Claiming His Royal Heir Page 2

  Vasco glanced around. Sure, the house was pleasant, but the sound of nearby traffic marred the peace and California was filled with temptations and traps for a young person. “Nicky would be far better off in the hills and fresh air of Montmajor. He’d have the best teachers.”

  “We’re staying here, and that’s final.” She crossed her hands over her chest. She wasn’t tall, maybe five foot five, but she had an air of authority and determination that amused and intrigued him. He could tell she had no intention whatsoever of changing her carefully thought-out plans.

  Luckily, he had decades of experience in negotiation, and rarely failed. He could offer financial incentives or other temptations she’d be loath to resist. Although she might not have her price in purely financial terms, everyone had dreams and if he could tap into those she’d eventually be persuaded.

  Or he could seduce her. Now that he’d seen her this possibility held tremendous appeal. Seduction offered the benefits of instant intimacy and unlimited enjoyment. Definitely something to consider.

  But this wasn’t the right time. His appearance was a shock and she needed a chance to digest the idea that her son’s father would be involved in his life. He’d give her a day or two to accommodate herself to the new reality of his presence.

  Then he’d return and entice her into his arms and his plans.

  “I’ll bid you adieu.” He made a slight bow. “Please do some research into me.” He gestured at his business card, held between his fingers. “You’ll find that everything I’ve told you about myself is true.”

  She frowned, which caused her nose to wrinkle in a rather adorable way.

  Stella blinked. She looked surprised that he’d chosen to leave without securing a deal. “Great.”

  “I’ll be in touch to discuss matters further.”

  “Sure.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Suspicion hovered in her eyes. He suspected she’d be locking all the doors and windows tonight. He had to admit that she seemed an excellent and protective mother to his child.

  Little Nicky sat on the floor, engrossed in putting plastic rings onto a fat plastic stick. Emotion filled Vasco’s chest at the sight of the sweet young boy that was his flesh and blood. “Nice to meet you, Nicky.”

  The toddler glanced up, obviously aware of his own name. “Ah goo.”

  Vasco grinned, and Nicky grinned back. He looked at Stella. “He’s wonderful.”

  “I know.” She couldn’t help smiling, too. “He’s the most precious thing in the world to me. I think you should know that.”

  “Trust me, I do. And I respect it.” Which is why he intended to bring Stella back to Montmajor along with Nicky. A boy should be with his mother as well as his father.

  As he fired up the engine of his bike, now hot from standing in the California sun outside Stella’s house, he congratulated himself on a successful first encounter with his son’s mother. She’d started by wanting to throw him out, and ended by giving him her phone number.

  He gunned the engine and took off up the hill toward the Santa Monica freeway. A very promising start.

  Stella bolted the door as soon as Vasco was gone. She wanted to let out a huge sigh of relief, but she couldn’t. It wasn’t over.

  It wouldn’t ever be over.

  Her son’s father—the one she never wanted or needed—had come into both of their lives and if he checked out after testing they’d never be the same again. The best she could hope for was that he’d go back to wherever he came from—Montmajor, was it? She’d never even heard of the place—and leave them in relative peace.

  She wanted to believe that he was an impostor and that his country was the invention of an overactive imagination. He certainly looked like something out of a Hollywood movie with his worn leather jacket, faded jeans and scuffed leather boots. His looks were pure glam.

  He didn’t look like a king of anything at all, except maybe King of the Road. Especially since she’d seen him climb on a big, black motorbike right in front of her house. What kind of king went around on a hog?

  Maybe he was a fake. Or some kind of crazy. California had enough of those.

  Whoever he was, something told her he was Nicky’s father. His hair was dark, almost black, and his skin tanned and scorched by the sun, but his eyes were unmistakably Nicky’s. Slate-gray and intense, they’d surprised the nurses at the hospital who insisted a blond baby should have blue eyes. They’d never changed color and they were the first place she could read his mood.

  Vasco’s eyes were hooded by suspicious lids and dark lashes, while Nicky’s still had the bold innocence of childhood, but they were the same eyes. Vasco Montoya was Nicky’s father.

  She settled Nicky into his high chair with some Cheerios and a cup of watered-down apple juice.

  She hated that they’d had the whole conversation in front of him. How much could a one-year-old comprehend? Just because he didn’t say much didn’t mean he couldn’t understand at least some of what was going on.

  Two

  A faint ray of sunlight snuck through the wall of miniblinds in the office of the customer relations manager at Westlake Cryobank. Stella watched the wand of light stretch across the neat gray desk toward the woman behind it. The finger of accusation?

  Three days had passed since Vasco Montoya had appeared in her life, and she hadn’t heard from him again. Maybe the whole thing was a dream—or rather, a nightmare—and nothing would come of it. She’d been preoccupied with “what ifs” and spent hours online reading about other people’s experiences with absent fathers reappearing in their lives. Her brain was boggling with possibilities and problems, and now he’d vanished.

  Still, she needed to know where she stood.

  “As I said, madam. We assure confidentiality for all our clients.” The woman’s voice was crisp and business like, her hair styled into a golden blond helmet.

