had been a tumultuous few weeks, to say the least, but he was still here and that was something.
Leila. She was a constant ghost in his mind. Haunting him. Tormenting him. As soon as he’d returned to Isle Saint Croix on a wave of triumph the perfume of the island had reminded him indelibly of her. Of the perfume she’d made for him.
Was she sitting in a luxurious hotel suite right now, with her potions arrayed before her? Smiling at some hapless man? Enthralling him? Witch.
He still couldn’t believe she’d turned her back on the opportunity to become his Queen. Or that her rejection had smarted so badly. He told himself it was a purely ego-based blow. He’d chosen Leila because he’d genuinely believed she had the necessary attributes. Plus he’d had the evidence that they got on well, and he’d felt she had integrity and that he could trust her.
Not to mention the insane chemistry between them.
And all along she’d had her own agenda.
An abrupt knock at the door interrupted his brooding and made him scowl. ‘Come in.’
It was Andres, looking worried. Holding a tablet in his hand. When he got to Alix’s desk he was grim. ‘There’s something you need to see.’
He turned the device around and Alix looked down to see rolling news footage. It took a second to compute what he was looking at, but when he did his entire body tensed and a wave of heat hit him in the solar plexus.
It was a picture of him and Leila, arguing in the street that day seven weeks ago. He had his hand on her arm and she looked angry. And beautiful. Even now it took his breath away.
The headline read: ‘Want to meet the very fragrant mystery lover of the new King of Isle Saint Croix? Turn to page six...’
Alix looked at Andres. ‘Do it.’
Andres scrolled through and stopped. Alix read, but couldn’t really take it in. Words jumped out at him:
Illegitimate secret daughter of Alain Bastineau...next President of France?
Pregnancy test...positive...royal heir?
Does King Alix know if he’s the father?
Scandal and controversy don’t seem to want to leave this new King in peace...
* * *
Leila was still in shock. It hadn’t left her system yet even though she’d had since yesterday to come to terms with the news. She’d had it confirmed, after weeks of trying to deny the possibility when one period hadn’t materialised and then the next one. She was pregnant— approximately eight weeks, according to the doctor she’d gone to see after doing three home tests: positive, positive, positive.
Pregnant and without the father. Just like her mother.
A sense of shame and futility washed over her. It was genetic. She’d proved no less susceptible to a gorgeous man intent on seduction. The only difference being that this time around the father would have been quite content to marry the mother of his child.
Leila smiled, but it was mirthless. Perhaps that was progress? Maybe by the next generation her child would manage not to get pregnant and would avoid dealing with the prospect of rejection and/or a convenient marriage?
Oh, God. Leila clutched her belly. Her child. A son or daughter. With this legacy in its past. How pathetic. Bitter tears made her eyes prickle.
A furious pounding on the door of the shop downstairs made her jerk suddenly upright. She heard a clamour of voices. She was late opening up, but her clientele hardly arrived in droves, so desperate to get into the shop that they’d pound on the door like that.
Momentarily distracted out of her circling thoughts, Leila hurried down to the shop, thinking that perhaps an accident had happened.
More banging on the door...urgent voices. Leila fumbled with the lock and swung the door wide—only to be met with a barrage of flashing lights, shouting voices and people pushing towards her.
It was so shocking and unexpected it took a moment for what they were saying to sink in, and then she heard it.
‘Is it true you’re pregnant with Alix Saint Croix’s baby?’
‘Are you getting back together?’
‘How long have you been seeing him?’
‘Why did you fight?’
‘Are you in touch?’
‘Does he know about the baby?’
The voices morphed into one and Leila finally had the presence of mind to slam the door shut again before someone got their foot in the door. Just before she closed it, though, someone threw in a newspaper and it landed at her feet.
She bent down to pick it up. Emblazoned across the front page was a picture of her and Alix arguing in the street that day all those weeks ago, his hand on her arm, her face tilted up to his: angry. Hurt, humiliated. She cringed now to see her emotions laid so bare. So much for believing she’d been in control.
And the headline: ‘Leila Verughese, secret lover of Alix Saint Croix and the even more secret daughter that Alain Bastineau never wanted you to discover.’
They knew about her father.
Leila’s back hit the door and she slid down it as her legs turned to jelly. She barely noticed the pounding on the door, the shouting outside. She just knew that however bad she’d believed things to be just minutes before...when she’d known she was pregnant and it had still been her secret...they were about to get exponentially worse.
From somewhere came a persistent and non-stop buzzing noise. Leila dimly recognised that it was the phone. On hands and knees she crawled over to where the device sat under the counter. She picked it up.
Somehow she wasn’t surprised to hear the familiar authoritative male voice. It caused her no emotion, though. She was numb with shock.
It told her that in one hour Ricardo would be at the back lane entrance of her property with a decoy. She was to let him in. In the meantime she was to pack a bag, and then leave with him when instructed.
The shock kept Leila cocooned from thinking too much about these instructions, or the baying mob outside. And in just over an hour she let Ricardo in, with a girl who looked disconcertingly like her... Leila didn’t think twice about letting them borrow one of her coats for the girl, nor about the fact that he sent the girl out through the front. The baying mob reached fever pitch and then suddenly died down again as she heard vague shouts of, ‘She’s getting away!’
Ricardo was saying urgently, ‘It won’t be long, Miss Verughese, before they realise she’s not you. Where is your bag? We need to lock up and go—now.’
And then Leila was being escorted into the back of a car with blackened windows and they were racing through the streets of Paris. At one point Ricardo must have been concerned
