Claiming His Secret Royal Heir

Frederick showed no sign of tension. His posture and smile were relaxed, his whole attitude laid back.

‘At present we have no comment. But if you hold on I promise we will have an announcement to make after dinner.’

Next to him, Sunita smiled the smile that had shot her to catwalk fame. She directed a small finger-wave at a reporter who’d always given her positive press, a smile at a woman she’d always enjoyed a good relationship with, and a wink at a photographer renowned for his audacity.

Then they left the reporters behind and entered the restaurant, and despite the knowledge of how important the forthcoming conversation was a part of Sunita revelled in the attention she was gathering. The simple ability to walk with her own natural grace, to know it was OK to be recognised, her appreciation of the dress and the inner confidence it gave her—all of it was such a contrast to the past two years, during which she had lived in constant denial of her own identity, burdened by the fear of discovery.

The manager beamed at them as he led them past the busy tables, where patrons looked up from their food and a buzz immediately spread. Sunita kept her eyes ahead, noting the dark-stained English Oak screens and latticing that graced the room, the hustle and bustle from the open-plan kitchen where chefs raced round, the waiters weaving in and out, and the tantalising smells that drifted into the eating area.

‘As requested, we’ve seated you in a private dining area where you will be undisturbed. My head chef has arranged a buffet for you there, with samples of all our signature dishes, and there is, of course, champagne on ice—we are very happy to welcome you both here.’

He turned to Sunita.

‘I do not expect you to remember me, but when you were a child your mother brought you many, many times to the restaurant I worked in then. Your mother was a lovely lady.’

Memory tugged as she studied the manager’s face. ‘I do remember you. You’re Nikhil! You used to give me extra sweets and fortune cookies, and you would help me read the fortunes.’

His smile broadened. ‘That is correct—I am very happy to see you here, and I am very sorry about your mother. She was a good woman.’

‘Thank you. That means a lot to me. And it would have to her as well.’

It really would. So many people had looked down on Leela Baswani because she had been a single, unmarried mother, and a model and actress to boot. But her mother had refused to cower before them; she had lived her life and she’d loved every minute of it—even those terrible last few months. Months she didn’t want to remember, of watching her mother decline, knowing that soon she would be left alone in the world.

But those were not the memories Leela would have wanted her daughter to carry forth into life. Instead she would remember her as Nikhil did—as a good, brave, vibrant woman.

Nikhil showed them into the private dining room, where a beautifully decorated table laid with snowy white linen held fluted glassware, gleaming cutlery and a simple table decoration composed of an arrangement of glorious white roses.

Sunita looked at them, and then at Nikhil, and a lump formed in her throat. White roses had been her mother’s favourite flower—her trademark accessory—and as the scent reached her nostrils she closed her eyes for a second. ‘Thank you, Nikhil.’

The manager gave a small bow. ‘You are very welcome. Now, both of you enjoy the food. I believe our chef has excelled himself. And I guarantee you complete privacy.’

With one more beaming smile, he left, closing the door behind him.

‘I’m sorry about your mother,’ Frederick said.

‘Thank you.’

‘She isn’t mentioned in any articles about you except April’s most recent one. None of your family is.’

‘No. They aren’t.’

And that was the way it would stay—she would love to remember her mother more publicly, but to do that would risk questions about her father, and she’d severed her ties with him years before—the man who’d abandoned her before birth and then reappeared in her life only to make it thoroughly miserable.

‘Anyway, we aren’t here to speak of my family.’ He raised an eyebrow and she bit her lip. ‘I mean, we are here to discuss Amil’s future.’

‘We are. But first shall we help ourselves to food?’

She nodded. No way could she hurt Nikhil’s feelings, but she sensed there was more to Frederick’s suggestion than that. It was almost as if he were stalling, giving himself time to prepare, and a sense of foreboding prickled her skin—one she did her best to shake off as she made a selection from the incredible dishes displayed on the table.

There was a tantalising array of dumplings with descriptions written in beautiful calligraphy next to each platter—prawn and chive, shanghai chicken, pak choi... Next to them lay main courses that made her mouth water—Szechuan clay pot chicken, salmon in Assam sauce, ginger fried rice...

The smell itself was enough to allay her fears, and she reminded herself that Frederick had a country to run—other fish to fry, so to speak. Surely the most he would want would be to contribute to Amil’s upkeep and see him a few times a year. That would work—that would be more than enough.

Once they were seated, she took a deep breath. ‘Before we start this discussion you need to know that I will not agree to anything that feels wrong for Amil. He is my priority here and if you try to take him away from me I will fight you with my last dying breath. I just want that out there.’

There was something almost speculative in his gaze, alongside a steely determination that matched her own. ‘Amil is my priority too—and that means I will be a real part of his life. That is non-negotiable. I just want that out there.’

‘Fine. But what does that mean?’