The Torn Prince Read online

  Great. Served him right.

  Suddenly, it was as if all her bluster and rage and fire just died, like snuffed out with the snap of one’s fingers. What were they doing arguing like kids during recess on the playground?

  A sigh escaped her, and she tottered towards her chair before falling onto it with an undignified plop.

  “What do you want, Zediah Akiina?”

  She no longer had it in her to fight him. As if she’d scorched through the recrimination and festering hurt and anguish she’d carried all this time, cauterising the wound in the process and leaving just a tinge of pain smarting around the edges of her heart.

  He still stood there.

  She would surely have flung a paper weight at him if he’d had the gall to come sit opposite her when she hadn’t invited him to. Guess her anger wasn’t so far gone, after all.

  “He is my son, too, Rio.” He paused. “What … what’s his name?”

  “Nour.” Saying her baby’s name brought a soft balm over her ragged emotions, and she gave a weary smile.

  “It means ‘bright light’.”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “I … I should’ve been here for him.”

  For him. Not for her. Not for you … She bit her lip to stop the pain from electrifying all of her.

  Because nothing else mattered to him. His child. He wouldn’t have come back just for her.

  What an idiot she’d been to hold on so tightly to the idea in the deepest, darkest reaches of her brain, never mind her heart?

  “It’s not too late,” he went on.

  She simply raised an eyebrow in reply, too battered in her soul by now to do much more.

  “I can give him a good life, Rio.”

  “And I can’t?”

  The words hung between them. He had the decency to look chastised and peer down, anywhere but at her face. There might just be hope for him. Just.

  A snort escaped her when she thought back to all this. Never mind how he’d found out about Nour. He was a year and a half too late, and too much water had run under the bridge. She had been giving the best life possible to their son already, and when she’d marry Humphrey, they’d be a family, too …

  Who did he think he was, storming in like this and staking claim now on the child she’d borne, given life to, and cared for during all this time he was AWOL?

  “Get lost, Switz. Zed. Whatever your name is.” She chuckled without mirth. “Shouldn’t be hard for you, given how you already know so well how to do that, don’t you? Just leave.”

  Chapter Four

  Zediah trudged back to Nick’s house in the cul-de-sac of Park Place in St James, the return trip happening in a daze. He must have taken a cab there, but he didn’t remember. His surroundings only registered when he found himself in the marble-decked lobby of the grand four-storeyed house. With a sigh, he plopped down on the thick sofa flanking the massive curving staircase.

  He shook his head. What had he been thinking?

  And that was probably it—he hadn’t been thinking. Guess living in a palace where everyone except his family kowtowed to him had made him soft. Made him forget real people didn’t treat princes like royalty when they had no clue who said princes were in the first place. A snort escaped him. Not that Rio would’ve cut him any slack were she to find out about his royal status.

  He’d left when she’d so sneeringly told him to. What else could he have done? He’d instinctively known in his gut, a quiet, subdued Rio was the one version of her no one could ever go against. He could definitely go toe to toe with her when she was all fire and flames and passion. But the cold ice she’d displayed today? Even he knew when he should run for the hills, and he had.

  Again, what had he been thinking? Barging into her workplace to confront her and try to make her cower before his mighty status?

  Bloody fool. He should’ve reckoned this would never work with her.

  Riona Mittal fought tooth and nail when she believed in something. The woman he’d seen today had embodied this kind of calm certitude and solemn grace. Any straight-thinking man would know bullshit couldn’t get past her.

  He'd gone to Tempo expecting to find her there. The NGO was her life. He hadn’t missed how invested she’d been in those youths and the joy inside her when she danced. He, however, hadn’t expected the big office at the back, much less to find her name on the door and ‘Executive Director’ under it.

  So, she’d gotten promoted in the last year or so.

  The woman he’d glimpsed in the room upon first entering had struck him as being the epitome of beauty and class. Elegant clothing, skilful makeup that looked like it wasn’t there, and smooth dark hair in freshly blown strands brushing her chest and shoulder blades.

