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of the room, reverberate in the oppressive silence. ‘I see,’ Phoebe finally managed, but sadly, scarily, she didn’t. If Anders didn’t have any money … then why was she here? ‘Then is it about the Press?’ she asked. Hoped. ‘A gagging order or some such? So I don’t write some sort of embarrassing memoir?’
Leo’s smile widened; he really was genuinely amused now, and it made Phoebe feel ignorant again. Stupid. ‘Have you memoirs?’ he queried. ‘And would they be so … embarrassing?’
Phoebe felt herself flush, and she shrugged, angry now. Angry and afraid. Not a good combination. ‘Then just tell me why I am here … Your Grace.’
The smile vanished from Leo’s face before he corrected with lethal softness, ‘Actually, my title is now Your Highness. Since Anders abdicated, I am the country’s heir.’
Phoebe stilled, the realisation trickling coldly through her. She hadn’t realised Leo was now the crown prince, although of course she should have known. She knew there was no one else. Anders and Leo were both only children, which was why they’d been raised like brothers.
For a second the old myth flashed through Phoebe’s mind as it had the last time she’d seen Leo: Hod and Baldur. Twins, one dark, one light. One good, one evil. Except she knew Anders’s true colours now, and he was far from being good or light. Not evil perhaps, but silly, shallow, selfish and vain. She shook her head, banishing the memories. ‘Your Highness, then. What do you want with me? Because I’d prefer to get to the point and go home. My son is waiting upstairs and he’s hungry.’ Brave words, she knew. Strong words, but she didn’t feel particularly brave or strong. The longer she remained in Leo’s company, bearing the weight of his silence, the more she felt her strength being tested. Sapped. ‘Well?’ she snapped, hating the way he was toying with her, sipping his brandy and watching her over the rim of his glass as if she was an object of amusement or worse, pity.
‘I don’t want anything with you in particular,’ Leo replied coolly. ‘However, my uncle, King Nicholas, hasn’t been well, and he has suffered great regret over what happened with Anders—’
‘You mean forcing his son to abdicate? To leave his country in disgrace?’ Phoebe filled in.
Leo smiled over the rim of his glass. ‘As I recall, you told me Anders didn’t even want to be king.’
Phoebe coloured, discomfited that he remembered the particulars of their conversation six years ago … as did she.
‘He didn’t,’ she mumbled, turning away to gaze unseeingly out of the embassy window. Outside, night had fallen, and a passing taxi washed the room in pale yellow light before streaming onwards into the darkness. Phoebe was suddenly conscious of how long she’d been in this room with Leo, and she turned around. ‘I want to see my son.’
Something flickered across his face—what?—but then he gave a tiny shrug. ‘Of course. He’s upstairs, quite happy, but I’ll have Nora bring him down as soon as we’ve concluded our conversation.’
‘And what more is there to say?’ Phoebe demanded. ‘I’m sorry King Nicholas regrets what happened, but the past is the past and can’t be changed. And frankly none of it has anything to do with me.’
‘Doesn’t it?’ Leo queried softly, so softly, and yet it felt as if he’d dropped a handful of ice cubes down her back, or even straight into her soul. Those two little words were spoken with such confidence, such arrogance and power and knowledge, and suddenly, desperately, Phoebe wished she’d never agreed to come to the consulate. Wished, almost, that she’d never met Anders—she’d certainly wished that before—except for the saving grace of Christian.
Still, even under the onslaught of Leo’s dark, knowing gaze, those sleepy, bedroom eyes with the long lashes and golden irises now flared with awareness, with knowledge, she forced herself to continue. ‘No, it doesn’t. In fact, you most likely know that I haven’t even seen Anders in years. We separated a month after we married, Your Highness, and were practically divorced—’
‘Practically?’ Leo interrupted. ‘Had you consulted with a solicitor? Filed papers?’
Phoebe felt yet another telltale blush staining her cheeks with damning colour even as an inexplicable dread settled coldly in her stomach. ‘No, I hadn’t, but …’ She stopped, suddenly, the silence worse than any words she could say, explanations—excuses—she could give.
‘But?’ Leo filled in, his eyes, nearly the same colour as the brandy in the glass he held, glittering for a moment with—what? Mockery? Contempt? Anger? ‘Couldn’t bear to make that final cut?’ he continued in that awful, soft voice. ‘Couldn’t stand to walk away from a man like Anders?’ He took a step closer to her and Phoebe found she couldn’t move. She was mesmerised, strangely drawn by his words and yet chilled too by that unfathomable darkness in his eyes and voice, that depth of some unknowable emotion she’d sensed in him at their first meeting. Leo took another step, and then another, so he was standing only a few inches away, and she was reminded forcefully of when he’d stood so close to her before, when his fingers had brushed her in that faint, damning caress and he’d asked her, ‘What would have happened … if you’d met me first?’ Now he asked another mocking question. ‘Were you hoping he’d come back to you, Phoebe?’
Phoebe blinked, forced herself to react. His assessment was so far from the truth, and yet the truth was something she could not bring herself to tell. She stepped away and drew a breath. ‘No, I most certainly was not. And whether Anders and I divorced or even considered divorcing is of no concern to you—’
‘Actually,’ Leo corrected, taking a sip of his brandy, ‘it is.’ He watched, smiling faintly, enjoying her shock and discomfiture. Phoebe felt her hands curl into fists, her nails biting into her palms. She knew Leo was waiting for her to ask why, and she didn’t want to. Didn’t want to know.
‘It wasn’t anyone’s concern whether we married or not,’ she finally said, striving to keep her voice cool, ‘so I hardly see why it matters if we divorced or not.’ She drew herself up, throwing her shoulders back. ‘Now frankly I’ve had enough of these power games, Your Highness. You may find it amusing to keep me here like a mouse with a cat, but my son is undoubtedly unsettled and afraid and I have nothing more to say to you or anyone from Amarnes. So—’
‘Oh, Phoebe.’ Leo shook his head, and for a moment Phoebe thought he genuinely felt sorry for her, and that realisation scared her more than anything else.
‘Don’t call me—’
‘Your name? But we are relatives, of a sort.’
‘Of a sort,’ Phoebe agreed coldly. ‘The sort that have nothing to do with each other.’
‘That,’ Leo informed her, setting his glass down in a careful, deliberate movement, ‘is about to change.’
He was trying to scare her, Phoebe decided. Hoped, even. It was about power, about Leo feeling as if he was in control, and she wouldn’t let him. He might be a prince, he might have all the money and power and knowledge, but she had her courage and her child. She had her memories, her own knowledge of how the last six years had shaped and strengthened her, and she wouldn’t back down now, especially not to Leo. He’d intimidated and bullied her before; she wouldn’t let him now.
‘Why don’t you just spit it out, Leo,’ she asked, glad her voice matched his own for strength, ‘instead of giving me all these insidious little hints? Are you trying to frighten me? Because it’s not working.’ Well, it was, a bit, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. Leo merely arched an eyebrow, and Phoebe continued, her voice raw, demanding, and a little desperate. ‘What do you want? Why did your damn agents bring me here?’
‘Because the king wishes it,’ Leo replied simply. He gave her a little smile, and Phoebe pressed a fist to her lips before dropping it.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I told you, King Nicholas regrets his separation