  “So how do you explain the arrival of this man on my doorstep?” She flung down the page she’d printed from a website on sapphire mining. An interview with Vasco Montoya, head of Catalan Mining and—as he’d claimed—king of the sovereign nation of Montmajor. Apparently he’d grown his business from a small mine in Colombia to an international concern with billions in assets. In the picture, he wore a pinstriped suit and a pleased expression. Why wouldn’t he? He was the man who had everything.

  Except her son.

  The woman swallowed visibly, then shone a fake smile.

  It’s her, I can feel it. He probably seduced her into it. Rage swelled in her chest. “He knows where I live and that I used his donation. He wants us to move back to his country with him.” The idea was laughable—except that it wasn’t funny. “How much did he pay you?”

  “It’s not possible for him to obtain the information from us. All our records are kept in a secure, offsite location.”

  “I’m sure they’re computerized, as well.”

  “Naturally, but…”

  “I don’t want to hear any buts. He said that he paid money to obtain the information, so you have a leak in your security somewhere.”

  “We take the greatest precautions and we have top-notch legal advice.” Her words contained a veiled threat. Did they expect her to sue? That wouldn’t help.

  She sat back in the hard plastic chair. “I guess what I really want to know…” She thought of Nick, happily playing at the university day care. She’d hurried to Westlake after dropping him off early. “Does he have any rights, or did he sign those away when he donated the sperm?”

  “Our donors do sign away all rights. They have no say in the child’s future and no responsibility to support it.”

  “So I can tell this man that, legally, he’s not my son’s father.”

  “Of course.”

  Relief trickled through her. “Has he fathered any other children?”

  “That information is confidential.” The cool smile again. “However I can tell you that Mr. Montoya has pulled his donations and will not be doing further bu
siness with Westlake Cryobank.”

  “Why? And when did he do this?”

  “Just last week. It’s not unusual for a donor to find themselves in a new situation—married, for example—and to decide to withdraw themselves from our database.”

  “But how did he find my identity?”

  She could hear her own breathing during the silence that followed.

  Debbie English tapped on her keyboard for a minute, then leaned back in her chair. “Okay, I can’t see there’s any harm in telling you that you are the only one who used his sample.”

  “So if he hacked into your database…”

  “Impossible.” The woman’s face resembled a finely made-up stone wall.

  She drew in a breath. “Why was I the only one in ten years who used his sample?”

  “We have a very large database. More than thirty thousand donors. Just glancing at his file, I can see that he’s not American, and that he wrote in Catalan ancestry rather than checking a box for a more popular heritage. Those things alone might have turned buyers off. We advise our donors to…” Debbie English’s voice trailed on and she remembered the excitement and confusion of her trip to Westlake Cryobank.

  There it was again. His Catalan ancestry—unusual and intriguing to find in the prosaic database—had attracted her. Probably most people didn’t even know what Catalan meant, or thought it was somewhere in China. She knew it was a unique culture with its own language and customs, a mixture of French and Spanish, charming and romantic with strong roots in a colorful past.

  Just like Vasco Montoya.

  “PACIFIC COLLEGE IN FUNDING CRISIS AFTER STATE SPENDING SLASHED.”

  The article headline caught Stella’s eye as she marched past the newsstand on her way from the parking lot to the library. Rushed and scattered by her unsatisfactory visit to Westlake Cryobank, she had to stop and read it three times. She was sitting out in the garden on her swing seat while Nicky napped in the stroller after a walk. Three days had passed since Vasco Montoya had appeared in her life, and she’d heard nothing.

  Pacific College was her employer.

  She handed over some coins and scanned the article about a fifty percent cut in state spending on the small liberal arts college. Fifty percent? The college president was quoted saying that he planned to protest and also to raise money from the private sector, but that programs would have to be cut.

  In her office, there was a message on her phone asking her to visit Human Resources at her earliest convenience. She sank into her chair and her breathing became shallow.

  A knock on the door made her jump and she half expected to see Vasco Montoya respond to her murmured, “Come in.”

  “Hi, Stella.” It was Roger Dales, dean of the fine arts department. Her boss. “I just want you to know how sorry I am.”

  “What do you mean, you’re sorry.”

  “You haven’t heard from HR?” He sounded surprised.

  “I had an…outside appointment this morning. I just got in. I saw an article about funding cuts but I haven’t had time to…” She hesitated, a sense of doom growing inside her. “Am I fired?”

  He came into the room, a whiff of pipe smoke clinging to his tweed jacket, and closed the door behind him. “We’ve lost all funding for the books and prints archives. It’s devastating news for all of us.” He hesitated, and she saw the regret in his eyes. “I’m afraid your job has been eliminated.”

  Words rose to her lips, but not ones she’d want to say to a college dean. An odd fluttering, panicky sensation gripped her stomach.

  “As Human Resources is no doubt about to tell you, you’ll receive two weeks’ pay and your benefits will continue until the end of the month. I’m sorry there isn’t a better severance package but with the current financial situation…”

  His words continued but her brain ceased to register them. Two weeks’ pay? She had some savings but not enough to last more than six months, and that’s if nothing went wrong with the car or their health or—

  “If there’s anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to call me.”