  Until she’d looked up and met his gaze, and he’d seen the same woman who had robbed him of breath every time he’d lain eyes on her. She still had the same power even now. He’d been struck speechless … until she’d spoken out his name.

  Well, his nickname. She’d never known him as anything else. He’d conveniently forgotten that. How could she have looked for him when she didn’t have a clue about his real identity? Looking for the surname Bagumi in the telephone directory of his homeland would be like trying to find someone named Smith in England, otherwise known as a needle in a haystack. Add to it not even knowing the person’s first name, and the needle actually disappeared.

  Damn it! He’d dropped the ball on this. No wonder she’d been so furious. He’d fucked up. Royally, too! A mirthless chuckle escaped him.

  Against his thigh, his phone vibrated again. He’d silenced the device a few times this afternoon, but the fact the calls kept on coming meant someone from his family was trying to contact him. He should stave off the inevitable and respond. Maybe his mother would let him off the hook when she found out her first grandchild was a boy.

  Nour.

  Just thinking of the name made his chest hurt. When would he get to see his baby? Not anytime soon, while Rio was angry with him. Her parting words … Of course, she’d think he’d walked away from her without looking back. Which he’d done. Bloody idiot.

  Pulling his phone from his trouser pocket, he allowed himself a slight smile when he saw the name ‘Isha’ on the screen. His sister. Not his mother. He’d take this call gladly.

  “Hey, sis,” he greeted.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! How could you, Zed? You are a father! With a child. A child!”

  He winced as he moved the device away from his ear thanks to her rushed shouting.

  “Who told you?” he asked.

  “Mum! I can’t believe I had to hear this from Mum!”

  She meant Mama Sapphire. Of course, his other mother would inform her children. His own mum … suffice it to say she was a stickler for state secrets and the like. Not one for gossip, even when it pertained to her own bloodline.

  A sigh let loose from his lips. “I was going to tell you.”

  “When? After the apocalypse?”

  He snorted. It might be awfully close to the truth, the apocalypse named Mama Bear Rio. He’d really put his foot in his mouth there.

  “After I meet him myself,” he said with a sigh.

  “Wait, what? You haven’t even met your son? Daughter?”

  “Son. His name is Nour.”

  “But how come? You’ve been in London for more than twenty-four hours. I would think you’d get this done. Hold on, is the mother playing hard to get with you? You know she can’t do that legally. You have rights—”

  “Believe me, she’s perfectly in her rights here.” Best he stopped his lawyer slash activist sister on her roll before she started building a custody case for him already.

  A pause came from the other end. “But he’s also your child.”

  “I know.” He took a deep breath, since pointing out the truth did demand a good dose of courage. “But I messed up, Ish. It was my fault.”

  She remained silent for a long time—so long, he wo
ndered if the call had dropped. This had been known to happen in Wanai, where she lived with her husband. The country was still recovering from decades of a despotic regime.

  “Who is she? Tell me about her.”

  Zediah closed his eyes as he settled more comfortably on the sofa.

  “Her name is Rio,” he started. “Short for Riona. I met her five years ago …”

  ***

  Five years ago …

  “Come on, Switz. It will be fun.”

  Zediah threw a glare at his best mate. “You want us to celebrate graduating our LLM by the skin of our teeth, not through a pub crawl, but at someone else’s party?”

  “He’s a mate. Gary. Just got engaged.”

  He rolled his eyes. Trust Nikhil ‘Nick’ Varendra to always have a social diary overflowing with invites. Zed, who’d come to London to study for a degree, had never thought he’d find a friend, much less a kindred spirit here.

  But it turned out Nick was also a royal—the third son of an Indian maharajah, born from the king’s brief marriage with a White Englishwoman. Nick’s older brothers couldn’t stand him. The fraternal animosity they shared against their male siblings had bonded them in an unbreakable way.

