‘That’s history,’ he snapped—because the dawning look of comprehension on her face was making him uneasy. ‘Which I don’t particularly want to rake up.’
‘Maybe it is—but the past always impacts on the present, doesn’t it? You don’t remember me because you can’t. The knock on your head must have wiped the memory clean away.’ She drew a deep breath and looked at him with eyes which were suddenly soft with understanding. ‘You’re suffering from amnesia and that’s why I mean nothing to you, isn’t it, Casimiro?’
CASIMIRO felt a brutal kind of rage wash over him as he stared at Melissa. At her passion-flushed cheeks and the way her eyes looked almost emerald as she levelled her accusation at him.
You’re suffering from amnesia and that’s why I mean nothing to you.
His hands clenched into fists by the tensed shafts of his thighs as fury fizzed through his veins. Because nobody but her had guessed that a brief segment of time had been shaved from his memory. Nobody. So how could such a woman as this see through to the truth where all others had failed?
‘How the hell do you work that out?’ he demanded icily.
She noticed that he hadn’t denied it. Her eyes drifted to his temple, and despite his harshness towards her, she found herself biting her lip as she imagined him lying there, hurt. ‘When I saw that little…scar.’
Casimiro’s mouth hardened as he heard the emotional break in her voice—wondering if it was spontaneous or contrived. ‘You are cleverer than I imagined,’ he said. And probably just as manipulative, he reminded himself grimly. How delighted she would be to discover that she knew more about him than his courtiers or even his brother! And yet, in some crazy way—wasn’t it something of a relief to be able to share the burden of his amnesia with someone?
‘So you’re not denying that Ben could be your son?’ she questioned hopefully.
Ben. Casimiro frowned. Giving the child a name only added another layer of complexity to the affair.
‘I am conceding that it is a possibility.’
It was better than nothing and Melissa bit her lip, wanting to blurt out her gratitude and yet some instinct stopping her from doing anything more than silently nodding her head.
Casimiro studied her. He had been about to leave—to slam his way out and to make arrangements about a trip to England to see the child at some undetermined point in the future—while still nurturing the hope that she was a complete fantasist. But her perception had changed everything.
He felt a pulse beat at his temple—because what she had learned was dangerous. Would she try to use the knowledge she’d gained to secure a place for herself in his life? he wondered. Knowledge was power—everyone knew that—and maybe it was time for a little redistribution of that power. Why waste his energy on pointless rage, when there was a much more satisfactory outlet which would serve him better…?
Slowly, he let his gaze drift over her. At the fall of dark shiny hair which was now completely dry and shimmering around her narrow shoulders. At the bare legs and the unvarnished toenails. Beneath that hideous garment, she was completely naked; he knew that for himself. And once again—despite his avowal of her unsuitability—he felt the hot, hard shimmering of desire.
‘Come over here,’ he said silkily.
Melissa blinked. She had been expecting anger—especially when she’d seen the shadowed expression on his face. But his face wasn’t looking in the least bit threatening now. On the contrary. She narrowed her eyes, wondering if she was misreading it. Seeing something there that she wanted to see rather than what really was.
But no.
His expression looked…inviting. Vital. The lips had softened—as if they were illustrating just how kissable they really were. And his eyes were dark—really dark—with that opaque kind of blackness which even someone with Melissa’s scant experience knew meant that he wanted her.
‘Why?’ she whispered, her heart beginning to pound.
‘Don’t let’s play games—not now. You know exactly why.’
‘But you just, just—’
‘Pushed you away?’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe I’ve realised what a fool I was being. Or maybe I just needed time for my body to make its protest known. And it is—believe me, it is—very loud and very clear.’ Glancing down with a rueful expression, he shrugged. ‘So come over here, Melissa.’
‘No,’ she said, in a small voice.
‘No? You refuse your King?’
‘You are not my King and, yes, I am refusing you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because…’ Because you’ve already made a fool of me. Because you could break my heart into a million pieces. ‘Because I’m here to discuss my son—and it’s not appropriate.’
‘Not appropriate?’ he mocked.
‘N-no.’
‘You think there’s some kind of social guideline for the bizarre situation in which we find ourselves?’ he demanded, but, interestingly, her words only inflamed his growing desire—because refusal was something which Casimiro never encountered. ‘Then it seems that I must come to you, bella mia.’
Her eyes widened in alarm but she could do nothing about the sudden prickle of her senses as he began to walk towards her with the determination and the stealth of a predator which had just spotted a particularly accessible morsel lying waiting for him.
‘Don’t,’ she whispered.
‘Don’t what? At least try to say it as if you mean it,’ he drawled, his mouth hardening into a smile as he reached for her and pulled her into his arms.
It wasn’t his touch—but the smile which sealed it. This one was hard and somehow grim, but it was a smile all the same and it catapulted her back to bittersweet time when she’d seen a much softer variation. When desire had ruled their lives and there had been no shame in it.
‘But why this…frown?’ Casimiro’s voice had deepened as he smoothed the small crease in her brow, tracing his fingertip down to outline the sudden trembling of her lips.
‘Can’t you guess?’ she whispered.
He read the wariness in her eyes and recognised that she was going to have to be cajoled into submission. That she was cleverer and feistier than he’d given her credit for—and that if he wanted her co-operation, then he was going to have to seduce her. Really seduce her. For there was no surer way of getting a woman to consent to a man’s agenda than by making her a prisoner of her own senses.
Because he needed Melissa Maguire, he realised. Needed her to remind him of the missing fragment of his past and to see what lay in it.
He felt the slow simmer of anticipation as he gazed down at the trembling of her lips.
And she needed him, too. Much, much more.
Again, he traced the outline of her lips with his fingertip, seeing her eyes cloud as she looked up at him. ‘You don’t like me doing this?’ he questioned silkily. ‘And yet minutes ago you were writhing around in my arms—your body silently begging me to take you.’
Melissa swallowed, for the fingertip was now stroking its way along her jaw. It was an almost innocuous touch and yet