thought of such close surveillance sent chills down her spine. Hastily, she opened the book and began to read to an enthralled Michael.
Although the witty, clever exploits of Hairy Maclary and his canine friends did the trick, Abby gave a silent sigh of relief when they finally touched down at the airport in Auckland.
As they made their way to the car park the crowds and the noise and the unfamiliar bustle silenced Michael; wide-eyed, he trailed along between her and the prince, clinging to her hand while he gazed around.
Abby saw a middle-aged woman watching them. Heat stung her skin; she knew what the woman was thinking, just as she recognised the barely concealed interest in other women’s eyes when they’d noticed the man beside her. His powerful physical presence demanded instant respect.
Then their eyes swung to her, and envy was replaced by astonishment. They were wondering what on earth a woman like her was doing with a man like Caelan Bagaton.
She wanted to say out loud, ‘We’re not a family! This is just a sham.’ A tormenting sham, one she’d been forced into by the man who’d ruthlessly shattered her life.
Instead, she gave the woman a half-smile and walked on by, her heart contracting into a solid ball in her chest.
‘The car’s over here,’ the prince said brusquely.
The big vehicle had a child’s car seat already installed in the rear seat. Naturally, she thought, bristling. Caelan didn’t accept defeat.
Stop going over and over and over this, she commanded herself. It’s finished—dead as a doornail, or a dodo, or the Dead Sea. All of them, actually.
At first Michael was too interested in the traffic—especially, Abby noted with wry amusement, extremely large trucks—to get bored. However, by the time the car left the motorway for inner-city streets he demanded in a voice that came too close to a whine, ‘Where we going, Abby? Are we nearly there?’
‘Five minutes,’ Caelan said calmly.
So he wasn’t taking them to the beach house, where he’d kissed her.
She fought a humiliating let-down; he probably didn’t even remember that kiss. After all, he’d had at least one long-term relationship since he’d broken up with the then-current lover. And Gemma had told her of the constant stream of hopefuls he fended off. The kiss they’d shared probably no longer registered on his radar—if it ever had.
Pinning a steady smile to her lips, she said to Michael, ‘There you go—we’re almost at Uncle Caelan’s house.’
‘It’s an apartment,’ Caelan informed her.
‘An apartment?’ Abby shot a swift glance at his unyielding profile. In a neutral voice she said, ‘Children need easy access to grass and trees, and a place where they can run and jump and roll.’
‘All highly desirable, but not as necessary as decent food and clothes and security,’ Caelan returned, his urbane tone not hiding the whiplash of scorn in his words. ‘The apartment is central and convenient, but if it doesn’t work out we’ll move to somewhere more suitable for a family.’ Skilfully he eased the car past a courier van.
She frowned to hide a suddenly thudding heartbeat. A family…
In spite of her effort to be reasonable, anticipation warmed her from the inside, curling through her like warm honey shot with fire. To quell it she asked more aggressively than she intended, ‘But you told Michael on the flight that you have a pool.’ And then she remembered an article she’d seen about a very up-market apartment complex in Auckland. ‘Oh, is there a gym there?’
‘There’s a lap pool on the terrace.’
She flushed. His casual words underlined again the huge difference between growing up on a Northland citrus orchard, and amongst the ranks of the hugely rich.
Expertly Caelan avoided three laughing teenagers who chose to dash across the road as the lights turned green. ‘And of course there’s the one at the beach.’
So he did still own it.
A wild, foolish second of elation was rapidly smothered by another cold splash of common sense. How pathetic was that—thinking that one kiss might have meant anything to him? Turning to Michael, she infused enthusiasm into her voice. ‘Just about there, darling.’
Very much there, in fact; the car stopped outside a gate that led to a basement car park. Absently Abby read a notice on the wall, then stiffened.
‘This is a hotel,’ she accused.
The gate rattled back and Caelan put the car into gear, easing it down into the well-lit basement. ‘An apartment hotel. I live in the penthouse.’
Michael asked with eager anticipation, ‘Can I go for a swim, Abby? Now?’
He adored the water; the day-care centre had a small paddling pool, but Abby had never been able to afford lessons for him in the school pool.
‘Sweetheart, I think it would be better if you left it until it’s warmer,’ she told him. Although nowhere near as cold as Nukuroa, Auckland’s spring wasn’t exactly balmy, and at the airport she’d noticed a brisk, cool wind.
His lower lip jutted, but Caelan cut short his objections. ‘The pool is heated, and sheltered from the wind. I’ll go in with him if you don’t want to.’
Well, yes, she thought cynically, of course it would be heated. Standard tycoon equipment!
The car came to a halt in a reserved slot. Abby tamped down a flare of anger; she’d been making decisions for Michael for three years, and Caelan had no right to query them.
In a toneless voice she answered, ‘If it’s heated, that’s fine. Unfortunately he’s absolutely fearless in the water, although he hasn’t got beyond the fundamentals yet. He needs careful supervision.’
‘Point taken. He’d better learn to swim as soon as possible.’ Caelan switched off the engine.
Abby examined the autocratic lines and curves of his profile as he said, ‘The pool is fenced off from the apartment, so he’ll be safe enough.’
Physically, yes. Emotionally? Ignoring a cold little worm of fear, she told herself sturdily that all she could hope to extract from this tensely disturbing situation was Michael’s happiness.
Inside the hotel lift, a warm little hand clutching hers, Abby stared blindly at the carpet, alienated by the atmosphere of sleek, elegant luxury. A faint scent permeated the air—a very exclusive, very expensive perfume; disliking its cloying sensuousness, Abby wrinkled her nose and tried to ignore an alarming needle of jealousy.
The atmosphere was compounded inside the penthouse apartment. Of course it was elegant and large, filled with reflected light from the harbour and the sky, and superbly decorated by a professional who hadn’t surrendered comfort for style.
The prince took them into a large, informal sitting room with a dining table and chairs at one end. It opened out onto a wide, partly covered terrace where potted plants flourished around a narrow swimming pool.
‘There’s