  Yet, it didn’t mean he didn’t want to throw his boot up the other man’s arse at times. Like today.

  “Who the fuck is this Gary, anyway?” he asked.

  “Gary Bicknell. You must have heard of him. Football player, brilliant mid-field who’s said to be the next David Beckham. Plays for Ashton Rovers. Looks like they might be making it all the way into the Premier League next season if things keep up.”

  He had no care or concern about sports and its celebrities. But he’d tag along since it was Nick asking. And the idea of a pub crawl alone just didn’t appeal.

  They found themselves, shortly after, in North London. The party was taking place on the official grounds of the football club. They made their way to the VIP floor, where an open bar already overflowed. People mingled amid raucous laughter and a blaring remix of Fat Boy Slim’s ‘Right Here, Right Now.’ Zed huffed. At least the DJ didn’t have bad taste.

  “Nick! My man!”

  He turned to see a tall, dark-haired bloke converging towards them to man-hug Nick. When he pulled away, his pretty face worthy of being the leading man in a boy band broke into a massive smile.

  Nick then introduced him to, he’d already guessed it, Gary Bicknell.

  “Millie’s around somewhere,” he said. “Can’t wait for you lads to meet her.”

  He assumed the Millie in question was the fiancée.

  They made their way to the bar where they each got a pint, and he settled back to people-watch as Nick saw someone he knew in the crush and went to say hello. Zediah would give him an hour, tops, before hightailing it out of there.

  He was scanning the big room with his eyes when something in the corner near the DJ station caught his attention. A flash of red, moving softly, sinuously, in rhythm to the beat. Something about the sight made him pause and watch more carefully.

  It was a woman—a beautiful one. Possibly the prettiest he’d ever seen. She had beautiful golden skin that reminded him of the rich hue of roasted peanuts. Offset by the orange-red shade of her dress which fell to mid-thigh, her complexion positively glowed. The caramel streaks in her shoulder-length, straight dark hair made her face radiate even more.

  And what a face, too. Feisty was one word he would use to describe her delicate features, from her button nose to the narrow forehead, pointed chin, and soft cheekbones catching the light exactly right.

  He had to blink when he realized he had been staring at her for so long. His eyes had gone dry. No one had ever had this kind of effect on him—he had to meet her, find out who she was. With determined steps, he made his way towards her.

  The closer he got, the more she seemed to captivate him. Such as when he saw her mouth up close. She’d swiped a shade of lipstick matching her dress perfectly on her full, pillowy lips that seemed to beg a man to kiss them, to tease the slight pout into opening for him.

  And her eyes. Big and bold, dark at first glance, but actually a lighter brown with pronounced flecks of hazel in the irises. The scent of her up close—something sweet, like candy, yet soft as well, reminiscent of pretty, dainty flowers. Utterly intoxicating …

  As his heart rate accelerated, Zediah knew it already. Love at first sight. No wonder he’d never felt stirred by any other woman in the past. Because none of them had been her.

  She had a graceful, lithe body that undulated right along with the rhythm of the music. No one would’ve labelled the track as sensual. But watching her, it dawned on him.

  She’d even make a marching band playing off-key sound like music to drive a man wild with desire and longing. And it was all in the way she moved. Lascivious, purposeful, titillating, yet never vulgar. She knew how to tight-rope that fine line so very easily.

  He hadn’t realized he’d kept on moving, and he bumped into her. Thankfully, she’d just shifted the other way, and the beer sloshed over the back of her hand and not on her dress.

  She turned to him then, her gorgeous eyes flicking up to his face before registering the still-full pint in his hand.

  “Are you drinking that?” she asked.

  She’d spoken to him! Her voice had a soft, gravelly hint to it, the accent sharp and rapid, the kind he’d had trouble keeping up with when he’d first moved to London a few years earlier. It wasn’t the clipped, sharp Queen’s English he was used to in royal circles but more like a local dialect.