  “Do you know of anyone looking for a rare book restorer?” Her voice had an edge that she hadn’t planned. Jobs like this were scarce at the best of times.

  “Perhaps you could approach some private libraries.”

  “Sure. I’ll try that.” She’d lose the university day care, too. Now she’d have to pay for child care or renovate precious and fragile items on her kitchen table while Nicky crawled around her feet.

  Disbelief warred with shock and confusion as he opened the door and slipped from her office. How could her whole life fall apart so fast?

  Stella spent three days sending out carefully composed résumés to every university library, museum and private library she could dig up on the internet. When one in Kalamazoo, Michigan, offered her an interview, she realized that even applying for a job with a very young child was challenging. She couldn’t take him with her, but he was too young to leave for more than a few hours with even her most devoted friends. Her mom had died three years ago in a skiing accident, leaving her with no close family to count on.

  “Maybe I should call Vasco and tell him I need him to babysit,” she joked on the phone to her pal Karen, who sat for her occasionally during the day, but worked nights as a bartender in a downtown club, leaving her own three- and eight-year-olds with her mom.

  “That would be one way to get rid of him. In my experience men lose interest in anything that involves changing diapers.”

  “Why didn’t I think of that before? I should have invited him in and handed Nicky to him after a poop.”

  “Has he called?”

  “No.” She frowned. Now that he’d gone several days without calling, she was actually ticked off at him. Who was he to waltz into her life—and Nicky’s—and announce his right to be there and then just disappear without a trace?

  “Hmm. He did sound a bit too good to be true. Tall, dark, handsome, leather-clad and royal?”

  “Trust me, none of those things appeal to me.”

  “Yes, I know. You prefer short, fickle redheads.”

  “Trevor had sandy hair, not red.”

  “Same diff, sweetie. Either way, he seems to have put you off men for good. Have you even dated since you guys broke up?”

  “I don’t have time for dating. I’m busy with Nicky.” And work, she would have said until two days earlier. She’d been told, very gently, to collect her belongings immediately after her HR discussion. Apparently newly laid-off employees were not encouraged to mess with rare books.

  “It’s been nearly three years, Stell.”

  “I’m not interested. I have a very full life and the last thing I need is a man to screw it up for me.”

  “The right man will come along. Just don’t be so busy slamming the door in his face that you don’t recognize him when he does. Hey, look at it this way. Vasco already wants you to move to his country—that’s a bit of a change from Trevor who wasn’t even ready to live with you after eight years.”

  “Vasco wants Nicky to move to his country. He couldn’t care less about me. Besides, he hasn’t called. Maybe I’ll never hear from him again.” Annoying how his face had imprinted itself in her mind. She kept seeing those steel-gray eyes staring at her from everywhere.

  “Oh, he’ll call. I have a feeling.” Karen laughed. “The question is, what will you say to him?”

  Stella drew in a breath. “I’ll let him spend time with Nicky if he wants, and let them get to know each other. It would probably be best for Nicky to have a relationship with his father.”

  “Aren’t you worried he’ll try to take over and tell you what to do?”

  “He can’t. He doesn’t have any legal rights. I could tell him to go away at any time.”

  “He doesn’t seem like the type who takes orders. But here’s a thought, wouldn’t a European royal have a large collection of old books that need fixing up? You might be able to find some nice work through hi
m.”

  “Oh, stop. My job search is a disaster. Everything’s so far away and the pay is dismal. Barely enough to pay for diapers, let alone support us both. Soon I’ll be asking people if they’d like fries with that—hang on, there’s someone at the door.” The familiar chime sounded and the glass pane darkened as a large silhouette loomed outside.

  Stella’s stomach contracted. Although she couldn’t see much through the dimpled glass, she knew—every single part of her knew—that Vasco Montoya stood on her doorstep.

  Three

  Stella said goodbye to Karen and shoved the phone in her pocket. To her annoyance she found herself smoothing her hair as she walked up the hallway to the door. Ridiculous! Still, she might as well be civil since she’d decided that if he was Nicky’s father she couldn’t in good conscience try to keep him entirely out of Nicky’s life.

  She’d always wished for the kind of family you saw on TV, with the smiling mom and dad doting on their kids. Instead she had the awkward and hard to explain reality of a dad who had disappeared when she was a baby and never gotten in contact again. There’d always been a gap in her life, a thread of pathetic hope that he’d remember her—that he’d love her—and come back for her. When her mom died suddenly when Stella was in her twenties she’d even tried to look for him, until friends persuaded her that might bring more heartache rather than the resolution and affection she craved. They’d told her she was too nice, too anxious to please, too hopeful that she could put everything right and make everyone happy, when sometimes that wasn’t possible.

  Didn’t stop her from trying, though, which was probably why she couldn’t drive Vasco Montoya away without at least finding out the truth. Deep down she just wanted everyone to be happy.

  She pulled open the door to find him standing there—even taller and more infuriatingly handsome than she remembered—his arms laden with wrapped gifts and a big spray of flowers.