Claiming His Secret Royal Heir

She halted at a knock on the door.

Spinning round, she saw Frederick framed in the doorway, and to her annoyance her heart gave a little pit-pat, a hop, skip and a jump.

‘Hi.’

‘Sorry, I did knock on the main door.’

‘That’s fine. How did the meeting go?’

‘As well as could be expected. The council understand this marriage. But we need to get the publicity right to prevent a public backlash.’

Sunita moved away from the wardrobe. ‘OK. Let’s brainstorm.’

Her mind whirred as they moved into the lounge and perched on two ridiculously uncomfortable upholstered chairs.

‘We need to make sure the people understand why we have left Amil in India—that it is simply so we can prepare a home for him. I could talk to the local press about my plans to renovate these apartments and the state apartments. I also suggest that before Amil arrives we go on a tour of some of Lycander, so it’s clear that I am interested in the country—not just the crown. I won’t accept any modelling contracts straight away.’

Even though her agent’s phone was already ringing off the proverbial hook.

He rose to his feet, looked down at her with a sudden smile that set her heart off again.

‘Let’s start now.’

‘How?’

‘I’ll take you on a tour of an olive grove.’

‘One of yours?’

For a moment he hesitated, and then he nodded. ‘Yes. I’ll arrange transport and press coverage.’

‘I’ll get changed into appropriate clothes for touring an olive grove.’ In fact she knew the very dress—a long, floaty, lavender-striped sun dress.

A shot of anticipation thrilled through her.

Stop. This was a publicity stunt—not a romantic jaunt. She had to get a grip. This marriage was an alliance that Frederick had ‘brokered’—a word he had used in this very room a mere hour before.

The problem was, however hard she tried—and she’d tried incredibly hard—that anticipation refused to be suppressed by logic or any other device she could come up with.

Perhaps it was simply to do with the glorious weather, the cerulean blue sky, the hazy heat of the late August sun whose rays kissed and dappled the rolling hills and plains of the Lycander countryside. She could only hope it was nothing to do with the man who sat beside her in the back of the chauffeured car.

‘So, where exactly are we going?’

‘The place where it all started—the first olive grove I owned. It was left to me by a great-uncle when I was twenty-one. I visited on a whim and—kaboom!—the whole process fascinated me. The family who lived there were thrilled as my great-uncle had had no interest in the place—they taught me all about the business and that’s how Freddy Petrelli’s Olive Oil came into being. I expanded, bought up some smaller businesses, consolidated, and now our oil is stocked worldwide.’

‘Are you still part of the company?’

‘I’m still on the board, but by necessity I have had to delegate.’

‘That’s pretty impressive—to take one rundown olive grove and turn it into a multi-million-dollar business in a few years.’

‘You turned yourself into one of the world’s most sought-after supermodels in much the same time-frame. That’s pretty impressive too.’

‘Thank you—but it didn’t feel impressive at the time.’ Back then she’d been driven. ‘I needed to succeed—I would not let my family see me fail. I wanted them to know that they had been wrong about me. I wanted to show them I was my mother’s daughter and proud of it.’

At every photo shoot, she’d imagined their faces, tinged a shade of virulent green as they opened a magazine to see Sunita’s face.

‘That’s understandable—and kudos to you for your success. You have my full admiration and, although it may not be politically correct, I hope they choked on envy every time they saw your picture.’