  “Are you?” she asked again, eyebrows raised in question, too.

  He shook his head, and it seemed to be all the prompt she needed—he watched, his own eyebrows up, as she reached for the glass and downed half of the Guinness in one long gulp. Smiling, she licked the froth moustache on her upper lip before handing him back the pint.

  “Thanks …”

  “Pleasure,” he mumbled, his brain still stuck on the sight on her pink tongue licking her upper lip.

  She frowned softly then gave him a cheeky smile. “Your name is Pleasure?”

  At this, he blinked. Damn, he should try to focus here. In no dimension would it help his game to come across as a dimwit.

  “No,” he scoffed. “Why d’you ask that?”

  Strange how they were able to have a conversation without needing to shout. Guess being this close to the DJ’s turntables, they were enclosed in a small bubble while the loudspeakers blared all around the room.

  The frown let up on her face, leaving just the smile behind. “Well, I said thanks and was waiting for your name, and you said Pleasure.”

  It’s how she should always look: alive, alight, glowing, with a flicker of mischief in her sparkling eyes.

  She seemed to be waiting for his reply, though. Get your game on, man! Now he’d found her, he couldn’t let her go, not through his own faux pas.

  “My name is Switz.”

  By this point, it had become second nature to use the moniker and not his given name. It helped a lot to see people's reactions when they thought he was just a regular bloke and not a prince.

  Her eyebrows rose again. “Switz? What sort of name is that?”

  He couldn’t help it—he chuckled. There’d been just stunned curiosity in her tone, not a dismissal or some hoity-toity sense of being superior. “Short for Switzerland.”

  “Ah.” She tilted her head to the side, the long locks brushing the exposed collarbone, the neckline of her dress having dropped beyond her shoulder. “So, I assume you’re neutral and all.”

  “Exactly.” He smiled at her then, loving her carefree banter and the warm and friendly vibe coming from her. Again, not something a man could interpret as vulgar and a come-on. She just seemed like a genuinely lovely person.

  “Switz,” she said slowly.

  The sound of his nickname flowing from her tongue hit him in all the right places. His trousers grew tight. Damn. He should bring this back to a
n even keel.

  “And you are?” he asked.

  “Rio,” she said, extending her hand.

  “Like Rio de Janeiro?” he asked. The name would suit her, what with her being so bright and larger-than-life even at first glance.

  Thank goodness he’d spoken by the time he clasped her hand. The mere touch proved enough to burn to oblivion the remaining functioning brain cells in his head.

  Her skin was so warm, so soft, and her long fingers felt fragile and delicate in his grip. He’d never considered himself a big or hefty man. Not compared to his brothers, who had been wearing XL T-shirts since their teens.

  But with Rio’s hand in his, he suddenly felt like a bloke, a man’s man. Everything inside urged him to wrap her in his arms, physically and figuratively, to protect and cherish her in his embrace forever. As she deserved, and nothing less.

  Her bubbly laughter tore him from his thoughts, as well as the ill-advised urge to crush her to him, demand her mouth and seek permission to worship her body if she’d allow it.

  “Just Rio,” she said. “Short for Riona. Mittal.”

  “Mittal?” He’d heard the name somewhere.

  “Oh, I see where your mind is going. Not those Mittals. We’re from dodgy Southall.”

  It dawned on him then, those Mittals being the steel tycoons worth billions. He shrugged—it must be a common enough name for people of Indian origin.

  “I wouldn’t call Southall dodgy,” he ventured to say.

  Her eyes grew big. “You’ve been there? Seriously?”

  He nodded. “Loved those little fried cakes they sold on the main street. What are they called—”

  “Jalebis!” she said with a laugh as she clapped her hands together. “You actually tasted jalebis!”

  “And liked them.” The deep-fried funnel cakes soaked in thick syrup had indeed been delicious. “Maybe I’d like a lot more if you were to show me around someday.”