table and the remains of her delicious meal, she felt all the fight—all the anger and outrage and self-righteous fury—trickle out of her. Leo was right, even if she didn’t want him to be. She had to accept this. The problems her refusal could cause were too dire to consider.
Two weeks in Amarnes, and then they could return home, to the life she’d built for them both here in New York. Two weeks in Amarnes, and Christian could get to know his father’s side of the family. Perhaps she could even see the positive side of things, make it an adventure …
And in the meantime, she would eat and enjoy this meal. Resolutely she returned to the table and raised her wine glass to Leo in an ironic toast, earning her a faint smile. ‘Very well,’ she said stiffly. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers,’ Leo murmured, and they both drank in silence. Phoebe fought the temptation to drain her glass.
‘So,’ she said when they’d both finished drinking and she’d picked up her fork, toying with a bit of beef. ‘What’s happened in Amarnes these last six years?’
‘More of the same, really,’ Leo replied in a deliberate drawl. ‘Nothing much happens in these tiny little countries, you know, although we like to think it does.’
Phoebe choked back a surprised laugh. ‘I suppose Anders’s abdication was the news of the century, then.’
‘Just about.’
‘And it made you king.’
‘Heir,’ Leo corrected, his tone light although his expression had hardened. ‘King Nicholas is still alive, as far as I know.’
Phoebe took another sip of wine. ‘The Playboy Prince will become the Playboy King one day,’ she quipped a bit sardonically, and Leo’s mouth tightened, his eyes darkening to a deep umber. She wondered if she’d actually offended him. ‘Your reputation is well-known, you know. At least it was when I—’
‘Yes, I’m aware,’ he said in a bored voice. ‘Although in that regard, I suppose some things have changed in Amarnes.’
Phoebe regarded him curiously. Was he actually trying to say he’d changed? Yet he seemed so much the same—even as that thought took hold of her, another realisation swept through her. He had changed. Gone were the rumpled curls, as if he’d just risen from bed—from being with a lover. His hair was cut short, and more grey streaked his temples. And even though he’d treated her with the same lazy arrogance as he had six years ago, Phoebe sensed something new—something harder—in him now, a resolute sense of purpose that had been lacking before—or was she simply being fanciful? Imagining things, rewriting history, the man she’d known?
Except, Phoebe thought, she’d never really known Leo. She’d met him for ten minutes and read about him in the tabloids. That was all, and it occurred to her how very little it was. Now, suddenly—stupidly, perhaps—she found herself wondering just what kind of man he was. What kind of man he’d been, and then, more intriguingly, how he might have changed.
‘So what have you been doing, then?’ she finally asked. She took a bit of beef and chewed slowly, watching him. Swallowing, she continued. ‘How have you been keeping yourself?’
Leo shrugged. ‘A bit of this, a bit of that.’
‘That’s hardly an answer.’
‘I’m sure a more specific answer would bore you. Do you really want to know the monotonous details of royal duty?’
‘You’re not a playboy any more?’ Phoebe pressed.
Leo smiled, the sleepy, sensual smile Phoebe remembered, and as awareness coiled in her belly and raced through her veins she knew one thing that hadn’t changed: her response to him.
‘You know what they say. You can take the man out of the country, but you can’t—’
‘You mean,’ Phoebe cut him off, ‘you haven’t changed?’
Leo shrugged. ‘Judge for yourself. But …’ he leaned forward, his eyes glinting into hers ‘ … enough about the boring, sordid details of my own life. I want to know about you.’
Phoebe raised her brows, a strange, surprising smile lurking inside her, quirking her mouth. ‘Can something be sordid and boring?’
‘Most definitely.’ He dismissed the topic with a shrug of one powerful shoulder. ‘Now, I know a bit about how you’ve been keeping yourself—’
‘How?’
Leo smiled. ‘Phoebe, I always do my research.’
